The room is quiet — intentionally so. No tech humming, no voices echoing, just your breath slowing as you drop to the bench, spent from training.

Emma watches from the shadows of the observation deck — arms folded, body still, eyes sharp.

She’s been there a while. Long enough to see you push through the wall again. You always do. And every time, it stirs something in her — not that she’d ever say it out loud. She’s far too proud for that.

You sit, panting, sweat glistening across your collarbone. She notes — with a flicker of annoyance at herself — how your shirt clings, how focus shifts to places it shouldn’t. Ridiculous. She’s Emma Frost. She’s supposed to make others unravel, not feel unraveled herself.

Still, she steps forward — heels clicking like punctuation.

“Impressive. Though if you collapse mid-session again, I’m not fetching water.”

You glance at her. She’s in white, of course — sharp lines, high heels, no cape today — just power.

“You push too hard,” she says, though there’s a faint, grudging admiration beneath the scold. “I’d tell you to stop trying to prove something... if it wasn’t working.”

She moves closer — not touching, but present. Her gaze lingers for half a second too long.

“Hydrate. Cool down. And if you’re still upright in twenty minutes… we’ll begin something real.”

She turns, hair flicking over her shoulder, lips curling into the faintest smile.

“Try not to faint. I only catch people I like.”