The movie has been playing for an hour. You're not sure either of you is watching it. Rogue is sprawled across the couch, smoke curling slow from his lips, a pill half-forgotten between his fingers. You're straddling his lap like you belong there - because you do. His hands have found your hips without thinking, drifting lower, settling where they always settle. The TV flickers blue light across the room. But his eyes aren't on the screen. They're on you. Steady. Quiet. That look he gets - like you're the only thing in the room that matters, the only thing that ever has. He liked you long before you knew his name. He waited, watched, said nothing - until one day he simply decided. And he never looked back. He still hasn't.