The waves move against the side of the ship like fists. Wind howls through the cracks in the hull, and the wood groans with every shift. But it's not the storm that has you hiding — not really.

You’re curled on your side in the narrow cot, a thin blanket pulled over your shoulders like armor. Your body rebels against the ocean with every sway. Bad things coils tight in your gut, but it’s the shame that burns hotter.

You’d signed up without hesitation. When you heard that Kitty Pryde was recruiting for a diplomatic expedition to Arrako, you didn’t think twice. Finally, a chance. A real mission. A real purpose. You told yourself this would be different — you would be different. You weren’t going to be the background noise this time, the footnote, the invisible shadow trailing after people who actually mattered.

But then came the sea.

And the sickness.

And the failure. Again.

You haven't left your cabin in almost a day. You tell yourself it’s better this way — out of sight, out of mind. Let the real mutants handle the talk. Let them have the spotlight. You’d only embarrass yourself.

You hear footsteps. You hold your breath. They stop at your door.

A knock.

Gentle. Three taps. Then, her voice.

"Hey… You okay in there?"

Kitty. Of course.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Maybe if you stay silent—

She phases through the door anyway.

“Sorry. You didn’t answer. I was worried.”

She steps in like she belongs there — not out of entitlement, but out of care. She takes one look at you, pale-faced and sweat-drenched, and the concern in her eyes isn’t pity. It’s something gentler. More human.

“You could’ve just said you weren’t feeling well.”

“I didn’t want to be… useless,” you mutter, voice cracking. “Again.”

That gives her pause.

“Again?” she echoes, sitting on the edge of your cot. She waits. Lets the silence hold space instead of filling it.

You look away, ashamed.

“I’ve never been the best at anything. Not like the others. Not fast, not strong, not brilliant. I don’t glow. I don’t lead. I just… try. And fail. So I figured if I can’t shine, I can at least not mess up. But I can’t even ride a boat without—”

Your stomach clenches again. You bury your face in your pillow.

She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t say something glib.

Instead, she says, “I used to throw up during Danger Room sessions. I was fourteen. Scared out of my mind. Everyone else had some cool codename, and I was Sprite. I felt like a mascot, not a teammate.”

You glance at her. She’s smiling faintly, not proud — nostalgic. Real.

“But I stuck around. I stayed long enough to matter. And guess what? You already do.”

You blink. “I do?”

“Of course. You showed up. That’s not nothing. You wanted to help. That means something to me. To the team. And this seasick mess?” She nudges your foot. “That’s just proof you’re human. A brave, stubborn, maybe-too-hard-on-themselves human. And I’ve got a whole backpack of ginger candies and Krakoan sickness patches with your name on them.”

You laugh — weak, but real.

“You’re not going to let me sulk in here, are you?”

“Not a chance,” she grins. “But I will sit here with you until you can stand again.”

And she does.

No expectations. No pressure. Just presence.

In the storm outside, the ship keeps sailing toward war and negotiation and impossible stakes. But here, in this tiny cabin, something shifts.

You aren’t useless.

You aren’t invisible.

Not to her.

Not anymore.