Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

The city looked softer from up here.

Emma stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of her penthouse, watching the rain streak the glass in silver ribbons, the river below shimmering with fractured light. The world beyond her sanctuary blurred at the edges, water smearing the sharp lines of skyscrapers, making everything seem distant. Removed.

Like her.

The apartment behind her was everything she’d once thought she wanted: sleek, modern, immaculate. The kind of place people pictured when they said success. High ceilings, pale wood, a kitchen that gleamed with polished chrome and marble, untouched by anything as messy as a home-cooked meal.

A palace of glass and steel.

And so, so empty.

She exhaled, fogging the window with her breath, watching it vanish like so many of her carefully guarded intentions.

Emma Frost had built this life brick by careful brick, a fortress of ambition and independence. She’d told herself it was enough. The accolades, the power, the respect. The quiet at night was simply the cost of victory.

But tonight, the quiet pressed too hard.

You’re lonely, Ororo had said, gentle but firm, as only she could be.

Emma had laughed, deflecting as always. But the words had settled like stones in her chest.

Let someone in, Ororo had urged.

And so, here she was. Staring out at the rain, the hour growing late, knowing she couldn’t hide behind her fortress forever.

Jean.

Her heart thudded at the thought.

Jean with her warm smile and kind eyes. Jean who had surprised Emma with her openness, her grace. Jean, who made Emma feel things she’d buried so deep she’d almost forgotten where they were.

Tonight wasn’t about perfection. It wasn’t about the glossy life Emma had built. It was about stepping into the rain, into the unknown.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed her coat, the pale cashmere no match for the downpour outside, and stepped into the night.

The rain soaked through almost at once, cold and insistent, but Emma didn’t mind. The rhythm of her boots on the slick pavement, the sound of the city muffled by the downpour — it all felt cleansing somehow.

Her mind raced ahead of her steps.

What if Jean regretted inviting her? What if Rachel didn’t like her? What if she said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing, and the fragile bridge they’d begun to build crumbled beneath her feet?

You’re not that scared girl anymore, she reminded herself.

But oh, how that girl still lived somewhere inside, heart pounding as she approached Jean’s modest brownstone.

Warm light glowed behind the curtains.

Emma hesitated on the stoop, dripping and shivering, before raising a hand to knock.

The door opened almost at once, as if Jean had been waiting.

And there she was.

Hair loose around her shoulders, a cozy sweater in soft gray, barefoot on the worn wooden floor. Eyes crinkling at the corners, smile bright despite the surprise of seeing Emma drenched to the skin.

“Emma!” Jean exclaimed, half laughing. “You walked here?”

“I—” Emma started, feeling the chill now that she was in the circle of warmth spilling from the house. “Yes. Apparently not my brightest idea.”

Jean shook her head fondly, stepping back. “Come in before you catch your death.”

Emma crossed the threshold, heart thudding at the simple intimacy of it. The house smelled of cinnamon and something sweet baking in the air, the kind of place that felt like home in ways Emma had never quite managed to create for herself.

Jean shut the door, turning to her with that same smile — soft, real, welcoming.

“I’m sorry,” Jean said, brushing damp hair from Emma’s face without thinking, and Emma forgot how to breathe for a moment. “Scott didn’t come get Rachel. So she’s here. I hope that’s okay.”

Emma blinked, startled but not displeased. “Of course. It’s fine. I mean. I’m fine.”

Fine? She was babbling like an idiot.

Jean’s smile only deepened, as if she saw straight through the nervousness to the truth of her.

Before Emma could recover, the sound of small feet on the hardwood echoed from the next room.

“Mommy, who’s here?”

A little whirlwind of red curls and big eyes came flying into view, pausing just short of Emma with the unfiltered curiosity only children possessed.

Emma froze.

Rachel stared up at her, face lighting up in delight at the sight of a new person. “Hi! I’m Rachel! I’m almost four! You are so Pretty!”

Emma’s heart melted at the enthusiasm, the sheer joy radiating from the child. She crouched instinctively, despite the damp chill of her clothes.

“Hello, Rachel. I’m Emma. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Rachel beamed, then darted back toward the kitchen, her mission of introduction complete.

Emma straightened, cheeks flushed, heart pounding.

Jean handed her something soft and warm — a sweater in cheerful green and yellow, well-worn and cozy.

“You’re soaked. Here — change before you freeze.”

Emma hesitated, then took it gratefully, slipping the wet blouse over her head and pulling the sweater on. The scent of Jean clung to it: clean, comforting, familiar.

“Thank you.”

Jean only smiled again and gestured toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was bright and lived-in, flour on the counter, bowls and spoons scattered, a bag of sugar tipped onto its side. Rachel sat at the counter on a high stool, a piece of paper and crayons spread before her, utterly absorbed in drawing what looked like a very enthusiastic unicorn.

Emma stepped cautiously into the space, feeling like an intruder in a dream she’d almost convinced herself not to want.

Jean moved easily, gathering ingredients, pushing a mixing bowl toward Emma. “Ready to bake?”

Emma blinked. “I—sure. Yes.”

Jean grinned, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Don’t worry. Rachel’s the real expert here. We’re just the assistants.”

Rachel giggled without looking up.

Emma found herself smiling, the tension easing as they began.

They measured and stirred, Jean’s elbow brushing Emma’s from time to time, little sparks leaping between them. Emma stole glances at her, the way she laughed at Rachel’s chatter, the concentration in her brow as she read the recipe, the way flour dusted her cheek like a careless kiss.

Jean caught her looking once, eyes bright with mischief.

“Careful, Frost,” she said, voice low. “Get too distracted and you’ll ruin the batter.”

Emma smirked, regaining a hint of her old confidence. “Oh, I’m very good with my hands, Grey. Don’t worry about that.”

Jean laughed, shaking her head. “Innuendos in front of the child? Shame on you.”

Rachel looked up, puzzled. “What’s a… innuendos?”

Jean bit her lip to stifle a laugh. “Nothing, sweetie. Just silly grown-up talk.”

Emma, flustered, reached for the frosting and smeared a bit on Jean’s nose in retaliation.

Jean gasped, mock scandalized.

“Oh, it’s war now,” she said, dabbing frosting on Emma’s cheek.

