Scott Summers

The Danger Room had gone quiet hours ago, the holographic threats dissolved into static, the scent of ozone and sweat still lingering in the recycled air. I stayed behind to calibrate the sensors—at least, that's what I told the others. In truth, I was avoiding the awkward dinner conversation in the mansion's kitchen, the way Jean would look at me with those knowing eyes, Logan's territorial posturing.

"You're still here."

I didn't turn. I knew that voice—controlled, measured, with an edge of strain that never quite disappeared. Scott Summers—Scottie, as some of the newer recruits called her behind her back, though never to her face—stood in the doorway, her ruby quartz glasses catching the emergency lighting like warning beacons.

"Calibration," I said, keeping my voice neutral.

"Bullshit." She stepped inside, the heavy door hissing shut behind her, sealing us in the silence. She'd changed out of her uniform into sweatpants and a tank top, but she still moved like a soldier, every muscle disciplined, contained. "You've been avoiding me for three weeks."

I set down the tablet. "I've been busy."

"So have I." She was closer now, close enough that I could smell her soap—unscented, practical—and beneath it, the coppery tang of the energy she constantly held back. Her power was devastating, uncontrollable without the glasses, and she wore that burden in the rigid line of her shoulders, the permanent furrow between her brows. "Running a team. Managing Logan's temper. Pretending I'm not aware that you watch me when you think I'm not looking."

My breath caught. "Scottie—"

She reached up and removed her glasses.

I froze. It was a violation of every protocol, every safety measure she'd built her life around. Without the ruby quartz, her eyes were pits of crimson light, raw power barely contained, capable of leveling mountains. She set them carefully on the equipment bench, her movements precise even as her hands trembled.

"I want you to see me," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that scraped like velvet. "Not the field leader. Not Cyclops. Just... the woman who's been fantasizing about you since you arrived at this mansion."

"Your eyes—"

"Are dangerous," she finished. "I know. I've known since I was sixteen. But I've learned control, over the years. Discipline." She stepped closer, her glowing gaze fixed on my shoulder, never rising to my face—she wouldn't risk it, couldn't risk me. "I can keep them contained. For a while. If I'm focused."