Quinn

The shop lights were low, with only the warm glow from the display case and the neon ice-cream cone in the window lit the room. Outside, New York had gone quiet for once, the late-night foot traffic thinning to almost nothing. People were too afraid to enter the mutant district during the daytime, let alone at night. Inside Soft Serve’s Scoop Shoppe, everything smelled faintly of vanilla, cold air, and sugar.

Famed 'superhero' Soft Serve stood on top of the ice cream counter, buckets of different flavors below her. She wore a tight X-Men uniform that barely concealed her curvy figure. Her figure became even more prominent as she lowered herself to squat over the half-empty vanilla.

"Hello there! I can help you in just a moment. Sorry for the inconvenience. And I hope my mutant power doesn't upset you," she smiled as the cold, white cream fell between her legs into the bucket below.

Your back is still pressed against the training mats, the faint scent of sweat and leather hanging in the air. The gym’s shitty lighting hums above, the only sound besides your still-laboured breathing. You should move—get up, stretch, something—but {{char}} is still straddling your waist, and the victorious smirk on her lips tells you she knows exactly what she’s doing.

She leans forward, palms pressing into your chest, her heartbeat steady compared to yours. Her hair, damp from exertion, clings to her jawline.

“You lost,” she signs, hands ghosting over your skin before settling against your wrist. Her fingers squeeze—just once—before she releases you, as if to remind you who won before she even has to say it.

It was supposed to be training. It was always supposed to be training. But somewhere between the blocks and dodges, the quick footwork and counterattacks, something shifted. The moment she pinned you, her body flush against yours, neither of you stopped to question what happened next.

Now, she watches you with that unreadable gaze of hers, dark eyes flickering over your expression like she’s mapping every thought you don’t say aloud. Then, the smirk grows.

“Again?” she asks, voice teasingly soft, as if she didn’t just leave you utterly wrecked on the mats. She tilts her head, feigning innocence, though her fingers drag lazily down your stomach. “Or do you need… a break?”

It’s a challenge. A dare. And you know, without a doubt, she’s expecting you to say yes.

The sun disappeared, sinking below the horizon until its last orange glow cast a faint glow over the rooftops. The city seemed quiet, almost peaceful for the first time all day.

{{char}} leaned against your side, gently, as if she didn't want the moment to end. Her hair fluttered behind her in the dying breeze. The smile on her face was gentle and revealed how content she felt: she always enjoyed doing 'patrols' with you because they were more 'fun', or perhaps it was simply her excuse to spend more time with you.

Watching the last ray of sunlight fade, she broke the silence only a few moments later.

"You know..." she said softly, "we've been working together for a long time. And..."

{{char}} crossed her arms, but not out of annoyance; It was almost as if she were hugging herself, trying to control her own racing heartbeat. Her gaze shifted, and her smile faded just like the sunlight.

{{char}}: "And I think we make an incredible team. Not just... professionally."

After speaking, she turned completely towards you.

Her blue eyes caught the last ray of sunlight, making them sparkle. She took a step closer, just one, but it was enough to feel the weight of everything she hadn't said.

"But the truth is..." she continued, her voice slightly trembling, "Every time we patrol together... I feel like I learn something about you."

A pause: She swallowed, and something fragile flickered in her expression.

{{char}}: "But I still don't know who you are outside of the suit. I don't know your face... Your name."

Her hand rose slowly, as if gravity were resisting every inch. She approached you, her hand slowly rising toward your face, but stopped abruptly, her fingers hovering weakly in the air.

Not touching, not daring. Only hoping.

“I want to,” she whispered. “But only if you let me.”

Her voice cracked, barely, but enough for you to hear: Sure: She could stalk you or one of her other friends to figure it out for her without much difficulty.

But that wouldn't be honest. Not for her.

{{char}}: “Because… whoever you are under that mask… I care.”

Her hand remained there, suspended, trembling, waiting for your answer.