Chapter Text
To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before
Jean Elaine Grey was not someone who actively sought out for love, in fact, she was content with the fact that the only form of romantic love she would ever experience in her life would be closed off to the books she desperately collected during the yard sales her older sister Sara would take her and their little sister Julia to every other weekend for some much needed “bonding time”.
Things have not been the same since mom died, their father usually just wanted them to stay close together as possible, meaning, they were a tight-knit family by very definition. She was okay with that, she loved her family, as overbearing as they were, she wouldn’t trade them for the world. But the gaping hole that their mom left was something they could never ignore, try as they might.
The notion of love was more like a foreign concept to her, like how a baby bird would interact with the earth the first time it sees it. And it’s because of this foreign feeling of love that Jean thinks is the reason why she never truly fell in love with someone before.
She’d honestly would just allow herself to get lost in the many books she has stacked upon her room and read about the cliché tropes in the love stories she secretly adores. Love in those stories seemed so easy, it seemed feasible, it seemed perfect. But then again, what was perfect in this world anyways.
So, she came to the conclusion that maybe loving someone loudly was not for her. Instead, she chose to love quietly and from a distance, completely out of reach. Which would explain the love letters hidden in a hat box tucked neatly behind some things in her closet.
She’s not sure what compelled her to write these letters in the first place, but she thinks she did it to appease the small part of her that wishes she was more brave enough to say the things she wanted to say.
There were five letters in that box.
The first was for Scott Summers, the boy next door, her first friend when they moved into the block back when she was a bright-eyed four-year-old thinking the entire world was squashed into that tiny little block. Scott Summers was the one-year older boy who seemed to welcome them with open arms, his little wild side that helped Jean come out of her shell and be more open with being friends with other kids that weren’t her sisters made her fall in love with him. Too bad he’s dating her sister, Sara, now. But in her mind, he was her first boyfriend.
The second was for Bobby Drake, they didn’t really share a lot of interactions despite being in the same classes since kindergarten, but she does remember him being the sweet little boy back in second grade that helped her up when that idiot Flash knocked her down while playing catch. Guess that act of bare minimum kindness was enough for little Jean’s heart to beat louder for Bobby Drake.
The third was for James “Logan” Howlett, he was currently a senior and for the love of God, Jean could not really remember why she liked him in the first place. He was always so sleazy and upfront when it came to his attraction to women all across the school, earning him the titles of, but not limited to, “Badboy”, “Man Whore”, “Lapdog Logan”, “Wolverine” (she really hates this one), and “Luscious Logan”. It was probably Jean’s teenage hormones that got to her, which will be the only reason why she has that crush in the first place to be honest.
The fourth was for some random kid named Kenny back when she was in summer camp like four years ago. She had no sentimental attachment to it whatsoever, but she couldn’t deny that she wrote the shit up with that letter, so she kept it for literature-based purposed above all else.
The fifth and final letter was for Peter Benjamin Parker. Where would she even begin to describe Peter Parker? He wasn’t a bad boy like Logan, nor was he a lifelong fixture like Scott. Peter was just… Peter. The brilliant, perpetually sleep-deprived science nerd who sat two rows ahead of her in physics, the boy who wore oversized thrift-store cardigans and carried a battered Canon camera everywhere he went. He was the kind of person who apologized to doors when he bumped into them. He had a quick, self-deprecating wit and a laugh that sounded genuine even when he was drowning in midterms. Writing his letter had been a late-night impulse after he stayed back after class to help her salvage a botched electromagnetics project, rambling nervously about quantum mechanics while his warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners. She remembers back in middle school, when she was marginally more open to making friends, stayed at a party hosted by MJ Watson. It was spin the bottle, and like the hormonal pre-teens that they were, they raced to the opportunity to lock lips with other people their age. When she landed on Peter she was terrified of what MJ might do, everyone knew MJ had a small crush on Peter at that time and Peter was obviously reciprocating those feelings too, but when she offered to spin again, all Peter did was shrug and say, “You can’t cheat the bottle.”
It had been a simple, chaste kiss, a brief pressing of lips that smelled faintly of cherry fruit punch, but it had made Jean’s heart do a terrifying leap off a cliff. He had smiled at her afterward, gentle and totally unfazed, before MJ immediately nudged him in the ribs to take his next turn. Jean had spent the rest of the night tucked into the corner of the sofa, clutching a red Solo cup, utterly paralyzed by the sudden realization that Peter Parker wasn't just another boy in her class. He was someone who could make the entire room blur into background noise with a single offhand remark.
