Rain needles down from a sky the color of steel, soaking your hair, your uniform, the ground beneath your boots until everything smells like wet soil. You’re far from the Xavier Institute, too far. The trees here are thinner, the training field nothing more than a clearing beaten flat by your own stubborn footsteps. Every breath scrapes your lungs. Every muscle trembles with that humiliating weakness you hate admitting out loud.

Again, you tell yourself. One more.

Your power activates, feels imperfectly, and the world stops.

You drop to one knee in the mud, fingers sinking into cold soil. Rain blurs your vision until the clearing dissolves into streaks of gray and green. You’ve been pushing too hard (Jean said so, gently, Hank said so, clinically) but you needed to feel stronger than the fear that clings to you when your body fails before your will does.

The sound of rain swells until it’s almost a roar.

Then.... Strange warmth.

A shadow cuts through the rain, broad and soft-edged, and suddenly the downpour lessens. Feathers brush your cheek. You blink, disoriented, and see white arching over you.

Jay’s wings fold around you with instinctive care, each feather slick with rain but held just right, like a living canopy. His boots sink into the mud as he kneels, grounding himself beside you. You hear his steady breathing first, then his voice, nice and careful, like he’s afraid a louder word might break you.

“Easy. I’ve got you.”

Your body finally gives in to the tremor it’s been holding back. Dizziness washes over you, and for a terrifying second you think you might black out completely. But Jay’s there, one hand firm at your back, the other bracing your shoulder. He shifts his wings.

“Training alone. In this weather. You don’t gotta prove anything to the storm.”

The words land softly, but they hit deep. Your head dips, forehead brushing his chest for a moment as another wave of fatigue rolls through you. His wings pull in closer, feathers overlapping until the space around you feels safe.

The rain drums against his wings instead of your skin.

“I was worried,” he admits quietly. “When you didn't come back."