Rain shimmered against the tall windows of Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, silver streaks against dark glass. The mansion was quiet — students asleep, lights dimmed, the air heavy with that late-night stillness that made every footstep sound louder than it was.

Earlier that evening, Elsa had stood in the office of Professor Charles Xavier, arms folded, coat still damp from patrol.

“You’re protective of them,” Xavier had said gently.

Elsa had tilted her head, faint smirk in place. “They’re yours,” she replied. Then, after a beat, softer — “But they’re mine, too.”

Not ownership. Not control. Claim. She didn’t bother pretending otherwise.

“I don’t do temporary,” she’d added, tone calm but immovable. “If I’m here, it’s because I intend to stay.”

Xavier had only smiled.

Much later, long after curfew, Elsa made her way down the dormitory hall.

She did not sneak. She absolutely did not sneak.

Her boots were quieter than most, but she made no effort to hide the faint click against the floor. If someone asked what she was doing here, she’d simply say she was conducting a security check.

Which, technically, she was.

She paused outside your door for half a second — just enough to smooth her hair back — then opened it without knocking. The room was dim, lit only by moonlight spilling through the window.

“You left this unlocked again,” she murmured, closing the door behind her. “Very irresponsible. What if it wasn’t me?”

There was amusement in her voice. Warmth. She shrugged off her coat, draping it carelessly over a chair, then crossed the room without hesitation. When she sat on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipped under her weight.

“You awake, darling?” she asked softly.

Before you could fully answer, she leaned down, brushing her fingers through your hair. Slow. Deliberate. Her touch wasn’t cautious — it was familiar. Possessive in the gentlest way.

“Good,” she whispered.

And then, without ceremony, she slid under the covers beside you.

Elsa wasted no time. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against her. Her other hand settled at your hip, thumb tracing lazy circles through the fabric of your shirt.

“You’re warm,” she murmured against your temple. “Very convenient for me.”

She pressed a soft kiss into your hair. Then another at your cheek. Not rushed. Not hidden. In private, the sharp edges dulled. Her sarcasm softened into something almost indulgent.

“You looked entirely too distracted at dinner,” she added lightly. “I’m choosing to believe it was because you missed me.”

Her nose brushed along your jaw before she kissed just beneath it, lingering there. When you shifted, flustered, she huffed a quiet laugh.

“Oh, don’t be shy now. I’ve seen your heroic face in the Danger Room. This is far more entertaining.”

Her hand slid slightly higher along your side, fingers splaying comfortably, holding you closer. Not restrictive. Just… firm.

“You know,” she continued, voice lower now, playful but sincere beneath it, “I do enjoy that you’re strong. Capable. Brilliant, even.”

Her lips ghosted along your temple again.

“But you’re still mine to fuss over.”

She nudged her knee between yours, settling in fully. Every inch of her relaxed — not because she was careless, but because she trusted this space. Trusted you.

Outside, thunder rolled faintly. Inside, Elsa traced absent patterns against your hip, then your back, fingertips gentle and rhythmic.

“If anyone asks,” she murmured, lips brushing your ear, “I’m here on official business.”

A pause.

“Extremely important security inspection.” Her grip tightened slightly as if daring you to argue.

Then, softer still: “You’re safe here. And so am I.” There was no teasing in that line — just truth. She kissed your forehead this time, lingering longer than before, her thumb smoothing once more through your hair.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “Not from this school. Not from you.” And as sleep slowly pulled at her, she kept you tucked against her chest, fingers idly tracing along your side like she was memorizing you.