marifilue

[marifilue]

i loved “i gotcha darlin’”!! how about anything similar? i just love comfort with logan! maybe he accidentally hurts reader and she knows but is still shaken up? rly ip to u tho!! <3

Fractured

Wordcount: 2.2k

Pairing: DOFP Logan Howlett x GN!Reader

Tags/Warnings: Comfort, angst, established relationship, kisses n lil fluff.

Oneshot: During a mission, your comms went out and you got separated from Logan. When he finally found you, relief overwhelmed him and he might've just held you a little too tightly.

A/N: Thank you for the request dearest anon! This took longer than I expected because I overthink of best scenario for Logan in this situation. Also I get too excited since this was my first request work omg omg. Hope you'll enjoy this <33 Pls feel free to send me more request.

“You’re staring,” you said, not even bothering to look up from your book.

“Can’t help it. You look suspiciously well-behaved.” Logan shrugs from his spot across the room, arms crossed over his chest like always.

You glance up at him, eyes narrowing. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

“Into what? A damn saint?”

You snort, tossing a pillow his way, which he easily dodges with a grin. “Jerk.”

He walks over, slow and smug, plucks the book from your hands like it’s nothing “You’ve been quiet.”

You lift a brow. “That bothers you?”

“Only when it’s you,” he says. “Usually means something’s stewin'.”

You huff, pretending to look away. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the peace.”

“Sure,” he says, stroking your hair. “That why you sighed seven times in the last two minutes?”

“Wow. You counted?”

“Didn’t have to. You got that specific kinda sigh when you’re tryin’ not to feel stuff.”

You glare at him, snatching your book back from his hand. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Right here’s fine.”

He sits next to you on the couch, close enough that your knees touch. And when you don’t pull away, he rest his palm comfortably on top of your thighs. He doesn’t hide the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to read something between the lines of your silence.

You try to keep it casual. “You ever think maybe I’m just boring today?”

“Not a damn chance,” he says, his voice low. “Even your quiet’s got teeth.”

You laugh, a soft, real one, and it slips something loose in your chest.

He leans in to press a kiss on your lips, slow and easy. No pressure. Just warmth and patience, the kind you never got used to having.

He rests his forehead against yours, warm breath brushing against your skin. “Whatever’s crawlin’ around in that head of yours... I’ll be here to squash it.”

The way he says it, like it’s simple. Like it’s obvious.

Because love is supposed to feel that way, safe. That’s what fictional books tell you. That’s what you eventually start to believe, that love is a sanctuary.

You press your lips together, steadying the sudden flutter in your chest. “You know I don’t need saving, right?”

Logan doesn’t move away. “Didn’t say you did. Just means I’ll be there if somethin’ tries to bite.”

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betray you with a soft smile. “That include tonight’s mission?”

He grunts. “Especially tonight’s mission.”

You lean back just enough to meet his eyes. “You still think it's a setup?”

“Somethin’s off about it,” he mutters, his fingers giving a subtle squeeze to your thigh. “Recon without backup in a town full of anti-mutant chatter? Charles sayin’ it’s low-risk when it reeks of bait?”

“Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s just noise.”

He gives you a look that says you know better than that.

You sigh. “Yeah, I know. I’ve got your six.”

“You always do.” His voice softens again. “But this time, don’t play hero.”

You scoff. “I’m not the reckless one.”

He raises a brow, looking entirely unconvinced.

“…Okay, fine. I’m slightly the reckless one.”

“Darlin’, you’re the reason I get grey hairs.”

You chucked softly and leaned in, pressed a kiss to his cheek playfully, but sincere.

“You’d still follow me into hell, though.”

Your fingers slipped into his hair, toying with it gently. Those little clusters of grey at his temples suited him more than they should’ve.

He smiles, low and crooked. “Yeah. And I’d drag your stubborn ass back out.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. “You say that like it’s a chore.”

He leans in, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. “Nah. You’re the only kind of trouble I’d sign up for twice.”

That earns a soft laugh out of you, flustered. You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and teasing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm, and you’re blushing,” he says, clearly pleased with himself.

You shove at his chest, half-laughing, half-hiding behind your hand. “Shut up.”

But he just kissed you again, slower this time. And it’s unfair, really, how easy he makes it feel. Like love doesn’t have to be complicated.

You melt a little against him, breath catching when his hand cups your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek.

“I love you,” he says it in a breath, like it’s second nature.

You freeze for a second—only a second—but it’s enough for him to catch it, to see the color shoot up your neck like it always does.

He grins, cocky and soft. “You make that face every time. Drives me nuts.”

You laugh, flustered as hell. “I love you too, Lo.”

He strokes your cheek, eyes darker now. “Say it again.”

Before you can, his mouth is on yours again—hungrier this time. No teasing, no holding back. Just him and you and the heat between every breath you take.

You’d been gone too long.

Forty-seven minutes since your comms cut out. Forty-seven minutes of silence in his ear, static in his chest, and no sign of you in the wreckage.

Logan had torn through two floors already, left a trail of bodies and ripped steel behind him. He wasn’t thinking—just moving. Fast. Focused. Dangerous. That dangerous, primal part of him clawing closer to the surface the longer he didn’t hear your voice.

“Where the fuck are you…” he muttered, storming into another corridor, scanning every inch.

You weren’t supposed to be separated this long. The building had caved in halfway through the op—explosives too early, their team scattered. Your last words were “I’m fine, I’m just gonna—” and then nothing. Just silence.

His claws ached. His jaw locked.

Then he found you, leaning onto a wall behind you, holding your side in pain, catching your breath—covered in dust and blood and breathing too rapidly.

Relief knocked the wind out of him.

“There you are,” he rasped.

You were so relieved at the sight of him after the shit show you just went through—getting ambushed by a bunch of armed forces twice your size, now dropped on the floor with their fancy tools.

“Logan!” you exclaimed his name in relief.

“Are you okay?” He paced faster toward you, and you just nodded breathless. He was on you in seconds—slightly bending his posture to reach your height then lifting your feet's off the ground, hauling you close, arms wrapping tight around your frame, clutching you like something precious that almost slipped through his fingers.

He buried his face in your hair. He was breathing too hard.

“Jesus. You scared the hell outta me.”

He didn’t notice the way your body stiffened at first, not until a soft gasp escaped you—a sharp one, cut off like you tried to swallow it.

He pulled back just slightly, putting your feet back on the ground.

“What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing. I’m okay.”

But you weren’t. He could feel your heartbeat going haywire, feel the tension in your muscles. And when you moved, just barely, the way your breath caught—he knew.

“Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?” His voice was low, torn between panic and guilt.

You tried to smile, barely.

“No, it’s just—I took a hit from something earlier. It’s not you.”

But you were shaking. He could see the way you were favoring your side, holding it like it might fall apart if you didn’t.

He realized it then. In his desperation to hold you, he'd hugged you too tight. And something shifted in your rib.

"Can I?" he asked, bringing his delicate fingers to your ribs, more careful this time. You nodded. He traced each rib carefully, one by one, until he found it—the one that made you flinch painfully. He pulled his fingers back immediately.

"Shit... one of your rib snapped. I can feel it.”" Logan muttered.

"Yeah," you rasped. "I can tell."

You blinked. It felt like your lungs were filled with wet cement, every breath grinding against something sharp inside you.

He stepped closer. "Darlin’, I’m sorry—fuck, I didn’t mean to—"

"It’s not you, Lo," you cut in automatically, even though… maybe it was. You didn’t want it to be.

Your body already ached all over, hands still trembling from the fight, but it wasn’t until he touched you, until his arms wrapped around you, offering that comfort you always craved then it shambles within second.

Maybe the rib was already fractured before he hugged you. Maybe it wasn’t. Who fucking knows. All you knew was that now, every breath came with the kind of pain that made you grit your teeth so hard, you swore they’d shatter.

"C'mon let's get outta here" Logan moved toward you again, like he wanted to fix something. You sidestepped him.

"I’m fine. I can walk." You didn’t wait for him to argue. You gripped your side and pushed forward, each step stiff, each breath shallower than the last.

He was stunned at first. You could feel him watching you. That look peeled your back without you turning.

"You’re limping," he said, quiet but firm.

"It’s nothing."

He caught up to you in two strides, his hand brushing your arm. You flinched.

And that was it.

His hand froze mid-air. His eyes locked on yours, not angry—wounded. Neither of you said anything for a beat.

"What just happened?" his voice dropped, low and rough.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You didn’t even know how to explain it. How could you? That it wasn’t the pain, not really. It was the idea of him, capable of hurting you. Even by accident. Even just once.

You shook your head, as if trying to shake it off.

"I don't know, okay? Everything just fucking hurts right now. Do me a favor and stop making it worse."

Logan stepped closer, slower this time, hands raised like he was approaching something wild and bleeding. "I apologize, please... I'm sorry" he said, quieter now.

"I didn't mean to hurt you." he managed an eye contact.

You swallowed, looking away. "I know." And you did. But the knowing didn’t undo the feeling.

He reached out again, slower this time, letting his hand settle gently at your shoulder.

"Please, Logan, just... stop it. I'm fine..." Your voice cracked slightly as your eyes started to sting. You stepped away, making his arm drop to his side again.

"Don't do this. You're in pain. I won't just stand here and watch." he said, pleading, his eyes growing with worry.

Your silence clung to the air like smoke. Heavy. Suffocating.

You hated how he looked at you—like he was trying to hold you together with his eyes alone. Like he’d failed you. And maybe, just maybe, you hated that some part of you agreed.

“I can’t fix it if you won’t let me.” he said, barely above a whisper.

“It’s not something you fix, Logan. It just... happened.”

“I happened,” he said, didn’t even sound angry nor upset. Just... tired. Regret pouring out of him like a slow bleed.

“I held you too tight. I should’ve known better.”

You turned away, not because you wanted to, but because if you looked at him for one more second, the tears would win. And you were already so damn close to crumbling.

He stood there for a long beat, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to breathe.

“I love you. That doesn’t come with promises I won’t screw up. But it does mean I’m not going anywhere.” he stepped closer, as if not allowing you to slip through his finger, ever.

“I’m scared,” you murmured watching him stepping closer but this time, you stopped stepping back. “Not of you. Just... of what that moment meant. Of how easy it was.”

“I get it, sweetheart. I forgot what I’m capable of. Forgot how easy it is for me to break things… even the ones I care about most.”

Then, slowly, your body gave in—not all at once, just enough to lean back an inch. Enough for him to understand you weren’t pushing anymore.

But this time, he didn’t pull you into his arms. He didn’t dare.

Instead, his hand came up carefully, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. His fingers trembled just slightly as they rested against your cheek, his thumb stroking softly beneath your eye, right where the tears had started to fall.

He didn’t say anything. He just watched you with that look you hated and needed all at once—like you were breakable, and he was furious with himself for proving it true.

You blinked, and a tear slid down. He caught it with his thumb.

Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, warm and lingering. Holding you so gently.

A second kiss followed at your temple, softer, and something in your chest cracked open at the tenderness of it.

He didn’t make the pain disappear—not literally, at least. Your body still ached with every passing second. But if there’s one thing he did manage, it was to make you feel safe. Loved. He made damn sure you never felt anything less.

He didn’t give up on you. He never does. Not when you messed up, not even when he messed up, like now. He let you in, let you hear what was going on inside of his heart and head. And he showed it—with his words, with his touch, with everything he had to give.

And that—that was the kind of love fiction never quite got right. Because it wasn’t grand or perfect or poetic. It was patient. Steady and real.

And it was yours.

[marifilue]

I’M CACKLING LMAOOO. As funny as this reblog is, it genuinely hurts how many people out there can relate. I really did hit a little too close to home with this one. I hope you’re all feeling loved and safe, we all deserve it <3

I Gotcha Darlin'

Wordcount: 1k

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Reader

Warning/Tags: Angst, comfort, traumatized reader, established relationship.

Oneshot: Logan finding you sleeping after he got back from a mission

A/N: I just had a shitty day and I need to dump this

You were asleep, safe and sound when he came in to your shared room by the X-Mansion.

Logan saw the soft rise and fall of your breathing under the covers and let out a breath of his own. Finally, something steady in this goddamn chaotic world.

He stood there for a second longer than he meant to, just watching. There were burnt marks on his jacket, a smear of dried blood across his shoulder, but here—inside this room—it didn’t matter. The world outside could keep its madness. You were here. Breathing. Whole.

He tried to be quiet—unlacing his boots, setting his jacket on the chair, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple before heading for the shower. Another to your shoulder, just because. You didn’t stir.

Fifteen minutes. Hot water, scalding enough to sting even him. Just long enough to scrub away the blood, sweat, and dirt from the mission. A part of him never really came clean, but this helped. It always helped.

He stepped out with a towel slung low on his hips, steam trailing behind him as he pushed the bathroom door closed behind him—

SLAM.

It echoed sharp and sudden. The wood had caught against something on the tile, and when Logan gave it a firm tug, it snapped shut with a violent sound.

You jolted up like you’d been struck.

Logan turned, brows knitting. “Shit—sorry,” he muttered, voice low, guilty.

You were already awake. But not just awake—alert. Eyes wide, breathing shallow, heart pounding.

He walked toward the wardrobe, rubbing the back of his neck. “That old wood’s a pain in the ass,” he explained casually, pulling on a pair of boxers and a shirt. “Remind me to fix it in the morning.”

But you weren’t really listening. Not to his words, anyway. You watched him, curled under the blanket like it was armor.

"Are you okay?" you asked softly, voice shaky. Too shaky for a simple question.

Logan paused.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling the shirt over his head. “I’m fine, just the door—”

Then he heard it.

Your heartbeat.

Erratic. Spiking like fear. Like panic.

He turned his head slowly. There it was. Fear. And it wasn’t for him, it was because of him.

And god, that hurt.

You were sitting against the headboard now, arms wrapped around your knees, pulling them close under the blanket. Your eyes weren’t on him—they were somewhere else, distant. Somewhere far back.

“Oh,” you whispered, barely audible. “Okay.”

You shifted to lie down again, clearly trying to smooth it over. Pretend it didn’t happen. But Logan didn’t move. He just stood there, shirt half-on, staring at you like he was seeing something new.

Something fragile. Something broken in a place he hadn’t looked before.

“...You thought I was mad,” he said. Not a question. A realization.

You just lay back down, eyes heavy. Pulling the blanket up to your chin like it could hide the way your body still trembled underneath.

Logan stayed standing there for a while. Silent. Letting the seconds stretch. Giving you space.

You figured he’d leave it alone. Most men would.

But then the mattress dipped.

You felt the shift of his weight, the warmth of him as he slid in behind you under the covers. His arm came around your waist—slow, careful, like he was giving you every chance to move away.

You didn’t.

He tugged you closer, pressing his chest to your back, his breath warm near your neck. No questions. No pushing.

Just him.

“I will never hurt you,” he murmured, almost more to himself than to you. “Not ever.”

Your eyes burned again, but you blinked fast and said nothing.

He kissed your shoulder gently, right where he had a few minutes ago before the shower. Like he was taking the moment back and giving it new meaning. One of safety.

You finally whispered, “I know...”

His arms tightened just a little.

“I’m just... I was sleeping,” you said, like you were trying to convince yourself more than him. “And the noise taken me aback.”

“I get it,” he said, voice low, steady. “You don’t gotta explain it.”

But you did. Because if you didn’t now, you’d carry it like dead weight into every slammed door that followed.

“My dad used to slam the front door,” you said, barely louder than a breath. “One day, I misplaced his truck key and he slammed it so hard the window next to it cracked.”

Logan exhaled through his nose—sharp, controlled. His hand moved in slow circles over your side beneath the blanket.

“Sounds like he’s got problems,” he murmured.

You hesitated. “Yeah... I still can’t believe my mum put up with him all those years. Defended him even.”

A bitter laugh. “She said he was just tired. That I made it worse by not listening. I was nine.”

Logan didn’t speak. He just pulled you closer. Like maybe if he held on tight enough, he could keep the ghosts from reaching you tonight.

You could feel your muscles start to unwind—slowly, unsurely, like they didn’t quite believe it was safe yet.

Silence settled again. Comfortable, this time.

He didn’t fill it with words—he just held you tighter, like maybe he could squeeze the damage out of your bones if he stayed long enough.

After a while, your breathing evened out. You didn’t fall asleep right away, but you stopped looking over your shoulder. Stopped listening for the next sound to brace yourself against.

Logan pressed another kiss to the back of your neck, his voice barely audible in the quiet.

“I gotcha darlin'.”

Your hand found his beneath the blanket, fingers slipping between his and holding on. Like a promise.

Eventually, you drifted—not because you were tired, but because, for the first time you weren’t scared of what might happen in the silence after a slammed door.

[marifilue]

I Gotcha Darlin'

Wordcount: 1k

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Reader

Warning/Tags: Angst, comfort, traumatized reader, established relationship.

Oneshot: Logan finding you sleeping after he got back from a mission

A/N: I just had a shitty day and I need to dump this

You were asleep, safe and sound when he came in to your shared room by the X-Mansion.

Logan saw the soft rise and fall of your breathing under the covers and let out a breath of his own. Finally, something steady in this goddamn chaotic world.

He stood there for a second longer than he meant to, just watching. There were burnt marks on his jacket, a smear of dried blood across his shoulder, but here—inside this room—it didn’t matter. The world outside could keep its madness. You were here. Breathing. Whole.

He tried to be quiet—unlacing his boots, setting his jacket on the chair, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple before heading for the shower. Another to your shoulder, just because. You didn’t stir.

Fifteen minutes. Hot water, scalding enough to sting even him. Just long enough to scrub away the blood, sweat, and dirt from the mission. A part of him never really came clean, but this helped. It always helped.

He stepped out with a towel slung low on his hips, steam trailing behind him as he pushed the bathroom door closed behind him—

SLAM.

It echoed sharp and sudden. The wood had caught against something on the tile, and when Logan gave it a firm tug, it snapped shut with a violent sound.

You jolted up like you’d been struck.

Logan turned, brows knitting. “Shit—sorry,” he muttered, voice low, guilty.

You were already awake. But not just awake—alert. Eyes wide, breathing shallow, heart pounding.

He walked toward the wardrobe, rubbing the back of his neck. “That old wood’s a pain in the ass,” he explained casually, pulling on a pair of boxers and a shirt. “Remind me to fix it in the morning.”

But you weren’t really listening. Not to his words, anyway. You watched him, curled under the blanket like it was armor.

"Are you okay?" you asked softly, voice shaky. Too shaky for a simple question.

Logan paused.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling the shirt over his head. “I’m fine, just the door—”

Then he heard it.

Your heartbeat.

Erratic. Spiking like fear. Like panic.

He turned his head slowly. There it was. Fear. And it wasn’t for him, it was because of him.

And god, that hurt.

You were sitting against the headboard now, arms wrapped around your knees, pulling them close under the blanket. Your eyes weren’t on him—they were somewhere else, distant. Somewhere far back.

“Oh,” you whispered, barely audible. “Okay.”

You shifted to lie down again, clearly trying to smooth it over. Pretend it didn’t happen. But Logan didn’t move. He just stood there, shirt half-on, staring at you like he was seeing something new.

Something fragile. Something broken in a place he hadn’t looked before.

“...You thought I was mad,” he said. Not a question. A realization.

You just lay back down, eyes heavy. Pulling the blanket up to your chin like it could hide the way your body still trembled underneath.

Logan stayed standing there for a while. Silent. Letting the seconds stretch. Giving you space.

You figured he’d leave it alone. Most men would.

But then the mattress dipped.

You felt the shift of his weight, the warmth of him as he slid in behind you under the covers. His arm came around your waist—slow, careful, like he was giving you every chance to move away.

You didn’t.

He tugged you closer, pressing his chest to your back, his breath warm near your neck. No questions. No pushing.

Just him.

“I will never hurt you,” he murmured, almost more to himself than to you. “Not ever.”

Your eyes burned again, but you blinked fast and said nothing.

He kissed your shoulder gently, right where he had a few minutes ago before the shower. Like he was taking the moment back and giving it new meaning. One of safety.

You finally whispered, “I know...”

His arms tightened just a little.

“I’m just... I was sleeping,” you said, like you were trying to convince yourself more than him. “And the noise taken me aback.”

“I get it,” he said, voice low, steady. “You don’t gotta explain it.”

But you did. Because if you didn’t now, you’d carry it like dead weight into every slammed door that followed.

“My dad used to slam the front door,” you said, barely louder than a breath. “One day, I misplaced his truck key and he slammed it so hard the window next to it cracked.”

Logan exhaled through his nose—sharp, controlled. His hand moved in slow circles over your side beneath the blanket.

“Sounds like he’s got problems,” he murmured.

You hesitated. “Yeah... I still can’t believe my mum put up with him all those years. Defended him even.”

A bitter laugh. “She said he was just tired. That I made it worse by not listening. I was nine.”

Logan didn’t speak. He just pulled you closer. Like maybe if he held on tight enough, he could keep the ghosts from reaching you tonight.

You could feel your muscles start to unwind—slowly, unsurely, like they didn’t quite believe it was safe yet.

Silence settled again. Comfortable, this time.

He didn’t fill it with words—he just held you tighter, like maybe he could squeeze the damage out of your bones if he stayed long enough.

After a while, your breathing evened out. You didn’t fall asleep right away, but you stopped looking over your shoulder. Stopped listening for the next sound to brace yourself against.

Logan pressed another kiss to the back of your neck, his voice barely audible in the quiet.

“I gotcha darlin'.”

Your hand found his beneath the blanket, fingers slipping between his and holding on. Like a promise.

Eventually, you drifted—not because you were tired, but because, for the first time you weren’t scared of what might happen in the silence after a slammed door.

[marifilue]

Ugh I'm so hungry I could eat a hugh jack- HORSE, a horse...

[marifilue]

Aftermath

Wordcount: 1.1k

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Tags: Angst, comfort, griefs, situationship

Oneshot: Finding Matt the morning after Foggy incident (Daredevil Born Again episode 1)

A/N: This man broooo, I just want to hold him and pampered him whilst whispering everything will be okay. He been trough too much they gotta stop this menace.

Matt Murdock is a very complicated man, the kind of complicated that makes your conscience tell you to stay away for your own good. But the way your body rejects distancing from him weighs much heavier.

You’ve been on a few dates with him—more than what would usually be labeled as casual. But by mutual agreement, you never put a label on anything. Not when you first found him, half-dead in a trash dump. Not when the hospital buzzed with stories of a patient who kept showing up battered, rumored to have been beaten by a man in black. Or when frightened women admitted that same man had saved them. It was him—the legend himself.

You wanted to believe in what he does—you’ve seen the innocent faces he’s saved and the justice he’s delivered. You’re not against it, not at all. But being involved with him romantically was a pain you never knew existed. You’ve healed nasty wounds throughout your medical career, but the one Matt left open in your heart? That one feels beyond repair.

It was a slow morning, like usual. You were making coffee in your Chelsea apartment, savoring the quiet before stepping into the never-ending chaos of your workplace. With your mug in hand, you turned on the TV, expecting the usual New York news—violence, crime, and a glimpse of what might be waiting in the emergency room.

"Two vigilantes clashed in a Hell’s Kitchen bar last night. Daredevil was seen fighting against another masked figure in blue. Many civilians were injured, and two confirmed dead. One of the victims was Franklin Nelson, former defense attorney at Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz, and now part of Nelson, Murdock & Page."

"The suspect, Benjamin Poindexter—a former FBI agent—was severely injured during the altercation. He is currently under heavy NYPD surveillance at the hospital."

You had to sit down. Your knees suddenly felt weak. Foggy? This couldn’t be right. The TV’s noise faded into the background as you struggled to take a deep breath.

Matt. Is he okay?

The coffee in your hands had gone cold, but you barely noticed. Your fingers tightened around the mug, trying to ground yourself, to stop the rising panic clawing its way up your throat. Foggy is gone. The words felt unreal, like a cruel mistake, something that would be corrected in the next news update. But the screen kept playing, the anchors moving on as if they hadn’t just ripped a hole in the world.

