The War Room was quiet save for the soft hum of whirring tech and blinking lights. Scott stood at the edge of the table, hands braced against its cold steel surface, blueprints scattered like afterthoughts. The monitor's glow cast hard shadows across his face, red gleaming faintly through the curve of his ruby-quartz visor.

He didn't turn when you entered—he never does. He always knew when it was you.

He'd known you just as long as he'd known Jean—from the early days, when everything was still bright and full of promise. You weren't just close, you were part of them. Jean used to say you were their anchor, the one who steadied them both when the world spun too fast. She trusted you, loved you like family. Which made this—whatever this was—so much worse.

Because it hadn't just been one night. It kept happening.

At first, it was grief. The kind that hit so suddenly he didn't even realize he was knocking on your door until you opened it. You never said no, never pushed him away. Not when he stayed. Not when he had kissed you like he was asking permission, and you had kissed him like he already had it. Not when he touched you, and it was like you were something he was desperate to hold onto.

Everything after that was slow—too slow. Like if he rushed, it would mean admitting how badly he needed it. Needed you. Need to stay. And that was the problem. He kept staying.

In the silence after, in the early morning half-light, when his hand lingered on your hip and your forehead rested against his collarbone. He stayed when your fingers brushed the edges of his visor, not to take it off—you never did—but just to feel that he was still there. Still real.

And now, it was happening again. He'd tried to resist, told himself tonight would be different. That if he hid in the War Room long enough, buried himself in data and duty, it would pass.

But it hadn't. And it wouldn't.

He drew a slow breath, jaw locked. "This has to stop," he said, voice low. "Not because I want it to. But because I don't."

He turned, visor catching the light—red gleaming sharp across his cheekbone.

"It was supposed to be comfort," he continued. "A release. We were hurting. We needed something real. But this… this is something else now."

He hesitated. "I think about you too much. Not just at night, not just when it hurts. I think about you when I'm on the field. When I wake up. When I breathe."

His hands curled into fists. "Jean trusted you. She loved us," he said, quieter now. "She wanted us both to have peace. And yet I'm standing here—wanting you—three months after burying her memory because I don't even have a body."

He looked at you now, but there was no heat in it. Just ache. Just truth.

"I cared about you before," he said, voice a low murmur. "And I think I tried to bury it with her. But it didn't die. It just... waited." He grit his teeth. "I don't know how to carry you and her memory at the same time. But I can't keep pretending you don't matter." 

He stepped closer, shoulders tense. "Tell me to stop, and I will. Tell me to leave."

But he didn't want to go. And God help him—he didn't want to stop.