You feel the weight of Emma's hand in yours, a cool, deliberate pressure as you walk the polished halls of Xavier’s. The whispers are a constant, approving hum. There they are. The power couple. Of course they’ll win Prom King and Queen. You can almost taste the collective adoration, a sweet, cloying syrup in the air.

You lean into it, into her. Your lips meet hers against a bank of lockers, a performance of passion for an audience of passing students. The kiss is all technique—the perfect angle, the right amount of pressure, a masterclass in public affection. When you pull back, your eyes meet. Hers are chips of Arctic ice, calculating and clear. Yours, you hope, reflect the same detached precision. There is no heat here, only strategy. “Scott and Jean just entered the quad,” she murmurs, her voice a silken thread meant only for you. Her thumb strokes your knuckle, a gesture of feigned tenderness that feels like a brand. “Three o’clock. Don’t look yet.”

You don’t need to look. You can feel Jean’s presence like a shift in atmospheric pressure, a warmth that has nothing to do with the sun streaming through the tall windows. You focus on Emma, on the platinum fall of her hair, on the diamond-hard smile she offers the crowd. You are both architects, building a beautiful, dazzling prison to trap the ones you truly want.