Emma wiped it with her finger, licking it off with exaggerated elegance.

“See? Red and white do go well together.”

Jean’s breath caught, and for a moment the air between them was electric, charged with all the things they weren’t quite saying.

The cake was, by all objective standards, a disaster.

The layers were uneven, the frosting lopsided, sprinkles applied with the wild abandon only a nearly-four-year-old could manage.

But Rachel clapped her hands in delight, eyes wide. “It’s perfect!”

Emma felt warmth flood her chest at the simple joy on the child’s face, the way Jean looked at her daughter like she was the sun itself.

When at last it was time to leave, Emma found herself reluctant to step back into the night.

Rachel came running, wrapping her small arms around Emma’s legs. “Will you come to my party tomorrow? Please? Please?”

Emma glanced at Jean, who smiled softly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to or can’t make it.”

“I’d love to,” Emma said, voice gentle.

Rachel cheered and ran back to her crayons, already planning decorations.

Emma stepped onto the stoop, the rain now a gentle mist, the night quiet.

But before she could descend the steps, Jean’s voice called softly.

“Emma?”

She turned, and Jean was there, closer than she’d expected, eyes warm, searching.

And then — Jean kissed her.

Soft, sweet, the kind of kiss that promised more without demanding it.

When they broke apart, Emma’s heart raced, the world narrowed to the warmth of Jean’s breath on her cheek.

“I’ve been waiting for that since high school,” Emma whispered, wonder in her voice.

Jean smiled, thumb brushing Emma’s jaw. “I’ve been thinking of your lips on mine since our date.”

Emma stood still, the mist clinging to her skin, the taste of Jean’s kiss lingering like something fragile and precious. She wasn’t sure she dared breathe, in case the moment dissolved like morning fog.

Jean’s hand rested lightly on her arm, grounding her.

“Are you okay?” Jean asked, voice low, gentle.

Emma nodded, though words tangled on her tongue. She tried for levity, defaulting to habit. “I—I don’t usually get kissed on doorsteps. Not without at least a martini first.”

Jean’s smile turned wry, but fond. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

“You always were,” Emma said, softer now. She looked at Jean, really looked: the way the porch light turned her hair to copper flame, the tired lines at the corners of her eyes that didn’t dim their warmth.

She hesitated, then blurted, “Jean… I meant what I said earlier. I’ve waited for that kiss. I’ve thought about it more than I care to admit.”

Jean’s expression softened, some of her teasing slipping away.

“I thought you hated me,” Jean said quietly.

Emma swallowed hard. The words tasted bitter. “I didn’t. God, I didn’t. I hated myself for how I treated you. I didn’t know how else to handle it — wanting you. I was scared. And stupid. And jealous.”

Jean tilted her head. “Jealous of who you thought I was with?”

Emma shook her head, the truth bare now in the rain-washed night. “Jealous of anyone who got close to you. I wanted to be the one you saw. But I didn’t know how to let you see me.”

The silence between them hummed with something tender, tentative.

Jean reached out, brushing Emma’s damp hair from her face. “And now?”

Emma almost laughed, but it came out as a breath. “Now I’m standing on your porch like a lovesick teenager, wondering how I got so lucky.”

Jean’s smile was soft and sure.

Emma looked down, momentarily overcome. She hadn’t meant to say so much. But it felt good — right — to say it.

She forced herself to meet Jean’s gaze again, no shields, no defenses. “I’m lonely, Jean,” she admitted, voice small. “I live in that glass box of mine, and I tell myself I’m fine, but I’m not. I’m tired of being cold. I want something warmer. I want—”

She broke off, unsure how far she dared go.

Jean’s thumb traced a line along Emma’s wrist, where her pulse thrummed fast and unsteady.

“You want a chance,” Jean finished for her.

Emma nodded. “If you’ll let me. I’m not that scared girl anymore. And I’m done hiding.”

Jean’s eyes shone, as if she saw all the broken pieces and didn’t mind at all.

“I’m willing to try,” Jean said softly. “If you are.”

A breath Emma hadn’t realized she was holding eased from her lungs, leaving her light-headed and hopeful.

Jean stepped back, the moment settling into something warm and steady. “Tomorrow. The party. You’ll come?”

Emma smiled — real, unguarded. “You couldn’t keep me away.”

Jean’s answering grin lit the night like dawn. “Good night, Emma. Keep the sweater, looks good on you.”

Inside, Rachel’s giggles floated from the kitchen, the sound of crayons clattering onto the floor. And outside, Emma Frost stood for a long time in the soft rain, the taste of frosting and red velvet and Jean Grey on her lips, feeling, for once, not so alone at all.

Chapter Text

The sun was out, bright and almost too cheerful, as if the city itself had conspired to make this day feel more like a celebration and less like the battlefield Emma Frost suspected it might become.

She stood on Jean’s doorstep, balancing a large, elaborately wrapped gift, and paused for just a moment, gathering herself. The weight of the box was nothing compared to the knots in her stomach.

She could hear laughter inside — Rachel’s high, excited voice, the low hum of adults chatting. The sounds of a home. A family.

Her fingers curled tighter around the ribbon of the gift.

You can still leave, a small voice in her head offered, half-hearted. Claim an emergency meeting, blame the board, hide behind your work.

But Emma Frost was done hiding.

And yet, as she rang the bell, she felt more nervous than she ever did facing hostile shareholders.

Jean answered the door, radiant in a soft pink blouse and jeans, barefoot again, her hair loose and gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Emma’s heart stuttered.

“Emma! You came!” Jean’s smile was warm enough to chase away at least half of Emma’s anxiety.

“Of course I came,” Emma said, trying for casual, but her voice came out softer than she intended. She held out the gift. “For Rachel.”

Jean took it, eyebrows rising at the sheer size of it. “Emma…” she said with a teasing lilt, “what did you do?”

Emma smirked, stepping inside. “I may have gotten a little carried away. I wasn’t sure what was appropriate. Or, frankly, what children actually like.”

Before Jean could answer, Rachel came flying into the hall.

“Emma!” she squealed, throwing herself at Emma’s legs in a fierce hug.

Emma froze for half a second, then crouched to hug her back, startled by how easily it came.