Your phone was within reach. You could call Matt. Should call Matt. But what if he didn’t answer? What if he did? You weren’t sure which option scared you more.

Instead, you grabbed your coat and keys, moving on autopilot. You needed to see him, to know he was alive, to—God, you didn’t even know. Be there? Hold him?

The hospital was a blur. You barely registered the familiar hallways, the worried glances of your coworkers. The ER was busy, but your mind was elsewhere.

It wasn’t hard to find him.

Matt was in one of the dimly lit waiting rooms, sitting alone. His hoodie was rumpled, streaked with dried blood. His knuckles were raw, split open in places, but he hadn’t bothered to clean them. His face bruised and there's a small cut in his lips, shoulders were curled in, rigid, like he was trying to make himself smaller.

You had seen him battered before. Bruised, stitched up, barely holding himself together. But this was different. This wasn’t Daredevil after a fight. This was Matt Murdock drowning in it.

He must have heard you enter, but he didn’t move. His body tensed, just slightly, like he was bracing for something.

You swallowed, your voice quieter than you intended. “Matt…”

For a moment, nothing. Just silence. He looked up at you for a brief second. Without his glasses, you could see the way his eyes were glazed over before he quickly dropped his head again, fingers reaching up to wipe at his eyes. Not a single proper word left his mouth.

Your knees felt weak as you sink into the chair beside him. His hands were clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. A tremor ran through his fingers, almost unnoticeable, but you saw it. Felt it.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Matt didn’t react, didn’t even breathe for a second. His head was slightly bowed, you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed against the weight of it all.

“He's gone.. He didn’t deserve this,” he murmured. His voice was steady, but you could hear it—the cracks beneath, the guilt gnawing at the edges.

You shook your head. “Matt, don’t—” You raised a hand to his shoulder, feeling the tension knotted beneath your palm as you gently tried to ease it.

“I put him in this.” His fingers tightened, nails digging into his palms. “I killed him as surely as if I’d done it myself.”

“Stop,” you said, firmer this time. “This isn’t your fault.”

Matt let out a breath—shaky, bitter, like he wanted to laugh but couldn’t find the strength.

"Doesn’t matter," he muttered. "It won’t bring him back."

The weight of it settled into his bones, pressing him down. His breathing was shallow, his body stiff, like he was trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will.

You hesitated for only a second before reaching out, prying his hands apart. They were ice cold. When you laced your fingers through his, he didn’t pull away, but he didn’t squeeze back either. Not at first.

Then, slowly, his fingers curled around yours.

"Have you eaten anything?" you asked softly.

He exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh, not quite anything. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

He didn’t answer, which meant no. Not that you expected anything different.

"I can get you something," you offered. "Just wait here, I'll—"

His fingers tightened around yours. It wasn’t a desperate grip, but it was enough to make you pause.

"Just stay," he muttered.

Your chest ached at how quiet he sounded.

"Okay," you whispered, shifting closer. "I’ll stay."

For the first time since you’d arrived, Matt exhaled—a deep, shaky breath, like he had been holding it in for hours. Then, slowly, he leaned into you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your hand didn’t loosen, as if letting go would shatter the fragile moment.

You turned slightly, resting your cheek against the top of his head. The scent of blood clung to him, but beneath it was something familiar—something undeniably Matt. You gave his hand a small, steady squeeze, grounding him in the only way you could.

You didn’t know what came next. You didn’t know if Matt would let himself grieve, or if he’d bury it beneath guilt and anger until it tore him apart.

But for now, he held onto you. And maybe, that was enough.

[marifilue]

Happy Birthday, girl!!! I hope you have a wonderful day 🎂🍾

Thank you very muchh <33

[marifilue]

Damn I turn 21 today

[marifilue]

Bite Me, I Dare You

Wordcount: 1.6k

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader (No use of y/n)

Oneshot: Biting Logan for a joke turned into a petty competition between the two of you

Tags: Fluffs, playful banter, established relationship, other X-Men characters appeared (Especially peter maximoff <3)

That was his words, not yours. Bite me, I dare you.

Oh boy, did he know how underestimating that sounded. So you bit him.

Right on the bicep, in the middle of the breakfast table, on that warm morning alongside the other X-Men members.

Logan was wearing that white tank top, his left bicep touching your shoulder, immediately looking like a chewable object. So you whipped your head around, burying your teeth deep into his toned bicep, making him flinch. His thigh bumped against the table in reflexes, startling everyone in what had been a peaceful morning. He let out a startled groan, eyeing you with furrowed brows as you grinned triumphantly.

The entire table turned their heads in your direction. Peter choked on his water, coughing into his fist. Scott, mid-cut, froze with his fork and knife still in hand. Ororo just shook his head. The rest of the team shifted awkwardly.

"Sorry," Logan muttered to the table as he bumped his left thigh against yours.

You bit back your smile, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the team.

That was only an introduction to how the day would unfold—you took his words as a challenge you were eager to conquer. It was probably reverse psychology; maybe he secretly enjoyed being bitten by you, and your mission was to ruin that. Bite me, I dare you? What was he thinking...

As you walked back to your shared room, Logan’s broad back was just an arm’s reach ahead of you. The morning light filtered through the mansion’s windows, casting long shadows on the floor, the air still thick with the scent of coffee and syrup.

You quickened your pace.

Just as he turned the corner, you struck—sinking your teeth into his shoulder.

Logan let out a short grunt, his muscles tensing under your bite. His reaction was brief, but the warmth of his skin and the way his shoulder flexed beneath your teeth made you linger a second longer than necessary.

“Really?” His voice was low, rough—like the start of a growl.

You grinned against his tanktop before letting go, stepping back just in time to see his expression when he turned around. His brows were drawn together, lips pressed in something between amusement and irritation. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes—then it was gone.

You shrugged. “You dared me.”

His jaw twitched, like he was biting back a response, but he only exhaled through his nose and kept walking.

That was your first victory.

By the third day, Logan barely reacted.

You bit his arm while passing him in the hallway—he didn’t even pause his stride, just muttered a gruff, “Real mature.”

At dinner, you leaned in and nipped at his forearm. He only sighed, shooting you a look over his glass of whiskey before taking a slow sip.

This wasn’t working. You had to get to him.

On the fourth night, after training, Logan sat at the edge of the bed, rubbing a towel over his damp hair. The room was dimly lit, the scent of soap and warm skin filling the space. You crawled onto the mattress behind him, arms resting on his shoulders, pressing close as if you were getting comfortable.

Then you bit the back of his neck.

Logan jerked. A sharp inhale, followed by a low, warning growl. His grip tightened around the towel, knuckles turning white.

You pulled back, suppressing a laugh. “Oh? That one got you?”

His head tilted slightly, just enough for you to catch the way he frowned.

“Alright, you asked for it.”

Before you could process what he meant, he turned, grabbing your wrist.

And then he bit you.

It wasn’t harsh, just a firm press of his teeth against the side of your hand. His eyes locked onto yours as he did it, holding your gaze with an intensity that made your pulse stutter.

You yanked your hand back. “Hey!”

Logan chuckled—an actual chuckle, deep and low. He push your body down to the mattress and pressed a chaste kiss on your lips before you could react. “What? You can dish it out but can’t take it?”

Oh. It was on.

The War Begins

The next morning, you struck first—teeth brushing against his bicep just as he pulled on a fresh shirt. His only reaction was a slow glance at you through the mirror, eyes half-lidded, unimpressed.

During breakfast, Logan tried to dodge, but your teeth caught the edge of his bicep anyway, making him jolt slightly, knocking his knee against the table, again.

At training, he got you back. Right in the middle of a spar, when you were both locked in a grapple, he dipped his head and bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make your breath hitch.

The worst was on the seventh day, there was a mission.

You were crouched behind a wrecked car, the twisted metal still warm from an earlier explosion. Smoke curled in the air, stinging your lungs, while distant gunfire rattled through the streets. The ground beneath you was littered with broken glass and shell casings, the air thick with the scent of burning oil and scorched concrete.

Logan was behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, his breathing steady despite the chaos. His sharp eyes scanned the battlefield, waiting for the signal.

“Stay still.” His voice was low, rough—barely above a whisper.

Before you could question it, Logan leaned in. And then his teeth sank lightly into the shell of your ear.

You flinched, body jerking involuntarily, and your hand tightened around your firearm. Your finger, resting just a little too close to the trigger, twitched—

The sharp crack of gunfire split the air.

A blur of silver shot past in an instant. Peter. The bullet zipped right through where he had been standing half a second ago, harmlessly pinging off the side of a rusted dumpster.

Peter reappeared a few feet away, eyes wide as he patted himself down. “Whoa—whoa, okay! Who’s out here trying to make me a ghost?” He looked around, blinking, before his gaze landed on you.

Then he saw who was next to you.

“Ohhh,” Peter said slowly, lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Oh, this has Logan written all over it.”

You barely had time to open your mouth before a sharp, furious voice cut through the air.

“Are you kidding me?!”

Scott.

You winced.

“Did I just witness an accidental discharge because of—” He paused, like he couldn’t even stomach the words. “Because of whatever the hell you two were doing behind cover?”

You had never seen someone look simultaneously appalled and exhausted before, but Scott had somehow mastered it.

“It wasn’t—” you started, but Scott was already mid-rant.

“This is a mission! You know, where people are shooting at us?! Where we’re supposed to have discipline?! Not—” He gestured wildly at you. “Whatever this is!”

Peter, meanwhile, had his hands on his knees, absolutely cackling. “Oh, man. You almost shot me because Logan was getting handsy?”

“I wasn’t—” You turned to Logan, half hoping he’d step in, but of course, he just looked smug.

“You’re fine, aren’t ya?” Logan said to Peter, like that was supposed to be the end of it.

“That is not the point!” Scott practically exploded. “You two are insufferable!” He took a sharp breath. “I swear to God, if one more bullet fires because of your bullshit, I will personally—”

“You’ll what?” Logan cut in, amused.

Scott’s jaw clenched so tight you thought he might break a tooth. He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I hate you both.”

Peter gave a two-fingered salute. “Hey, love you too, buddy.”

Scott groaned like he wanted to walk into oncoming fire.

You, meanwhile, refused to look at Logan.

Refused.

By the time the mission ended, you’d bitten him twice more—one out of spite, the other just because you could.

The X-Men, however, were done with it.

At the debriefing, Professor Xavier sat at the head of the conference table, hands folded. You and Logan sat beside each other, your usual spots. The room was silent, the weight of an impending scolding heavy in the air.

Scott, seated across from you. Pietro, beside him immediately started coughing when he noticed Logan shift slightly toward you.

Ororo sighed, rubbing her temples.

Then, finally, Xavier spoke.

"Enough."

Both of you straightened.

“This has been going on for a while,” he said, his tone calm yet firm. “And now, it has become an unnecessary distraction during missions.”

You bit your lip. Logan exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms.

“My office. Both of you.”

You turned to Logan, expression blank, but your fingers itched with the urge to pinch his arm—or bite it.

“This is your fault.”

His response? A smirk—then a sharp press of his teeth against your forearm right in front of Xavier.

Scott audibly groaned.

You were so screwed.

The next ten minutes were a lecture about professionalism, teamwork, and not treating each other like chew toys while on duty. Logan took it with his usual blank expression, while you bit back the urge to argue that it wasn’t that big of a deal.

When you finally left, Logan stretched, rolling his shoulders like he had just woken up from a nap. “Well, that went about as expected.”

You shot him a look. “We’re officially on thin ice.”

His lips twitched, amused. Then, after a moment, he held out his hand. “Truce?”

You eyed his palm, then him. “You’re just gonna bite me the second I shake your hand.”

He raised an eyebrow, like he was offended by the mere suggestion. “Would I do that?”

You scoffed. “Yes.”

A beat of silence. Logan’s smirk softened just a little. “Alright. No more biting. On missions, at least.”

You huffed, but after a moment, you placed your hand in his, shaking once.

Then—sharp teeth grazed your knuckles. A quick bite, barely enough pressure to sting.

Your jaw dropped. “Logan!”

He was already walking away, chuckling to himself. “I said on missions.”

You stared after him, equal parts exasperated and… something else.

Truce, your ass.

[marifilue]

Waves and Whiskey

Wordcount: 1.5k

Pairing: 70s Logan Howlett x F!Reader (no use of y/n)

Oneshot: Spending your afternoon with Logan in a beach

Tags: Fluffs, swearing, teasing, established relationship, suggestive content (MDNI)

There's nothing better than waking up to the warm sun peeking through the sheer curtains, casting that amber glow you’ve been yearning for after the long, depressing cold season.

You’ll probably hate the sun in a week, but for now, this is the first morning in months where you wake up to sunlight. You blink a few times, shaking off the sleepiness. The best part? It’s Sunday.

Exhaling, you stay on your stomach, hands clutching the soft fabric of your pillow. The thought of a warm morning already excites you—until you hear that familiar noise. You shift your head to the other side of the bed.

Logan, lying on his back, his pillow too high causing him to snore like a bear.

A sheepish smile tugs at your lips as your second wonder of the morning hits and you couldn’t be more grateful. You always take your time staring at his rugged features, those ridiculous mutton chops, his eyelashes, his nose. The way his muscles relax, his chest rising and falling, bare under the soft morning light.

You shift closer, rolling onto his side, bringing a finger up to trace the thick veins along his bicep. The snoring that would’ve pissed you off in the middle of the night somehow feels more tolerable in a morning like this.

You know exactly how to wake him up, starting with a kiss on his bare shoulder. Your lips trail up to the crook of his neck, sucking at his sensitive skin—not that it ever leaves a mark, no matter how hard you try.

Within minutes, you earn a low grumble from him, but he still refuses to open his eyes.

“Five more minutes,” his hoarse voice greets you as he shifts onto his side, facing you. Undeterred, you continue your kisses, now trailing along his bicep.

“Lo…” you murmur, sucking at his skin. He grumbles a lazy huh.

“Guess what…” You rest your arm on his waist, waiting for his half-hearted response.

He groans in acknowledgment.

“It’s sunny outside,” you whisper in his ear, your breath sending a shiver down his spine. Finally, his eyes crack open, finding your face just inches from his.

He glances at the window, then back at you.

“Fuck the sun,” he mutters, voice deep and laced with sarcasm, his palm sliding to the back of your head, fingers massaging your scalp.

“Ah-ah,” you tease, stroking his beard. “You promised.”

“No…” He shakes his head muttering your name hoarsely, realizing exactly where this is going.

“Yes, you did.” You grin triumphantly. Logan had technically agreed to go to the beach if the weather ever turned nice—not that he had much choice in the matter. A promise is a promise.

“Fuck me…” He groans, shutting his eyes before rolling onto his back, pulling you with him to settle on top of him.

You chuckle, pressing a few more kisses to his chest as an idea forms in your mind.

“I’ll fuck you up this morning,” you whisper playfully, eyes gleaming with mischief, “but then we’re going to the beach.”

Your words caught him by surprise but then he smirks, already knowing where this is going as your kisses trail lower. You can feel the bulge on his boxer starting to grow.

“I guess we have a deal,” he rumbles, keeping steady eye contact as his fingers gather your hair into a makeshift ponytail.

And the morning keeps getting better as your third wonder of the morning came naturally.

The waves crash against the shore beneath your feet, the breeze making your hair whip uncontrollably to the side, while your sundress flutters with every gust, driving Logan crazy as he chases after you.

With each step, your feet sink into the soft, warm sand, leaving a deep trail momentarily before the sea cleans them spotless. The beach isn’t crowded—just a few distant figures scattered along the shoreline, couples walking hand in hand, some kids chasing seagulls, and an older man sitting on a foldable chair, watching the ocean with a book in his lap.

The scent of saltwater and sun-warmed sand fills the air, mixing with the distant sound of laughter and crashing waves.

You're running fast, arms pumping, laughter bubbling up and stealing the air from your lungs, making it harder to breathe.

Logan is only a few steps behind you. Oh, you’re in trouble.

Just minutes ago, he had been enjoying his walk, a full bottle of whiskey opened in hand, sunglasses perched on his face—a clear sign of how much he despised the sun.

The sun was already dipping low, painting the sky in warm hues of orange and pink, so you couldn’t understand why he was still wearing them.

When you asked, he simply muttered, "Sunset looks better with these on," tapping the brown-tinted aviators—the same ones he always wore.

And you? You had been walking behind his broad shoulders when a mischievous idea formed in your mind. You crept closer, barely an inch away, and then, without thinking of the consequences, you tapped your knee against the back of his.

If only you had known how dangerous that was.

Logan stumbled almost comically, his balance sucking and betraying him. Worst of all—his whiskey tumbled to the sand, spilling more than half of it.

Your laughter burst out uncontrollably as he muttered a string of curses. You moved in front of him, trying to get a good look at his face, but then… he did the thing.

He took off his sunglasses and tossed them to the ground.

That was your cue.

You bolted.

But you didn’t even last two minutes. Logan was fast. Before you knew it, his hands were around your waist, lifting you off your feet as you kicked and squirmed in the air, gasping between soundless laughter.

"Where d’ya think you're goin’, huh?" he growled playfully in your ear.

"It was an accident! I swear—I didn’t mean it!" you giggled, breathless, as his arms slid under your thighs, hoisting you into a bridal carry.

"You’re lucky you’re wearin’ this sundress," he muttered, scanning you from head to toe, voice thick with something unreadable. "So fuckin’ distracting."

You looped your arms around his neck, momentarily fooled by how effortlessly he carried you, how light and gentle his touch felt. If only you knew what wicked plans were running through his mind.

He kept his eyes locked on you, pulling you into that hypnotic stare of his—those perfectly shaped hazel eyes holding you captive. You were so caught up in it, too busy teasing him about how much you knew he liked this sundress, that you didn’t even notice where he was headed.

By the time realization hit, it was too late.

The second the cold water hits your skin, you let out a loud gasp, flailing in Logan’s arms.

"You bastard!" You shove at his chest, but he’s too busy laughing, the deep rumble of it making your frustration even worse.

"You had it comin’, sweetheart," he drawls, holding you tight so you can’t escape.

Your sundress clings to you, dripping wet, and the waves keep knocking you both around. Logan, of course, stands like a damn rock, completely unfazed while you’re barely keeping your balance.

"You think this is funny?" you huff, shoving wet hair out of your face.

He tilts his head, pretending to think. "Yeah, kinda."

You narrow your eyes. "Okay." And before he can react, you cup a handful of seawater and splash it right into his face.

Logan exhales sharply, shaking the water off with an annoyed grunt. "Oh, you’re askin’ for it now."

You don’t even get a chance to run before he grabs you again, pulling you flush against him. His grip is strong, firm, and stupidly warm despite being soaked.

"You good?" he mutters, a little softer this time.

"Yeah," you grumble.

"Good."

Then he leans in and kisses you—quick at first, like he’s making sure you won’t slap him for it. But you kiss him back, gripping his shoulder to steady yourself. The ocean sways around you, but it’s nothing compared to the way your head spins when he deepens the kiss.

The taste of whiskey lingers on his lips, mixing with saltwater and something distinctly Logan. His hand slides up to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your wet hair, and for a moment, you almost forget the whole revenge plan—Until a wave slams into you both, knocking you off balance.

Logan grunts, catching you before you can go under, but the damage is done—he's coughing up seawater between your startled laughs.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Logan grumbles, wiping his face.

You’re dying of laughter, clutching his arm for support. "That’s what you get, dumbass!"

He side-eyes you. "Oh, you think you’re funny."

"I am funny."

He huffs, but there’s amusement in his eyes. "C'mere."

And just like that, he pulls you in again, kissing you hard, like he’s making sure you don’t get any more bright ideas.

You do, of course. But for now, you’ll let him win this round.

[marifilue]

I love when someone express their love for my writing omg it made my day a hundred times BETTER, thank you for reading ❤️

Gravity

Wordcount: 651

Tags: Fluffs, established relationship

Pairing: Logan Howlett x GF!Reader (no use of y/n)

Oneshot: Logan being touch starved but never admit it

Logan is touch-starved—always has been, always will be. He’d never say it out loud, wouldn’t even entertain the thought, but you can always catch it in the smallest gestures.

He’d never ask you to lay on top of him, curled up in his arms. Never said those words in that order before. But once you’re there, he won’t let you go. His arm stays locked around your back, firm, unmoving. Try to shift, and he grumbles low—“Where you goin’?” or “Nah, not done yet.” Like it’s nothing. Like he doesn’t need this.

Sometimes, he won’t let you up for reasons that only make sense to him—like if someone’s knocking on the door. But if you need water or a bathroom break? That, he allows.

You’d been watching some show for hours when Logan finally came home. He didn’t say anything, just sank onto the couch beside you, wearing nothing but his white tank top and jeans. The scent of cigar smoke and leather clung to him, familiar and grounding. His thigh pressed against yours as he settled in.

He glanced at you briefly, then back at the screen, fingers twitching against his knee.

"You alright?" you asked, biting back a knowing smile.

"Yeah," he hummed, flicking his gaze to you again before shifting slightly. Slowly, his left arm lifted to rest along the back of the couch—an invitation. A silent request.

Normally, you’d give in without hesitation, but tonight, you felt like making him work for it.

"How was the meeting?" you asked, feigning obliviousness as you kept your attention on the screen.

"Long. Exhaustin’." His voice was rough, but you caught the flicker of impatience in his tone.

"Aww I'm sorry to hear that." You said in faux empathy.

His fingers found the hem of your T-shirt, idly toying with the fabric, tugging just enough to be noticeable.

"You like my shirt?" you teased.

Logan huffed, his fingers tightening ever so slightly. "Stop messin’ with me."

Oh, the look on his face—priceless. You burst into laughter, and his frown deepened.

"What’s so funny?"

"I just think it’s cute that you want to cuddle. Just ask, Logan." You nudged him playfully.

His smirk was slow, deliberate. "Dunno what you’re talkin’ about. I don’t cuddle."

"Oh, really?" You turned to face him, eyes glinting with mischief. "So if I just do this…"

With a playful push, you sent him backward until his head hit the armrest. Before he could protest, you climbed on top of him, pressing your ear against his chest, where his heartbeat thudded steady and strong.

"You wouldn’t mind, right? Since you don’t cuddle," you teased, grinning.

Logan exhaled deeply, his hand slipping beneath your shirt, cool palm pressing flat against your back, fingers splayed as if grounding himself. His breath ruffled your hair, and when he spoke, his voice was a low rumble against your cheek.

"Guess I can tolerate it."

You tried to focus on the TV, but the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you made it impossible. His arm tightened, just enough to keep you there—his personal human blanket, small against him, yet somehow the only thing holding him together.

Minutes passed, the room sinking into an easy, quiet warmth. Logan's breathing slowed, the tension in his body melting bit by bit as he relaxed beneath you. His other hand found your side, fingers tracing absent patterns against your ribs, lazy and unhurried.

"You’re warm," he muttered, half into your hair, voice thick with exhaustion.

"You’re comfy," you murmured back, smiling as you closed your eyes.

His chest vibrated with something close to a chuckle, but he said nothing. Just held you, hands never still, always lingering—at your back, your side, your hip, like he needed constant proof you were there.

And, well… you weren’t about to go anywhere. Not when he clung to you like a lifeline, like you were the only force keeping him steady in this world.

His gravity.

[marifilue]

Attempted

Wordcount: 1.5k

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader (No use of y/n)

Oneshot: Takes place at Daredevil Season 3, where Matt faked his death. You find him in his lowest point.

Tags/Warnings: Mention of su!cide attempt, angst with comfort, blood, violence, established relationship.

You knew Matt was alive. At least, two weeks after you believed he was dead when a twenty-story building collapsed on top of him.

That was the longest two weeks of your life. Two weeks of waking up to the same nightmare, two weeks of staring at the empty side of your bed, two weeks of waiting for a ghost.

Denial clung to your bones like a second skin—no body was ever found, no trace of him beyond fragments of his suit, scattered among the rubble. No DNA. No sign of life.

It was as if Matt Murdock had never existed.

