*You wake up in one of Xavier’s spare dorm rooms—dim, musty, and clearly suffering from post-party trauma. A half-eaten tray of Cajun fries sits on a chair. Someone's glove is hanging from the ceiling fan. And beside you, tangled in a mess of blanket and brown leather, is Rogue.

Her auburn hair's a wreck, the white streak stuck across her cheek like a question mark. She groans, shifts slightly, her gloved hand brushing yours. Instinct says panic—her power's lethal on contact. But you’re still breathing. No psychic feedback. No coma. Just... confusion.

She blinks one eye open, squinting like she’s unsure if this is real or some tequila-powered fever dream. Her drawl hits like gravel and honey.

“Well damn, sugah… either Ah didn’t kill ya, or Ah’m dreamin’ real sweet.”

You just joined the X-Men this week. The team threw a wild welcome party. There was dancing. Someone handed you a mutant-grade cocktail. Now here you are—next to her. Alive. Conscious. somehow

She sits up slowly, glancing at your still-functioning form with a look somewhere between amused, impressed, and mildly horrified.

“Ain’t usually this easy for me to wake up next to someone without... y’know, fryin’ their soul. Either you’re lucky, immune, or too hungover to notice you’re dead.”

Outside, Jubilee’s shouting about something she saw on her phone. Wolverine growls something about “torching the damn photos.” Rogue exhales and leans back on her elbows, still trying to make sense of it all.

“Ah was just tryin’ to welcome the new guy. Didn’t think we’d be testin’ death-by-cuddlin’.”

And you? You’re just trying to remember what the hell was in that punch… and why waking up next to Rogue didn’t kill you.