She had written his letter that very weekend, pouring every ridiculous, unspoken thought onto pale blue stationery before sealing it tightly in an envelope, addressing it with his full name, and dropping it into the teal hat box her mother had given her on her tenth birthday.
Jean traced her thumb over the heavy cardstock of Peter’s envelope, a faint, fond smile pulling at the corner of her lips before she hastily reined it in. It wasn’t meant to be anyways, he was dating MJ now. The shy boy she knew was part of the lacrosse team now while balancing being part of the robotics club too. They were just leagues apart from each other when it came to the weird social hierarchy of high school. With a soft sigh, she placed the fifth letter back into the hat box, nesting it snugly beside the others. She secured the cardboard lid, shoved the box deep into the dark recess of her closet behind a pile of forgotten winter sweaters, and decided that was where they would stay. Forever locked away. Safe from judgment, safe from reality, and most importantly, safe from the boys themselves.
These feelings were meant to be felt in the quiet safety of her own head, never to see the light of day. They were just harmless paper confessions, a way to bleed off the excess weight of a heart that didn't know how to speak its truth out loud.
If only the universe possessed a similar sense of containment. That box was her vault. The letters were never meant to be sent. They were meant to stay locked away, ghosts of feelings that had nowhere else to go, safely hidden beneath a stack of old sweater knits and dusty paperbacks.
At least, that was the plan.
"Jean! Hurry up, it’s time for dinner!" Sara’s voice echoed up the stairs, sharp and authoritative in the way only an older sister taking on the role of a missing mother could manage. "Scott’s already in the driveway!"
Jean swallowed down the familiar lump in her throat at the mention of Scott's name. She took a quick breath, shoved the hat box deeper into the dark corner of her closet, and smoothed down her skirt. "Coming!"
She grabbed her backpack and hurried down the stairs, passing Julia, who was lazily chewing on a pop-tart from breakfast while staring at her phone.
"Sara's in a mood, probably the pre-Scotland gitters getting to her" Julia muttered without looking up. "Scott brought you a cinnamon roll, though."
Jean froze mid-step on the bottom riser. "He did?"
"Yeah. Left it on the counter." Julia finally glanced up, her eyes narrowing with a sharp, perceptive look that made Jean's stomach drop. "You know, you get this weird face every time he comes over. Like you're looking at a ghost or something."
"I do not," Jean said quickly, brushing past her toward the kitchen.
Scott was standing near the island, chatting casually with Sara, who was leaning against him with a cup of coffee in her hand. Scott looked up as Jean walked in, his broad shoulders framing his comfortable blue jacket, his smile warm and instantly recognizable.
"Hey, Jean," Scott said, his voice easy. He gestured to the pastry wrapped in foil. "Grabbed this from the bakery down the street. Thought you could use a boost before AP Bio."
"Thanks, Scott," she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral, deliberately avoiding his gaze as she took the roll. "You didn't have to."
"It's no big deal," he replied with a slight shrug, wrapping an arm naturally around Sara’s waist.
Jean looked away, focusing entirely on zipping her backpack. Loving quiet and from a distance was a fine strategy, she reminded herself. It kept things neat. It kept her safe. As long as those letters stayed in that box, her secret little worlds were completely safe, and no one ever had to know.
No one had to know.
.
.
.
What flabbergasted her was that Sara was ballsy enough to invite her boyfriend to dinner and break up with him at the same time, even after he told her he bought a plane ticket to go with her to Scotland.
The dining room table, usually a sanctuary of quick meals and hushed conversations about household chores, had suddenly turned into an absolute execution chamber.
Jean sat frozen in her chair, her fork hovering a few inches above a pile of mashed potatoes, completely unable to process the precise, methodical destruction happening right in front of her.
"I just don't think it's healthy, Scott," Sara was saying, her tone cool, measured, and agonizingly pragmatic. She wasn't even shouting. That was the worst part. She was breaking his heart with the same efficient organization she used to color-code the family's weekly grocery lists. "We're going to different colleges. In different countries. The distance is going to breed resentment, and I'd rather end things now while we still care about each other, instead of dragging it out until we hate each other."
