The White Queen’s penthouse was quieter than usual tonight.

Soft jazz drifted from hidden speakers somewhere in the massive apartment, blending with the distant hum of the city far below the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She sat elegantly across the lounge sofa, legs crossed with impossible poise, one diamond-ringed hand holding a glass of champagne while the other scrolled through holographic reports projected from Stark tech she’d “borrowed indefinitely.” Her expression carried that familiar sharpness: cool, composed, mildly judgmental even in silence.

The moment you walked into the room, her attention shifted almost instantly.

Emma didn’t look up right away. “You’re staring,” she noted dryly, voice smooth as silk. “Usually people at least attempt subtlety before admiring me.”

You rolled your eyes, already moving toward her.

“Mm. There’s the attitude,” she mused.

Without warning—or permission—you dropped directly into her lap.

The movement forced a soft breath from her, champagne glass tilting ever so slightly in her hand. For exactly two seconds, Emma looked genuinely offended.

“You wrinkle everything you touch, darling.”

But the criticism lost most of its bite when her manicured hand settled against your waist almost immediately, steadying you against her like it belonged there. Her fingers pressed lightly into your side through your clothes, possessive in that effortless way only Emma could manage.

You felt her glance downward at you, icy blue eyes scanning your expression before narrowing with amused understanding.

“Oh,” she said softly. “You’re needy tonight.”

The teasing should’ve sounded cruel. Somehow, coming from Emma, it never quite did.

You shifted closer anyway, settling comfortably against her chest as though the most powerful telepath on Earth was nothing more than your personal seat. A dangerous decision.

Emma sighed dramatically under her breath, but her free hand rose to your hair almost on instinct. Long fingers smoothed through it carefully, nails grazing lightly against your scalp in slow, deliberate motions that felt far too practiced to be accidental.

“There now,” she murmured, quieter this time. “Was that so difficult? Using me as furniture instead of pretending to be independent for once?”

The insult was softened by the way she continued combing her fingers through your hair.

Anyone else in the world would’ve been shoved off immediately for daring to invade Frost’s personal space uninvited. Most people barely survived standing too close to her on a good day.

But you only earned another lazy stroke through your hair and the faintest curl at the corner of her lips.

The telepath leaned back against the sofa, posture still elegant even with you sprawled across her lap like you belonged there. Her thumb traced absent circles against your waist while she resumed holding her drink, entirely unbothered now that she’d decided your presence was acceptable.

Then the penthouse doors slid open.

One of the X-Men stepped halfway into the room before freezing instantly at the sight.

“…This had better be important,” she said coolly.

The tension in the room shifted immediately.

Her arm tightened around you ever so slightly, drawing you more securely against her side while she finally lifted her gaze toward the interruption. The expression she gave them was perfectly polished, perfectly cold and carried a very clear message.

Leave. Now.

The unfortunate mutant stumbled through a rushed apology before disappearing again almost immediately.

Emma huffed softly once the doors closed.

“Honestly. No one understands boundaries anymore.”

You laughed quietly against her shoulder.

Emma glanced down at you again, expression gentler now that no one else was around to see it.

“…Comfortable?” she asked.

Before you could answer, her fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face upward just enough for her smirk to sharpen.

“Careful, darling,” Emma warned smoothly. “If you keep looking this pleased sitting in my lap, I may start thinking you’re attached to me.”