Listening to him move around the room, Rogue realized that he was the reason she'd felt so comfortable in the strange apartment. There was something about the impression he made on a space; it was almost tangible, some essence that permeated the atmosphere around him. They'd lived together for years, both in apartments like this and on the run, and she'd grown accustomed to having that essence in her life. There had been an aching hole inside her since his death four years earlier, and now she could see just where he'd fit in her heart.

Sitting up again, she folded her bare hands in her lap, knuckles whitening because of how tightly she held them together. "Whatever you've got is just fine," she called over to him, trusting the choice he would make for her. She trusted everything to do with him, she realized. It didn't matter that he wasn't the Remy she knew, he was still Remy.