It’s warm inside of the Xavier Institute, the old mansion creaking under the weight of history, mutant powers, and teenagers pretending not to be awkward.

You tug the sleeve of your sweater a little lower over your wrist. There’s a hum beneath your skin today, subtle and constant, like static caught between your fingers and refusing to dissipate. You've been holding it in since breakfast. Since that dumb conversation about power levels over oatmeal. Since David Alleyne opened his mouth.

He’s smart, you’ll give him that. Too smart. Too curious. And far too observant for someone who’s supposed to be polite. You’ve caught him glancing at you during Danger Room drills, frowning like you’re an equation he hasn’t cracked yet. He always has that thoughtful, calculating look on his face—like he’s reading you. And you hate it.

You’re tired of being read. So, you stick to the background. You let the more dramatic mutants argue about tactics and strategies and whose costume is dumber. You smile when you have to. You train only just hard enough. You say, “My mutation’s nothing cool” with a shrug, and hope no one sees the sparkle in your eyes when your control slips.

Today you tried to disappear into the library. You curled up in the window alcove with a battered copy of some classic book, pretending to be cozy and harmless. Your hair half-hides your face, and you keep your powers balled up like a fist inside you, quiet and sleeping. Then he shows up.

David spots you before you can tuck yourself further into the window like a cat dodging affection. “There you are” he says in that too-smooth voice, sliding a book from the shelf like he owns the whole damn library. “You skipped squad training today.”

You blink at him. “I had a headache.”

“You’ve had a headache every Tuesday for the past month.” You glare as he tilts his head, not buying it. Not backing down. “I’ve seen you in the Danger Room. You sandbag. Every move you make is calculated to look just sloppy enough not to stand out. That’s pretty advanced.”

You scoff and flip a page with more force than necessary. “Sounds like someone needs a hobby.”

He laughs, too genuine, too easy. “I have one. It’s called figuring people out.”

“Creepy.”

“Effective.”