Then, one random Tuesday morning, Father Langton approached you. He didn’t have much to offer—just a few quiet words, hesitant but weighted with meaning.

Matthew was alive. Matthew was hiding beneath Clinton Church.

Your world cracked wide open.

You could have dropped to your knees, could have broken down right then and there. Gratitude flooded your veins, burned behind your ribs. And yet, before you could run to him, before you could beg for proof, Father Langton shook his head.

Let it be.

He said Matt needed time. That it would be easier for everyone. That if you truly loved him, you’d wait.

Three months passed.

Three months, and Matt never reached out—not to you, not to Foggy, not to Karen.

You've saw him around. Like a ghost, drifting through Manhattan, blending into the crowd. Jacket pulled tight, cap drawn low, always listening, always observing. Planning his next move.

Tonight, after your night shift, you walked home, the cold New York night never kind as the clock neared ten. Spotting Matt was the last thing on your mind. But then you heard voices—men, tense and aggressive. And there he was, caught in a fight in a narrow alley.

Your breath hitched as you instinctively stepped back, pressing yourself against the wall, hidden in the shadows.

He wasn’t exactly hard to find. Not in that all-black outfit, not in that mask.

You weren’t sure if he had sensed you yet. He used to be able to pick you out of a crowd with just the rhythm of your heartbeat, the faint scent of your perfume. But tonight, his head was bowed, his posture eerily still.

Two men. A fight. But Matt wasn’t fighting back.

He fell on his knees purposely, arms spread, unmoving.

A metal rod glinted under the glow of a streetlamp, raised high, aimed for his skull.

Your world stopped for a second.

Then you ran.

You didn’t think—you just moved. You yelled, the sound slicing through the night, drawing their attention. The one with the rod barely had time to turn before you tackled him, knocking him to the ground.

Matt startled at the sound of your voice. His head snapped up. And then, as if something inside him snapped back into place, he swung, his fist cracking against the second man’s jaw.

The one beneath you growled, tried to strike—you caught his wrist and snapped it. He screamed.

Before you could react, he flipped, hands closing around your throat. Your vision blurred, air cut off. Then—

A sickening crunch.

Matt’s boot slammed into the man’s already-broken arm. Another scream. His grip loosened, and you stumbled back, gasping.

But Matt didn’t stop.

He grabbed the man by his collar and hit him. Again. And again. And again.

The rage in his fists, the sharp sound of bones cracking. Three minutes ago, he had been ready to die. Now, he was desperate to live.

He was painting, his knuckles red. The body beneath him went limp. Matt stilled. Tilted his head slightly. Sensed you.

He muttered your name.

And all the grief, all the anger, all the love you had swallowed for the past three months tore out of you in one sharp, broken breath.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” you yelled, frustrated at him.

Sirens.

Matt’s head snapped up. “We gotta hide. Run. Now.” He said before spitting his own blood.

You get on your feet immediately and didn’t hesitate, he run followed you closely behind.

Six blocks. A sharp turn. Another alley. Neither of you spoke. The sirens faded, but the weight in your chest didn’t. You turned to leave.

His voice caught you, calling your name. “Where are you going?”

You kept walking. “This was a mistake.”

He reached for you, grabbed your arm, calling your name once again. “Stop it. You can’t just walk away.”

You flinched. Yanked yourself free. “Why not? Isn’t this what you wanted, Matthew? For everyone to be out of your life? For me to be out of your life?”

His breath hitched. He pulled off his mask, let it fall to the ground. “H-how long have you known?”

Your throat tightened. “As if you care.”

“Tell me—how did you find out?” he said voice laces with despair.

You turned, took a step back, shaking your head. “What the hell were you thinking, Matthew?” The bite in your words betrayed you, your heart clenched immediately at the sight of him. Exhausted, blood smeared across his mouth. His eyes screamed, help me.

He let out a bitter chuckle. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Exactly. You weren’t.” Your voice cracked. “Two weeks, Matt. That’s how long I thought you were dead. That’s how long I woke up every morning thinking I had lost you forever.”

Matt’s lips parted, but no words came.

“And then I found out you were alive. Still you never reached out. You just disappeared.”

His silence was deafening.

You laughed—sharp, humorless. “What did I do wrong? Why wasn’t I worth a single goddamn explanation?”

He exhaled, ran a hand over his face. “It wasn’t about—”

“Don’t,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare tell me it wasn’t about me.”

He reached for you again. You stepped back. He followed.

You turned. He caught your wrist.

His grip wasn’t forceful—just unwilling to let go.

“Let me go, Matt.”

“No.” His voice was quiet, steady. Unshakable. “Not this time.”

Your chest caved. A war raged inside you—anger and grief and longing, colliding like waves against jagged rock, tearing through the fragile walls you had spent three months building.

“Matt—”

“Just listen to me.” His voice was raw, pleading. “Please.”

You swallowed against the burn in your throat, blinking hard.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, like he wanted to punch something—maybe himself.

“I know I’d be condemned if I tried to take my own life,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

His next words were quieter. Broken.

“But I could let someone else do it.”

Your stomach dropped.

His grip on you tightened slightly, as if saying it out loud made him realize how fragile he still was. “I was done.” He said your name like it hurt. “But then you found me.”

Something inside you shattered.

Your vision blurred. “You can’t just survive death and take that for granted, Matt.” Your voice cracked, barely able to hold itself together.

His hands found your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped free.

“I know,” he murmured, breath warm and unsteady.

You clenched your jaw, shaking your head. “Screw you, Matt.”

A faint, broken smile flickered across his face—gone before it could settle. And then, finally, he pulled you into his arms.

The second he held you, something inside you collapsed. His warmth wrapped around you, his heartbeat thrumming against yours—a rhythm you had feared you would never hear again. You buried your face against his shoulder, and your fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt like you were afraid he’d slip through your grasp.

Your sobs shook against his chest. “You’re such an asshole.”

His chin rested atop your head, his arms locked around you. “I know,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. I should’ve come back to you sooner.”

You pulled back, meeting his gaze—hazel eyes, exhausted and searching. A bruise darkened his cheekbone. Slowly, you brought your palm to his mouth, wiping the blood away with your sleeve. He shuddered at your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment.

You didn’t care that his blood now stained your sleeve. All that mattered was him. Just because he always took a punch like a champ didn’t mean he wasn’t breaking from inside.

His palm pressed over your heart, fingers splaying across your chest as if he needed to feel you—needed proof that you were real, here, alive.

“I missed you,” he whispered, the words raw and open. “The rhythm of your heartbeat—I haven’t felt it in so long.”

Your breath hitched. “What now?” Your voice was barely a breath. “We can’t just pick up where we left.”

Matt exhaled, and something in his gaze shifted—like steel reforging itself in fire.

“We can,” he murmured, conviction threading through his voice. “And we will.”

His hands framed your face again, his touch grounding you, tethering you to this moment.

“You’re here. I’m here.” His thumb traced your cheek, lingering like a silent promise. “That’s enough.”

Your throat tightened. Was it enough? You weren’t sure.

But as his fingers curled around yours, as his warmth seeped into your skin, as the exhaustion in his eyes softened into something steadier—something sure—you let yourself believe him.

For now, it was sure all you needed.

A/N: This was one of my oldest drafts. I first wrote it two years ago, and after proofreading it for a while, I finally decided to post it. I’m coming back to my roots with my Daredevil obsession, and I’m so excited that Born Again is releasing next month, just a few days before my birthday! Yippee!

[marifilue]

M A S T E R L I S T

Logan Howlett

Series:

What Makes Us Human

One shot:

Affectionate

Jeopardize

Gravity

Unraveled

Waves and Whiskey

Bite Me, I Dare You

I Gotcha Darlin'

Fractured

Matt Murdock

One shot:

Attempted

Aftermath

Welcome to my secret lair of words and hyperfixation!

I’m Zoe, a 21-year-old medical student from third world country trying to survive exams while secretly living a double life as a fanfiction writer. My friends have no idea, so let’s keep this between us, yeah?

I write to cope, and much of my writing reflects my own life and the people I occasionally associate with. Currently lost in the Marvel universe, and I’m taking you with me.

[marifilue]

Unraveled

Wordcount: 3.2K

Pairing: Logan Howlett x GF!Mutant!Reader (no use of y/n)

Tags: Violence, blood, established relationship, fluff, language, mature content.

Oneshot: You find Logan’s overprotective side endearing most of the time, but it can also be downright infuriating too. If only you knew how much he cares.

Being indestructible was a privilege Logan had, but it didn't mean he was invulnerable. And when it came to him, no enemy ever hit harder than his own damn temper.

People on the X-mansion have always had something to say about it before you got together with him.

"You know what you’re getting into, right?”

“Logan’s got a temper. That man’s a ticking bomb.”

His anger simmers beneath the surface like a ticking bomb, just waiting for the right trigger. And honestly? You get it. If you’d lived as long as he has—seen what he’s seen, lost what he’s lost—you’d be just as grumpy and short-tempered too. What you can’t wrap your head around is how, after all these years, he still manages to be a good man, the good man.

For someone labeled as hotheaded, Logan has a level of self-control that never fails to leave you in awe. He never lets his emotions get the best of him—not when it comes to you.

He’s never snapped, never lost himself in front of you. He’s just Logan. Rough around the edges, a little too protective at times, but always sweet, always caring. You wouldn't even change a thing about him, you love every part of the package.

He's your man, your Logan.

You’ve fought alongside Logan on plenty of missions. With your ability to absorb kinetic energy and immaculate combat skills, Professor send you in the field often.

Logan, on the other hand, isn’t always thrilled about it. His overprotectiveness grates on your nerves—he acts like it’s his job to keep you safe, even though you’ve proven yourself more times than you can count. A few scratches are nothing, but to Logan, even the smallest bruise is unacceptable.

Tonight’s mission is no different. The Professor is sending you and Logan to investigate an underground mutant fight ring—captured mutants, forced to battle for entertainment, all for the amusement of some sick humans.

Logan is not happy about it. Not just because of what’s happening inside that ring, but because Charles is only sending the two of you. His reasoning? You and Logan are the most skilled in hand-to-hand combat in which he's not wrong, and all you need to do is pose as a fighter. The rest of the team will be outside, monitoring the situation and ready to move if things go south.

Logan doesn’t trust it. And, knowing him, he sure as hell doesn’t like you walking into that kind of danger.

As the two of you walked toward the place, Logan brought a cigar to his lips, rolling it between his fingers before biting down and sparking his lighter. The brief flicker of flame illuminated his face as he took a slow drag, the ember glowing at the tip. He exhaled a cloud of smoke into the cold night air, his voice cutting through the haze, low and firm.

"Remember, get in line and—"

"Step back—bathroom emergency excuse. I will not stepped into the ring for any reason. Just navigate the waiting room, look for an escape route—I get it, Logan. You've been at this a dozen times."

You cut him off, irritation slipping into your voice before he can finish yet another rundown of the plan. What was supposed to be a simple fifteen-minute walk now feels insufferable with him constantly reminding you of your own damn mission.

Logan shot you a sideways glance, one brow raised as he held his cigar between his fingers. You didn’t even spare him a look, your steps heavier than necessary as you stomped ahead.

"I will—"

"You will look for that Jeffrey guy—aka the big boss. Try to make a reasonable deal; he’s usually hanging around the bar, enjoying the show. If it doesn’t work out, we step back and come up with another plan. No mess."

You cut him off again, finally glancing his way—just in time to catch that look on his face.

He shook his head, exhaling sharply before planting a hand on his hip in that all-too-familiar stance. He stopped in his tracks and called your name. Once. Then twice.

"What, Logan?" you sighed, though the edge in your voice wasn’t as sharp as you wanted it to be.

"Just watch your back, darlin’. That’s all I’m asking." With that, he stubbed out his cigar and flicked it away.

"I know. I can take care of myself," you muttered, turning on your heel and walking ahead.

Logan slipped his hands into his jacket pockets and followed, his heavy footsteps trailing close behind.

What did he say about not getting into the ring? Right. Don’t.

And yet, here you were.

In front of you stood a terrified little boy, no older than ten. His skin had a reptilian sheen, scales catching the light, his wide eyes darting around in panic. He was next up in the ring. His opponent? A grown mutant with his skin made of a rock—bigger, stronger, and with a look that said he wouldn’t hesitate to rip a kid apart.

How the fuck were you supposed to let that slide?

Your mind raced. There was no time to argue, no time to negotiate. You pushed the boy back, stepped onto his foot as a silent stay put, and took his place. You wouldn’t kill the guy—just cause a scene, throw everything into chaos, and run. That way, the kid lived, and hopefully, nobody got hurt.

Meanwhile, across the room, Logan leaned back in his seat, cigar resting between his fingers, his free hand drumming against the bar.

“So whaddya say, buddy? My boss is willing to offer up to three hundred grand. Tempting, ain’t it?” His voice was smooth, calculated—playing the part just enough to keep Jeffrey’s attention.

The obese middle-aged man took a slow sip of his drink, a smug grin stretching across his face. “Three hundred grand? I almost made that last year.” He chuckled.

“Almost, right?” Logan pressed. “I could push it to five hundred. That is, unless you’d rather—”

Something shifted in the air. The crowd roared, a deafening wave of cheers shaking the room. Logan barely processed it—until he caught a glimpse of the ring.

And you.

His words died in his throat. The second he saw you standing behind that cage, facing off against a man twice your size, his entire body went rigid.

“What?” Jeffrey prompted, waiting for Logan to finish.

But Logan was already out of his chair.

He stormed toward the ring, moving faster than anyone could stop him. The metal chain-link fence buzzed with electricity, flashing every time someone made contact with it.

“HEY! STOP THIS! THIS IS A MISTAKE!” His voice cut through the noise, rough and furious, his knuckles turned white.

Inside the ring, your ears rang from the cheers. Through the blinding lights, you barely made out Logan’s silhouette, one arm raised to shield your eyes.

Yup he's there, yelling and frustrated—oh, the look on his face.. He's pissed.

Sorry, babe.

Logan’s heart slammed against his ribs, his pulse roaring in his ears as he watched you square up against the rock-skinned mutant.

He didn’t give a damn about the deal anymore. Five hundred grand, a million—none of it mattered. Not when you were standing inside that ring. Not when you were about to get hit.

His hands clenched at his sides, jaw locking as Jeffrey chuckled beside him.

“Well, well,” Jeffrey mused, swirling his drink. “Isn't she a sight for sore eyes”

Logan didn’t answer, his eyes locked on you. Under different circumstances, he would’ve smirked, said hell yeah, you are a sight for sore eyes, and maybe even thrown in a proud that’s my girl. But right now? What the fuck are you doing?

Inside, you could practically feel the heat of his glare from across the room.

Your opponent shifted his weight, cracking his knuckles. “You sure about this, lady?” he asked, voice like grinding gravel. “I don’t hold back.”

You ignored him. Instead, you glanced at the crowd, the flashing lights, the electric fence humming behind you.

Then, you locked eyes with Logan.

He was furious.

Not just pissed—but furious.

The kind of anger that made his entire body tense, veins pulsing in his forearms, his stance screaming don’t test me.

Yeah, you were in trouble.

But right now, you had bigger things to worry about.

The bell rang.

The rock-skinned mutant lunged.

You dodged, barely missing a fist that would’ve knocked you flat. The crowd erupted in cheers, fists pounding against the metal barricades.

Logan’s claws twitched beneath his skin. His control teetered on a razor’s edge.

Jeffrey let out a slow whistle. “Gotta admit, she’s got guts. But guts won’t save her.”

That was it.

Logan moved.

Without a word, he reached back—grabbed Jeffrey by the collar—and slammed him face-first into the floor.

The crowd was too fixated on the fight to notice. But the bouncers? They noticed.

Logan barely spared them a glance. “Anyone touches me,” he growled, voice low and lethal, “they lose a hand.”

Nobody moved.

Good.

Because Logan had one thing on his mind—and that was getting you the hell out of that ring.

He turned back to the fight just in time to see your opponent land a hit.

Not a clean hit—you’d blocked most of it—but enough to send you skidding backward, your boots kicking up dust. A bruise was already forming around your left eye, a small cut near your eyebrow marking where his rock-hard fist had landed.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he muttered, hands tightening into fists. “End this fast.”

And you did.

You twisted on your heel, faking left before darting right. Your opponent fell for it, leaving his side wide open.

One hit.

That was all you needed.

You slammed your palm into his exposed ribs, absorbing the kinetic energy from his movements and sending it right back into him. The impact sent him flying, crashing against the cage with a crack. The electric fence buzzed—and he went limp.

The crowd lost their minds.

But Logan wasn’t cheering. He was already grabbing a steel chair.

With one brutal swing, he smashed it against the electric fence. Sparks flew, and the power box short-circuited, cutting the current.

Then, he climbed the cage.

People screamed. Guards scrambled. But before anyone could react, Logan had already dropped inside.

You barely had time to register what was happening before he was in front of you, his hands gripping your arms, his voice rough and low.

“Y'alright?”

You blinked. “Yeah—”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Good.”

Then, in one swift motion, he scooped you up—actually picked you up—and threw you over his shoulder.

“Logan!” you hissed, squirming. “Put me down—”

“Not a damn chance.”

His grip was firm, unyielding. He stepped over your fallen opponent and marched toward the broken part of the cage.

By now, the entire place was in chaos. People running, guards shouting. None of it mattered.

All that mattered was getting you out.

Scott, Jean, and Ororo arrived at the scene in no time, tending to what was left of the cage fighter mutants. Logan? He didn’t even look back, just left the cleanup to the rest of the team.

At some point before boarding the Blackbird, he finally set you down without a word. He took a seat, arms crossed, staring out the window as the rest of the team and the rescued mutants filed in. You sat across from him, watching as he deliberately avoided your gaze. But at one point, you caught him looking—just for a second—before he turned away just as quickly.

Once the mission was settled and the rescued mutants were given guidance, you found yourself talking with the Professor. That was when you saw Logan walk past the room, heading for the exit. He probably hadn’t realized you were there, deep in conversation, but the way his shoulders were set, the way he moved with purpose, told you everything.

You excused yourself and followed.

He walked fast, straight out the door and toward a cabin tucked away in the backyard of the X-Mansion. You picked up your pace, but you didn’t call out to him—tonight had him on edge, and you weren’t sure he’d want to talk. You’d barely spoken to each other since the mission ended.

Logan disappeared inside, shutting the door behind him. You hesitated just outside, only for a muffled groan to catch your attention. You took a step closer. Then—a loud crash.

The hell?

Your fingers brushed the handle just as another heavy thud echoed from inside. That was enough. You pushed the door open.

Logan stood with his back to you, fist slamming into the concrete wall. A fresh crack splintered across the surface, blood smeared where his knuckles had connected. But even as the wounds stitched themselves back together, he didn’t stop.

The door creaked, and he stilled. Then he turned—eyes widening when he saw you.

Shit. When did you get here? How long had you been standing there?

“Logan…” Your voice was quiet.

“I… What are you doing here?” He exhaled sharply, looking away. “I didn’t know you were there. I—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “You shouldn't be here—” He crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly looking exposed, like he’d been caught in something scandalous.

Your grip tightened on the doorknob. “Are you alright?” It was a stupid question—you already knew the answer. He was frustrated, needed an outlet. And he thought no one would see.

Especially not you.

Logan turned to leave the cabin, brushing past you with no force but you weren’t letting him walk away that easily.

“Logan, just listen to me will you?!” You called after him, your voice sharp with frustration.

He stopped in his tracks, shoulders tense. Taking that as your chance, you stepped closer "There was a boy, god he was so scared. He's supposed to fight that big guy, I can't let that slide Infront of me, Lo.." You stepped in front of him—giving him space, but making sure he had to see and hear you.

“Come on, that boy was walking straight toward his grave. I had the power to stop it, so I did.” Your fingers fidgeted, nerves creeping in despite your resolve.

Arms crossed, he kept his gaze ahead for a moment before finally looking down at you, eyes dark with something unreadable. You held his gaze, refusing to waver.

“You would’ve done the same if you were in my position,” you said, firm but pleading.

“Yeah,” he admitted, “but a scratch wouldn’t do a damn thing to me. You?” He trailed off. His jaw clenched. “Anything could’ve happened to you.” His voice was quieter now.

“But it didn’t. I’m alright, okay?. Even if it had, it’s not gonna be your fault. It isn't your job to protect everyone, Logan.”

The second the words left your mouth, you knew you’d messed up. His posture went rigid, his head tilting as if he couldn’t believe what you’d just said.

“But it is my job to protect you,” he shot back, voice rough, raw. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something happened to you—if I was right there and I let it happen. How the hell do you think I’d live with that?”

You exhaled, pressing your fingers to your temples. “Alright, let’s just calm down—”

“No.” He said your name, voice lower now, but no less intense. “It’s not fine. You always do this. Always act like some goddamn saint, and I hate it. Hate how you care so damn much about everyone else’s life but your own.” He unfolded his arms, hands flexing at his sides. “Your life it’s.... fragile, alright?”

He swallowed hard, exhaling sharply. “One day, you’re here. And the next… who fucking knows? That scares the shit outta me. Please, just—”

His voice wavered. He shook his head, frustrated at himself, at you, at everything.

“Just have a little survival instinct. For your own sake. For mine.”

Your breath hitched. You’d never seen this side of him before—not like this. Not so openly terrified.

Slowly, you reached for his arms, his hands still twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them. He was shaking. Gently, you guided one of his palms to your chest, right over your heartbeat.

“I’m still here, Logan,” you murmured. “Still beating.” You pressed his hand against your chest, letting him feel the steady rhythm beneath his palm.

His gaze flickered from your hand to your eyes. His thumb brushed absently over your skin, like he needed to remind himself you were here. That nothing bad happened.

His arm slid up as his gaze caught on the bruise near your left eye and the cut on your brow. He brushed away the blood with careful fingers.

“I don’t like that,” he muttered.

“I know.”

After a beat, he exhaled, finally breaking eye contact. “I’m sorry. I usually don’t get caught screwing shit. Nobody were supposed to see that.” His hand dropped back to his side, suddenly withdrawn, like he didn’t think he deserved to be standing this close to you.

You chuckled, shaking your head. You could see the way he was trying to distance himself again, convinced he wasn’t worthy of your love. But you weren’t about to let him pull away—not tonight. Not after everything.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” you teased, stepping forward and wrapping your arms around his neck, tiptoeing to reach him. “Didn’t see a thing.”

His body went stiff at first, like he wasn’t sure how to react, he felt like he didn't deserve your touch. But then, with a quiet exhale, he melted into you. His arms circled your waist, pulling you in.

“Careful what you’re gettin’ yourself into, darlin’,” he muttered against your neck, voice low, warning.

You grinned, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. You just stood there, close, the space between you nonexistent.

Then Logan did what he always did when words failed him.

He kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was slow, deliberate, filled with all the things he hadn’t been able to say. His lips pressed against yours with a firm but aching tenderness, like he was trying to apologize and promise you the world all at once.

You melted into him, your hands slipping up his chest, fingers curling into his jacket. His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you just a little closer.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“Next time,” he murmured, “we do it my way.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, brushing your nose against his. “No promises, sweetheart.”

He groaned, shaking his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You grinned. “Nah. You’re immortal, remember?”

Logan chuckled, low and rough. “Doesn’t mean I’m invincible.”

You smirked, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Good. I’d hate to think I don’t have an effect on you.”

Logan let out a soft growl, pulling you flush against him. “Oh, you’ve got an effect on me, alright.”

And just like that, the tension from the night melted away—not forgotten, but softened by the simple truth of what you were to each other.

A team. A pair. A damn disaster waiting to happen.

And neither of you would have it any other way.

[marifilue]

Gravity

Wordcount: 651

Tags: Fluffs, established relationship

Pairing: Logan Howlett x GF!Reader (no use of y/n)

Oneshot: Logan being touch starved but never admit it

Logan is touch-starved—always has been, always will be. He’d never say it out loud, wouldn’t even entertain the thought, but you can always catch it in the smallest gestures.

