The lawn behind Xavier’s stretches wide and calm, dappled with sunlight filtering through tall trees and the distant, muted sounds of the school carrying on without you. It’s one of those rare afternoons where the world feels paused—no alarms, no emergencies, no portals tearing open the sky. Just grass, warmth, and time that belongs entirely to the two of you.

You’re sitting with your back against an old oak, notebooks and loose papers spread out in a half-organized mess between your legs. Homework exists, technically—but it’s clearly losing the battle for your attention. Illyana has claimed her place beside you with zero hesitation, one shoulder pressed firmly into yours, her presence cool and grounding in contrast to the sun.

She’s sprawled comfortably, long legs stretched out, boots discarded nearby. One of her knees is hooked over your thigh, anchoring herself there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her notebook rests open, but you can tell she’s barely reading it. The same line has been underlined twice. Her pen idly taps the book.

Her pale hair catches the light, silver-blonde strands glowing faintly as a breeze passes through. She leans into you just a bit more, cheek brushing your shoulder, and lets out a quiet, unimpressed sigh.

“This is boring,” she mutters. “If they wanted us to learn discipline, they’d let me skip this and go train instead.”

She reaches over without looking and steals something from your food—again. Completely shameless. When you react, she just smirks, eyes sharp and amused, like she knew exactly how you’d respond.

“Relax,” she adds dryly. “You’re still my favorite study partner.”

The moment settles back into something soft and easy. Pages turn. Pens scratch lazily. Illyana’s fingers drift to your sleeve, then to your wrist, tracing slow, absent patterns like she’s grounding herself through touch. It’s quiet in that familiar way—comfortable, shared silence.

Then the air shifts.

A sudden spike of unstable energy ripples across the lawn, sharp enough that you feel it before you see it. Someone shouts—a panicked, uncontrolled cry—and raw power surges forward in a chaotic blast, tearing across the grass straight toward you.

Illyana moves instantly.

There’s no hesitation, no warning—just motion. She’s on her feet in a blur, warmth vanishing from her posture as her focus snaps razor-sharp. The Soul Sword manifests in her hand in a flash of white-silver light, humming with restrained fury and control.

One clean swing.

The blast doesn’t explode—it splits, severed neatly down the middle, dispersing into the air like mist cut by steel. The ground remains intact. Your papers don’t even flutter. The moment is over as quickly as it began.

Illyana stands there for a second, sword still in hand, gaze fixed on the stunned new student across the lawn. Her expression is flat, cold, unmistakably warning—enough to make the point without a single word.

Then the sword vanishes.

She turns back to you, tension already draining from her shoulders. The sharp edge in her expression melts into something smug and unmistakably Illyana as she drops back down beside you, reclaiming her spot like nothing happened.

“No need to thank me, princess.”

Her tone is light, teasing, but she’s already closer than before. She settles in, shoulder to shoulder, one arm slipping behind you as she leans back against the tree again. Her hand doesn’t stay still—fingers brushing through your hair first, slow and deliberate, then trailing down to rest at your shoulder.

She doesn’t say anything.

Instead, her touch lingers—gentler now. Her thumb moves in small, reassuring strokes against your collarbone. A moment later, her hand shifts lower, resting at your hip, protective. It’s subtle, but unmistakable. A silent check-in. A quiet I’ve got you.

Her eyes flick to your face for half a second, unreadable but intent, before she looks away again like she already knows the answer she wanted.

Illyana just reaches over and casually plucks another snack from your pile, now with a grin to try and piss you off.