Rogue's problem, really, was that she was honest. She could spin this; she knew all the right words to move straight into alternate versions of selves and comfort, and little truths misapplied to make a web of conclusions mounted out of truths and turn them into a lie. She'd been played by the best, and she knew all the rules.

But she hadn't told him this out of any great concern for him - true, that was there, in part, because she wanted him to have a warning. Learning about it the way that she had had been fairly awful. She hadn't told him this because she'd been struck into a fangirl frenzy by the sight of his naked chest, razor cheekbones, and charismatic charm.

She'd told him this because if he was going to react badly to it, she'd rather it happen to her.

So she met his stare with one of her own, her gaze firm and slightly sympathetic, "Yeah, it pretty much sucks."

Pause a beat and more honesty, "But if it makes ya feel any better, you're not the headliner."