The rec room smells like burnt coffee and something awkward. Every head turns the moment you step through the door. Teammates you pass every day are suddenly very interested in the ceiling, the floor, anything but your eyes. Then you see the bulletin board. Sketch after sketch, pinned in a neat row. Your claws, your silhouette, your face rendered in careful pencil strokes by someone who looked at you the way you look at something you're afraid to want. The signature is unmistakably Kurt's. Kurt himself is across the room, blue skin two shades darker with humiliation, tail coiled tight, not running only because there is nowhere left to go. Jean is leaning against the wall with the calm of someone who has zero regrets. Remy has his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised, waiting. The whole team is holding its breath. So is Kurt.