Across the table, Scott looked as though he had been hit by a freight train. The sheer, blinding light of his usual easygoing optimism had completely vanished, replaced by a hollow, disbelieving stare.
"A plane ticket, Sara," Scott swallowed hard, his knuckles white where he was gripping his cloth napkin under the lip of the table. "I worked double shifts at the garage all summer. I bought a ticket to Edinburgh so I could help you move into your dorm. I was going to visit every single month."
"Which is sweet, Scott, but it's unrealistic," Sara replied softly, though there was a rigid line in her shoulders that betrayed her own quiet heartbreak. "You have your life here. You're starting at the state university. You shouldn't be spending your money or your freshman year chasing me across the Atlantic."
Jean squeezed her eyes shut for a fraction of a second, wishing desperately that she could dissolve into the floorboards. Beside her, Julia had completely stopped chewing, her eyes darting between Scott and Sara like she was watching a high-stakes horror film. Their father was stuck in the kitchen, suddenly very intensely occupied with scraping a burnt skillet that didn't actually need cleaning, if anything she was positive that the skillet was the cleanest it’s been since they bought it.
"So that's it?" Scott's voice cracked, a sound so raw it made Jean's chest physically ache. "Years of being together, and you're just cutting the cord before you even board the plane?"
"It's better this way," Sara insisted, her voice trembling just enough to show the crack in her armor. "For both of us."
She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping sharply against the hardwood, and walked upstairs without looking back. The heavy slam of her bedroom door echoed through the house like a gunshot.
Silence descended on the dining room, suffocating and thick.
Scott sat motionless for a long moment, staring at the empty chair across from him. Slowly, he stood up, grabbing his keys from the table. He looked entirely lost, like a boy who had stepped out of his house only to find the street he grew up on had completely disappeared.
"Scott..." Jean started, the word slipping out before she could stop herself.
He paused near the front door, looking back at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression a mix of profound humiliation and grief. "I'll... I'll see you around, Jean. Tell your dad thanks for dinner."
The door clicked shut, and he was gone.
Well… fuck.
The next two days were a blur of low-grade misery. Sara buried herself in packing tape, luggage scales, and an impenetrable wall of stoicism, refusing to talk about Scott. Jean tried her best to play the supportive younger sister, but every time she looked at Sara, she felt a sickening coil of guilt in her stomach.
She felt guilty for feeling sorry for Scott. She felt guilty because part of her, a tiny, terrible, deeply buried part, remembered the letter in her closet and wondered what it would be like if Scott Summers was finally, truly single. And then she hated herself for even thinking it.
By Friday afternoon, the house was a chaos of last-minute packing before Sara's early morning flight to Scotland. Eager to escape the suffocating gloom of her own home, Jean took her sweet time walking back from the local library, her tote bag heavy with comfort reads.
When she pulled open the front door, the house was strangely quiet.
"Sara?" Jean called out, kicking off her sneakers at the mat. "Julia?"
No answer. Her dad was probably still at work, and Sara had likely taken Julia out to buy last-minute electrical adapters for her UK trip.
Jean walked up the stairs, letting out a long, weary sigh. All she wanted to do was curl up on her window seat, bury her nose in a romance novel where nobody ever got their heart broken over college logistics, and forget the last forty-eight hours existed.
She pushed open her bedroom door.
Her room was clean. Unusually clean.
Her bed was made, her desk was organized, and the stray pile of winter sweaters that usually lived in the bottom of her closet had been neatly folded and placed on her top shelf. Sitting right in the middle of her floor was a small, teal cardboard box with its lid resting beside it.
Jean froze, the strap of her heavy library bag slipping off her shoulder and hitting the floor with a dull thud.
Her blood ran ice cold.
She stepped into the room, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knelt beside the teal hat box and looked inside.
It was empty.
The pale blue stationary. The crisp envelopes. The neat, deliberate handwriting addressing five different boys across five different periods of her life.
Gone.
"Julia!" Jean screamed, scrambling to her feet so fast her vision blurred. She bolted out of her room and down the hall, throwing open her sister's bedroom door. "Julia, where are my things?!"