He’d never ask you to lay on top of him, curled up in his arms. Never said those words in that order before. But once you’re there, he won’t let you go. His arm stays locked around your back, firm, unmoving. Try to shift, and he grumbles low—“Where you goin’?” or “Nah, not done yet.” Like it’s nothing. Like he doesn’t need this.

Sometimes, he won’t let you up for reasons that only make sense to him—like if someone’s knocking on the door. But if you need water or a bathroom break? That, he allows.

You’d been watching some show for hours when Logan finally came home. He didn’t say anything, just sank onto the couch beside you, wearing nothing but his white tank top and jeans. The scent of cigar smoke and leather clung to him, familiar and grounding. His thigh pressed against yours as he settled in.

He glanced at you briefly, then back at the screen, fingers twitching against his knee.

"You alright?" you asked, biting back a knowing smile.

"Yeah," he hummed, flicking his gaze to you again before shifting slightly. Slowly, his left arm lifted to rest along the back of the couch—an invitation. A silent request.

Normally, you’d give in without hesitation, but tonight, you felt like making him work for it.

"How was the meeting?" you asked, feigning obliviousness as you kept your attention on the screen.

"Long. Exhaustin’." His voice was rough, but you caught the flicker of impatience in his tone.

"Aww I'm sorry to hear that." You said in faux empathy.

His fingers found the hem of your T-shirt, idly toying with the fabric, tugging just enough to be noticeable.

"You like my shirt?" you teased.

Logan huffed, his fingers tightening ever so slightly. "Stop messin’ with me."

Oh, the look on his face—priceless. You burst into laughter, and his frown deepened.

"What’s so funny?"

"I just think it’s cute that you want to cuddle. Just ask, Logan." You nudged him playfully.

His smirk was slow, deliberate. "Dunno what you’re talkin’ about. I don’t cuddle."

"Oh, really?" You turned to face him, eyes glinting with mischief. "So if I just do this…"

With a playful push, you sent him backward until his head hit the armrest. Before he could protest, you climbed on top of him, pressing your ear against his chest, where his heartbeat thudded steady and strong.

"You wouldn’t mind, right? Since you don’t cuddle," you teased, grinning.

Logan exhaled deeply, his hand slipping beneath your shirt, cool palm pressing flat against your back, fingers splayed as if grounding himself. His breath ruffled your hair, and when he spoke, his voice was a low rumble against your cheek.

"Guess I can tolerate it."

You tried to focus on the TV, but the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you made it impossible. His arm tightened, just enough to keep you there—his personal human blanket, small against him, yet somehow the only thing holding him together.

Minutes passed, the room sinking into an easy, quiet warmth. Logan's breathing slowed, the tension in his body melting bit by bit as he relaxed beneath you. His other hand found your side, fingers tracing absent patterns against your ribs, lazy and unhurried.

"You’re warm," he muttered, half into your hair, voice thick with exhaustion.

"You’re comfy," you murmured back, smiling as you closed your eyes.

His chest vibrated with something close to a chuckle, but he said nothing. Just held you, hands never still, always lingering—at your back, your side, your hip, like he needed constant proof you were there.

And, well… you weren’t about to go anywhere. Not when he clung to you like a lifeline, like you were the only force keeping him steady in this world.

His gravity.

[marifilue]

Jeopardize

Pairing: Logan Howlett x GF!Mutant!Reader (no use of y/n)

One shot: Following Logan on his mission gone wrong. He scolds you, but the tension turns into playful intimacy as he takes care of your wound.

Warnings: Fluffs, violence, blood, wound stitches, suggestive content (MDNI), romantic tension, established relationship, language.

Word Count: 3.4k

Quiet! Please be quiet! You had been screaming it mentally for the past few minutes, though you weren’t sure how long. A fabric was tied over your eyes, your mouth plastered shut, your entire body slumped weakly against a chair. Your hands were secured behind the backrest, bound tightly with a series of dead knots. You should've realized this was a bad idea.

Having telepathic abilities isn’t always fun. Accidentally poking into people's heads and stealing their jokes? Fun. Accidentally stumbling into your dear boyfriend’s thoughts about his upcoming mission? Not fun.

What was a girl supposed to do? Professor Xavier always sent Logan off to the middle of nowhere, alone, for days. And you? You’d count every second until he came back, just to have him in your arms again—to feel his breath against your skin.

Every time you woke up in the middle of the night, even for just a moment, you'd take the chance to look at him. Just seeing him relaxed, no cigar in his mouth, no furrowed brows. Just Logan. Your Logan.

A small, sleepy smile would always find its way onto your lips. If you were more awake, you might have even kicked your feet in excitement. But the steady rhythm of his breathing was always enough to lull you back to sleep.

Last night, while he rested his head on your lap, you ran your fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. He had been grumbling about Bobby being a bad influence on Marie.

With his head down, you accidentally caught a glimpse of his recent conversation with the Professor. Logan will be leaving for a mission tomorrow night, just for the night.

Saturday night. Your Saturday night. The one you had already planned—a movie night, takeout, just the two of you. And now? Gone. And he still hadn’t found the heart to tell you.

You realized you had crossed a boundary, one you promised never to overstep without permission. So, to cover up your slip, you scoffed and teased him about acting like Marie’s overprotective dad. You found it cute, he was being a little too much, but they were just teenagers.

Logan didn’t respond much. Instead, he just pulled you close and spooned you for the rest of the night, his thoughts wide open but his words unspoken.

He finally told you the next afternoon, and like always, you had to act surprised—act disappointed, tell him you hated the Professor. He had just laughed, kissed you, and promised to make it up to you later.

And then, at exactly seven that evening, he left.

Thirty minutes later, fully aware of what you were doing, you followed.

You had managed to sneak out in casual clothes, just a sweater and baggy pants but underneath, you wore the black leather of the X-Men suit.

Taking your motorcycle, you followed the information you had gathered from Logan’s head, hoping you were hanging by a thin enough thread that the Professor wouldn’t find out. Besides, it was a harmless mission.

A simple task. Some facility had been developing a mutation-suppressing cure, designed to be weaponized. All Logan had to do was destroy their stock. Maybe burn the place down. Nothing too complicated. Just a fun Saturday night out with Logan—except he didn’t know it yet.

The ride took about an hour, leading you to an off-grid facility. You parked your bike about a hundred yards away, shedding your outer layers and leaving them by the bike. Your boots crunched against the dirt as you scanned your surroundings for any sign of Logan.

Nothing.

You crouched under a tree, watching and waiting. The plan was simple—every night at 10 p.m., a package was delivered to the facility. Logan was supposed to sneak into one of the trucks.

And so, you waited.

He had to be out there somewhere, probably hiding too.

Finally, the truck arrived on schedule, just as the Professor had said. As it rolled past, you broke into a sprint, catching up just in time to grab onto the back and haul yourself into the trunk where various pieces of equipment were stored.

The space was dark and cramped.

“Logan?” you whispered, not too loudly.

Silence.

Frowning, you called out again, slightly louder. Still no response.

Without hesitation, you ducked behind a stack of supplies and waited.

Well, you’ve always sucked at hiding, haven’t you?

Within minutes, everything had escalated out of control. Logan never got into the truck. You got caught instead.

Your combat skills were no match against a dozen armed men. You had managed to stab one of them in the chest with your pocket knife—only for him to return the favor, driving your own blade into your bicep and pull it out immediately, leaving the blade scattered on the floor and your arm became a quick blood flow.

You took down a few of them, forcing them into unconsciousness by invading their minds. But it didn’t last long. One of them managed to catch you off guard, yanking a rough fabric over your head. It scraped against your skin, burning like sandpaper.

The worst part? Your powers were useless now. You needed to see someone to manipulate their mind, and with your head covered, you were blind.

A heavy voice barked at you, demanding, “Who are you? Who sent you?!”

You didn’t answer.

So, they silenced you—plastering something over your mouth when they realized their questions were pointless.

And now, here you were.

Eyes covered. Mouth sealed. Hands and legs bound tight. An open deep wound in your left bicep.

Your mutation was screaming, bombarded by voices with no faces, no images to ground them. Every thought that forced its way into your head blurred together into an overwhelming storm of noise.

You were drowning in it.

And it was driving you insane.

A sharp noise cut through the haze in your mind. You couldn’t make it out completely, but it was there, chaotic shouts, gunfire, men barking orders into their comms. Then came a metallic clink—a sound you knew all too well.

And then, one by one, the bodies hit the floor with heavy thuds.

A rough hand tugged at the fabric covering your eyes, and suddenly, you were staring into familiar hazel eyes filled with panic.

"You're okay?" Logan muttered, voice tight as he ripped the sticky plaster from your mouth in one swift motion. He stepped behind the chair—then cursed. "Fuck me."

His claws made quick work of the knots binding you, but his eyes were locked on the wound in your bicep.

Your body trembled, adrenaline crashing into anxiety all at once. "Lo, I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

"Save it." His tone left no room for argument. "We’ll talk later. Can you run?"

You nodded. "Yes."

"Good. Let's go."

With thick crimson flow in your arm, you pushed yourself to your feet and ran. Logan, who could’ve easily outpaced you, kept his position behind you, his protective sense evoke.

Your heart pounded violently, your breath ragged. Shit—when was the last time you ran this fast? It felt like your chest was going to explode.

Then, you spotted it. "That's my bike!" you gasped.

"Hand me the keys," Logan ordered, voice firm. No arguing.

You fumbled into your pocket and slapped the key into his palm before climbing onto the passenger seat.

Before mounting the bike himself, Logan grabbed the sweater you had left behind and tied it around your shoulders. Then, he tore the fabric of your pants and wrapped it around your wounded bicep to staunch the bleeding. You grunted in pain as he pulled the fabric tight.

For a second, he just looked at you—your blood is all over the place, your face flushed from the sprint, your breaths uneven.

His heart clenched.

"How’re you holdin' up?" he asked, brushing sweat from your forehead with his rough palm.

You inhaled deeply, then exhaled, forcing yourself to nod. He was going to be furious later when he figured out why you were really here. Hell, he was probably confused as fuck right now. But for now, his focus was clear—get you out of here.

"I'm fine," you reassured him. "Let's go."

He cage your jaw with his palm and pressed a brief, firm kiss to your temple before climbing onto the bike. The gesture was simple yet you can always felt your inside melt everytime he does that.

The engine roared to life, and in a heartbeat, you were flying down the dirt road. You clung to Logan’s waist as the cold night air cut through you, the wind whipping your hair and sweater wildly behind you.

It must’ve been around midnight when the two of you finally arrived at the mansion. Logan parked the bike by the front gate, avoiding the garage in the hopes of not waking anyone. The two of you walked in dead silence, Logan hyper-aware of his surroundings, making sure no one had followed you.

The mansion halls were quiet, almost eerily so, making it feel like you and Logan were the only ones there. He kept glancing your way every few seconds, his expression unreadable. He didn’t know what to say—hell, he wasn’t even sure if he should say anything yet. His anger was simmering beneath the surface, and the last thing he wanted was to take it out on you while you were already hurt.

As you made your way toward your shared bedroom, his thoughts raced. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this. How the hell did you end up on a mission meant only for him? Did Chuck have something to do with this? Oh, he’s gonna have a word with the bald bastard.

When you reached your room, Logan pushed the door open, and you immediately crashed onto the sofa. He shut the door behind him, resting his back against it.

"What happened?" His voice was calmer than expected, careful.

You sighed. Lying wasn’t your strong suit, especially not to him.

"I accidentally looked inside your head," you admitted quietly, fidgeting with your fingers.

Logan’s brows furrowed. "What?"

"You heard me," you said, avoiding his gaze as he took a step closer.

His arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight. "I thought we agreed—you don’t do that without my consent."

"I know, I know." You lowered your head, feeling cornered. "It was a stupid plan. I just thought we’d have the chance to—at least—hang out."

"Hang out?" Logan's voice hardened. "That’s why you put yourself in danger? For a damn night out?"

Your head snapped up. "Sorry your girlfriend wants to spend time with you because Charles keeps sending you away for days!"

Logan closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, his hands still folded across his chest. He needed a second to regulate his emotions.

You pushed off the couch abruptly and stormed toward the bathroom, rummaging through the cabinets for a first-aid kit.

"Oh no, you're not walking away from me now." Logan followed, leaning against the sink with his arms folded, watching you tear through the cupboard aggressively.

He called your name once.

Twice.

The third time, you finally stopped, your body trembling from exhaustion.

"What, Logan?!" you snapped, frustration bubbling over.

"Look at me."

You hesitated. You hated when he did this—because you were weak for those damn eyes.

Slowly, you turned to him.

"Look, baby," he said, his voice softer now.

"You know our relationship is important to me, right? Of course, I always wanna spend my time with you. You know that." His hands moved, one gently squeezing your shaking arm.

"But I need to know you’re with me in this world. Our world. There are so many mutants out there suffering, and Chuck gives me the chance to help them. And I always take it gladly. Because if not me, then who?"

You swallowed, your anger fading into guilt. "I'm sorry. I was being selfish."

Logan gave a small, approving nod. "Atta girl. So—we’re good?" He leaned in slightly, his face inches from yours.

You nodded. "We’re good."

He pressed a brief, chaste kiss to your lips before resting his forehead against yours. But his eyes flickered down to your blood-soaked sleeve, and the concern returned instantly.

"I need to wake Jean. Or maybe Hank. You need stitches."

"No." You shook your head quickly. "It's midnight. I don’t wanna explain myself to them."

"Darlin’, you're bleeding real bad. You don't have another choice."

"Yes, I do." A bad idea formed in your head. A really bad idea.

"You can stitch."

Logan blinked. "I can?"

"Yeah. You told me that story—back in the ‘60s, a Navy nurse taught you how to stitch. You did it a couple of times."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "I stitched up two fella. That’s it."

"Perfect! Then I’ll be your third!" you said, far too excited for someone with a knife wound.

Logan stared at you like you had lost your damn mind. "Darlin’, no."

"Why not?" You dragged the words into a dramatic whine, nudging his chest. "C’mon, I think it’s romantic."

"Romantic?" He scoffed. "First of all, I only ever stitched up my buddies. Second of all, you’re my girl. I’m not experienced enough, and I love you way too much to screw that up."

You grinned sheepishly. "I love you too, Logan. But you’re being dramatic. You won’t screw up."

You turned back to the cupboard, pulled out the first-aid kit, and shoved it into his hands.

He sighed, shaking his head. "Baby—"

"Don’t baby me. You can do it. I trust you."

Logan exhaled through his nose, muttering a quiet curse before finally giving in.

"Fine," he grumbled, pulling out the medical scissors to cut away the fabric. "Your wish is my command."

Logan sliced the fabric apart, exposing the nasty open wound. The crimson liquid flowed freely again, trailing down your arm.

Without a word, he unzipped your suit from the back, helping you peel off the tight material—smearing blood across it in the process. Well, you thought, guess I’ll just have to ask Scott for a new one after this.

You kicked the rest of the leather jumpsuit off, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. Logan closed the toilet seat and gestured for you to sit while he prepared the needle and sutures by the sink.

Sitting behind his towering figure, you rested your chin on your hand. "Logan, strip off your jacket it’s annoying."

He paused mid-motion, giving you a sidelong glance before shaking his head. With a reluctant sigh, he shrugged off his thick leather jacket and let it drop to the floor before continuing his work.

You smirked. "Your shirt too… please?"

His hands stilled again, fingers tightening on the edge of the sink. Through the mirror, his sharp eyes locked onto yours. Without another word, he grabbed the hem of his white shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it aside. Now, he was left in just his jeans, the buckle of his favorite belt glinting under the dim light.

"Happy?" he asked, catching your awe-struck expression in the mirror and how you grinned widely by his question.

"You might as well ask if the jeans could go too." Logan tease continuing his work.

You shake yout head, biting your cheeks to stop yourself from smiling "Nah," you exaggerated the word in a playful manner.

Logan scoffed. "No? Why not?" he asked, rummaging through the cabinet for rubbing alcohol.

You shrugged playfully. "I like ‘em on. Really enhances your muscles."

Logan exaggerated a pout. "Is that so? You don’t like what’s under there?" He turned, walking toward you with a metal tray of medical supplies.

You gave a nonchalant shrug, but the way your eyes darkened betrayed you. "Not particularly, no."

Logan chuckled, shaking his head. "Didn’t seem that way this mornin' when you whine my finger's not enough and begging me to be balls-deep inside you, huh?"

Your lips parted slightly, heat rushing to your face.

"Now that you mention how good sex can be with you…" You leaned in, cupping the back of his head, your lips brushing against his. "Can’t we just forget the stitches and get sticky instead?"

Logan groaned into the kiss, savoring you for a long moment before muttering against your lips, "Stitches first. Sticky later."

You pulled back with a sigh, biting your lower lip. "Fine."

Logan smirked before refocusing on the task at hand. "Alright, first step—sterilize the wound. Now, I think Jean usually does it gently, dabbing around it with gauze. I, on the other hand, used to just pour the damn alcohol straight onto the wound. Fast and efficient."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Logan, no—"

Logan tipped the bottle over, and the cold burn of alcohol hit your wound like fire. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, and you instinctively jerked, but Logan was faster—his firm grip kept your arm steady.

"Easy, darlin'," he murmured, though there was little gentleness in his method. "Better this way—quick and over with."

"Quick and over with my ass," You gritted your teeth, eyes squeezing shut as the burn spread like wildfire. It wasn’t just a sting—it felt like your skin was being peeled back, raw and exposed.

Logan swore under his breath, watching you tense up. His jaw clenched, and for a brief second, hesitation flickered in his eyes. He could heal from anything, but you? You weren’t built for this kind of pain.

“…Damn it,” he muttered, grabbing a glass of water instead. He soaked a clean cloth and gently wiped away the excess alcohol, his touch much lighter this time. “Should’ve started with this.”

You exhaled, the cool water soothing the burn slightly. “What, Wolverine suddenly growing a conscience?” you teased, voice strained.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, but there was no heat behind it. He tossed the cloth aside and grabbed the suture kit. “Alright, sit still.”

You watched as he threaded the needle with steady hands, but the way his Adam’s apple bobbed slightly told you he was more nervous than he let on.

“Last time I stitched someone up, it was a warzone. Just a bottle of whiskey and some bad decisions,” he said, positioning the needle over your wound.

“Sounds like a fun Saturday night.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t take the bait. “Deep breath,” he instructed.

"You ready?" he asked.

"Yeah," you exhaled, bracing yourself.

Logan worked fast, but damn, it was not painless. The first pierce of the needle sent a sharp sting radiating up your arm. You hissed, gripping your thigh with your free hand.

"Shit, Lo—"

"I know, I know. Just breathe, baby," he muttered, his voice surprisingly soft. His forehead creased in focus as he pulled the thread through, knotting it tightly before moving to the next stitch.

You tried. You really did. But it hurt like hell. His hands were steady but not delicate—he was used to slicing things apart, not putting them back together.

Logan worked in silence, his brow furrowed in concentration. The stitches weren’t perfect, but they were holding. He was careful, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he tied off each suture.

"Almost done," he murmured, his tone shifting into something more tender. "You’re doin’ good."

A few more stitches, a few more pained exhales, and finally, Logan tied off the last knot. He cut the thread with a swift snip of the scissors before sitting back, exhaling as if he had just gone through the ordeal.

"Not my best work," he admitted, surveying the mess he made, "but it’ll hold."

You looked down at the uneven line of stitches. "Barely."

Logan shot you a pointed look. "If you wanted it pretty, you shoulda let Jean do it."

You smirked despite yourself. "But then we wouldn’t have this romantic moment, would we?"

Logan scoffed, shaking his head. He reached over, brushing a few strands of hair from your damp forehead. "You’re insane."

"You love it."

He smirked. "Yeah. I do."

His thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. “You scared the hell outta me tonight,” he admitted, voice lower now.

You leaned into his touch, exhaling softly. “I know.” you rested your arm on top of his and kissed his palm.

His eyes flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. “You ever pull a stunt like that again—”

“You’ll kill me?” you joked.

Logan huffed, shaking his head. “Nah. Just gonna make damn sure you don’t sit right for a week.”

You snorted, leaning forward to kiss him. “Noted.”

And then, as if to make up for every crude stitch, every sharp sting, he leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips—soft and warm, the kind that made you forget the pain entirely.

A/N: As you can see I've been so obsessed doing one shot with Logan and mutant reader recently, thank you for reading this <3

[marifilue]

Affectionate

Oneshot: Having a cold fever with Logan as your bf

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Tags: Fluffs

Word count: 656

You will never understand people who prefer winter over sunny, warm summers. You could write a whole goddamn essay on why summer is so superior.

Cold weather has always been a menace to you. Your horrible body temperature regulation doesn’t even try to help. The endless snow has made your nose runny, paired with a fever, headache, and a sore throat for good measure.

You wish your mutation let you set things on fire or something—just to feel warm. Or maybe, just maybe, you could be like Logan, your boyfriend who can’t get sick thanks to his regenerative healing ability. Sure, moving things with your mind is a pretty cool mutation, but at this moment, it’s completely useless.

You’re curled up in your shared bedroom with Logan, heavy blankets piled on top of you. You’re trying so hard to focus on the pages of the book in your hand, but the words blur together. Breathing through your nose is impossible, so you’re stuck using your mouth, leaving your throat painfully dry and sore.

A click at the door shifts your attention.

“Hey, baby,” Logan says softly as he steps into the bedroom. Reluctantly, you close your book and set it aside on the nightstand.

“Hey,” you respond, your hoarse, sickly voice sounding so unlike your usual self.

Logan wastes no time unbuttoning his flannel leaving his white tank top on, tossing it onto the floor, followed by his jeans. Now, he’s left in just his boxers. You’ve had plenty of talks with him about this—no outside clothes on the bed—and he’s finally reached the point where he listens. Somehow, boxers are more tolerable.

“How are ya feelin’?” he asks, crawling toward the edge of the bed.

“Not gettin’ better. Stay away, Lo. I’m disgusting.” You clutch the blanket tightly, attempting to create a barrier between you two as he moves closer.

Logan frowns. “You’re delusional,” he says simply, effortlessly pulling the blanket away. His hazel eyes meet yours as you feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“What if you catch the cold?” you ask, genuine concern in your voice as you look up at him.

“You realize who you’re talkin’ to?” he teases, raising a brow.

You flush with embarrassment, momentarily forgetting his ability. “Right. I forgot,” you admit with a weak chuckle. “Still, I’m disgusting.” You clutch at the blanket again, but it doesn’t budge under Logan’s weight.

“You’re not. Never will be.” His voice is soft yet firm as he leans in, closing the distance between you. His lips meet yours, and you feel the faint tingle of his beard brushing against your skin.

He kisses you once, twice, then a third time before pulling away slowly. “How’s your headache?”

“Terrible,” you say, exaggerating a frown. “You should really sleep on the couch tonight. I’m gonna be insufferable.” You sniff, struggling to breathe properly.

Logan presses his lips to your forehead. “Not a chance, toots,” he says, already climbing into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms. You lie weakly on your side as he wraps himself around you, his warm breath brushing against the hollow of your neck before he places a chaste kiss there.

“Logan…” you murmur, your breathing heavy, exhaustion evident in your voice. He kisses the spot again, then gently sucks at your skin.

His lips linger for a moment before stopping, sensing your fatigue. His hand rests on your stomach, drawing soft circles before moving up to your temple.

“This okay?” he whispers, his voice low and soothing. You hum in response and nod. He brings his middle finger up to join his index, massaging your temple with slow, deliberate movements.

After a while, his hand returns to your stomach, holding you close. Your eyes grow heavy, the sound of his heartbeat in the background lulling you to sleep.

For a fleeting moment, you swear his heartbeat aligns with yours, just like how the moon aligns with the earth that night.

[marifilue]

Part 10: What Remained Of Us

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n.

