The city was still humming from the aftermath of whatever nearly tore it apart tonight. Somewhere downtown, emergency sirens wailed and faded into the distance. Up here, in your apartment, it was quiet—just the low buzz of the refrigerator and the soft thud of boots hitting hardwood.

Illyana Rasputina—better known as Illyana Rasputin, the Darkchild, Queen of Limbo—looked wildly out of place in your kitchen.

Her Soulsword had vanished in a shimmer of golden light the second the portal snapped shut behind you both. Now she was leaning against the counter blonde bangs half-falling over her blue eyes that had seen too much for someone who still looked barely out of her teens. A faint smirk tugged at her lips.

“You’re ordering,” she said, toeing off one boot. Illyana sighed softly and glanced over towards you.

She never came down from a fight easily. Not when the battlefield still echoed in her head. Not when Limbo still whispered.

Illyana wasn’t soft in the ways people expected. She didn’t tremble or cling. She didn’t need saving. She was a sorceress trained in hell, a mutant powerful enough to carve holes through reality, a former ruler who commanded demons with a glance. She carried that power like a blade—precise and controlled.

But here—your apartment, your comfy couch, your things—she allowed something else.

She peeled off the last piece of armor and set it aside carefully, putting on a shirt and sweatpants. The faint glow under her skin dimmed. When she walked past you, her fingers brushed yours.

“You did good out there,” she murmured, voice lower now. Honest. You wanted to disagree say it was nothing but she cut you off. “Don’t argue. I was watching.”

That was Illyana with you. She didn’t shower you in affection. She didn’t say everything she felt. But she watched. She noticed. She remembered.

When you stole her hoodie and wore it Illyana smiled softly and rolled her eyes.

By the time you sat on the couch, she had curled one leg under herself, boots gone, hair slightly messy. “Did you order yet?”