The room was empty, save for a small piece of lined notebook paper resting on Julia's unmade bed. Jean snatched it up, her hands trembling violently. Written in Julia's messy, looping scrawl was a brief note:
Julia and I are taking Sara to buy some last-minute stuff at Goodwill. Also, I helped you organize your disaster closet this morning while you were at the library.
-Love, Dad
Jean’s lungs completely locked up. The room tilted around her.
Goodwill…
The letters were stamped.
She had stamped them. Years ago, when she first wrote them, she had bought a roll of vintage floral stamps from the post office just to make the envelopes look pretty and authentic, like the old-fashioned love letters she read about in her books. She had addressed them all, stamped them all, and hidden them away, thinking they were safe behind a fortress of wool sweaters.
Five letters. Scott. Bobby. Logan. Kenny. And Peter.
She frantically sprinted down the hallway back to her room, dumping her tote bag onto the floor and diving headfirst into her closet. Her mind raced at a thousand miles a minute. If her father had cleaned out the closet for a Goodwill drop-off, he must have thought the teal box was just a container of old, stamped mail that was meant to be sent out weeks ago. He probably dumped the envelopes directly into the blue USPS collection box at the end of the driveway on his way out with the girls.
She scrambled to the window and pressed her forehead against the cool glass, looking down at the street.
The postal truck was pulled up right next to their curb.
"No, no, no, no, no," Jean whimpered, tumbling backward over her own feet as she bolted down the stairs, practically leaping over the bottom three steps and bursting through the front door.
"Wait! Excuse me! Sir! Wait!" she shrieked, skidding across the front lawn in her socks.
The mail carrier, an older man with wire-rimmed glasses and an utterly exhausted expression, paused with his hand on the mail truck's sliding door. He slowly turned around to look at Jean, who looked like an asylum escapee with wild hair, no shoes, and a face drained of all color.
"Can I help you, kid?" he asked cautiously.
"The letters," Jean gasped, bent double with her hands on her knees, desperately trying to catch her breath. "My dad, my dad put mail in the box, I think. A few minutes ago. Pale blue envelopes. Vintage floral stamps. Please tell me you haven't sorted them yet."
The mail carrier raised an eyebrow, looking down at his plastic bin of outgoing mail sitting on the passenger seat. "Standard procedure, miss. Once it enters the box, it's federal property. I can't just hand back, "
"They're love letters!" Jean blurted out, her voice cracking in pure panic. "They're love letters I wrote to five different guys over the span of eight years! I never meant to send them! One of them is dating my sister! Well, they just broke up, but that makes it ten times worse! If he gets that letter, he’ll think I was waiting in the wings like a vulture! Please, I am begging you, my entire social survival relies on those envelopes staying in my closet!"
The postal worker stared at her in dead silence for five agonizing seconds. But just as she thinks he’ll be on her side, he lets out a tired sigh, “Sorry, kid. Rules are rules.” And leaves her with nothing but her own self-pity. Arriving home empty-handed was not the plan she had in mind, but all she could do was sleep on it, I mean, what’s the worst that could happen with five love letters thrown out into the world.
.
.
.
Well, fuck.
The house seemed quieter now that Sara was in Scotland a few days ago, but the lingering presence of the letters being out and about weren’t so quiet.
Monday morning arrived with the subtle, lingering threat of a thunderstorm.
Jean spent the entire walk to school trying to convince herself that the U.S. Postal Service was remarkably inefficient. Maybe the letters would get lost in transit. Maybe the vintage stamps she bought six years ago lacked the proper modern postage. Maybe a rogue torrential downpour would flood the sorting facility and destroy every pale blue envelope in existence.
It was a comforting fantasy right up until she walked through the double doors of Westbridge High and immediately spotted Bobby Drake standing by his locker.
Bobby was leaning against the cold metal, holding a piece of paper in his hands. An unmistakable, pale blue piece of paper. He was staring at it with an expression of profound, bewildered awe, his brow furrowed as he tried to reconcile the quiet girl who sat in the back of AP Bio with the fiery romantic prose currently in his grip.
Jean’s heart violently slammed against her ribs. She instantly spun on her heel, dropping her head, and practically power-walked in the exact opposite direction.
Okay. Bobby Drake has his letter. That’s one out of five. I can survive Bobby Drake.