Warnings: Violence, Angst, Mature content

Word count: 24.8k

A/N: This turned out to be longer than I intended because I really wanted to give these two a proper goodbye. Apologies for taking more time than usual, and thank you for reading this final part. I've written 92k words which is roughly 300 pages for this fic series, so enjoy! :D

What Makes Us Human Completed

<- Part 9

Einstein was right about his theory of relativity, not that you were the biggest fan of physics class back then, but sure, you caught a thing or two. The past three weeks had felt like the longest you’d ever experienced. Since that collar was... Wow, you can't believe you could say it in a past tense now. Since that collar was restraining your ability, three weeks had felt like a three goddamn shitty years.

You didn’t even feel that way when you were nothing more than a servant to the military. Back then, the concept of time blurred as you grew strangely fond of your well, forced mutation. As much as you despised the idea, you’d made peace with yourself, the ability is cool as fuck. You’ve had it for twenty eight years now yes, you counted. Twenty eight years is longer than the age you received those injections: twenty seven.

Back to that theory of relativity, one you could actually apply right now, in your daily life. You swore the clock was lying when you glanced at the table to check the time, how many hours had you spent with Logan on this bed? The two of you had agreed to clean up together after this mess—the one both of you, but particularly him, had made. Yet, you kept saying, “Five more minutes,” as you lay there, cuddled in his arms, skin to skin.

Both of your naked bodies were tucked under the warmth of the blanket. His left arm served as your human pillow, while his right hand roamed over your body, tracing circles with his fingers. Your right hand never left the toned muscles of his abs. You’d had your intrusive thoughts about licking them earlier—which he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, judging by his expression, he enjoyed it. That look on his face would never leave your mind, and it made you smiled to imagined it again, as your fingers trailed down his happy trail. Only after that blissful moment, which felt like heaven on earth, did you finally glance at the clock. It was already dark outside, but seriously—eight p.m.?

"Shit, it’s eight." Your head whipped from the clock back to Logan.

He let out a weak chuckle. "Still wanna shower?"

You shrugged, letting your palm glide over the popped veins on his bicep. Good god, he really was a sight. For a guy who’d been around since forever, he definitely hadn’t wasted a second of it achieving this every man's dream physique.

Before you could answer, not wanting to pass the chance to shower with his Greek marble statue-like figure, a muffled knock echoes from the hall. The sound is faint, making it clear it didn’t come from your room’s door, you assume it’s Logan’s room, across from yours.

You glance toward your door, pulling the blanket higher over the two of you. “Looks like you’ve got company.”

Logan continues to squeeze your waist gently, as if he could reassure you. “Probably Marie. Kid can’t breathe five minutes without seein' me.”

You let out a low chuckle, knowing that despite the joke, the two of them have grown attached to each other. You can’t help but think Marie might have a little crush on him, but you don’t really see that as a problem. She’s a teenage girl, and Logan found her during a hard time, like a savior kinda way. It’s a pretty reasonable feeling for her to have.

Still, you can see Logan loves her like she’s one of his own, like a daughter. Damn, he’d make a great father, you think to yourself.

But then, a voice pulled you out of your thoughts about Logan—a voice you’d become all too familiar with.

"Logan? I’m coming in." Ororo voice faint.

The steps faltered as the door handle jiggled, only to stop short. You glanced up at Logan, sharing a silent, mutual hope. This was kind of a fucked-up situation. Shit.

Thank god you’d insisted Logan lock the door.

"That’s new," Logan muttered, more to himself than to you.

You clutched him tighter, shrinking into his warmth as if trying to make yourself as small as possible. Other thoughts began creeping into your mind now, like how the team would react to this. You and Logan? Nobody could’ve seen this coming.

The two of you didn’t say a word—not that it felt awkward. In fact, it was comfortable, really. Such a safe feeling, one you hadn’t realized you’d been longing for all this time.

Then the silence broke with the one thing you dreaded most at that moment: a knock. And it wasn’t just any knock—it was on your door now.

Shit, shit, shit.

You straightened up immediately, your body tensing as if facing an active threat. Ororo called your name, her voice loud and clear.

Instinctively, you whispered to Logan, "Go! To the bathroom, now." He half-frowned in response, clearly taken aback by the sudden secret-affair role he didn’t remember signing up for.

"Why?" he asked, with the audacity to question you in this situation. You shot him a look.

"It’s Ororo!" you whispered harshly, your tone low but not lacking bite. "The door opens straight this way—she’s gonna see you. C’mon, chop chop, mutton chops." You chuckled softly at your own words. God, you hadn’t called him that in what felt like ages.

Another knock came, firmer this time, followed by Ororo’s voice, clearer and more insistent. "I can hear you in there. Open the door."

You didn’t miss the way he rolled his eyes, accompanied by that signature grunt of his. Was he really going to risk everything by staying in your bed for Ororo to see? Dear god, you had a reputation to uphold here.

When he didn’t move fast enough, you gave his body a shove, forcing him to get up. Standing, you pointed firmly toward the bathroom. He picks up his clothes and walked as if it was the heaviest task in the world, each step deliberate and slow.

Meanwhile, you scrambled to pick up your panties from the end of the bed and your shirt from the floor, throwing them on to look at least somewhat appropriate. Pacing toward the door, you took a deep breath, preparing yourself for whatever came next.

Now standing in front of your door, you glanced back at Logan—he hadn’t even reached the bathroom yet. "Close the door, c’mon, faster!" you whispered urgently, not even sure if he’d hear you. Finally, he walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

Your focus shifted back to the door. With a sigh, you unlocked it and opened it halfway.

Ororo’s expression immediately shifted from irritated to slightly shocked. She lets out a small gasps, her jaw dropping before she quickly covered it with her palm.

You raised your eyebrows, smiling awkwardly. "Ro?" you asked, clearly puzzled by her sudden reaction.

She scoffed, then broke into the widest smile you’d ever seen. "The collar!"

The realization hit you as your hand instinctively went to your neck, your fingers brushing against bare skin. It was a feeling you hadn’t taken the time to savor, too busy savoring Logan earlier.

"Yeah, Hank figured it out," you said softly, a small smile pulling at the corner of your lips.

Ororo stepped forward, her joy radiating as she wrapped her arms around your neck. Dear god, you hoped she wouldn’t mind the sweat on you, or the lingering smell. You returned the hug, wrapping your arms around her back.

As she briefly opened her eyes, her gaze landed on the mess of your bed. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly, but she said nothing. It definitely wasn’t her business—but judging by the faint shift in her expression, she could’ve guessed.

She pulled back, flashing another wide smile, her shining teeth on full display. "I thought Hank was messing with me," she said, her hands lingering on your shoulders before letting go completely.

"He did a really great job. I couldn’t be more thankful," you replied, smiling.

Ororo’s gaze softened briefly before she glanced around the room. "Where’s Logan, by the way?"

Panic hit you like a freight train, and without thinking, you blurted, "I haven’t seen him all day."

The lie spilled out so suddenly that it caught even you off guard. Ororo furrowed her brows, her head tilting slightly. "That’s strange. Hank told me he gave the chip to Logan to unlock your collar," she explained, her eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion.

You clicked your tongue, realizing you’d been caught red-handed. "Right, of course," you stammered, quickly pointing a finger at Ororo. "Sorry, I just woke up. He did bring the chip to unlock the collar, but then he left."

You were doubling down now, lying even more. Ororo’s expression tightened—she wasn’t buying it.

"Alright then," she said, clearly unconvinced but choosing not to press further. "Anyway, the Professor left for another conference. Scott thought it’d be great for us to hang out—just at the bar down the street. I’m heading there with Jean and Hank. You wanna come? We can ask Logan to look after the kids. It’s Friday night, after all."

Your response came a little too cheerful, the faux excitement evident even to yourself. "That would be great!" you chirped.

"I know, right? We'll just have to find Logan first" she said, her tone bright.

You chuckled nervously. "But I can’t," you said, shaking your head.

Ororo blinked, taken aback. "Why? Come on, you deserve it."

You nodded with a soft smile. "Yeah, don't worry about me you guys have fun. I’ll stay and look after the kids. Besides, Logan’s nowhere to be found, and I’m just feelin a bit tired, s’all." You placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, hoping to ease her concern.

Though your excuse was flimsy, Ororo relented with a sigh. "Fine, but I’ll bring you something, don’t worry."

You smiled again, leaning slightly toward the door, hoping she’d leave soon. "I’m counting on it," you said with a light chuckle.

As Ororo turned back and disappeared down the hallway toward the stairs, you finally closed the door and leaned against it.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you glanced at the bathroom door. You’d just hidden Logan—from Ororo—in your room.

You walked toward the bathroom door, reaching for the handle. When you pressed it, it didn’t click open—Logan had locked it from the inside.

"Logan?" you called, but there was no answer.

"They’re going out to the bar. You can join them if you want to," you said, raising your voice slightly toward the door. What the hell was he doing in there? You knocked again, this time with a little more force, guessing he hadn’t heard you the first time—but that didn’t seem possible.

"Logan? Open the door," you said, your tone firmer now.

Inside the small bathroom, Logan was already pulling on the jeans he’d picked up from the floor earlier. His shirt rested by the sink, forgotten for the moment as he stared at his own reflection—specifically, his eyes. What the hell was going on with him?

It wasn’t exactly the first time a woman had hidden him. Hell, once, he’d even been stashed in a wardrobe. He had a reputation for getting involved with women already in relationships. He’d even eyed Jean a few times when he first settled into the mansion.

But it had always been just a stupid fling to him—something meaningless. He didn’t care. He never did. At least, not until now. What had changed?

You?

Seriously?

He frowned, running a hand through his hair, trying to shake the thought loose. He felt embarrassed.

You weren’t even in a relationship—there was supposedly no reason for you to hide him. At least, not in his logic. Why’d you have to hide him like that? Were you embarrassed?

It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. You were both adults, and so was Ororo. It wasn’t something to be ashamed of... right? Still, the knot in his chest refused to loosen.

Then a thought hit him, one so obvious it almost made him feel stupid for not realizing it sooner. He didn’t actually know if you were in a relationship or not.

The realization stopped him cold. He’d never asked. You’d never mentioned anything. For all he knew, there could be someone else in your life.

The idea gnawed at him, an unexpected twist of jealousy and unease stirring in his gut. Should he ask? Right now, while you were still outside the door knocking and calling his name?

Hell yes, he should. At least then, he’d know.

But then again, did he really want to hear the answer? What if it was something he didn’t want to deal with? What if it changed everything?

He let out a frustrated grunt, running a hand through his hair. His reflection in the mirror stared back, eyes conflicted and filled with questions he didn’t have answers to.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath. His attention shifted when something on the floor caught his eye.

A delicate gold necklace with a red heart-shaped pendant lay near his feet, gleaming faintly in the light. His brow furrowed as he crouched to pick it up, holding it carefully between his fingers. For a moment, he studied it, his thumb brushing over the smooth surface of the pendant.

The knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts. Without a second glance, Logan slid the necklace into the pocket of his jeans and turned toward the door.

"Logan?" you called again, your voice edged with concern. "What are you doing?"

He ran a hand over his face, sighing deeply before finally making a move toward the door.

The door suddenly creaked open, and there he was, standing in the doorway, shirtless displaying full muscles, jeans hanging low on his hips. Logan’s expression was unreadable, though the faint furrow of his brow hinted at something simmering beneath the surface.

His eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made you freeze mid-knock, your hand still hovering in the air. You opened your mouth to ask what was going on, but he beat you to it.

“You seein' someone?” he asked, his tone gruff, low, and uncharacteristically direct.

The question knocked the air right out of you. For a moment, you just stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said—and why the hell he was asking.

“What?” you managed, blinking.

“You heard me.” His eyes searched yours, his jaw set tight. “You got someone in your life or not?”

It wasn’t the question itself that unsettled you, honestly? A reasonable one to ask someone you just had sex with, well. But it was the way he asked it. His voice carried something raw, like he wasn’t just casually curious. Like the answer mattered to him in a way that didn’t quite make sense.

Your lips parted to respond, but no words came out. Instead, you studied his face, the lines around his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. Something had clearly gotten to him, but the reasons behind it were a mystery you couldn’t crack. Was this about Ororo catching him here? Or… was it about something else entirely?

“I don’t… I don’t have anyone,” you finally said, your voice slower, more deliberate. “Why suddenly ask?”

He didn’t flinch, but the shift in his posture was subtle. He leaned against the doorframe, one arm braced against it, his knuckles white. His eyes narrowed slightly, though not in anger.

“I don’t get it,” he said, his tone clipped. “You hid me in here. Why?”

Your heart skipped a beat. The way he phrased it, the accusation buried in his words, made your stomach twist. “I didn’t want Ororo to see you because I didn’t feel like explaining. S'all.”

“Explaining what?” he shot back, his voice sharper now.

“That you were in my room!” you snapped, frustration spilling over. “Do you have any idea how that would’ve looked?”

“And why do you care if it would look like anything?” he asked, stepping closer. “Why do you care so damn much what she thinks?”

You took a step back, suddenly feeling cornered even though he hadn’t raised his voice. His presence was overwhelming, and his words, his questions—they all felt like a trap you hadn’t prepared for.

“I don’t know,” you said, throwing up your hands. “I just didn’t want her to think… I don’t know! That we’re… involved or something. God, this is ridiculous. What is wrong with you?”

His jaw tightened, his eyes dark and stormy as they bore into yours. For a moment, you thought he might actually say something real, something honest. But instead, he straightened up, stepping back toward the bathroom.

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, but still laced with tension. “Forget I asked.”

“Forget you—Logan, what the hell?” you demanded, but he was already turning away.

“Drop it,” he said firmly, grabbing his shirt from the sink and pulling it over his head in one swift motion.

You stood there, stunned, as he brushed past you and headed toward the door. You should’ve let him go. You should’ve let it slide. But something about the way he asked—that vulnerability buried beneath all the bravado—stuck with you.

“Logan,” you called, your voice softer now, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even turn around.

The door slammed shut behind Logan, the sound echoing in the quiet room and leaving you rooted to the spot, staring at the space he’d just occupied. Your heart pounded in your chest, not from fear or shock, but from sheer frustration.

What the fuck was that?

You try to make sense of the whirlwind that had just stormed through your room. He had the audacity to grill you about your personal life, and then shut down without so much as an explanation? It was infuriating. But then again, wasn’t that just Logan? Always halfway out the door before you could get a real answer, always keeping people at arm’s length.

Fine. Let him brood. You weren’t going to waste your energy trying to figure him out.

The clock on your nightstand read 8:12 PM. Scott, Ororo, Jean, and Hank had definitely left for the bar, excited for a rare night out. You’ve waved Ororo off, claiming you weren’t in the mood. Now, standing alone in your room, you regretted it. At least at the bar, you’d have a distraction.

Instead, you were here, stewing over Logan.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed yourself to move. Stressing around mulling over his cryptic nonsense wasn’t going to get you anywhere. You grabbed a fresh change of clothes and headed for the bathroom, letting the sound of running water drown out your thoughts. By the time you’d finished cleaning up and pulling yourself together, it was close to nine.

You sit down on the edge of the windowsill, propping one foot up as you tighten the final knot of your shoelace. The moonlight filters through the glass, casting shady patterns on the floor. As you lean back slightly, adjusting the fit of your shoe, your gaze falls on the unlocked collar resting nearby.

For a moment, you just stare at it, the light glinting off its cold, unyielding surface. A wave of melancholy washes over you, pulling you into a haze of memories you’d rather forget. Slowly, you reach out and trace your fingertips along the thick metal, its weight almost tangible even without wearing it.

A short, bitter chuckle escapes your lips, breaking the silence. Without warning, you grab the collar and slam it against the concrete edge of the windowsill. The sharp clang echoes through the room, and with enough force, the metal bends slightly. You strike it again and again, as if each blow might break more than just steel.

When the anger subsides, you toss the collar onto the floor, standing over it for a moment. Then, with a final stomp, you turn away, leaving it behind as you step out the door.

You wandered the halls of the mansion, your footsteps light on the wooden floors. Few of the kids were settled for the night, and the usual buzz of activity had quieted down. As you passed the TV room, you caught sight of Logan sitting on the couch, surrounded by a few of the younger kids.

They were watching some old action movie, the screen’s glow casting sharp shadows across Logan’s face. He looked calm, almost relaxed, the gruff tension from earlier smoothed over like it had never existed. He didn’t even glance your way until you moved to leave, your quiet presence catching his attention at the last second.

His eyes was on you as you turned and walked away and you didn’t stop.

Instead, you headed to the library. The heavy wooden doors creaked slightly as you pushed them open, the familiar scent of books and aged paper washing over you. The quiet here was different—soothing, intentional. You let out a long breath as you stepped inside, your tension easing slightly as the door clicked shut behind you.

Finding your usual corner, you pulled a book from the shelf and settled into one of the chairs. You let the silence wrap around you, doing your best to push Logan—and all the tangled emotions he seemed to stir—out of your mind.

As you turned the pages of your chosen book tonight, seated in the most comfortable chair the library had to offer, a loud commotion broke your concentration. The rhythmic patter of children’s hurried footsteps echoed through the halls, accompanied by frantic voices. Your immersion in the world of Wuthering Heights shattered, pulling you back into reality. It was nearly ten o’clock—far past curfew. What on earth was going on?

Curiosity pricked at you, and with a reluctant sigh, you closed the book, setting it carefully on the side table. Rising from your chair, you walked toward the source of the noise.

Outside the library, the chaos unfolded before your eyes. A crowd of panicked children filled the hallway, their anxiety palpable. The swarm of them seemed to converge at the backyard door, spilling out onto the cobblestone path illuminated by faint outdoor lights. From afar, you caught sight of Logan kneeling infront of a boy.

“Back to your rooms, everyone,” you called out, your voice firm but calm. Some of the older teenagers lingered, their curiosity outweighing their obedience. Turning to one of them, you asked, “What happened?”

“I heard there’s a student missing,” a teenage girl replied, her voice trembling.

Your brow furrowed at her words. Missing? Anxiety crept into your chest as you shifted your gaze back to Logan, still kneeling in the yard. Urging the gawking children to disperse, you repeated, “Come on, everyone, back to your rooms. Curfew’s long past.”

As the reluctant crowd thinned, you made your way outside, stepping onto the cool cobblestone steps. Logan’s voice carried through the crisp night air as he spoke to the young boy.

“Listen, Carter, I need you to tell me anything you saw. Did you see a logo? A picture? Maybe a name?”

The small frame of the boy trembling however he chimed in, “I saw a letter. It was on their phone.”

You stepped closer, careful not to interrupt, though Logan briefly glanced over his shoulder, his eyes locking with yours for just a moment before returning to the boy.

“Phone?” he repeated.

“Yeah, it was black and had... like, a long antenna,” the boy explained innocently.

“A handy talk,” Logan muttered, lowering his head slightly as if trying to piece it together. “What letter did you see?” he asked, shifting his attention back to the boy.

“Sac, I can read,” he replied with the same innocent tone.

Logan frowned, a slight furrow in his brow as he repeated the word back to her, confused. “Sak?”

The boy nodded eagerly, as if confirming his guess. “Yeah, Sac.”

Logan shook his head, his confusion growing. “How do you spell it?”

Before the boy could respond, something clicked in your brain. The pieces fell into place, and you couldn’t stop yourself from stepping in.

“S-A-C,” you said, spelling it out clearly, each letter cutting through the tension.

The little boy's eyes lit up as he pointed his small finger at you. “That’s right!” he said brightly.

Logan’s expression darkened, the weight of the realization settling over him. He glanced back at you, his jaw tightening.

“SAC, Special Activities Center,” he repeated, this time with understanding—and dread.

The word hit you like a cold slap. You folded your arms against the chill, the night air biting through your sweater.

“Thanks, Carter. You head back inside now.” Logan stand on his feet as he pat the child gently, sending him towards the mansion's backdoor.

Once he scurried off, you stepped closer to him, your voice low but urgent. “What's going on?”

Logan rose to his feet, brushing his hands on his jeans. “That's Carter he's Maya and Ellie friends.”

Your stomach dropped. “Maya? Where’s Maya?”

Logan hesitated, taking a deep breath. “The three of them were playing hide-and-seek out here earlier. Maya wandered out here to find them... she finds Ellie first, then Carter saw two people in black clothes take them two.”

“SAC take them?” you repeated, the weight of the revelation sinking in. “They're connected with the CIA. The fuck do they want?”

Logan’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. But if they’re involved, this isn’t just about them mutants children—it’s about all of us. They’re watching, and now they’re making their move.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your thoughts racing as dread settled heavily over you both. The children inside weren’t safe, not anymore. The larger force at play had finally made its presence known, and the mansion, once a sanctuary, had turned into a trap.

“Shit” you said finally, meeting Logan’s grim gaze. “We need to find them.”

His nod was slight, but the determination in his expression was unmistakable. “We will.”

The team gathered in the common room for a late midnight meeting no one would expected, their exhaustion palpable. Scott slumped in his chair, the scent of alcohol faint but unmistakable, while Ororo leaned heavily against the armrest, her eyes half-lidded with fatigue. Jean sat cross-legged, her fingers massaging her temples, and Hank rubbed his eyes behind his glasses.

The situation frustrated you as bad as it already was. Fuck this. If it weren’t for the team’s fun night out, all of you would be out there looking for the poor little girls. You thought about doing it alone—after all, you were the only adult who wasn’t drunk or exhausted. Wait... there’s still Logan.

Fuck him. You're not going anywhere with him. The two of you still hadn’t addressed whatever the hell was going on between you.

If you waited until morning, they’d sure as hell be hungover or nowhere near the appropriate condition for a mission like this. And knowing these people all too damn well, they wouldn’t let you sneak into a CIA headquarters alone.

But you’d do it anyway.

You’d have to sneak your way out of this. Screw them. They’d be thankful as fuck when you took matters into your own hands.

“We have to address this in the morning,” Jean said, her voice steady but weary. “The professor will know the best approach.”

Of course, one of them would eventually say it. You had guessed it would be Scott, but maybe Jean read his mind first—like she’s probably doing to you right now. Fuck, I should clear my mind, you thought to yourself.

Hank sighed, his fingers tapping the edge of the table. “I’ve done some preliminary research, but it’s just theories right now. The CIA base we suspect isn’t far from here, and given Killebrew’s ties to the military, this might all be connected. If I’m right, they’ve been operating covertly, experimenting on mutants in ways we haven’t fully grasped yet.”

Ororo straightened, her brow furrowed. “That’s not something we can charge into without a solid plan. It’s dangerous.”

Scott waved a hand, his tone slurred but determined. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow. Right now, we all need rest.”

Jean nodded, glancing around the room. “Agreed. Maya and Ellie will need us at our best when we go after her.”

One by one, the team dispersed, their heavy steps echoing down the mansion’s halls. But you couldn’t shake the weight in your chest. The image of those girls—scared, alone, possibly suffering—played on a loop in your mind. By two in the morning, sleep had become impossible as you kept staring at the ceilings with eyes wide open, contemplating your plan which you came with none.

"Fuck this." You quickly changed into black cargo pants and a tight black long-sleeve shirt that pressed against your figure.

As you stood by the sink, you splashed cold water on your face, trying to steady your nerves for what was to come. But when you reached for the towel, your eyes flicked to the small accessory holder where you usually kept your mother's necklace.

It wasn’t there.

A knot of anxiety tightened in your chest. You leaned closer, scanning the sink area. It had to be somewhere nearby. Maybe it had just fallen off? You crouched down, searching the floor around the sink, your fingers brushing across the tiles in frantic movements. Nothing.

“Come on,” you muttered under your breath, your heart pounding as you pulled open the cabinet doors beneath the sink. Still nothing.

You swallowed hard, the realization sinking in that you might have lost or misplaced it. The thought made your stomach churn—it wasn’t just any necklace; it was your mother’s.

But you didn’t have time to dwell on it. Maya and Ellie needed you, and every second you spent searching was a second wasted. Clenching your fists, you forced yourself to push the worry aside.

You turned back to the mirror, taking a final glance at yourself. Tight black long-sleeve shirt, black cargo pants. "I look like a goddamn ninja," you muttered, trying to inject a bit of humor to steady your nerves.

The necklace would have to wait. Right now, you had to focus.

