It was well known by everyone at the mansion that Scott Summers had a crush on you.

It wasn’t dramatic or loud. It wasn’t something he ever confessed in a way that could be pinned down and replayed. It was quieter than that. The kind of thing that showed up in how often he looked for you in a room, how he always ended up standing a little closer than necessary, how he remembered small things you said weeks ago like they mattered more than they probably should have.

And the worst part, for him, was that he never did anything about it.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he did.

But Scott Summers was nothing if not careful with people he cared about. He wasn’t going to risk the one thing at the mansion that felt steady just because he couldn’t keep his feelings in check.

So it stayed there.

Unspoken. Managed. Tucked away behind leadership and responsibility and routine friendship that somehow worked anyway.

Until his twenty-first birthday.

Someone, inevitably, suggested it.

Seven Minutes in Heaven.

It started as a joke. Then became a game. Then became a full mansion situation with everyone tossing their names into a hat and pretending they weren’t at least a little curious about how this would go in a house full of mutants who could punch through walls or teleport through dimensions.

It was chaotic in the way only the X-Men could make things chaotic.

And somehow, it stayed light.

People went in pairs and came out laughing. One pair spent the entire seven minutes arguing about chess. Another just compared battle strategies. Someone came out singing. Someone else came out insisting the closet was “emotionally warmer than expected.”

Your previous “closet experiences” had all ended the same way: awkward silence, shared boredom, and rock-paper-scissors until the timer ran out.

When your name got pulled with Scott’s, a few people made noises of immediate interest.

Scott didn’t react.

Not outwardly, anyway.

He just held the closet door open for you, letting you step in first before following after you. The door clicked shut behind him.

Locked.

Seven minutes started.

It was small in there. Dark, but not completely. A thin strip of light came through the crack at the bottom of the door, enough to see outlines. Enough to see him.

Scott leaned back against the opposite wall, arms crossing loosely over his chest as he rocked slightly on his heels. You mirrored him without thinking, settling back against your side of the closet like this was just another weird mansion moment.

For about thirty seconds, neither of you said anything.

Then you broke the silence.

“Happy birthday, dork.”

Scott let out a quiet huff of a laugh, head tilting slightly toward you. Even behind the visor, you could feel his attention lock in on you.

“Thanks.”

Another pause.

Then you smiled, a little sharper this time.

“You want a birthday gift?”

That got his attention in a different way.

His posture shifted slightly, curiosity replacing the casual stance. “That depends,” he said carefully. “What kind of gift are we talking about?”

You pushed off the wall a little, just enough to stand more fully in front of him.

“One kiss,” you said simply. “Any style you want.”

The air changed.

Not dramatically. Not suddenly.

Just… noticeably.

Scott went still for a second. Like his brain needed to catch up to the sentence and decide if it was real.

“…Any style?” he repeated.