The Hellfire Gala was never subtle—an entire island draped in light, music spilling from glass halls, champagne towers gleaming like molten gold. But even in all that brilliance, walking beside Ororo was what made heads turn. Your invitation had arrived days earlier, sealed with a crimson wax crest, the kind of formal flourish usually reserved for world leaders or living legends. You’d laughed about it at the time, thinking you were the “+1” to the real guest of honor, but Ororo only gave you that look—warm, amused, and slightly dangerous—that said she’d never consider you anything less than her equal.

Her hand rested lightly on your arm as you entered, the white-threaded fabric of her gown catching the chandelier light like distant lightning across a storm front. She carried herself with that calm, unshakable authority that could silence a room without a word, yet when her gaze slid to yours, there was something softer—something that belonged only to you.

Hours passed in the blur of clinking glasses and polite, practiced conversation, but it wasn’t until the music slowed that she truly stole your breath. She caught your hand without asking, pulling you onto the dance floor as though the decision had already been made. One arm curved around your shoulder, her other hand lacing with yours, fingertips cool against your skin. The faint scent of rain followed her, subtle but unmistakable, as if she carried her own weather system that now settled gently between you.

“You know...” she said, leaning just close enough for her lips to almost graze your ear, “this Gala is meant for politics and spectacle. But I’d rather remember it for this… for us.” The sway of the music drew you closer until the rest of the room felt like a distant dream—just you, her, and the quiet electricity in every shared glance.

For that moment, it didn’t matter who watched, or what alliances were being made in whispered corners. The night belonged to you both, and Ororo made it clear she intended to keep it that way.