“Happy birthday, Rachel.”

Rachel grinned up at her. “Come see my cake! I think it whill be delicious!”

Emma glanced at Jean, who gave a little shrug, delighted.

“Me too. And what a cake it is.”

Rachel grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the living room, where balloons bobbed at the ceiling and a table sagged under the weight of snacks and sweets.

Rachel’s eyes went wide as she spotted the gift. “Is that for me?”

“It is. Though I may have gotten a little carried away,” Emma admitted.

Before Rachel could attack the wrapping, a voice cut through the moment.

“Well, look who decided to play at domesticity.”

Emma straightened, the warmth ebbing as she turned.

Scott Summers stood leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, his smile thin and sharp.

“Scott,” she said coolly.

Scott.

He stood near the window, arms crossed, expression pinched in a way that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. His gaze flicked to Emma, and the corner of his mouth curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Frost,” he returned, eyes raking over her expensive white dress like it offended him. “Didn’t think you’d lower yourself to a kid’s party. Too many sticky fingers, not enough martinis?”

Emma’s smile was sweet as sin. “Oh, Scott. I’d ask if you’re always this charming, but I already know.”

His smirk deepened. “Guess even queens of ice get lonely sometimes.”

It hit harder than she let on. But Emma had years of practice masking hurt with venom.

“Better lonely than divorced and insufferable,” she said lightly.”

“Insufferable is still better than a bully.”

Emma returned, matching his tone effortlessly. “How lovely to see you in daylight. You look almost human.”

Jean shot her a look — half exasperation, half amused warning — and Emma offered her most angelic smile in return.

Jean appeared between them, the peacekeeper as always. “Scott. Emma. Please. It’s Rachel’s day. Emma even helped with the cake yesterday”

Scott arched a brow, his smirk sharpening. “Bet she supervised more than helped.”

Emma’s jaw tightened, but she kept her tone light. “Actually, I got my hands quite dirty. Flour, frosting — the works. Unlike some people, I’m not afraid of a little mess.”

Scott’s gaze darkened, but before he could respond, a warm, lilting voice broke the tension.

“Well, well. Isn’t this cozy.”

Emma turned, relief flooding through her at the sight of Ororo, serene and resplendent as always in a flowing white blouse and silver jewelry that caught the light. Holding the cake.

The cake was… well, it was unmistakably homemade. Lopsided, with streaks of red frosting that bled into the white, but Rachel looked at it like it was the crown jewel of all cakes.

“I helped,” Emma said, voice warm despite herself.

“I love it,” Rachel declared. As Ororo sat it down.

And Emma felt absurdly proud.

“Auntie Ro!” Rachel shouted, barreling toward her for another hug.

Ororo scooped her up, kissing her cheek before setting her down gently.

“I see someone is having the best birthday.”

Emma and Ororo exchanged a look — the kind that spoke volumes. Ororo’s eyes twinkled with barely concealed glee.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Emma murmured as Ororo passed.

“Immensely,” Ororo whispered back, patting her arm.

Presents came next, and Rachel, vibrating with excitement, insisted Emma sit beside her on the floor.

“I want Emma to help!” Rachel declared.

Emma sank gracefully to the rug, smoothing the folds of her ivory dress, and accepted the first gift Rachel thrust at her.

The pile dwindled — picture books, dolls, a stuffed unicorn that Rachel hugged immediately — and then at last came the giant box Emma had brought.

Rachel tore at the paper with glee, revealing the glossy image of a towering princess castle made of pink and lavender bricks.

“LEGO!” Rachel gasped, eyes huge.

Jean blinked. “Emma, that’s… that’s enormous.”

Emma cleared her throat. “Yes, well, I may have overestimated a bit. I wasn’t sure what’s typical for four-year-olds.”

Scott examined the box, brow furrowed. “It says ages twelve and up,” he announced with a grin. “How old dis you think Rachel was turning?”

Emma winced. “Ah. Well, I suppose we’ll need to work on it together. Might take us a few days.”

Rachel’s face lit up like the sun. “That’s okay! That means you’ll have to come over lots! Right, Mommy?”

Jean laughed — that easy, warm laugh that made Emma’s chest ache in the best way.

“She’s got you there,” Jean teased.

“I suppose I’m trapped,” Emma said, smiling despite herself.

Emma’s cheeks warmed, but she couldn’t help smiling.

The afternoon passed in a pleasant blur: cake smeared on small hands, juice boxes tipped over and cleaned up with laughter, Rachel shrieking with joy as she ran around the backyard in a makeshift cape.

Emma did her best to ignore Scott’s lingering glowers, though she met his occasional snide remarks with cutting sweetness.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Scott?” Emma purred as he hovered nearby while she helped gather paper plates.

“Like where?” he shot back. “Unlike you, I’m not too busy running a vanity empire to show up for my kid.”

Emma’s smile was razor sharp, like the straw in her juice box. “Oh, is that what you call minimal parenting? How quaint.”

“Careful, Frost, wouldn’t want you to chip a nail on a juice box”

“I’d rather chip a nail than chip away than be chipping away at the mood of the party.”

Before it could escalate, Ororo appeared at Emma’s elbow, her timing impeccable as ever.

“Emma, darling, could you help me bring in the last of the lemonade?”

Emma followed her, grateful, and muttered, “If I strangle him with a balloon string, will you bail me out?”

Ororo chuckled. “Perhaps. But not before I gloat some more about how right I was.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but her heart felt lighter.

As the sun dipped low and the last guests trickled out, Emma helped Jean clear plates and cups from the backyard.

The house felt quieter now, the kind of quiet that invited reflection.

Emma caught herself watching Jean, the easy way she moved, the way she wiped frosting from Rachel’s cheek, the soft focus of her eyes when she thought no one was looking.

What are you doing, Frost?

The question echoed in her head, but she didn’t want to answer it. She only knew that she didn’t want to leave.

Rachel bounded over, hugging Emma’s legs again.

“Will you come help with my castle soon?”

Emma crouched, brushing a damp curl from Rachel’s forehead. “I promise.”

Rachel grinned. “Tomorrow?”

Emma hesitated, then smiled. “Tomorrow.”

Jean appeared at the door, watching them with that same unreadable tenderness.