You grabbed your gear quietly, careful not to wake anyone. The mansion was still, the night cold against your skin as you descended the stairs with heavy black boots. You had just reached the kitchen when you froze.

Logan stood by the counter, cigarette in hand, the faint glow of its tip casting shadows on his rugged features. He didn’t look surprised to see you.

“Figured you’d try somethin’ stupid,” he said, his voice a gravelly rumble.

You adjusted the strap on your gear, feigning nonchalance. “I need to get some air.”

Logan chuckled dryly, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Air. Right. All geared up for a midnight stroll?” You frowned but didn’t reply, moving to the sink to double-check your supplies.

“You think sneakin’ out alone is a smart play?” he pressed, stepping closer. “What, you gonna take on the CIA single-handed?”

“I'll take my chances, better than doing nothing.” you snapped, spinning around to face him. “They're out there, and every second we waste, they could be hurting.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “And every second you’re out there without backup, you’re walkin’ straight into their hands. You heard what Hank said—Killebrew’s probably involved. You really think they won’t have another collar?”

You hesitated but clenched your fists. “I won't let such fear stop me. I won’t leave Maya and Ellie to them, Logan. I don’t care what’s waiting for me out there. It’s not like they can kill me.”

Logan’s jaw tightened as he stubbed out his cigarette in his palm. You could never get tired from the sight of him rolling his eyes at the slight burn sensation on his skin that amused you—well, more than amused in different circumstances, really.

If only he hadn’t been so confusing earlier tonight.

His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “It ain’t about killin’ you. It’s about breaking you. They don’t need you dead—they just need you broken enough to get what they want.”

The weight of his words pressed down on you, but the image of the girls wouldn’t let you relent. “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working. I’m leaving.”

Logan’s nostrils flared, and for a moment, you thought he’d let you go. But then he stepped back, grabbing his jacket. “You’re a stubborn pain in the ass, you know that?” You blinked as he shrugged into his jacket.

“If you’re hellbent on gettin’ yourself killed, I’m not lettin’ you go alone,” he growled.

Despite the tension, a flicker of gratitude warmed your chest. He might be impossible, but at least you wouldn’t face this alone.

Logan gripped the steering wheel tighter as the car cruised down the empty highway, the hum of the engine the only sound between you. You stared out the passenger window, the dark road illuminated by the occasional passing streetlight. The silence was unbearable, heavy with unspoken tension, until you reached out and turned on the radio.

Bye Bye Bye blasted through the speakers, the upbeat rhythm shattering the quiet.

Logan groaned audibly, his hand darting out to switch it off within seconds.

'Don’t wanna be a fool for.....'

The music cut off abruptly, leaving an awkward void. You furrowed your brows and glanced at him, annoyed, but said nothing. He didn’t either, his jaw tightening as he kept his eyes firmly on the road.

This is gonna be a hell of a ride.

Minutes ticked by in agonizing silence, the clock on the dashboard glowing faintly. You stifled a yawn, the lack of sleep catching up to you. Logan glanced in your direction briefly, his expression unreadable, before returning his focus to the road.

“Sleepy already?” he finally asked, his tone gruff but quieter than usual.

You blinked at the window, counting the sparse cars around you. “Oh, so you talk,” you shot back coldly, not bothering to look at him.

Logan sighed heavily, side-eyeing you before speaking again. “I don’t know whaddya want me to say,” he muttered, his tone carrying a hint of frustration.

Your patience snapped. “Fuck you, Logan. You’re the one pretending like nothing happened between us.”

His eyes flicked toward you briefly before returning to the road, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. “I thought that’s what you wanted.” he said, his voice steady but edged with tension.

“No! I don’t want that! Why are you acting like an asshole?” you snapped, shifting in your seat to face him fully.

Logan kept his focus ahead, his jaw ticking. The tension in his shoulders was palpable, but he didn’t raise his voice. “What do you want then?” he asked gruffly.

You opened your mouth to answer, ready to unleash everything bottled inside, but second thoughts hit you like a brick wall. Your throat tightened, and instead of speaking, you clamped your mouth shut and pulled your knees up, hugging them to your chest. Your gaze drifted back to the window, the darkened landscape blurring as tears threatened to sting your eyes.

Logan glanced at you from the corner of his eye, guilt flickering across his face, though he quickly masked it. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible but just loud enough for you to catch.

You swallowed hard, your nails digging into the fabric as you tried to steady your breathing. There was so much you wanted to say, so much that needed to be addressed, but this wasn’t the time. Maya and Ellie needed saving, and there was no room for emotions to get in the way.

You sat there, curled up in the passenger seat, clutching your knees tightly as the car glided through the quiet, empty highway. The faint hum of the engine filled the air between you, a stark contrast to the chaos in your chest. The longer the silence stretched, the heavier it felt, suffocating in a way words never could.

“M’sorry,” you whispered finally, the words escaping your lips before you could stop them. You didn’t even know what you were apologizing for exactly, but it felt like the right thing to say.

Logan glanced your way, his brow furrowing. You didn’t meet his gaze, your focus glued to the closed window, your reflection staring back at him. The image unsettled him—the way you sat curled into yourself, dressed in black like you were trying to look intimidating, but failing miserably with your chin resting atop your knees. You looked small, vulnerable, as though you were trying to shield yourself from something unseen.

He clenched his jaw, guilt gnawing at him as he returned his eyes to the road.

Logan took a deep breath, his knuckles tightening on the wheel. What the hell was he supposed to say now? Did you even realize how much he cared for you? How deeply?

Hell, he was out here driving through the freezing cold at two in the goddamn morning. Sure, finding that poor, innocent girl was the priority—but you were the real reason he’d agreed to this. He already knew how reckless and half-baked this plan was, especially with just the two of you. The team is going to be furious, he could already imagine the earful Scott would give him in this situation.

But he couldn’t fight you on it, he knew you too damn well. It was either he came along, or you’d go alone—and the thought of you facing this without him was something he couldn’t bear. Hell, he wouldn’t allow it.

If he had to, Logan would tear the whole goddamn world apart just to stand beside you. Whether to be an acquaintance, a friend, a partner, whatever you’d let him be. He would never leave you to deal with this on your own, not as long as he was still breathing.

“Don’t,” Logan muttered, his voice gruff as if the word was dragged out of him.

You blinked, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, unsure of what he meant.

“I’m sorry,” he growled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I was being a dick.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, surprised. Then, without warning, a small chuckle escaped you.

Logan’s head snapped toward you, confusion written all over his face. “What’s so funny?”

You bit your cheek, trying to hold back your laughter, but it only made it worse. Finally, you shook your head, letting out a soft laugh. “I just... I didn’t think you’d fall for it.”

Logan’s frown deepened, his confusion growing. “Fall for what?”

You shifted in your seat, lowering your legs and leaning back like you didn’t have a care in the world. “It’s okay. Now we’re both sorry.” You grinned at him mischievously. “I just didn’t expect you’d actually admit that you’re a dick.”

His expression darkened further, and he shot you a flat look. “Oh, fuck off.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction, the sound bubbling out of you as his frown became more pronounced. “You’re a horrible person,” he muttered, though there was a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

“I know,” you said smugly, leaning back even further and resting your arm behind your head, clearly enjoying your victory.

But your moment of triumph didn’t last long. Logan’s eyes glinted with a mischievous edge as his foot suddenly slammed on the brakes.

The car jerked to a halt, and you—without your seatbelt fastened—were flung forward, hitting the dashboard with a loud thud.

“Ugh!” you grunted in pain, your hand rubbing to your forehead as you turned to glare at him. “What the fuck, Logan?!”

He was still in his seat, untouched thanks to his seatbelt “Sorry,” he said mockingly, his tone laced with sarcasm. “There was a cat crossing the street.”

He didn’t even try to hide his smug grin, leaning back in his seat like he didn’t just commit attempted murder. “Next time, buckle up, tough guy,” he said, his tone dry, but the amusement in his eyes betrayed him.

Your jaw tightened as you fastened your seatbelt with an angry click, not that you should even care because crashing would literally kill none of you, really. But you wouldn't take the chance to be a part of his petty joke again. “You’re so petty,” you muttered, slumping back into your seat, arms crossed.

Logan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “I know.” he said, clearly pleased with himself.

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath as the car resumed its journey. The tension that had once suffocated the air now felt lighter, though your annoyance with him lingered.

You’d get him back. Somehow.

Logan parked the car a few hundred meters away from the high-security compound, the faint glow of cameras scanning the area. The building stood tall in front of you, a modern fortress with high, wire-topped fences and armed guards at every corner. This wasn’t going to be easy.

You both exited the car in silence, you popped the trunk, revealing your gear neatly packed. You reached for the heavy black duffel bag, pulling it out and unzipping it with quick hands. The bag was full of weapons built for efficiency and speed, the kind you knew you could rely on in a tight spot.

You grabbed the Heckler & Koch MP5, its compact frame sitting comfortably in your hands. The submachine gun was built for quick action, a weapon perfect for close-quarters combat. It was lightweight but packed a punch, with its 9mm rounds designed for high velocity and rapid fire. You checked the magazine, making sure it was fully loaded, before slinging the strap over your shoulder. The weapon's compact size made it ideal for maneuvering through tight spaces, and the sound of the safety clicking off was a sound you were all too familiar with.

You ran your fingers over the soft, rubberized grip, knowing you could rely on it when things went south. The bag also held extra mags, each one loaded with 9mm rounds, quick to reload and ready for action. You gave a quick glance at Logan, his eyes now locked on you again, but you didn’t let the moment last too long, the weight of the gun a comforting reminder of your readiness.

He gave a low grunt. “This is a bad idea.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” you muttered, adjusting your gloves. The plan was simple: Get in, find Maya, get out. No alarms. No mess. The problem was, nothing ever went according to plan.

Logan took the lead, moving with his usual predatory grace. The two of you made your way through the shadows, careful not to alert the guards. The compound was surrounded by tall, overgrown hedges, giving you some cover as you approached the back entrance. You crept toward a side gate, its lock weak enough for Logan to pry open with ease.

"You always make it look easy," you whispered, impressed despite yourself.

He grinned, his eyes gleaming in the dark. "Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You slipped through the gap, your footsteps silent on the cold concrete as you moved deeper into the facility. The perimeter was quiet, but the tension in the air was suffocating. Logan led the way, his keen senses constantly scanning the area. Every creak of a door, every flicker of a light, had you on edge.

You reached the back of the building, a narrow, unlit hallway leading inside. Logan paused, giving you a sharp glance. “Ready?”

“No shit,” you said, determination hardening your voice. You weren’t backing out now, no matter what.

He pulled open the door and ushering you inside. The air was cool and sterile, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the cement floors. You crept down the hall, moving in sync with Logan, every step calculated.

At the end of the hallway, you spotted a guarded door—high-security, with a keypad and a camera positioned just above it. Without hesitation, Logan stepped forward, grabbing the guard’s arm from the shadowed corner and pulling him into the darkness. He was out before he could make a sound, leaving behind nothing but a faint smell of burning skin.

You shuddered slightly but stayed focused. This was just part of the plan. Getting in and out.

Logan keyed in the code he'd swiped off the unconscious guard’s wristwatch, the door clicking open with a soft beep. He held it open, letting you slip inside first. The room was dark and cold, filled with computers and high-tech equipment. At the far end, a small holding cell, barely visible in the gloom, had a single figure slumped against the wall.

“Maya,” you whispered urgently, your voice cracking.

She looked up slowly, her face pale, her eyes wide with fear. But when she saw you, her lips trembled, and for a moment, you could see the faintest glimmer of hope. "You came..."

You rushed to her side, kneeling beside her, gently brushing a strand of her hair away to get a better look at her face. She was bruised and battered, her small frame trembling, but nothing seemed life-threatening. Still, the sight of her like this ignited a fierce protectiveness in your chest.

“Where’s Ellie?” you asked, your voice soft but urgent.

Maya flinched at the question, her lips quivering. “I-I don’t know,” she stuttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “We... we were playing together, and then—” Her words broke off, her small body trembling as tears welled up in her eyes.

“It’s okay, Maya,” you said quickly, your tone firm but comforting. “We’re getting you out of here. You’re safe now.”

Logan moved around, his sharp eyes scanning the room for any signs of further threats. “We don’t have time for this,” he muttered, already heading toward the door. “We need to move. Get her to safety first.”

You hesitated, your instincts screaming to keep looking for Ellie, but Logan’s tone left no room for argument. He glanced back at you, his voice low but commanding. “We’ll come back for her. Right now, we’ve gotta get Maya out before we’re cornered.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded and reached down to help Maya to her feet. Her legs wobbled, and she winced at the effort, but she clung to you tightly. “We’re getting you out,” you reassured her again, though the knot in your stomach didn’t loosen.

As you moved toward the door, the beeping of the security alarm behind you confirmed the worst. Logan’s eyes flicked to you, his expression grim. “Move it,” he said sharply.

Grabbing Maya’s hand, you pulled her along, your heart pounding as you navigated through the dim hallway. Logan led the way, his senses on high alert. You reached the stairwell, but your stomach sank as you saw more guards below.

Logan growled low under his breath, his fists clenching. “Stay behind me,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

Logan cleared the path with a relentless fury, and together, you pushed forward, determined to get Maya out of this nightmare and to safety. Only then would you think about going back for Ellie.

Without hesitation, Logan leaped into action, taking down the first guard with brutal efficiency. You followed closely, keeping Maya tucked safely behind you, your body positioned as a shield.

You would have the time of your life alongside Logan taking these guards down, but tonight your MP5 was nothing more than a safety measure, secondary to your true focus. Your attention was entirely on Maya, making yourself her shield, her protection. No harm would come to her—not a single scratch, not the faintest injury. You positioned yourself between her and the chaos outside, every move calculated to ensure her safety above all else.

Logan’s claws came out, the metallic sound cutting through the air. With every strike, another guard fell. You couldn’t help but watch in awe at the way he moved—fierce, unstoppable. He cleared a path toward the exit, but it wasn’t without cost. You could hear the distant sound of reinforcements arriving, the compound now fully alerted to your presence.

"Shit," you muttered under your breath. There was no turning back now.

But you didn’t need to. Maya was free. That was all that mattered.

As you reached the exit, the lights behind you began to flash. You could hear the sirens, feel the pressure of the situation mounting. But Logan was already pushing you forward, his voice low and gruff. "Keep moving. I’ll cover you."

You barely had time to process what was happening before you burst through the door, the cold air hitting your face like a slap. The car was still a few hundred meters away, but there was no time to hesitate. Without a word, you crouched and scooped Maya into your arms. She instinctively clung to you, her small arms wrapping tightly around your neck, her feet curling against your stomach to secure herself. Her muffled cries broke your focus, soft and trembling as she buried her face into your shoulder, her fingers gripping your shirt like a lifeline.

You ran as fast as you could, every step echoing in the silence of the night, Logan keeping pace just behind you. The weight of Maya in your arms was nothing compared to the drive to get her to safety. You could feel her little hand clutching you tighter with every sound of pursuit behind you, her breath hitching against your collarbone.

You reached the car first, yanking the back door open and rushing Maya inside. Her tiny arms loosened around your neck as you gently set her on the seat, her tear-streaked face burying deeper into your shoulder for a moment. You whispered, "Stay here, sweet girl," before pulling back just enough to slam the door shut. You didn’t waste time sliding into the passenger seat as Logan bolted into the driver’s seat beside you.

The engine roared to life as Logan turned the wheel sharply, tires screeching against the cold pavement. The car bolted forward, but the horror started almost immediately. Gunfire erupted behind you, bullets slamming into the rear of the vehicle with sharp metallic thuds.

"Get down!" you yelled instinctively, your voice sharp and commanding. Maya screamed, a high-pitched cry that sent a pang through your chest. "Maya, keep your head down, baby. Stay as low as you can," you urged, already crawling from the passenger seat to shield her in the back.

The gunfire intensified, the attackers closing in. Logan growled under his breath as he adjusted the rearview mirror. “They’re catching up. Bikes.”

You twisted, catching sight of two motorcycles weaving in and out of the shadows. Their riders aimed and fired, their bullets shattering both side windows. Glass shards rained into the car, cutting into the chaos.

Logan flinched, jerking slightly as a bullet grazed his arm, tearing through his jacket. He hissed but kept his focus on the road. “Damn it,” he muttered, his grip tightening on the wheel.

Another bullet grazed your shoulder, burning through your jacket. The sharp sting was brief, dulled by your healing factor, but it still sent a jolt of frustration through you. "Logan, they’re on both sides!"

One biker closed in on Logan’s side, leveling his weapon for a clean shot. Logan swerved sharply, slamming the car into the bike, but the rider steadied himself. Without hesitation, Logan growled, "Hold on," and yanked the car door open.

In one fluid motion, Logan leaned out, his left arm shooting forward to grab the man by the neck. The rider’s eyes widened in shock as Logan yanked him clean off the bike, slamming him to the ground with brutal force.

On the right, another rider closed in, aiming for the car. You didn’t hesitate. The MP5 was already in your hands, and with a calculated burst of fire, you hit his front tire. The bike wobbled violently before tipping, sending the rider skidding across the asphalt.

"Fuck!" Logan snarled as another shot blew out the rear tire. The car lurched violently, metal screeching against the road as it ground to a halt. Logan slammed the wheel in frustration, his chest heaving. "Get her up. Now!"

You scrambled to Maya, pulling her carefully into your arms. She was trembling but responsive. “Come on, baby,” you murmured, trying to steady your voice.

By the time you turned, Logan was already at one of the fallen bikes, inspecting it for damage. "This’ll do," he muttered, hauling the machine upright. He swung onto the seat, revving the engine.

Then you saw it. Maya’s head lolled against your chest, and the dark stain on her shirt caught your attention. Blood seeped from a cut on her neck, spreading too quickly. Your stomach clenched.

"Logan!" you shouted, your voice cracking. "She’s bleeding bad!"

Logan’s head whipped around, his expression hardening. “Get on.” His voice left no room for argument.

Clutching Maya’s fragile body, you climbed onto the bike behind Logan, holding her close. Logan revved the engine, and the bike sped off into the night. You pressed Maya’s small frame against yours, one hand trying desperately to stem the bleeding at her neck.

“Stay with me, baby,” you whispered into her hair, your voice breaking as the cold wind whipped past. “Please, Maya, just hold on.”

4:27 a.m. You stood frozen, staring at Maya’s unconscious form in the medbay. The room felt distant, the sterile white lights blurring everything into a haze. Hank and Jean had been woken up barely ten minutes ago by Logan, and now they were rushing back and forth in their white coats, their voices low but urgent.

You should’ve felt bad for pulling them into this mess, dragging them out of bed at this hour. But even that guilt was nothing compared to the pit of self-loathing eating away at you. This was your fault. Maya’s condition, her pale face, her blood staining your hands was because of you. Reckless. Stupid. You didn’t fucking think before-

"Hey," Logan’s voice broke through the storm in your head, soft but steady.

You didn’t look at him, didn’t respond. You barely even registered his presence, the sound of Jean’s voice faintly breaking through your fog. She was explaining something to Hank, something about Maya losing too much blood, needing to confirm her blood type. But the words barely landed.

You clenched your arms tighter across your chest, folding into yourself. The weight of everything—Maya’s fragile state, your own failures was suffocating. Logan stepped closer, watching you carefully. His hand reached out, resting gently on your shoulder, his thumb brushing against you in a calming rhythm.

The small, unexpected gesture made you shiver. The knot in your chest tightened, and you felt the sting of tears threatening to spill. Slowly, your head dipped, your defenses crumbling under the weight of it all. You couldn’t stop the overwhelming tide of emotions crashing down on you.

"Go clean up. Let Hank and Jean do what they need to." he suggested.

A word didn’t even leave your lips. You felt lost, unmoored in a storm of emotions that you couldn’t navigate. You didn’t know what to do, how to move, how to think. You needed guidance, even if it was something as small and straightforward as Logan telling you to clean up. His words cut through the fog, and for a fleeting moment, you felt a sense of obedience—a familiar pull to follow orders. That was what you were good at, after all. What you were once best at: following orders.

Your eyes flicked up to Logan, searching for...something. His palm remained steady on your shoulder, grounding you, his thumb moving in a small, repetitive motion that somehow kept you from spiraling. His gaze met yours with the quiet reassurance there was enough to steady your nod.

You stepped away, walking out of the medbay, his hand falling from your shoulder as you moved. The absence of his touch left a strange void, but you pushed forward, heading toward the stairs. Logan followed silently a few steps behind, his heavy footsteps echoing softly against the walls. He didn’t push you, didn’t fill the space with meaningless words, but his presence lingered with constant, quiet support.

You climbed the stairs mechanically, every step feeling heavier than the last. The exhaustion, the guilt, the overwhelming swirl of emotions, they pressed down on you, threatening to crush you with each passing second. As much as Logan worried about Maya, you both knew there was nothing more either of you could do. It was Hank and Jean’s turn now. That truth didn’t make the wait any easier.

When you reached your room, you stopped in the doorway, gripping the frame as if it could hold you upright. Logan paused behind you, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He watched you closely, his sharp gaze catching every tremble in your hands, every shaky breath.

Your fingers fumbled with the straps of your gear, but they wouldn’t cooperate. Frustration bubbled up, and you let out a low growl as you yanked the vest off and dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor. Bloodstains smeared across the fabric caught your eye, and your chest tightened at the sight.

Logan pushed off the wall and stepped inside, crouching down to pick up the discarded vest. He set it aside carefully, his movements slow and deliberate, as though giving you the time and space to process.

“I'll stay here,” he said again, his voice quieter this time, almost gentle.

You nodded again, your movements sluggish, and turned toward the bathroom. The weight of the day settled on your shoulders, dragging your steps, but you kept moving.

You stepped into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you, you turned around to lock it immediately. The smell hit immediately—dried blood, sweat, and the lingering metallic tang of Maya’s injury. It clung to you like guilt, heavy and suffocating.

With trembling hands, you stripped off your clothes, dropping them into a heap on the floor. The fabric stuck to your skin in places where blood had dried, and the motion sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you.

Standing at the sink, you turned on the faucet, the rush of water almost deafening in the quiet. You scrubbed your hands, desperate to rid yourself of the blood staining your skin. Maya’s blood. It was there, literal-fucking-ly on your hands, and no matter how hard you scrubbed, it felt like it wouldn’t come off. Your breaths grew erratic as the image of her unconscious face looped endlessly in your mind.

You turned the faucet off abruptly, the silence that followed almost unbearable. Moving to the shower, you twisted the knob to the hottest setting, steam immediately rising to fill the small space. You stepped in, holding your hands under the boiling stream, watching as the dried blood finally washed away, swirling down the drain.

The searing heat burned your skin, but the pain felt satisfying—a punishment you thought you deserved. It wasn’t enough to hurt you, not with your healing ability, but it gave you a brief, fleeting sense of control.

The water cascaded over you, from the top of your head to your toes, scalding and relentless. You gritted your teeth as the heat bit into your skin, but the pain wasn’t what broke you. The weight of everything did.

Your legs gave out, and you slid down onto the cold tiles, your back pressed against the wall. Hugging your knees to your chest, you buried your face in them, letting the boiling water pour over you as sobs wracked your body. It wasn’t the pain that made you cry—you weren’t even sure what it was anymore. You just needed to let it out, to feel something other than the crushing guilt.

Outside, Logan sat by your windowsill, his arms crossed as he stared into the night. His nose twitched as a faint scent wafted through the air—burned flesh. He furrowed his brow, his senses sharpening as the smell lingered. It didn’t fade. If anything, it grew stronger.

Concern etched into his features, he pushed off the sill and headed toward your bathroom door. The scent was unmistakable now, and worry gnawed at the edges of his composure. He knocked gently.

“Hey,” he called, his voice calm but firm. “You okay in there?”

No response.

He tried again, calling your name louder this time. “I’m gonna break this door if you don’t answer.”

Still nothing.

