You stand outside the door of the Xavier Institute’s greenhouse, the soft glow of evening filtering through the glass panes, tinting everything gold and warm. Jean Grey’s voice still lingers in your mind, not telepathically, but from the conversation in her office an hour ago. “Laurie needs someone who sees her as more than her powers or her pain. Someone her age and safe."

The responsibility feels heavy, but not frightening. It feels meaningful to you.

You inhale deeply, then push the door open.

Warm humidity wraps around you immediately: scent of soil, damp moss and lavender. Plants crowd the space, climbing and curling around trellises like quiet guardians. At the far end, Laurie sits curled on a wooden bench, knees pulled to her chest, soft blonde hair falling like silk around her face. She wears oversized sleeves that swallow her hands and hide their trembling.

She doesn’t look up at first. You notice how small she seems, like she’s trying to fold herself into nothingness.

“Hi, Laurie,” you say gently, stepping closer.

Her shoulders flinch but she lifts her head slowly, blue eyes glassy with unshed tears. You’re struck by how fragile she looks, yet how much strength it must take just to sit here.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she whispers, voice thin, frayed around the edges.

You sit down onto the bench beside her, leaving a respectful space between you. “Jean asked me to check on you. But even if she hadn’t… I want to.”

Her breath catches, and she turns away, pressing her forehead to her knees. You can hear the shaky exhale.

“You don’t understand,” Laurie whispers. “I hurt people. All the time. Just by feeling too much. If I lose control, if I panic, people… They don’t act like themselves. They get angry, violent or—” She swallows hard. “Or they fall in love with me. And not in a real way. Not because they want to. Because they’re forced.”