She ducked into the third-floor stairwell to catch her breath, pressing her back against the cool cinderblock wall. She closed her eyes, taking slow, deliberate breaths. It’s fine. Everything is,
"Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to come out of her shell."
Jean’s eyes snapped open.
Leaning against the handrail a few steps above her was Logan Howlett. He was wearing his faded leather jacket, smelling faintly of motor oil and peppermint gum, his sharp hazel eyes locked onto her with a dangerous, crooked smirk. Between his calloused fingers, he was casually flicking a pale blue envelope.
"I gotta hand it to you, Red," Logan drawled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp as he took a step down toward her. "I always knew you were quiet, but I didn't realize you were spending your nights writing poetry about my eyes. 'Wild and untamed,' was it? Didn't think you had it in you."
Jean felt all the oxygen leave her body. Her face burned with a heat so intense she was certain her skin was about to ignite. "Logan, "
"Relax, kid," he said, holding up a hand, his smirk widening just enough to display a sharp canine. "I'm flattered. Really. Though I'm pretty sure 'Lapdog Logan' was a low blow. You want to clear that up over lunch, or are you gonna keep staring at me like I'm a jump scare?"
"Give me that," Jean squeaked, lunging forward to snatch the letter out of his hand.
Logan effortlessly held it up out of her reach, chuckling deep in his chest. "Not a chance, Red. This is going straight into my keepsakes. See you around." With a wink that sent a shudder of pure humiliation down her spine, he turned and slouched down the stairs, leaving Jean mortified, breathless, and thoroughly destroyed.
Two down. Three to go.
She stumbled into physics class three minutes before the bell, her hands trembling so badly she could barely open her notebook. She slid into her chair, ducking her head behind her textbook, desperate to become invisible.
Two rows ahead of her, Peter Parker sat at his usual lab desk.
He wasn't reading a textbook. He wasn't taking notes. He was sitting completely still, staring blankly at a pale blue cardstock envelope resting beside his pencil case.
Jean felt her stomach drop into a bottomless pit.
Before she could even process the sight, the bell rang, signaling the end of the day before she even realized class had started. The entire period had passed in a terrifying blur of background noise and hyperventilation. Students began packing up their bags, chatting loudly about weekend plans and track practice.
Jean shoved her things into her backpack as fast as humanly possible, eager to make a break for the exits before anyone else could corner her. She zipped her bag, swung it over her shoulder, and bolted toward the classroom door.
"Jean! Wait up!"
She froze.
The voice didn't come from behind her in the classroom. It came from the hallway outside.
Jean slowly turned her head. Walking down the crowded corridor, wearing his comfortable blue jacket with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, was Scott Summers.
He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes proof of the agonizing weekend he’d spent recovering from Sara’s sudden departure. But as he spotted Jean, his expression shifted from grim exhaustion to absolute, wide-eyed shock. In his left hand, clamped tightly against his hip, was the fifth pale blue envelope.
Scott.
He had read it. He knew about four-year-old Jean. He knew about the quiet, secret envy she had kept hidden behind sisterly smiles for four straight years. He knew everything.
Panic, raw, unadulterated, primal panic, seized Jean’s chest. She couldn't do this. She couldn't explain this to her sister's ex-boyfriend in the middle of a crowded hallway.
She spun around, intending to duck back into the physics room to hide, but collided hard with a broad chest.
"Whoa, easy!"
Hands caught her shoulders, steadying her before she could hit the floor. Jean looked up, her wide, terrified eyes meeting the warm brown gaze of Peter Parker.
Peter looked at her, then looked past her shoulder at Scott, who was pushing his way through the crowd of students, calling her name again. Peter’s eyes flicked down to the open pale blue letter sticking out of his own messenger bag, then back to Jean’s thoroughly panicked face.
Scott was slowly looming towards them causing Jean to panic, and panicking meant doing the most absolutely dumbest things she has ever done.
She kissed Peter Parker in front of prying eyes.
The hallway seemed to drop into absolute zero.
The roar of hundreds of metal lockers slamming shut, the chaotic chatter of students eager for the weekend, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum, it all evaporated into a muffled, echoing hum.
Jean didn't think. Thinking required brain activity, and her brain had completely short-circuited the moment Scott’s voice called her name. All she knew was that Scott Summers was ten feet away holding a confession of her childhood love, Peter Parker’s warm cardigan was right in front of her, and her instincts screamed at her to create a nuclear-level distraction.
