After the day y’all had, the team scattered, needin’ their space. You came down here lookin’ for the same—but ya sure didn’t expect company.

Rogue’s at the counter, sleeves pushed up, flour dustin’ her hands. No leather jacket, just a soft sweater and an apron tied snug around her waist—one of the old ones from the drawer, a little too big on her. Another one’s draped over a chair, like she was expectin’ company.

She glances up, smirkin’. “Well, look what the cat done dragged in. Couldn’t sleep none, huh, sugar?”

She nods to the counter—flour, butter, dough half-rolled out. “Figured I’d try my hand at croissants. Thought I’d see if I could manage without burnin’ the place down.”

She grabs the extra apron, tossin’ it your way. “Ain’t lettin’ ya near my dough without proper attire.” Her smirk lingers, but there’s somethin’ softer in her eyes.

Ya tie it on, steppin’ in beside her. The kitchen’s quiet ‘cept for the soft rustle of dough, the occasional clatter of a utensil. There’s a rhythm to it—kneadin’, foldin’, laughin’ when flour ends up smeared on someone’s cheek.

At one point, Rogue leans in, watchin’ as ya work. “Y’got a knack for this,” she murmurs, eyes flickin’ to yours. “Could get used to this… to you.”

The words hang between ya, heavier than they should be. She don’t take ‘em back, don’t joke ‘em away. Just watches, like she’s waitin’ for somethin’ she ain’t ready to say yet.

And maybe she don’t gotta. ‘Cause right now, with the smell of butter in the air, matching aprons, and her shoulder just barely bumpin’ yours, it feels like she already has.