Emma helped gather the last of the plates, following Jean into the kitchen.

⸻

They stood side by side at the sink, washing and drying in comfortable silence.

When at last the counters were clean, Jean turned to face her fully.

“Thank you,” Jean said softly. “For today. For… for trying.”

Emma swallowed, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever tried at anything this much,” she admitted.

Jean reached for her, tentative, fingers brushing Emma’s wrist.

“Stay tonight?”

Emma blinked, startled. “Are you sure?”

Jean nodded. “I am.”

Emma hesitated only a heartbeat before she answered, voice low and sure.

“Then I’d love to.”

And as Jean led her to the living room, Rachel already pulling out the castle box with glee, Emma felt something she hadn’t in years.

Home.

Chapter Text

The house had grown quiet, save for the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of wood settling under the weight of the night. Emma stood barefoot in the guest bathroom, staring at her reflection.

Her hair, usually immaculate, fell loose and damp from the shower Jean had insisted she take, a borrowed white towel wrapped snug around her. Her skin glowed faintly pink from the heat of the water, but the warmth didn’t reach the hollow ache beneath her ribs.

You didn’t think this through, Frost.

She hadn’t brought anything — no change of clothes, no toothbrush, nothing. Because she hadn’t planned to stay. Because she hadn’t let herself believe she’d be wanted enough to stay.

A soft knock at the door drew her from her spiraling thoughts.

“Emma?”

Jean’s voice, low and inviting.

Emma opened the door.

Jean stood there in flannel pajama pants and a loose t-shirt that fell off one shoulder, hair braided over one side. Her eyes softened as they took in Emma — the vulnerable sight of her, towel-clad and uncertain.

“I… didn’t think about clothes for tomorrow,” Emma confessed, hating the way the words felt fragile in her mouth.

Jean smiled, stepping closer.

“We’ll think of something in the morning,” she murmured. And before Emma could answer, Jean leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t a first kiss — they’d had that sweet, tentative one at the door — but this was something deeper.

Jean’s lips were soft, tasting faintly of the tea they’d shared earlier, and when her hand lifted to cup Emma’s jaw, Emma felt herself melt into it.

It was a kiss that said stay. A kiss that said I want this, too.

And when they broke apart, Emma found herself smiling — really smiling — as Jean tugged her gently toward the bedroom.

The room was dim, moonlight spilling through the window, casting silver across the bed.

They slipped beneath the covers, bodies tentative at first, unsure how close was too close.

But the space between them was magnetic, and soon Jean’s head found Emma’s shoulder, and Emma’s arm curled around Jean’s waist, fingers resting lightly at the small of her back.

It was electric, the feel of Jean’s breath on her skin, the subtle shift of muscle as Jean settled against her.

Emma let her fingers trace idle patterns along the hem of Jean’s shirt.

“You’re playing with fire,” Jean whispered, but she was smiling when she said it.

Emma chuckled, voice husky. “I thought you liked a little danger.”

Jean propped herself on one elbow, gazing down at her.

“I do,” she admitted. “But not tonight.”

Emma nodded, brushing a stray hair from Jean’s face.

“No rush,” she said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jean’s smile turned tender, and she leaned down to kiss Emma again — slower, lingering — before settling back into the curve of Emma’s body.

And in that quiet, Emma let herself simply feel. The warmth of Jean beside her. The steady rhythm of her breathing. The sense of belonging she hadn’t known she’d craved so badly.

Morning came too soon, with the soft pink light of dawn spilling through the curtains — and the sudden, energetic thump of small feet.

“Emma! Emma, wake up!”

Emma blinked blearily as Rachel bounded onto the bed, hair wild, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“You promised!” Rachel declared, bouncing on the mattress.

Jean laughed, stretching beside Emma and brushing Rachel’s curls back.

“Promised what, sweetheart?”

“She said she’d help with the castle! You said tomorrow and it’s tomorrow!”

Emma groaned playfully, dragging a pillow over her face. “You’re relentless, tiny human.”

Jean sat up, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“I’ll make waffles,” she said, already sliding from the bed.

Emma peeked out from under the pillow.

“I didn’t bring anything to wear…”

Jean rummaged in her dresser, tossing a soft navy t-shirt and a pair of faded gray sweatpants at her.

“Here. You’ll swim in them, but you’ll be comfy.”

Rachel grabbed Emma’s hand. “C’mon! The castle won’t build itself!”

Emma surrendered, letting herself be dragged from the cozy warmth of the bed.

The living room became their fortress. The massive LEGO box loomed like a challenge, and Emma sat cross-legged on the carpet, trying to make sense of the instructions as Rachel sorted pieces by color.

“You weren’t kidding about it taking days,” Emma said, eyeing the tiny, intricate parts.

Rachel grinned. “That means you have to come back lots.”

Emma’s heart squeezed, and she reached out, tapping Rachel’s nose with a fingertip.

“Looks like I do.”

From the kitchen came the scent of waffles and the sound of Jean humming softly as she worked.

And as Emma helped Rachel fit the first few bricks together, she thought — maybe this was what she’d been missing all along.

“Breakfast is ready!”

The kitchen felt impossibly warm.

Sunlight spilled in through the wide window above the sink, painting everything gold. The soft sizzle of batter on the griddle mingled with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon.

Emma sat at the worn wooden table, Rachel at her side, chattering as she drew princesses and castles on a sheet of paper with a blue crayon.

But Emma barely heard her.

Her fingers traced the rim of a mug of coffee Jean had set before her. The fabric of Jean’s too-big shirt hung loose on her shoulders, the sweatpants puddled around her ankles — yet for once, Emma didn’t care.

What are you doing, Frost?

She watched Jean move around the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair still mussed from sleep, humming quietly as she flipped the waffles. The soft domesticity of it made something in Emma ache.

This isn’t you. You don’t do this. You don’t stay.

And yet, she didn’t want to leave.

She sipped her coffee, bitter and hot, and tried to focus on Rachel’s excited chatter.

“—and after the castle can we build a spaceship? And maybe you could come to school one day and see my classroom and—and—”

Emma nodded, forcing a smile.

“Sounds wonderful, darling.”

But her mind was far away, caught in the unfamiliar weight of this morning.

