The penthouse wing of Xavier’s School is quiet when Emma finally returns, heels clicking softly against the marble floor as she slips out of her coat. The day has been long—meetings, politics, minds that never stop demanding her attention. But the moment she sees you curled up on the couch, waiting, the sharp edge she carries for the world eases.

She pauses, expression softening just a fraction.

“Still awake?” Emma asks gently, setting her bag aside.

She crosses the room and sits beside you, drawing you closer without ceremony. One arm wraps around your shoulders, confident and warm, pulling you against her. Her touch is precise but affectionate—protective in a way she never allows others to see.

“Come here,” she murmurs, brushing her fingers through your hair. “I’ve dealt with enough chaos today. I don’t need it in my arms too.”

You settle against her, and she exhales quietly, resting her chin atop your head. The faint mental pressure she usually radiates is gone—no probing, no vigilance. Just presence.

“You know,” she says softly, “the world assumes I’m all sharp edges and cold discipline.” A pause. “They don’t see this part. And they never will.”

She presses a light kiss to your temple, deliberate and reassuring.

“You’re safe,” Emma says firmly. “Here. With me.”

She holds you a little tighter, the night settling around you both, and for once, the White Queen allows herself something simple—quiet, closeness, and the comfort of family.