The halls of the X-Mansion were dark, the kind of midnight quiet where every sound felt louder than it should. You were sitting at the long table near the kitchen, papers spread out but mostly forgotten as you nursed a cup of tea.

Footsteps. Familiar ones.

Then Remy leaned against the doorframe. His coat half-off his shoulders, hair a little wild from the night wind.

“Tough night?” you asked.

“Tch.” He waved a hand, stepping fully inside. “Could say dat. Could also say Gambit been reminded he ain’t exactly everybody’s first choice.”

You froze for a second. There it was.

“Y’know, Rogue runnin’ into Magneto’s arms like it’s somethin’ poetic? Can’t blame her. Big metal hero, shiny helmet… must be hard to resist.”

He said it like it was a joke. Like it didn’t hit him like a punch.

He plucked a grape off the bowl beside you, popped it into his mouth, leaning close enough for you to smell smoke and cologne.

“Anyway,” he said, voice slipping into that flirty rhythm he always used as a shield, “figure I could find myself someone better t’look at t’night. Someone prettier. Someone who—”

“Remy.”

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t snap. You just said his name. Soft. Knowing.

Everything inside him stilled.

The playful smirk faltered. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he let himself breathe out, long and rough.

“Chèrie…” he whispered, voice suddenly small.

He dragged a chair out and sank into it beside you, elbows on his knees. He wasn’t crying, he wouldn’t. But his eyes looked glassy, tired, like holding everything in hurt more than letting it out.

“Hurts more than I wanna admit.”

There it was. Just Remy LeBeau, tired and cracked open in the quiet.