She wasn’t used to mornings like this — slow, soft, filled with laughter and sunlight. Mornings were usually cold light through tall glass windows, the hum of her espresso machine, a meeting schedule already clawing at her.

Not this. Not the smell of waffles. Not a small, sticky hand reaching for hers.

Rachel tugged at her arm, drawing her back. “Are you sad?”

Emma blinked, startled. “No. I…” She hesitated. “I’m just thinking.”

Jean turned from the stove, watching her now. That knowing gaze that always saw too much.

“You’ve barely touched your coffee,” Jean said gently, setting a plate of steaming waffles in front of her.

Emma’s mouth curved into something like a smile.

“I’m distracted, apparently.”

Jean slid into the chair opposite, nudging her foot beneath the table.

“By what?”

You. This. All of it.

Emma shook her head slightly, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“By how easy this feels,” she admitted at last. Her voice was quieter than she intended. “And how much it terrifies me.”

Jean’s expression softened, and she reached across the table, resting her hand over Emma’s.

“You don’t have to be scared, you know.”

“I don’t know how not to be,” Emma said, her throat tight.

Rachel, oblivious to the weight in the room, was piling fruit onto her waffles, humming off-key to herself.

Jean squeezed Emma’s hand, thumb brushing over her knuckles.

“Well,” Jean said, voice light but her eyes serious, “you’re not alone in it.”

That hit Emma harder than it should have. She stared down at their joined hands, then lifted her gaze to meet Jean’s.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” Emma said, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

Jean’s smile was soft and sure.

“Then don’t.”

They ate, the tension slowly dissolving into something warmer. Rachel declared the waffles the best ever made and demanded that Emma try hers because “maybe Mommy made mine better.”

Emma played along, tasting Rachel’s, laughing when the little girl beamed at her.

Jean watched them, a quiet fondness in her eyes.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Emma allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could belong here.

Later, as they cleared the table and Rachel chattered about the castle they would build after breakfast, Emma caught Jean’s gaze again.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Jean tilted her head. “For what?”

“For this,” Emma said. “For letting me in.”

Jean stepped close, brushing her fingers along Emma’s jaw.

“You’re the one who knocked on the door,” she said.

And Emma smiled, heart full and aching, realizing just how much she wanted to stay.

Chapter Text

Emma Frost’s boardroom was polished within an inch of its life — sleek glass, chrome edges, and cold perfection, much like the woman seated at the head of the long table. She was every bit the image of control: legs crossed, back straight, diamond earrings glinting like tiny weapons beneath the room’s brutal lighting.

But inside, that control was threadbare.

Because beneath her palm, her phone buzzed silently.

Jean.

Emma glanced at the screen, heart kicking up its pace. Before reason could catch up, she slid her thumb across it.

“Jean,” she answered, her voice silk wrapped in steel.

“Hey,” came that voice — soft, warm, full of sunlight and promise. It undid Emma in an instant. “Am I interrupting?”

Emma’s gaze flicked to the room — her team still droning on about projections, pie charts, margins. All of it meaningless compared to that voice.

“I could not be more thrilled to be interrupted. Please, save me.”

Jean’s laugh crackled through the line, and Emma’s body responded — that laugh always did something to her.

“Well…” Jean hesitated, and Emma could picture her now, tucking that fiery hair behind one ear, chewing her lip. “Rachel’s with Scott this weekend. No kids. Just me.”

Emma’s mouth curved into a grin, slow and predatory. She leaned back in her chair, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the executives around her.

“No kids, hmm?” she drawled. “And what exactly are you suggesting, Miss Grey?”

Jean hesitated again — Emma could almost feel the blush blooming across her freckles.

“I thought… maybe… you could come over.”

Emma lowered her voice, letting it drip with heat.

“Tempting. But I had plans tonight. Plans to make you squirm a little.”

“Emma—”

“Tell me, Jean. Right now. Are you blushing?”

Silence. A breath.

“Maybe.”

Emma’s laugh was low, delighted.

“I knew it. I don’t even need to see you to know how beautiful you look when you’re undone.”

“Emma…” It was half a warning, half a plea.

“I love how easy you are to unravel, Jean Grey. It’s addictive.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you want me anyway.”

A shaky laugh on the other end.

“Give me your address.”

Emma rattled it off, voice softening.

“Come over tonight. Let me have you.”

A pause that felt like forever.

“I’ll be ready,” Jean whispered, and the thrill in her voice sent heat rushing through Emma.

Emma hung up, her parting words a murmur no one else could hear:

“I can’t wait to taste you.”

She stood abruptly, snapping her laptop shut.

“Reschedule the rest. Something more important came up.”

Her team stared, but she didn’t care. She was already out the door.

—————

The penthouse felt cavernous as Emma waited, pacing barefoot on polished floors that gleamed like ice. The city beyond the glass glittered, but it felt empty.

Until Jean stepped through the door.

Emma froze.

Jean was in soft jeans and a cream sweater, hair loose, cheeks pink from the cold. She took a slow breath as she looked around.

“It’s stunning,” Jean said finally. But then, quieter: “Feels like a museum. Not really you.”

Emma blinked.

Jean turned to her, brow arched in that way that always made Emma’s heart stutter.

“Do you even like it here?”

Emma’s gaze swept the cold marble, the chrome, the pristine furniture no one ever sat on.

“It’s just… where I lived,” she admitted, voice low. “It never felt like home.”

Jean stepped close, so close Emma could smell her shampoo, could feel the heat radiating off her.

“Well,” Jean said, voice soft as a promise, “tonight it feels a little more like yours.”

Emma didn’t wait. She reached out, fingers sliding into that red hair she’d dreamed of for years. She drew Jean in, kissed her like a woman starved — no restraint, no games.

Jean gasped, hands finding Emma’s waist, pulling her close until they fit together like they were made for it.

Emma’s lips moved against hers, slow at first, savoring, then deeper, hotter. Her tongue darted out, teasing, tasting, drawing a soft moan from Jean that made Emma’s knees weak.

“God, Jean,” Emma breathed against her mouth. “You undo me.”

Jean’s hands roamed, over the sleek lines of Emma’s back, up into her hair.

“You always did,” Jean whispered. “Even when I hated you.”