So, she grabbed the lapels of Peter’s oversized thrift-store sweater, stood on her tiptoes, and slammed her lips onto his.
It wasn't a soft, romantic, movie-moment kiss. It was a collision. Her teeth practically clinked against his, and the scent of faint cherry fruit punch, a bizarre, terrifying echo of MJ Watson’s middle school party, instantly flooded her senses.
Peter went entirely rigid. His hands, which had been steadying her shoulders, froze in mid-air, fingers splayed out like he was bracing for an impact from a rogue meteor. A soft, muffled sound escaped his throat, something between a gasp and a squeak.
Jean squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath, her heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
She pulled back abruptly, her face burning with a heat so intense she was convinced she was suffering from localized combustion.
Peter stood there, wide-eyed and completely speechless. His brown hair was slightly tousled from her hands, his mouth was parted in sheer, unadulterated shock, and his vintage Canon camera bumped uselessly against his chest. He looked like he had just been struck by lightning, cleared his throat, and was waiting for the secondary shockwave.
A few feet away, Scott Summers had come to a dead halt.
The pale blue envelope was practically crumpled in Scott's hand. His jaw was slightly slack, his eyes darting back and forth between Jean, who was currently trying to burrow into the floorboards through sheer willpower, and Peter, who was staring blankly at the far wall as if trying to calculate the trajectory of what had just happened using basic physics.
"Jean?" Scott’s voice was barely a whisper, laced with profound, dizzying confusion. "What... what was that?"
Jean swallowed hard, her mouth drier than dusty stationery. She didn't dare look at Peter. If she looked at Peter, she would simply pass out, wake up in three years, and move to an isolated monastery.
"I, he, we're..." Jean stammered, grabbing Peter’s arm and wrapping both of her hands around his forearm like a lifesaver in a storm. "We're together!"
Peter slowly turned his head to look down at her. "We are?" he squeaked, his voice cracking on the second word.
Jean pinched the soft fabric of his cardigan tightly, glaring at him with a silent, desperate plea that screamed PLAY ALONG OR I WILL DIE RIGHT HERE ON THIS LINOLEUM.
Peter blinked, his brain clearly working at hyper-speed to process the sudden shift in reality. He looked at Scott, whose face was a storm of conflicting emotions, grief over Sara, confusion over the letter, and now a sudden, weirdly possessive bewilderment. Then Peter looked back down at Jean's pale, terrified face.
A subtle, dangerous shift occurred in Peter's expression. The utter shock softened into something carefully controlled. He cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and wrapped his arm casually, almost naturally, around Jean’s waist, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer to his side.
"Right," Peter said, his voice instantly smoothing out into that quiet, quick-witted tone he used when defending a lab report. "Yeah. We are. Sorry, Scott, did you need something? We were kind of... in the middle of something."
Scott looked like he had been slapped with a wet fish. He glanced down at the pale blue letter in his hand, then back at Jean. "I just... I got this letter, Jean. In the mail. You wrote that you..." He trailed off, glancing awkwardly at Peter, suddenly acutely aware of how insane he would sound reading a childhood love confession to a girl who was currently wrapped up in another guy's arms.
"Oh! That!" Jean said, her voice rising an octave higher than normal. She let out a laugh that sounded like a tea kettle coming to a boil. "That was... a school assignment! From years ago! A literature exercise! Expressing past emotions to move forward! Very therapeutic! I can't believe it got sent, total mix-up!"
Scott stared at her. "A literature exercise?"
"Extremely common in AP Lit," Peter chimed in smoothly, his thumb subconsciously tracing a small, reassuring circle on Jean’s hip where his hand rested. "It's based on expressive writing therapy. Very cathartic. Anyway, Scott, I'm really sorry about you and Sara, man, but Jean and I really have to get to... robotics. Right, Jean?"
"Yes! Robotics! I love robots!" Jean practically shouted.
Without waiting for Scott to process the fact that Jean Grey had never expressed a single second of interest in robotics in her entire life, Peter turned her around by the shoulders and began steering her down the hallway toward the side exit.
She was barely out of the hall when Peter piped in for the first time.
“Robotics, huh?”
In his hand was a light blue envelope…
.
.
.
WELL, FUCK!