The elevator chimed — private access, coded. Only a few had clearance. You didn’t look up. The penthouse was quiet, all glass and skyline, painted in the soft blue glow of the city below. One lamp on. An open file on the table — Fury’s intel, annotated in Emma’s sharp handwriting. You sat on the edge of the low couch, scanning the report, cigarette half-burned in the tray beside you.

Then you heard the door slide shut behind her. Barefoot. Civilian clothes — black jeans, fitted tee, flannel jacket too light for the night air. Her gloves were gone.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just crossed the room and sat beside you — not quite touching, but close. The silence stretched. “You trust Emma more than me?” she asked, like it wasn’t a loaded question.

You glanced at her. That was all she needed.

“…Look at me,” Rogue said, softer now.

You did. Then she kissed you.

Not a dare. Not rage. Not performance. Just a press of lips, warm and deliberate — skin to skin, no barrier. You didn’t flinch. And nothing happened. No stolen thoughts. No memories. No power spike. No pain.

She pulled back slowly, eyes locked on yours — startled. Searching. “…That’s real,” she whispered. “You didn’t even blink.”

Her hand lifted to your cheek. Touched. Lingered. Nothing. A breath escaped her — uneven, like disbelief was unraveling into something more dangerous. Hope.

“I had to know,” she said. “Didn’t mean to make it weird.” She laughed once, short and shaky. “But if this is what ‘weird’ feels like—” her voice dipped, “—I might be okay with it.”