Emma laughed, breathless, her forehead resting against Jean’s.

“I hated me too,” she said, and kissed Jean again, gentler now, like she could apologize for all those years.

Jean melted into it, fingers curling in Emma’s blouse, tugging it free from her slacks, palms hot against skin.

Emma’s hands explored too — the curve of Jean’s waist, the dip of her back, the line of her ribs. She wanted to learn her by touch, by taste.

They kissed their way across the penthouse, bumping into sleek furniture, not caring. Jean’s laugh echoed, breathless and joyful.

They tumbled onto the couch, Emma above her, hair falling around them like a curtain.

“I think I’m ready for the next step,” Jean said, eyes dark, voice shaking with want and trust.

Emma’s heart swelled, and she kissed her again, slower, deeper.

“God, I’ve waited so long for this,” Emma whispered. “Come to bed.”

—————

The night was all touches and sighs, skin on skin, learning each other with mouths and hands, but never rushing. They took their time, exploring, tasting, teasing, drawing out every gasp, every laugh.

Emma’s hands roamed Jean’s body as if memorizing it, fingers trailing along her spine, her hips, her thigh.

Jean’s lips found Emma’s neck, her shoulder, her collarbone — places that made Emma shiver and cling tighter.

They fell asleep tangled together, limbs intertwined, hearts racing and slowing in tandem.

—————

Sunlight streamed through the windows.

Emma stirred, blinking against the light. Jean was still asleep, hair a fiery halo, lips kiss-bruised, freckles golden in the dawn.

Emma’s chest ached with the force of it — how much she loved her, how lucky she felt.

She slipped from bed, pulled on her robe, and padded to the kitchen.

Emma Frost did not cook. But today, she tried.

Eggs scrambled, fruit sliced, toast a little too dark.

She carried it back, heart thudding, cheeks flushed.

Jean blinked up at her, smile slow and sweet.

“You made breakfast?”

“For you,” Emma said, setting down the tray.

Jean pulled her down, kissed her softly.

“You’re full of surprises.”

Emma nuzzled her cheek, voice warm.

“For you?” she whispered. “Always.”

Chapter Text

The call came late in the afternoon, as the city’s pale winter sun dipped below the river, staining the sky copper and rose. Emma had been staring at her computer screen, the words blurring into nonsense — she couldn’t even remember what contract she’d been reviewing. The vibration of her phone on the desk jolted her from her daze.

Jean.

Her pulse quickened. She answered in a heartbeat.

“Jean?”

There was a rush of air on the other end, the sound of papers shuffling, the distant clatter of a door.

“Emma, I’m so sorry to call like this. I wouldn’t if it wasn’t an emergency—”

“Tell me what you need.”

Jean exhaled.

“The university — they dropped a last-minute evening course on me. I can’t leave yet, but Rachel’s pre-school is closing soon. I thought Scott would be back in town by now, but he’s… he’s not. I don’t have anyone else, and I know this is asking a lot—”

“Jean.” Emma was already pulling on her coat. “Say no more. I’ll get her. Just text me the address.”

“I—thank you, Emma. There’s a key under the doormat. If you could maybe stay with her tonight — just until I get back — put her to bed… You can sleep in my bed. Please, don’t feel—”

“Jean.” Emma’s voice softened. “I’ll take care of it.”

She drove faster than she should have, the city blurring past.

What am I doing?

Her mind raced. She wasn’t equipped for this. Emma Frost, CEO, unshakable in boardrooms, and yet the idea of picking up a small child from pre-school made her palms sweat.

The school was cheerful, its entryway bright with crayon rainbows and stick-figure families. The scent of finger paint and glue filled the air.

Emma hesitated at the door, smoothing her hair pointlessly, trying to look approachable — whatever that meant.

A woman approached — Rachel’s teacher, Emma guessed — a kind smile touched with confusion.

“Hello, can I help you?”

Emma offered a tight smile.

“Yes, I’m Emma Frost. I’m here to pick up Rachel. Jean… Miss Grey was called into work unexpectedly. She asked me to come.”

The teacher tilted her head, uncertain.

“I wasn’t aware of any change—”

“Emma!”

Rachel burst into view, her little boots thudding across the floor. She flung herself at Emma’s legs.

The teacher’s expression softened immediately.

“Well. That solves that. But I do want your number in case and for Miss Grey to check in tomorrow with us.”

Emma crouched, gathering Rachel close, surprised at the warmth that flooded her at the small arms around her neck.

“Hi there, sunshine,” she murmured.

Emma handed the teacher her card and home adress, anything she needed to prove she had no white van with CANDY written on the side of it. The drive home was a torrent of chatter from Rachel.

“Did you see Mr. Floppy, Emma? He’s the class bunny. He nibbles my shoelace sometimes. I drew a picture today! It’s a unicorn princess — do you want to see? Mommy says I’m a great artist. Are you coming to my birthday again? Do you like cake? Mommy and I baked a cake with you!”

Emma answered, half-listening, heart hammering.

What am I supposed to do with her? What if she falls? Chokes? Gets sick?

Rachel’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts.

“Emma, why are you making that face?”

Emma blinked.

“What face?”

“You look all… squished up.”

“I’m just thinking, sweetheart.”

At Jean’s house, Rachel kicked off her boots, scattered her tiny pink backpack onto the floor, and bounded into the living room.

Emma closed the door, exhaled shakily, and followed.

“Alright. Let’s get dinner. How about sushi? Or — no, too much raw fish. Maybe Thai? Do kids like Thai? Or, oh god, does she have allergies? I should’ve asked—”

Rachel giggled, climbing onto the couch.

“We always get pizza when Mommy’s busy. Pepperoni pizza! Can we get that?”

Emma almost sagged in relief.

“Yes. Excellent idea. Pepperoni pizza it is.”

They ate cross-legged on the living room rug, the pizza box spread between them, Rachel chattering and Emma trying to pretend she wasn’t terrified of messing everything up.

Rachel’s face and hands were sticky with pineapple and cheese. She beamed at Emma.

“This is fun.”

Emma managed a smile.

“I’m glad.”

After dinner, Rachel chose Frozen — apparently a favorite. Emma tried to relax, letting Rachel lean against her, small and warm.

