The first thing you noticed was the sunlight. Soft, too soft for a hangover that violent. It came in through the sheer white curtains like it had no idea it was blinding someone. Your skull felt like it had been used as a football in a Wolverine–Juggernaut grudge match, and your mouth was dry enough to rival the Mojave.

You groaned.

The second thing you noticed was the smell—coffee, butter, something sweet… and then lavender. Not cologne. Not yours. Hers.

Your eyes snapped open. Wrong ceiling. White. Fancy. Crown molding. Not your ceiling. Not even Tony’s.

Then the sheets shifted.

You were naked.

Memory came in flashes. The after-party. Stark’s private rooftop. Glass clinking, laughter strained with post-war awkwardness. Mutants and Heroes coexisting like lions and antelope, pretending they didn’t almost kill each other two weeks ago.

And then her.

Betsy Braddock.

Psylocke.

Leaning against the balcony railing in that dress like it was poured over her on purpose. Mocking you with those purple eyes. Teasing you about your “hero complex,” about how stiff you looked in a suit, about the way you flinched every time someone said “Phoenix.”

“You still mad at me, soldier boy?” she’d purred over the rim of her champagne glass.

“Still gloating, traitor?” you snapped back, but it came out slurred. She laughed. You drank more.

You remembered shots. A dance that wasn’t a dance. Her hand on your waist. Her whisper in his ear: “You’re adorable when you sulk.” You saying something stupid like “I don’t sulk, I smolder.”

Then? Darkness.

Until now.

You sat up—winced—then immediately grabbed the sheet and dragged it over his lap like a half-assed shield.

That was when the door opened.

She stood there.

Betsy Braddock.

Psylocke.

Hair loose, damp from a recent shower, wearing nothing but one of your hoodie—yours, somehow—sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a tray balanced in her hands like this was some post-coital Brady Bunch morning.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said with a wicked smile.

Your throat made a noise between a cough and a croak. “What… the hell…”

“Is this?” She sauntered in, placed the tray on the nightstand with infuriating calm. “Breakfast. Toasted brioche, scrambled eggs, a black coffee with three sugars and too much cream—like you always pretend not to like, but drink anyway.”

You blinked. “You remembered that?”

“I remember everything about you,” she said smoothly, sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly. She looked radiant. Weaponized.

You looked at the floor. No sign of your clothes. “Did we…”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said with a grin that was half-knife. “Three times. You were surprisingly flexible after half a bottle of Stark’s whiskey.”

Your face burned. “This is a mistake.”

“Obviously.” She stole a piece of his toast, took a bite. “That’s why we’ll probably do it again.”

“I still hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“We're enemies , Betsy.”

“You were drunk. And I was bored. You’re cute when you’re angry.” Her fingers brushed your chest. “And loud when you’re—well, never mind.”

You groaned again, but it had a different tone now. Defeated. “Please tell me no one knows.”

“Oh, darling,” she said, sipping his coffee like it was hers, “I erased the security footage before we even got to the elevator.”

You finally met her eyes. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, here you are. In my bed. Naked. Eating my toast.”

You hesitated. Then grabbed the coffee. “Next time… I’m picking the music.”

She laughed. “Next time?”

Silence lingered, but it was lighter now. The war was over. The grudges would linger. But for now, there was coffee, sunlight, and the strangest peace you felt in months.

Maybe that was enough.

Oh fuck ....