Logan muttered a curse under his breath, his patience snapping as the smell of burning flesh only intensified. With a heavy thud, he slammed his shoulder into the door. The wooden frame groaned but held. Another slam, then another, until the lock finally gave way, the door flying open to release a rush of hot steam that hit him like a wall.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, waving a hand in front of his face in a futile attempt to clear the air. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, curled up on the shower floor, water pouring over your trembling, bare figure.

“Shit,” he whispered under his breath, his jaw tightening as the scene before him sank in.

The scalding water hissed against his arm skin as he reached for the shower handle, shutting it off with a groan. His own flesh burned at the contact, but it healed almost instantly. He turned his focus to you, crouching beside your slumped form, his heart breaking at the sight of your vulnerability.

Grabbing a towel from a nearby rack, he opened it wide and carefully wrapped it around you. His movements were gentle, deliberate, as though afraid he might break you further. His voice was soft when he finally spoke.

“Hey,” he murmured, his hand brushing against your damp hair. “C’mon, darlin’. Let’s get you out of here.”

You didn’t respond at first, your head lifting only slightly as you noticed his presence. His face was etched with worry, his sharp features softened by the sorrow in his eyes. His hand came up to cup the side of your jaw, his thumb tracing lightly over your tear-streaked cheek.

You swallowed hard, your voice caught in your throat. The overwhelming emotions left you unable to speak, and all you could do was stare at him, your swollen eyes searching for something—comfort, reassurance, anything.

Logan shifted to sit beside you, his broad shoulder brushing against yours. He opened his arms, a silent invitation. Without thinking, you leaned into him, tucking your head against his chest as his arms enveloped you. The dampness of your hair soaked into his shirt, but he couldn't care less. His chin rested atop your head, his steady presence anchoring you as you sobbed quietly, the tears flowing freely now.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest. “I’ve got you.”

Logan stayed there, holding you as though his presence alone could shield you from whatever storm was raging inside. His arms tightened just enough to remind you he was there—not pushing, not forcing, just being. His thumb drew absent circles against your arm, a silent comfort that kept you tethered to the moment.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours; time seemed to lose meaning. The bathroom remained cloaked in a haze of steam, the air thick and humid, but neither of you moved. The water had long since stopped running, leaving only the faint drip-drip of the showerhead to break the silence. Logan didn't rush you; he seemed to know you needed this space, this moment to fall apart without judgment.

Eventually, your sobs quieted, leaving you drained and trembling in his arms. Your head stayed tucked against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was grounding, a lifeline you hadn't known you needed. You felt small, raw, like a wound left open, but for the first time in hours, the suffocating weight of guilt started to ease—just a little.

Logan broke the silence first, his voice a low murmur. "I know you think this is all on you, but it’s not."

You wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you nodded faintly, your face brushing against the damp fabric of his shirt. He took the gesture for what it was, a small step forward, and didn’t press for more.

After a moment, he shifted slightly, one arm still wrapped around you as the other reached for the towel. He adjusted it, making sure it covered you properly before pulling back just enough to look at you. His piercing gaze softened when it met yours, his eyes filled with an understanding you hadn’t expected.

“You’re freezing,” he said, his brows knitting together. “Let’s get you outta here, yeah?”

You blinked, realizing for the first time that your body was shaking—not from cold, but from the aftermath of everything you’d been holding in. Still, you nodded again, letting him help you to your feet. His hand stayed steady on your arm as he guided you out of the shower, careful not to let you slip on the wet tiles.

He grabbed another towel, wrapping it around your hair with surprising gentleness. The care in his actions almost undid you again, but you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to hold it together.

“I’ll grab you some clothes,” he said quietly, motioning toward your dresser. “Just sit tight.”

You sank onto the edge of your bed, the towel still wrapped tightly around you as you watched him move. His presence filled the room—not in an overbearing way, but in a way that made you feel less...alone. He returned a moment later with a fresh set of clothes, setting them down beside you.

“You good to change?” he asked, his voice soft but firm, like he was giving you the option to say no.

You nodded, and he took that as his cue to turn away, suddenly finding your window so interesting to glance at. Giving you privacy while still staying within arm’s reach. His respect for your boundaries didn’t go unnoticed, and it made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Once dressed, you hesitated for a moment before speaking, your voice hoarse from crying. “Logan?”

He turned back to you immediately, his eyes meeting yours.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words trembling with guilt. “For dragging you into all of this. You didn’t deserve it.”

His expression softened, a mix of concern and frustration flickering in his gaze. “Don’t start with that,” he said firmly but not unkindly. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I’m here because I wanna be. Got it?”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his words settling over you like a fragile reassurance. Your eyes flicked to the clock by your nightstand—5:03 a.m. The realization made your stomach twist, the hours slipping away faster than you could think.

“I need to check on Maya's condition,” you said suddenly, your voice steadier but still strained.

Logan’s hand, still resting lightly on your shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The hallway leading to the med bay felt like it stretched on forever, each step dragging like a weight tethered to your ankles. Logan walked beside you, silent but present, his steady pace offering a grounding presence you barely noticed through the storm raging in your chest. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed softly, an unbearable mockery of normalcy as dread curled in your gut.

When you reached the med bay door, it opened with a quiet hiss, and the world seemed to tilt. The room was unnaturally quiet, the air heavy, oppressive. Jean stood by the bed where Maya lay, her figure tense, arms crossed tightly over her chest. A bag of blood hung from a metal stand, but the tube dangled loose, disconnected. Hank sat slumped in a chair nearby, his head bowed low, the white of his coat streaked with red that had long since dried. He didn’t even look up when you entered.

Jean turned as the door clicked shut behind you, her gaze snapping to meet yours. Her expression was grave, her face drawn and heavy with something unspeakable. The weight of her silence crushed you instantly.

“What’s going on?” you demanded, your voice trembling as you crossed the room in hurried strides, your pulse roaring in your ears. The question tasted bitter on your tongue, dread bubbling up in your chest. You didn’t want to know the answer, not really. You clung desperately to the fragile hope that what you feared wasn’t true.

Jean didn’t answer. Her lips parted, but no words came, only a flicker of helplessness in her eyes that made your stomach plummet. You turned your attention to Hank, sitting motionless, his large hands limp in his lap. Still, no response. It was the silence that told you everything. The kind of silence that only follows the unspeakable.

Your breath quickened as your eyes fell on Maya’s still form on the bed. You reached out, your fingers trembling as they brushed against her cold skin. The moment you touched her, you recoiled. No. This can’t be real.

“Maya,” you whispered, your voice cracking. The panic rose inside you, but you fought to keep it in check. You pressed your fingers to her neck, hoping against hope for a pulse, for any sign of life. There was nothing. The stillness suffocated you. “No, no, no—this can’t be happening.”

You couldn’t stop the tears that welled in your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You blinked rapidly, your chest tight, trying to hold it all in. Your knees buckled slightly, and you steadied yourself by gripping the bed rail. Your breath came in shallow bursts, but you forced yourself not to break down completely. Not here, not now.

“What happened?” The question slipped out of you in a broken, quiet voice, and you turned to Hank and Jean, your eyes searching for an answer they couldn’t give.

Jean’s gaze dropped to the floor, her voice soft but heavy. “She was gone before we could stop the bleeding,” she said, and her words cut deeper than anything else in the room.

“No.” You shook your head violently, your hands gripping the bed rail as if it could anchor you. “You’re lying. She’s not—she’s not gone. She can’t be. It’s my fault. I should’ve—” Your voice broke, your chest heaving as the truth slammed into you like a freight train.

Logan’s hand was on your shoulder then, warm and steady. “They've tried their best” he said, his voice low but certain. “So did we, so did you.”

Your tears finally slipping free, but you didn’t sob. It was quiet, contained, but the weight of them felt unbearable. You swallowed hard, wiping your face, but the tears came regardless, leaving silent trails down your cheeks. The grief sat heavily in your chest, raw and unyielding.

You looked back at Maya’s small body, your heart aching, the guilt still gnawing at you. “I should’ve—” Your voice faltered again

“Stop,” he said, his voice low and firm, cutting through the chaos in your head. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

Logan's arm rests steady by your shoulder, with a slight pressure, as if he's trying to pull you into his embrace. As inviting and comforting as it seems, you can't accept such affection from him—you simply cannot.

His heart shatters into pieces at the scene before him: the sweet girl who doesn’t deserve this, and you, torturing yourself with it. He can feel the guilt radiating from your very core, and whilst he's not a much of a believer at this very moment he wishes he could make it better, could make you feel better, if only he knew how. His vain attempt at a gentle pull to draw you closer goes unnoticed by you—or at least, that's what he thinks.

You felt worthless, an absolute failure. You thought you are a failure when Maya's injured but now to cost her a life too? Is there even a word for that, something lower than a failure, a disappointment perhaps. She deserved better, if only you didn't storm in like a rookie and thought everything would go as planned, maybe she'd be alive. If only you didn't let the paranoia get the best of you, letting yourself to work as a team with the others.

You stepped back, the nauseating feeling washing over you once again—one you could never get used to. It was overwhelming. Logan’s arm fell from your shoulder, and he glanced at you immediately, searching for your eyes.

You didn’t know why, but a sudden urge to hide overwhelmed you. Embarrassment crept in like a heavy shadow. They would acknowledge your grief, yes, but they would also acknowledge the truth you couldn’t escape—that it was all because of you. Your fault. No matter how hard they tried to mask their silent judgment, it was always written plainly on their faces.

You wanted to run away from all of it. Like you always do—an avoider. “Excuse me,” you said, your voice quieter than intended, as your hand relentlessly wiped at the stupid tears streaming down your face. Your feet, weighed down by guilt, carried you out of the medbay in seconds.

Logan's confusion was palpable. He would’ve expected you to mourn in a much different way—maybe saying a final goodbye to Maya with heavy, fat tears. Instead, your reaction left him unsettled. Turning his attention back to Maya's body, he murmured softly, “M’really sorry, girl,” a quiet apology and farewell meant more for her than for himself. He tried to be tough, for his own sake and, in part, for yours.

When he looked up again, his focus shifted to you disappearing down the hallway. With a deep sigh, he turned to Jean and Hank. “I’m sorry, Jean, Hank.” he said simply, nodding at each of them before walking out with heavy, deliberate foot steps.

With your arms wrapped tightly around your body, as if they could shield you from the crushing weight of your shame, you walked briskly, desperate to disappear before anyone could see you. But your hope shattered when Logan’s voice rang out from behind, calling your name—once, twice, and then multiple times.

That didn't stopped you, why would it be. You need a time, an alone time obviously.

You kept walking, your pace quickening with every step. Logan's voice called after you, his tone growing sharper, more insistent, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Your feet moved on autopilot, carrying you toward your room as if it were the only safe harbor in a storm. You needed space—alone time, desperately—because facing anyone, even him, was unbearable right now.

Reaching your door, you fumbled with the handle, slipping inside just as Logan's footsteps came up behind you. The door clicked shut, and you locked it immediately, the sound echoing in the suffocating silence of your room.

Your legs gave out beneath you, the weight of everything dragging you down. You fell to the floor with a quiet thud, your back sliding against the door until you were sitting, knees pulled to your chest. Your hands trembled as they wrapped around your legs, holding yourself together as though you might otherwise shatter completely. The tears came fast and hot, spilling down your face in relentless waves as sobs wracked your body.

Outside, Logan stopped just short of colliding with the door. He stared at it for a moment, frustration and worry warring on his face. His hand came up, hesitating before he knocked gently, his voice barely audible over the sound of your muffled cries.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” he said, his words soft but edged with a quiet plea. “C’mon. Let me in.”

Your sobs didn’t stop. If anything, they grew louder, raw and broken, tearing through the fragile silence like jagged glass. The sound twisted something deep inside him, and Logan let out a frustrated growl under his breath. His hands curled into fists at his sides as he leaned his forehead against the door, the cool wood doing little to ground him.

He could hear every breath you took, every hitch in your voice, every agonized cry that told him exactly how much pain you were in. And it was killing him. Logan wasn’t the type to sit idly by, but now, he had no choice. You had locked him out—both literally and figuratively—and no matter how badly he wanted to rip the door off its hinges, he held himself back. Barely.

“Dammit,” he muttered, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. His fists uncurled, one hand coming up to press flat against the door, as if somehow that small gesture could reach you.

Inside, you heard his words, but they felt distant, like a faint echo buried beneath the tidal wave of your guilt. Your breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps, your chest heaving as the weight of everything pressed down on you. Maya’s face flashed in your mind—her lifeless body, the blood, the stillness—and a fresh wave of nausea rolled through you.

Logan's voice came again, this time firmer, though still gentle. “You’re not the reason this happened. You hear me? It wasn’t your fault.”

But you couldn’t hear him—not really. The voice in your head was louder, crueler, drowning him out with accusations and blame. It was your fault. You should’ve done better, been better. You shouldn’t have stormed into the mission so recklessly, thinking everything would go as planned. Maya was gone because of you, and nothing anyone said could change that.

Outside, Logan’s patience snapped. He slammed his palm against the door, the loud crack startling even him. “Lemme in,” he demanded, his voice rough, a thread of desperation woven through it. “Lemme in, Jesus.”

But there was no response. Only the sound of your quiet, choked cries bleeding through the door. Logan clenched his jaw, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He wanted to be angry at you, to yell at you for shutting him out, but he couldn’t. Not when he could hear the sheer agony in every sound you made.

“Shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He leaned back against the door, his body a tense line of restraint. The urge to break down the barrier between you was almost overwhelming, but he stayed put, knowing you’d only push him further away if he forced his way in.

“Please,” he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur, almost a whisper. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.” His words hung heavy in the air, unanswered.

Logan’s heart twisted painfully as he realized he couldn’t reach you—not like this. You kept putting distance between yourself and everyone else, a distance that felt impossible for him to cross. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, to hold you until the storm inside you calmed, but you wouldn’t let him. And that broke something inside him more than he cared to admit.

Sliding down to sit on the floor outside your door, Logan rested his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He stayed there, silent but present, listening to your muffled cries. His claws itched to tear the door apart, but instead, he let out a quiet sigh, his voice barely audible as he spoke again.

“M'not going anywhere,” he said softly, his words meant for you and you alone. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here.”

•••

The sun had begun its slow ascent, casting a dark blue hue over the horizon visible through your window. The shadows of the night retreated inch by inch, but the heaviness inside you refused to dissipate. You hadn’t moved from your spot by the window, knees drawn to your chest, the tears long since dried on your cheeks. An hour had passed, maybe more, though it felt like a lifetime.

Then, Professor Xavier's calm, commanding voice broke the silence, resonating in your mind. “I need you in the meeting room.”

You inhaled deeply, trying to steady the storm inside you. Rising to your feet felt like a monumental effort, but you managed. You opened the door and froze at the sight of Logan seated by the wall just outside, his head resting against it, eyes closed but still alert. He looked up instantly, his gaze locking onto yours.

He stood quickly, his movements fluid despite the obvious exhaustion etched into his features. "Xavier?" he asked, his tone neutral but edged with concern.

“Yeah,” you croaked out, your voice raspy and weak, accompanied by a small nod. You avoided his gaze, focusing on the floor as you closed the door behind you. Without another word, you turned and began walking toward the stairs, your feet moving automatically.

But you hadn’t gone far when Logan’s hand gently caught your wrist, halting your steps. “Hey,” he said softly followed by muttering your name, his voice a plea more than a call.

You froze, your body stiffening at the contact. For a moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to turn, couldn’t bear to see the worry or frustration in his eyes. But his pull was gentle, almost reluctant, and it broke through your hesitation. Slowly, you turned to face him, your gaze falling to where his hand wrapped around your wrist.

“You don’t have to go,” he murmured, his voice quiet but firm. “I can talk to Charles.” His thumb brushed lightly against your wrist, the touch grounding in its tenderness.

“No, Logan,” you said, shaking your head, your voice steadier this time. “This is my responsibility.”

His grip loosened but didn’t fall away, his thumb still tracing soothing circles on your skin. “Alright,” he muttered, his tone almost resigned, though his words carried an undercurrent of understanding.

His voice pulled your gaze upward, and for the first time, you met his eyes fully. They were heavy with exhaustion and unspoken emotions, a reflection of everything he wasn’t saying but felt nonetheless. You swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at you as your eyes flicked from his to his lips for the briefest moment—a fleeting, subconscious act.

Realizing what you’d done, you flinched slightly, pulling your wrist free from his grasp. “I’ll be fine,” you mumbled, turning quickly and walking toward the stairs without sparing him another glance.

Behind you, Logan let out a quiet sigh, his frustration palpable. He followed a step behind, unwilling to let you face whatever awaited you alone, even if you didn’t want his company.

The room fell silent as you stepped in, Logan following close behind. All eyes turned toward you, their gazes heavy, searing into your already fragile composure. You glanced around the table, forcing yourself to take in each expression, though you couldn’t linger for long.

Scott’s face was a mask of barely restrained fury, his jaw clenched, his lips pressed into a thin line. Even behind his visor, you could feel the weight of his disappointment. It radiated off him, sharp and cutting, like a physical blow.

Beside him, Jean sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her face pale, her eyes rimmed with red. She wasn’t just mourning—she was devastated, her grief a palpable force that seemed to drain the room of warmth.

Ororo’s expression was harder to decipher. Her lips pressed together in a grim line, her eyes clouded with a mix of emotions—grief, perhaps, but also a quiet sadness that hinted at disappointment.

Hank sat hunched over, his hands clasped tightly on the table, his brow furrowed in an almost pained expression. His guilt was etched into every line of his face, though you knew this wasn’t on him. Still, it weighed on him as if it were.

Finally, your eyes landed on Charles. His face was as composed as ever, his expression neutral and unreadable. Yet the silence that lingered between you spoke volumes. There was no condemnation in his gaze, but no reassurance, either—just the quiet presence of a man who had seen too much.

The weight of their collective stares became unbearable, and you looked down, focusing on the floor as you moved to take an empty seat. Logan’s hand lightly brushed your back, a silent anchor, before he stepped around you to take the chair beside yours.

The silence in the meeting room was oppressive as Charles cleared his throat, his voice calm yet heavy with the weight of the situation.

“We’re here to discuss the unfortunate events that has occurred,” he began, his tone measured, “And to prepare for Maya’s funeral this morning.”

The mention of her name sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing over you. You stared at the table, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

Scott, however, wasted no time, his voice sharp and biting. “She needs to explain herself.” His gaze burned into you, and though you couldn’t see his eyes behind the visor, the fury in his voice was unmistakable. “A student is dead, because she couldn’t keep her head straight.”

Logan shifted in his seat beside you, his fists curling against the table. “Ease up, Summers,” he growled, his tone low and menacing.

“No,” Scott shot back, his voice rising. “You think this is something we can just brush off? Maya’s gone, and someone needs to be held accountable!”

Logan leaned forward, his voice cold and deliberate. “Accountable? You wanna talk about accountability, Scott? Maybe we should start with who came back drunk last night.”

Scott froze, his jaw tightening as Logan’s words hit their mark.

“She was trying to do the team a favor” Logan continued, his gaze hard.

“Logan,” Charles interjected, his tone a quiet warning, but Logan ignored him, his focus locked on Scott.

“You weren’t out there,” Logan said, his voice sharp as claws. “You didn’t see what we were up against.”

Scott looked like he wanted to fire back, but Jean placed a hand on his arm, her touch calming him just enough to make him sit back.

Charles turned to you, his expression gentler. “Please, tell us what happened,” he said, his tone more of a request than a command.

Your hands tightened into fists against your knees, your voice trembling as you began.

“Logan and I got her into the car, we were already leaving from the facility and her condition was well” you said quietly, your throat tightening. “I thought we were clear, but then…” You hesitated, the memory of that moment flashing vividly in your mind.

“They catch up with bikers and started shooting, the window shattered” you continued, your voice breaking. “A bullet… or maybe a glass, it nicked through her neck.”

You couldn’t say more, your words catching as your breaths grew shallow. Logan’s hand moved, his rough palm settling atop your trembling one where it gripped your knee tightly. His warmth anchored you, his touch gentle but grounding.

“We almost got her,” Logan said, his voice low but steady, cutting through the tension in the room. His tone carried a weight of guilt, even though you knew it wasn’t his to bear. “I couldn’t drive fast enough.”

His admission hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, as if he blamed himself when the truth was far from that.

“It wasn’t his fault,” you said, your voice barely audible, but firm. “It was mine. It was my idea to move faster, to take the risk.”

Logan’s grip on your hand tightened just slightly, a silent protest against your self-blame.

The room remained quiet for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. Even Scott, though still fuming, seemed to falter, the sharp edges of his anger dulled by the rawness of what had been said.

Charles’s gaze lingered on you and Logan, his expression unreadable but thoughtful.

Jean was the first to break the silence. “And Ellie?” she asked softly, her voice laced with concern.

The reminder hit you like a punch to the gut. Ellie. You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “We didn’t find her. She’s still out there.”

Scott’s scowl deepened. “So, we’re sitting here, wasting time when we should be focusing on finding her.”

“We will,” Charles said firmly.

Ororo looked to you, her expression thoughtful but troubled. “Why would they target children, especially girls?” she asked. “It seems deliberate.”

You took a deep breath, choosing your words carefully. “Because girls are less likely to be seen as a threat,” you said, your voice steady. “They’re easier to overlook, which makes it simpler to take them without raising alarm. And if they’re young enough, they’re more vulnerable—less likely to fight back or escape.”

You paused, glancing around the room. “But it’s not just about control. Girls are often underestimated, even when they have powerful abilities. Someone like Maya, with her supersonic scream, or Ellie, who can manipulate fire—that kind of power in someone people don’t expect to be dangerous? It’s exactly what these people want. They can groom them into weapons without the same resistance they’d face from boys or adults.”

Ororo’s expression hardened as your words sank in, the room falling silent under the weight of the revelation.

Hank nodded solemnly. “Their methods align with that theory. The equipment and resources we’ve seen point to calculated, targeted operations.”

“We need to find Ellie,” Scott said, his tone resolute. “And we need to stop SAC and Killebrew before they take anyone else.”

Logan leaned back in his chair, his hand still resting lightly atop yours. “We gotta face something bigger” he began, his voice steady but edged with tension, “This wasn’t just random. The SAC, they’re mixed up in this probably alongside with CIA and Killebrew too. This ain’t the first time we’ve crossed paths with the man, he could be deep with all this.”

Scott’s scowl deepened, and he crossed his arms. “We’ve dealt with Killebrew before,” he said sharply. “There's not enough solid proof he was behind these new experiments. Just speculation. The man's old, he's running out of time.”

“Speculation doesn’t get us anywhere,” Ororo said softly, though her tone carried a distinct edge.

Jean leaned forward, her voice low. “If Killebrew is involved, we need to connect him to SAC and whoever else is funding these operations. Otherwise, we’ll just be chasing shadows again.”

Hank adjusted his glasses and sighed. “The attack on Maya and the equipment used tell us a lot. I analyzed the bike, custom made. It’s clear their resources are not only military-grade but could also specifically designed for counter-mutant operations. This suggests direct involvement from SAC, with Killebrew’s expertise likely supporting their goals.”

“What exactly are their goals, Hank?” Charles asked, his tone even but probing.

“From what we’ve gathered so far,” Hank said, his voice growing more serious, “it’s not just containment. SAC is using Killebrew’s methods to experiment on mutants. They’re trying to weaponize abilities. Think back to the enhanced weaponry we encountered—they’re taking mutant DNA and turning it into tools for warfare.”

A heavy silence followed as the weight of Hank’s words settled over the room.

Logan broke it, his voice rough. “We need to hit their base again. There’s gotta be somethin’ there—a lead, intel, anything. Webknow what we’re walkin’ into this time.”

Scott scoffed, his frustration bubbling over. “Yeah because this time nobody's gonna be harmed” His voice was sharp, his anger directed more at the situation than any one person.

Logan’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed level. “Can you stop being such an asshole for five fucking minutes?” he said pointedly, as Scott referencing the recklessness of his and your recent off-mission behavior.

The tension between them was palpable, but before it could escalate, Charles raised a hand. “Enough,” he said firmly. His tone left no room for argument.