But inside, she was still panicking.

Is this how Jean feels all the time? Constantly watching to make sure nothing goes wrong? How does she do it?

Rachel tilted her head, peering up at her.

“Emma? Are you scared?”

Emma blinked down at her.

“No, no, of course not. Why would you think—”

“Because that’s the face you make when you’re scared. Mommy does that too. I get scared too, Mommy then sinds to me and lets me sleep in her bed with her.”

Before Emma could answer, Rachel started to sing.

“Why are there so many songs about rainbows…”

Off-key. Sweet. Earnest.

Emma felt her heart squeeze.

“I’ll sleep in Mommy’s bed with you tonight. Then you won’t be scared.”

Emma swallowed hard.

“Alright, sweetheart.”

After the movie, Rachel dragged her teddy bear — Captain Snuggles — into Jean’s room. Emma helped her brush her teeth, change into pajamas printed with tiny stars.

In bed, Rachel cuddled close, her little hands gripping Emma’s arm, as if anchoring herself.

Emma let herself hold Rachel in return, surprised at how natural it felt, how protective.

How could I have ever been afraid of this?

Sometime deep in the night, Emma stirred at the softest touch — Jean, gathering Rachel gently into her arms.

Jean didn’t say a word, but her smile was tender, grateful. She carried Rachel down the hall, settling her in her own bed.

Emma barely registered Jean’s return. A kiss on her forehead, light as breath.

“Thank you, Ems,” Jean whispered.

Then, softer — words that made Emma’s heart stutter, even half-asleep.

“I love you.”

—————

When dawn filtered through the curtains, Emma woke slowly, warmth wrapped around her heart.

She said she loves me.

The first time.

And the world felt different for it.

Chapter Text

The first thing Emma noticed when she woke was warmth. Not the cold, empty vastness of her penthouse, but the soft weight of blankets tangled around her legs. The memory came gently — a tiny hand clutching her arm, the girl’s sleepy weight against her side, the sound of The Rainbow Connection sung endearingly off-key.

And then, softer still, Jean.

Emma blinked at the ceiling, the pale morning light filling the room with honeyed gold. The air smelled like coffee, like vanilla and butter. She heard a low hum from down the hall — Jean’s voice, not quite singing, but content, as if she couldn’t help herself.

This isn’t my bed.

Emma let that realization settle in, a strange, beautiful thing. She belonged here. In this house where the air was warm and alive, where drawings were taped to the fridge, where laughter echoed in the walls. Not in some gleaming penthouse high above the city, cold and silent no matter how many lights she left on at night.

I’m not alone.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself against the sudden, overwhelming rush of feeling.

Is this what it’s like? To be loved?

The thought caught her breath in her throat. She pressed the heel of her palm to her eyes, trying to will herself into composure. But the tight ache in her chest wouldn’t ease. It wasn’t painful — not really. Just new. So new.

And she wanted to see her. She wanted to see Jean in the light of morning, without pretense or fear.

So she rose, pulling on Jean’s cardigan — worn soft from countless washes, the cuffs fraying just a little — and padded barefoot down the hall, following the promise of warmth and comfort.

The kitchen was simple, lived-in. A battered toaster, a fruit bowl overflowing with apples and bananas and one stubborn orange. There were magnets holding up school notices and a grocery list scrawled in quick handwriting. And in the middle of it, Jean stood at the stove, her hair loose and wild, her face soft with focus.

Emma stopped in the doorway, arms folded, drinking in the sight.

Jean turned, sensing her before she spoke.

“You’re up,” Jean said, and the smile that spread across her face could’ve lit the whole room.

Emma swallowed hard, tried to summon her usual wit, failed utterly.

“You’re making waffles.”

Jean laughed, flipping one onto a plate. “Very observant, Miss Frost.”

Emma crossed the room, slow, cautious, like if she moved too quickly the moment would shatter.

“You didn’t have to.”

Jean glanced at her, then at the plate she was loading with waffles and berries.

“Maybe I wanted to.”

Emma couldn’t look away. The curve of Jean’s mouth, the soft flush of her cheeks, the freckles she’d always secretly loved — everything about her felt impossibly precious in that moment.

And then the memory of the night before hit her fully — the warmth of Jean’s lips against her forehead, the whisper of words that had echoed in her heart long after Jean had slipped from the room.

“I was awake,” Emma said, voice low, almost reverent.

Jean froze, spatula hovering above the pan.

“I heard you,” Emma went on, every word trembling with the weight of her truth. “When you kissed me. When you said…” She swallowed, breath hitching. “When you said you loved me.”

Jean turned then, slowly, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. Her eyes searched Emma’s, wide and vulnerable.

“I meant it.”

Emma felt her defenses crumble completely.

“I love you too,” she whispered. The words felt raw, real, terrifying. Like she was laying bare the part of herself she’d kept hidden for so long.

Jean’s arms were around her before she could say anything else, warm and solid and so real. Emma buried her face in Jean’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of coffee and vanilla and home.

I’m loved. I’m loved.

It was overwhelming — the realization, the safety of it, the way Jean held her like she was something to be cherished. Her heart pounded, tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and she didn’t even care.

Jean pulled back just enough to look at her, thumb brushing a stray tear from her cheek.

“Hey,” she said gently, “what’s all this?”

Emma shook her head, trying to laugh, failing.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” she admitted. “I don’t know how to be this.”

Jean smiled, soft and sure.

“You don’t have to know. Just stay.”

They ate together at the little kitchen table, their knees brushing under the wood. Jean piled Emma’s plate high, watched over her with quiet affection.

Emma caught herself staring more than once — at Jean’s hands, at the way she smiled at some small memory, at the curve of her neck where the morning sun kissed it golden.

And when Jean caught her staring, Emma just smiled and reached across the table for her hand.

“I feel at home here,” Emma confessed, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “More than I have in years. I barely want to leave.”

Jean squeezed her hand, thumb brushing over her knuckles.

“Then don’t,” Jean said, voice soft but certain. “Come over as much as you want. Rachel will be thrilled. I’ll be… pretty thrilled too.”

Emma laughed, heart light, the ache in her chest no longer frightening but full.

“Careful, Jean. I might never leave.”

“I’m counting on it.”

