Chapter Text
Jean Grey stood at the edge of the restaurant’s entrance, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirt, feeling the weight of why am I doing this? pressing hard against her ribs.
La Petite Lumière was everything Ororo promised: warm light spilling onto the street like an invitation, small tables set close together, walls lined with soft gold, white, and quiet charm. A place made for intimacy. A place where hearts might open, if given the chance.
Jean wasn’t sure hers was ready.
But she’d said yes. Because Ororo had looked at her with that infuriating, knowing gaze and said, “It’s time.” And because Rachel had told her that morning, between bites of oatmeal, “Mommy, you should have a friend who takes you to dinner.”
So here she was, nerves coiled tight, stepping into the soft hum of conversation and clink of cutlery.
She gave her name to the host.
And then—
She saw her.
Emma Frost.
Jean stopped, breath caught somewhere between surprise and memory.
Emma sat alone at a corner table, phone in hand, unreadable behind the familiar shield of cool perfection. She was stunning in a crisp white blouse, pale hair falling in smooth waves, the candlelight gilding her features in soft gold.
When Emma looked up, the moment cracked wide open.
Her eyes widened slightly. Then, in a breath, she smiled—small, but real.
“Jean,” Emma said, rising gracefully. “Well. This is… unexpected.”
Jean swallowed, moving forward before her legs could betray her. “Emma.”
Their names felt strange in the air, like something fragile and new.
They stood a moment, caught between the ghosts of high school hallways and the adults they’d become.
“Ororo,” they said at once, and laughed, the tension breaking enough to breathe.
Emma gestured to the empty seat. “Shall we?”
Emma helped Jean in her chair like a gentlelady, making the redhead blush. Not long after, the waiter came. They ordered without really tasting the words—something light, something safe.
Emma folded her hands on the table, fingers long and elegant, as if she were preparing for a meeting.
Jean tried not to stare, tried not to remember how Emma’s hands had once gestured sharply across debate floors, how her voice had once been the thing Jean dreaded most at morning assembly.
“So,” Jean said, searching for steady ground. “Why are you here?”
Emma arched a brow, the faintest flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Ororo’s crusade. She thinks I work too much. That I should ‘get out more.’” She said it with air quotes in her tone, as if the idea were faintly ridiculous.
Jean smiled despite herself. “And you let her talk you into this?”
“Against my better judgment,” Emma admitted, swirling the wine the waiter had just poured. “She’s persuasive.”
Jean lifted her glass in a quiet toast. “Tell me about it.”
They sipped in silence for a moment, both acutely aware of the weight of the past hanging between them.
Emma broke it first.
“I’ll confess,” she said, voice softer now, “I always imagined you’d be married by now. The house, the husband, the golden retriever, the picture-perfect life.”
Jean traced the rim of her glass, the familiar ache pressing at her chest. “I thought so too.”
Emma’s smile faded. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay.” Jean looked up, met her gaze. “Scott and I are divorced. A year now.”
Something flickered in Emma’s eyes—surprise, and maybe something else Jean couldn’t name.
“I’m sorry,” Emma said, and Jean believed her.
“We tried,” Jean said, shrugging one shoulder. “We were young when we got together. We thought love could fix everything.” She paused. “It couldn’t.”
Emma nodded, watching her with a kind of quiet intensity.
Jean felt compelled to fill the space. “But we have Rachel. She’s three—almost four. And she’s… she’s everything.”
The warmth in her voice made Emma’s lips soften into something genuine. “I can see that,” she said. “You always were meant for something bright.”
Jean blinked at that—unexpected, kind.
“And you?” she asked, turning the tables. “Why are you here, really?”
Emma smirked, but it lacked its old bite. “I told you. Ororo insisted I stop drowning in work, stop hiding behind boardrooms and contracts.”
“Is she wrong?”
Emma lifted a shoulder, deflecting. “I’m perfectly content, I assure you. But I owed her a favor. And then she said if I’d regretted it she would never set me up again..”
Jean’s heart gave an odd little lurch. “And you couldn’t say no.”
“No.” Emma’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. “I couldn’t. And I am glad my curiosity did not win over my pride. Glad I am with you, here.”
“I’m glad too, Emma.” Blushed Jean.
Dinner arrived: risotto fragrant with lemon and herbs for Jean, delicate salmon for Emma.
They ate slowly, conversation loosening as the wine worked its magic.
Emma asked about Rachel—what she liked, what she dreamed of. Jean spoke of books at bedtime, of sticky fingers on kitchen counters, of a laugh that filled the house like music.
Jean asked about the publishing house. Emma’s eyes lit up, and Jean saw the woman beneath the ice—the one who fought for the authors no one believed in, who stayed late to read through slush piles, who believed words could change the world.
They talked of little things: the city’s best coffee shops, the impossibility of finding quiet in a city that never slept, the strange loneliness of being surrounded by people. And then the past, inevitable, rose between them.
“I thought about you, you know,” Jean said, surprising herself. “After. Sometimes.”
Emma set down her fork, gaze steady. “I thought about you too.”
Jean hesitated. “You weren’t just my rival. You hurt me, Emma.”
“I know.” The words were soft, without defense. “I’ve thought about that more than I should admit.”
“Why did you do it?”
Emma looked down at her hands. When she spoke, her voice was small. “Because I wanted you, and I didn’t know how else to have you.”
Jean’s breath caught.
“You wanted me?”
“I did.” Emma’s cheeks colored faintly. “I didn’t know what to do with it. So I made you hate me. It was safer that way.”
Jean sat back, trying to make sense of it, of the years between then and now.
“I thought it was Scott you wanted.”
Emma shook her head. “I thought I was supposed to want him. But I didn’t. I wanted you. I just didn’t allow myself to process that and I lashed out, you made me feel that way so it was your fault.”
“I think I understand, I had my crisis this year.” Jean said with a smile. “It’s in the past, right?”
“Yeah.”
And there it was, laid bare at last, the truth beneath years of bitterness. They lingered after the plates were cleared, neither ready to break the spell.
When at last they stepped out into the night, the city air was crisp, the world quieter. They walked together, close but not quite touching, words unnecessary now.
Outside Emma’s building—glass and steel, cold and perfect—they stopped.
Jean hesitated. “Tonight was… nice. But I can’t just forget the past. How it felt. You made life miserable for me.”
Emma nodded, expression open, vulnerable in a way Jean had never seen. “I don’t expect you to forget, nor forgive, But please—just give me a chance. I’m not that scared, closeted girl anymore. I’m not hiding. And I’m so damn tired of coming back to this empty place, pretending I don’t care that I’m lonely. I do. I want more. I don’t want to be alone, and you are the first person to know that I am lonely in forever.”
Jean felt something in her chest loosen.
She stepped forward, pressed a gentle kiss to Emma’s cheek. “Next Saturday. Come over. We’ll bake a cake for Rachel’s birthday. Something simple. Something real.”
Emma’s smile bloomed like dawn. “I can’t wait.”
And as Jean walked away, she felt, for the first time in a long time, that maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t alone anymore.