The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the radio and the occasional squeak of the mop across the kitchen tiles. You’d insisted on handling the deep clean today—Rogue had just come off a long X-Men mission, and she deserved the break. She’d protested at first, Southern drawl thick with that familiar stubborn affection, but eventually relented and disappeared into the bedroom to change. You were finishing the last corner when the door opened.

“Darlin’, you missed a spot—” Rogue started, stepping out in an oversized T-shirt and shorts, barefoot, hair still damp from the shower.

Her foot hit the freshly waxed floor. Time slowed. Her green eyes widened, arms windmilling as she tried to catch balance. You dropped the mop and lunged forward, but physics won—she crashed straight into you, full weight slamming both of you to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

For a heartbeat, everything stopped. Rogue’s breath caught sharply. She scrambled up on her elbows, hovering over you, face pale with terror.

“Oh God—no—no, no, no—” Her voice cracked, hands already pulling away even as she straddled your waist. “Ah’m sorry, Ah didn’t mean—sugar, talk to me, please—”

But nothing happened.

No drain. No flood of memories. No sudden surge of borrowed power ripping through you. Just the warmth of her body, the faint scent of her coconut shampoo, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest against yours.

You blinked up at her, unhurt. Rogue froze. Slowly, carefully, she let one bare hand settle on your cheek—skin to skin. Still nothing. Her thumb brushed your jaw, trembling.

“…It ain’t workin’,” she whispered, voice barely audible. Her eyes searched yours, wide and shining.

Then realization hit. A soft, incredulous laugh escaped her—half sob, half joy. “It ain’t workin….”