The rest of the morning passed in quiet joy. Rachel came bounding into the room eventually, hair wild, still in her pajamas. She flung herself into Emma’s lap, chattering about waffles and castles and teddy bears.

And as Emma held her close, she felt it again — that strange, wondrous certainty.

This is home.

Chapter Text

The breeze was sharp with autumn’s promise, crisp against Emma’s cheeks as she stood by the low iron fence outside the schoolyard. The trees lining the street had already begun to change — gold, copper, deep russet red — and their leaves danced on the pavement, caught in little eddies of wind.

Emma adjusted her coat, the familiar wool a comfort against the chill, but it was the waiting that warmed her — the sweet anticipation that still, even after years, made her heart beat just a little faster at this hour of the day.

She could hear the distant bell echo across the playground, and then came the sound she cherished most: children’s laughter, a bright and untamed chorus as the doors burst open and the students spilled out into the afternoon light.

She searched the crowd automatically, and then she saw her — that brilliant tumble of red hair, wild as ever, and those freckled cheeks pink from the cold. Rachel.

My daughter.

It was still a wonder, even now. The way Rachel’s eyes lit up when they met Emma’s, the way her little hand would find Emma’s as if it had always belonged there. Even now, at nearly ten-years-old.

“Mrs. Frost-Grey?”

Emma turned at the familiar voice — Mrs. Leary, Rachel’s teacher, approaching with a kind smile, Rachel’s fingers curled lightly in hers.

Mrs. Frost-Grey.

The name felt like silk and steel at once, delicate and unbreakable. It still startled her sometimes, how easily it had become hers.

“Hello, Mrs. Leary.”

Rachel let go of the teacher’s hand and ran the last few steps, throwing herself at Emma with all the force of her joy.

“Hi, Mom!”

The word hit Emma like it always did — sweet and startling, filling some space inside her she hadn’t known was hollow until the first time Rachel called her that. Mom.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Emma murmured, crouching down, smoothing Rachel’s hair back from her face, breathing her in. There was nothing in her life that had ever felt so right.

“Rachel had a great day today,” Mrs. Leary said fondly. “And that science project she’s working on — she’s so proud of it.”

“She’s been explaining it to me every morning,” Emma said, rising with Rachel’s hand tucked in hers. “In very great detail.”

Rachel grinned up at her. “Because it’s really cool, Mom. I’m gonna show you when we get home!”

Emma smiled, heart full as they waved goodbye and began their walk.

The rhythm of Rachel’s chatter was music — school stories, playground drama, a recounting of how she’d beaten Ben K. at kickball. Emma let herself sink into it, marvelling at how natural this felt now.

How far she’d come.

The woman she’d been — in that penthouse of glass and steel, polished to perfection and empty to the core — that woman would never have imagined this life. Would never have imagined herself so utterly claimed by love, by family.

She glanced down at the small hand clasped in hers, the freckles across Rachel’s nose, the bounce in her step.

How did I ever live without this?

She thought of the years between then and now — leaving that cold penthouse behind, selling it without regret. Finding the house with Jean, with its creaky stairs and sunlit kitchen and garden just wild enough for Rachel to get muddy in. Late nights with Jean’s head on her shoulder, Rachel asleep between them after too much excitement.

And now — this secret they carried between them. This new life, growing quiet and sure, waiting for the right moment to be shared.

Their home came into view, the porch light glowing warm against the gathering dusk. The windows flickered with the soft light of the kitchen, and the scent of rosemary and garlic reached them even before they stepped inside.

“Jean cooked,” Emma said aloud, surprise and affection mingling.

Rachel grinned up at her. “Mommy makes the best food.”

Emma kissed the top of her head. “She really does.”

Inside, Jean turned from the stove, her eyes bright, her smile easy and sure.

“You’re home,” she said, voice like a balm.

Emma felt herself exhale, tension she hadn’t known she was carrying leaving her shoulders.

“Where else would we be?” she said softly.

Dinner was simple and perfect. Pasta, garlic bread, salad — the kind of meal that spoke of comfort, of care. They talked about Rachel’s day, about Jean’s new syllabus, about Emma’s meeting with a new author who was convinced his cat was his muse.

And all the while, Emma kept stealing glances — at Jean’s hands, at Rachel’s bright eyes — at this life that felt so impossibly good, she half-feared she might wake from it.

But it was real. As real as the secret they were about to share.

Emma met Jean’s gaze across the table, and Jean nodded, just a little, the way she did when they shared something wordlessly.

Emma reached out, took Rachel’s small hand in hers.

“Sweetheart,” she said, voice gentle, “we have something to tell you.”

Rachel’s eyes went wide, curious and hopeful.

Jean reached for Rachel’s other hand.

“You’re going to be a big sister,” she said, voice soft with joy. “Emma is pregnant.”

For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of Rachel’s breath catching — and then she squealed, so loud it made them both laugh, so full of delight it made Emma’s eyes sting.

“Really? I’m really gonna be a big sister?”

Jean pulled her into a hug, and Emma wrapped her arms around them both, heart too full for words.

“Really,” Emma whispered against Rachel’s hair.

Rachel kissed both their cheeks in turn, as if sealing the promise.

“This is the best day ever!”

And as they sat there, tangled together, laughter mingling with the scent of dinner and the soft fall of night outside, Emma felt it — the deep, sure truth of it all.

This is my home.

Not the penthouse. Not the empire she’d once thought she had to build to feel safe.

This.

This messy, warm, glorious, everyday magic.

Later, when the house was quiet, and Rachel was asleep — already dreaming of baby names and how she’d help with diapers, no doubt — Emma stood at the kitchen window, looking out at the garden bathed in moonlight.

Jean came up behind her, arms sliding around her waist, chin on her shoulder.

“You’re quiet,” Jean said softly.

Emma leaned back into her, eyes closing for a moment.

“I was just thinking,” she said.

“About what?”

Emma smiled, eyes still closed, letting herself savor this.

“About how I never really understood what home was. Not until you. Not until both of you.”

Jean pressed a kiss to her temple.

“You’re home too, you know. To us.”

Emma turned in her arms, rested her forehead against Jean’s.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you,” Jean said, and they stayed like that for a long time — two hearts steady in the night.