Jean quickly stepped in. “Let’s focus. We can’t afford to splinter as a team.”

Hank nodded, his voice steady. “Logan’s right. Returning to their base may provide us with the evidence we need to finally pin this on Killebrew and SAC. We should move quickly before they clear out any remaining traces.”

Ororo glanced at Charles. “And Maya?”

Charles’ face softened slightly, though his voice carried the weight of leadership. “We will lay her to rest in the garden this morning. She was one of us, and she deserves to be honored as such. Afterward, we’ll plan the mission in detail.”

The group exchanged solemn glances, unified in their grief but also in their determination.

Logan gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. “We’ll figure this out,” he said quietly, his gaze meeting yours for a fleeting moment.

The room fell into a heavy silence after Charles dismissed the team, his parting words lingering in the air. "Pay your respects for Maya soon. She deserves it." One by one, everyone stood, somber and weighed down by grief.

You pushed yourself to your feet, still clutching your arms around your body for some semblance of comfort. The ache in your chest was unbearable, making it hard to even look up at the others. Logan followed closely behind as you stepped toward the door. By the time you exited the room, his palm rested gently on your back.

The touch was warm, steady—an anchor in the storm you felt raging inside. A shiver ran down your spine, one you couldn’t suppress. His voice broke through the haze, low and calm, “You should eat something.”

The suggestion felt like an afterthought in your daze, but it stirred a faint awareness of the emptiness in your stomach. You were too weak to respond, too wrapped up in your own exhaustion, but Logan’s sharp ears caught the faint growl from your stomach.

His lips twitched slightly, just enough for you to catch the ghost of a smirk. “I could make omelette and potatoes,” he said casually, as though trying to lighten the mood. “Like that one time, huh?”

A faint memory surfaced—Logan fumbling in the kitchen, you relentlessly judging his cooking skills for making something so basic. You’d teased back then, earning a gruff chuckle and a sarcastic quip.

Now, despite the heaviness pressing down on you, a weak laugh escaped your lips. You glanced up at him, catching the faint amusement in his expression. His palm remained firm against your back, grounding you, while his other hand rested casually in his pocket.

But the small moment was shattered by a sharp voice from behind.

“Right, keep her tame like your little pet.” Scott’s words were venomous, startling you as you turned, not realizing he’d been walking behind you. Logan froze mid-step, his hand dropping from your back as he turned to face Scott.

“Whatddya said?” Logan’s voice was low, his tone barely controlled, carrying an edge that made you flinch.

Scott met his glare with one of his own, unflinching. “You heard me, I said keep her tame like you—”

Scott never got to finish. Logan’s fist flew faster than you could react, connecting with Scott’s jaw in a sickening crack. You flinched, your body tensing as the scene unfolded before you.

Scott staggered back, his hand shooting to his jaw as he scowled. Without hesitation, he retaliated, throwing a punch that caught Logan square on the nose. Blood trickled down, but Logan barely seemed to notice. Instead, he grabbed Scott by the jacket, pulling him close.

You swear you couldn't care less about their immature behavior, you got too much on your plate and barely enough energy to raise your voice for them to hear. “Please, just stop” you said weakly, stepping forward, but the two were frozen in place before you could intervene.

You blinked in confusion, your voice uncertain as you took a cautious step closer. “Logan?” you called, your concern palpable as you inspected their frozen forms. Logan’s hand remained clenched around Scott’s jacket, while Scott’s arm hovered mid-air, inches away from his visor.

From behind you, a familiar voice broke the tense silence, tinged with exasperation. “They’re getting too old for this,” Jean said dryly, stepping into view.

“Since when could you do that?” you asked, glancing back to see Jean emerging from the meeting room.

She shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Professor taught me a while ago.” She clicked her tongue, strolling closer to inspect the scene. “Look at them.”

Despite yourself, a weak chuckle escaped. Jean nudged you lightly with her shoulder. “It’s kind of amusing,” you admitted, your voice soft but tinged with a hint of laughter.

Jean smirked, crossing her arms. “Aren’t they?”

Charles and Hank appeared from the hallway, both glancing at the spectacle before them. Charles sighed but didn’t stop strolling, his voice calm but firm. “Jean, let the poor gentlemen go.”

Hank shook his head but said nothing, following Charles without breaking stride. Jean tilted her head slightly, and in an instant, Logan and Scott were moving again.

Logan blinked, releasing his grip on Scott’s jacket as he stepped back. Scott stopped his arm mid-motion, lowering it reluctantly as he glared at Logan.

“Not cool,” Logan muttered toward Jean, his voice rough with irritation.

Jean just smirked, her attention already shifting. Logan turned back to you, his features softening immediately. “C’mon,” he said, tilting his head and gesturing for you to follow.

You clutched your arms tighter around yourself, your exhaustion evident as you walked to his side. His palm found its place on your back again, steady and comforting.

Jean and Scott trailed behind, their voices low.

“Are they together or something?” Scott whispered, his tone both bitter and curious.

Jean gave him a look, her lips curving into a faint smile. “I don’t know.”

Scott frowned, skeptical. “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re a telepath.”

Jean rolled her eyes, her smile widening as she glanced ahead at you and Logan. “Some things are better left unanswered, Scott.”

The garden was silent except for the soft rustling of leaves in the morning breeze. The students and staff of Xavier’s School had gathered in somber rows, faces etched with grief. The small tombstone stood freshly planted in the earth, its inscription simple yet heartbreaking:

Maya Fernandez

Gone but not forgotten.

You stared at it, the weight in your chest growing heavier with each passing second. The sound of Charles’s voice delivering a eulogy barely registered, muffled as though you were underwater. You couldn’t bring yourself to look anywhere else, not even as the team began to disperse after the ceremony.

Logan stood across from you, his arms crossed tightly, his sharp eyes fixed on your still figure. He hadn’t moved since the gathering started, lingering at a respectful distance but watching you closely.

One by one, the others left the garden, the sound of footsteps fading into the background. Ororo cast a last glance in your direction, her expression heavy with sympathy before walking away. Jean lingered for a moment, exchanging a look with Logan before she too left, leaving only the two of you standing there.

Logan’s boots crunched softly against the gravel as he approached. His presence was solid, grounding, but he hesitated as he neared you. His jaw worked, as though he was trying to find words, but nothing came out.

Finally, he stood by your side, silent. His hand hovered near your back before finally resting there, his touch tentative at first, seeking permission. When you didn’t flinch or pull away, his palm slid gently to the curve of your waist. The pressure was light but steady, a silent invitation to let him be there for you.

Without looking up to him, you stepped closer, leaning into his side. The movement was instinctive, your body desperate for some kind of support as your legs threatened to give out beneath you. Logan’s arm tightened around you slightly, anchoring you to him.

Your left arm reached around his back, clutching at the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. The closeness sent a faint shiver down his spine, but he said nothing, letting you take what you needed. Your right hand rested against his chest, your fingers brushing over the soft shirt he wore as you wiped away tears that seemed endless.

“You're always have been the resilient one,” Logan murmured, voice low and rough but carrying a gentleness.

You shook your head. “Not today.”

He exhaled deeply, his hand moving in small, soothing circles against your waist. “And that’s okay,” he said quietly.

The words, simple as they were, broke through the dam holding back your emotions. You buried your face against his chest, muffling the quiet sobs that racked your body. Logan stayed still, his broad frame solid against you, his warmth a shield against the cold weight of grief.

By the time darkness had fallen, the team was already prepared for a calculated mission to find Ellie, putting the grief of Maya aside to save, hopefully, the living one. You'd picked a twin pair of handguns—glossy black—safely secured in their holsters.

The Blackbird took off as usual, with Hank in the pilot’s seat and Ororo co-piloting. Logan, as always, secured his favorite spot next to you on the long bench in the cabin, various straps holding his broad frame in place.

However, unlike the rest of the team, Logan wasn’t dressed in the usual black suit—no tactical gear, no uniform. He just sat there in a pair of jeans and a simple black shirt alongside with black leather jacket, like he didn’t have a single care in the world.

Scott eyed him, his lips twitching in mild exasperation. "You're seriously not going to wear the team gear?" he asked, an eyebrow arched.

Logan shot him a quick glance, his usual smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Nah. Don't need it."

"Party pooper," Scott muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Logan didn’t bother responding, keeping his focus on the mission ahead.

It was a smooth takeoff at first, but soon heavy clouds began shaking the Blackbird. Despite its sophisticated technology, it couldn’t fully defy nature's might. The turbulence wasn’t unfamiliar to you, but the violent tremors made even you a bit uneasy. Your mutation would protect you if anything happened, but you couldn't help wishing this particular flight would remain incident-free. After all, this plane carried the only people you truly cared about in your half-century of life.

You glanced toward the cockpit. Hank’s normally calm demeanor was strained as he gave Ororo instructions, his voice steady but clipped. Ororo nodded, adjusting the controls to lower the jet and avoid the worst of the storm. Their calm professionalism grounded you, even as the turbulence worsened.

Jean and Scott sat across from you and Logan. Scott’s expression was unreadable behind those glasses, his posture relaxed as though turbulence were just a minor inconvenience. Jean, gripping her seatbelt casually, seemed equally unbothered. Your gaze drifted left to Logan, though, and what you saw surprised you.

His eyes were shut tight, his jaw clenched, and his hands gripped the safety straps like they were his lifeline. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his normally robust complexion had turned pale. His lips were pressed together so hard they almost disappeared.

He was scared. That was new.

“For someone who can’t die, you kinda sucks at it,” you quipped, hoping to lighten the mood.

Logan’s eyes snapped open, meeting yours, but the stress etched into his features didn’t soften. The lines on his forehead deepened as he shook his head silently, a clear sign he wasn’t in the mood for your jokes.

Realizing you’d misread the situation, you softened your tone. “It’s just a little turbulence,” you said, trying to reassure him, but the jet betrayed you as another violent jolt rocked the cabin. Logan grunted, his grip tightening on the straps.

“Little’s a strong word,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his knuckles white from the pressure of his grip. His breathing grew short and shallow, a rhythm that immediately set off alarms in your mind.

“Logan, breathe,” you said gently, leaning closer. His eyes locked onto yours, and you exaggerated a deep, steady breath, silently urging him to follow. Slowly, he began to mimic you, his breathing evening out with each deliberate inhale and exhale. Another slight shake hit the jet, but this time he managed to stay calm, his breathing steady under your watchful gaze.

You nodded to him, and he returned the gesture before breaking eye contact, his hands finally relaxing their death grip on the straps. He let them slide down to rest on his thighs, his shoulders sagging as some tension left his body.

Then another violent jolt struck, causing Logan’s hands to clench into fists on his thighs. You caught snippets of conversation from the cockpit as Hank and Ororo discussed a change in altitude to escape the worst of the storm. Acting on instinct, you placed your hand over Logan’s right arm, the one gripping his thigh.

His gaze darted to your hand, a flicker of surprise and, perhaps, gratitude flashing across his face. Almost immediately, his grip relaxed, his arm going still under your touch. You rubbed small circles on his forearm with your thumb, a soothing motion that seemed to anchor him further.

From across the cabin, Jean caught your eye, her expression laced with quiet amusement. She smiled softly, and you pressed your lips into a thin line, feeling warmth creeping up your neck. You quickly shifted your focus back to Logan, whose arm beneath your palm now felt steadier, the tension in his body beginning to ebb away.

Jean turned slightly, nudging Scott with her shoulder. Without speaking, she sent him a telepathic message: "They’re going to end up together by the end of the week."

Scott glanced at her, raising an eyebrow in amusement. His thoughts answered hers with a teasing tone: "End of the week? Please. I give it forty-eight hours."

Jean raised an eyebrow back at him, her lips twitching in a restrained smile. "Oh yeah? Wanna bet?" The spark of challenge in her tone was unmistakable.

Scott smirked, meeting her gaze. "Sure. If I win, I’m picking the next Saturday movie night."

Jean’s nose wrinkled in mock disgust. "Ugh, not a three-hour boring war movies. Fine, but if I win, we’re going on a picnic Sunday morning. No excuses."

Scott tilted his head, feigning consideration before nodding. "Deal."

Their expressions mirrored a conspiratorial delight, both barely containing their amusement as they exchanged a subtle smile. Scott leaned back, looking smug, while Jean cast another knowing glance in your direction.

Neither you nor Logan noticed the silent exchange, too absorbed in the moment between you. Logan’s grip had relaxed completely now, and your thumb instinctively moved in small circles over his arm. Whatever storm lingered inside him seemed to settle under your touch.

Jean fought the urge to laugh, her amusement evident as she leaned slightly toward Scott. Telepathically, she added: "Better start picking your movie, Summers."

Scott's response came swiftly, with equal confidence. "Better packing that picnic basket, Grey."

The rough flight to the SAC headquarters had unsettled the team, though Logan hid it better than most. The turbulence seemed almost symbolic, foreshadowing the chaos they were about to face. When the Blackbird finally touched down, everyone was tense but laser-focused. Logan led the charge during the initial infiltration, his claws carving a silent, efficient path through the guards. Behind him, Ororo and Scott cleared the way for Hank and Jean to access the facility's systems. You followed suit, the rhythm of combat grounding you in the moment.

The team split up for efficiency. You found yourself alone, navigating the sterile hallways. The lab doors loomed ahead, and when you stepped inside, a sight far worse than you'd imagined greeted you.

Stacks of files and records lined the walls, their labels clinical and cold: Mutation Experimentation Logs, Specimen Decommission Reports. You hesitated, dread coiling in your gut. Pulling out a file at random, you scanned the contents, each word cutting deeper than the last.

The SAC wasn’t just experimenting on mutants—it was cross-breeding them with animals to create grotesque hybrids. Descriptions of failed experiments leaped off the page, detailing lives spent in agony before termination. Your breath hitched as you stumbled across a photo clipped to the file: a child, no older than ten, with reptilian scales covering half her body. The caption read: Deceased – Subject incompatible with human host.

Your hand trembled as you shut the file and grabbed another. This one bore a name you recognized—Ivan Sokolov. A pit formed in your stomach as your eyes skimmed through the familiar handwriting: Killebrew's.

"Subject terminated following loss of viability due to prolonged suppression of mutation. Will be sent to battlefield without request for funds. Further trials planned with new candidates."

The words blurred for a moment, but your gaze snapped back to a single phrase that sent a chill down your spine: "prolonged suppression of mutation."

Mutation? Ivan was a mutant?

Your breath caught, your pulse pounding as you scrambled to reread the lines, searching for anything that might explain. Ivan, your closest friend in that desolate sea of blood and cruelty, had never hinted at being anything other than human. He hadn’t had the enhanced strength or agility some mutants wore like badges. He hadn’t shown any signs of powers you could remember.

The realization struck like a thunderbolt—he never told you. Or perhaps, he couldn't. The military had kept his secret, used him just as they had used you. But why? What was his mutation? Questions clawed at your mind, unanswered and unanswerable, now that Ivan was gone.

Your vision blurred as you returned to the file, flipping through pages frantically. Buried amidst the clinical notes was a vague mention: "Unidentified genetic anomaly. Presumed linked to cognitive augmentation." Cognitive augmentation? Your chest tightened. Ivan had always been the strategist, the one who saw patterns, who seemed to anticipate moves before they happened.

The finality of Killebrew’s words—discarded like so many others—hit you with full force. He wasn’t just a casualty of war. He had been erased, his humanity stripped away in the same cruel experiments that had stolen so many others.

Ivan had been a flicker of light in your darkness, the anchor that kept you grounded when the horrors of the battlefield threatened to swallow you whole. And now, that light was snuffed out, leaving you alone with the knowledge of the secret he had carried to his grave.

Your hands shook as you shut the file. But this time, it wasn’t just grief. It was rage—cold, seething, unrelenting rage. Ivan had deserved better. They all had.

A sound behind you snapped you out of your daze. Whirling around, you saw Logan emerging from another hallway, flanked by four wide-eyed children. Their faces were pale, their thin bodies trembling with fear.

"There's more?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Another batch of kids these bastards managed to catch," Logan growled, his tone a mix of rage and quiet grief. “Still no sign of Ellie.”

Your jaw tightened. “Take them back to the jet. I'll keep looking.”

Logan's eyes narrowed. "Not alone, you're not."

“Logan,” you said firmly, your eyes locking with his. “They need you more than I do. I’ll manage.”

He stared at you for a moment, torn between arguing and trusting you. Finally, he relented. “Fine. Be careful.”

You nodded and moved past him, your steps purposeful despite the storm of emotions churning inside you.

Deeper into the facility, you found another lab, and your heart sank at the sight. Ellie sat inside a cage, her small frame curled up in a corner. A thick collar rested around her neck—the same mutation-suppressing device you knew all too well. Her tear-streaked face lifted at the sound of the door opening, and your chest tightened.

“Ellie…” you whispered, stepping closer, but your movement was halted by a voice that sent ice down your spine.

“They found a way to unlock your collar,” Killebrew said, emerging from the shadows with a smug smile. “Still playing the hero, them disgusting mutants band messed with your head.”

Your fists clenched at your sides. “Let her go.”

Killebrew ignored your demand, circling the room with calculated steps. “Do you ever stop to think, my dear? Everyone who comes near you ends up dead. Ivan. Your father. Your mother. You’re a curse.”

The mention of your parents made you freeze. “What did you say?”

He tilted his head, his smirk widening. “Your father’s betrayal was just the beginning, wasn’t it? But your mother—oh, she broke after his death. I heard she didn’t last long. A few months, maybe?”

The words sliced through you, but you refused to show weakness. “What did you do to Ivan?!” you hissed.

Killebrew chuckled, leaning casually against the workstation. “Face it—you’re nothing but a harbinger of death to those around you. Maybe your new guy can’t die this time, but I suspect something far worse than death is already creeping up on him. The big bad Wolverine with fire and flesh... Oh, they call you ‘Hollow’ now, don’t they? I have to admit, you two make such an exquisite pair.”

Rage boiled over. With a growl, you launched yourself at him. The fight was vicious, Killebrew surprisingly agile for his age. He dodged your first swing, reaching for a scalpel, but you knocked it away. As the scuffle continued, you kicked over the cage holding Ellie, breaking it open.

“Run!” you shouted at her. “Find the others!”

Ellie hesitated, her wide eyes darting between you and Killebrew. “Go!” you yelled, your voice raw. Finally, she bolted, disappearing into the hallway.

Killebrew used the distraction to strike, slamming a piece of equipment into your side. Pain flared, but you ignored it, throwing yourself back into the fight with renewed fury.

Ellie stumbled into Scott first. “I found her!” he called into the comms. “She’s alive, but we need to move. Everyone, back to the Blackbird!”

Jean and Hank joined quickly, carrying armfuls of documents. By the time they reached the jet, Logan was already there with the other children, his expression dark and searching.

“Where is she?” Logan barked, his eyes scanning the group. When no one answered, he yelled your name.

“She’ll manage,” Scott said firmly, strapping in. “We can’t risk the kids.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his rage simmering just below the surface. “Fine,” he snapped, storming out of the jet. Jean called after him, but he ignored her, leaping down and heading back toward the facility.

“Logan, wait!” she yelled again, but he was already gone.

Scott shook his head. “Start the engines,” he ordered, leaving no room for debate. The roar of the Blackbird filled the air as Logan disappeared into the woods, determined to bring you back.

That old age isn’t lying; Killebrew is slow and can’t put up with your fight for so long. You manage to tie him to the laboratory chair with cable and some rope—god knows for what. His ridiculous face whining in pain and gray hair striking under the harsh light is absolutely amusing.

You shake your head, the view is amusing, but you can’t shake the question out of your system. What the fuck happened to Ivan? So you pull a chair and sit across from him.

“What’d you do to Ivan?” you manage to ask calmly, despite the raging storm.

“Injected him with the formula I bought from Russia. It was so expensive, he was practically a waste of funds.”

“Waste of fucking funds?!” You grunt in disgust. “Why didn’t he ever tell me? Why didn’t you?”

Killebrew shakes his head, confused. “Tell you what?!” he yells in frustration.

“That he was a mutant?! All this time, I thought he was human. Some random guy that got tangled under the filthy US government military that he probably didn’t even know half of what was going on. And I just fucking find out he’s one of your projects, just like me. Why’d you keep it from me?” you cry in frustration.

Killebrew’s brows narrow together. “Why on earth would I fucking tell you that? I’m rather surprised he didn’t tell you,” he says, leaning back with the slightest grin forming on his lips.

You shake your head. Of course, he didn’t fucking care. And here you are, thinking he kept it all away for a reason, but it’s all on Ivan. He didn’t tell you anything, and you thought you knew him, only to be proven that you didn’t know him at all, years after he was gone.

You sit in silence, letting this new fact that alters a big part of your life sink in. Your head feels heavy, and it suddenly drops as you look at the floor.

A whole year, maybe even a little more than that, you were stationed together. Sure, a year is a pretty short time to get to know someone new, but it’s a different case when the only time you didn’t see each other was a week out of that one year. You and Ivan, alongside ten other human soldiers—or at least you thought they were human because now Ivan has you questioning everything—were stationed under that sergeant whose name you can barely remember. But you remember every minute you spent with Ivan.

He told you his father was in the military. It was a common ground that instantly clicked between you two. You remembered his witty jokes: “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this? I bet ten dollars your father served.” To which you instantly replied, “And I bet you twenty your pops also served.” That day, you lost ten dollars but also gained another ten.

He’s from Montana, he told you that. His father served in the military and wanted him to be a real man and serve their country for being so kind to them as refugees. His father used to say their family owed America their lives, which you both laughed your asses off at. Owing America your life... what a shithole nightmare of a life to live.

He left Russia when he was six and never came back. He told you that. He pretty much fucking told you everything about his life because none of the other ten soldiers were fun to talk to. You did the same thing—told him pretty much everything about your life, even the experiments Killebrew had done and how they affected you. He had shared his sincere apology to you for it, but that was all.

You two lived the same life. He never told you that part. He never told you he was also an experiment, someone whose choices were taken and rights violated?

“So, Ivan’s father also sold his son to you?” you ask, finally breaking the heavy silence and lifting your head.

“Sold? He volunteered,” Killebrew says.

Before you can speak, Killebrew opens his mouth again. “It was because of you. He adored your ability and wanted to have what you have. That one week off, when all of Sergeant Cooper’s soldiers were sent back to regroup, Ivan willingly came to me. His body just rejected it.”

Your breath comes in shallow at another heartbreaking piece of information dropped like some atomic bomb on your head. What the actual fuck? Why would he fucking do that? His blood is actually on your hands? Gosh, he’s so fucking stupid—you should never have told him about your experiment.

You’re upset, angry about his decision. You can’t wrap your head around it. Just why? You feel like throwing the chair across the room. Your hands go up to your head, massaging your temples, then rest on your thighs as you bend slightly forward in the chair.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

As you’re distracted, too busy controlling your breath, Killebrew slips himself free with a piece of broken glass hidden under his white coat sleeve. He cuts the knot on his hand and lunges at you, stabbing you in the neck with the glass.

You scream in pain as he frees himself from the other knot. Your hand instinctively covers the stab wound, carefully pulling the glass out and letting your skin knit itself back together.

He runs toward one of the lab’s drawers and opens a metal door. You try to chase him but stop in horror at the sight of what he grabs.

A mutation inhibitor collar.

“One step closer, and you won’t fucking survive this time, bitch!” he spits, holding the collar out toward you as you stand a few steps away, raising your hands smartly to avoid getting caught in that shit again.

Fuck him.

You run toward him and lunge, knocking him in the stomach until his body drops with a loud thud onto the floor. You pin him in place, and he drops the collar.

Combat isn’t your strong suit, but right now, you want nothing more than to punch him bare in the face. Your fist curls, and you land a fat punch straight to his nose. He grunts in pain and manages to grab a piece of steel, smashing it into your head.

The fight isn't over. You slam Killebrew's head into the wall with a sickening thud, his skull making contact with the concrete. Не lets out a sharp cry of pain, but you don't stop. You keep smashing his head, again and again, until there's a small pool of blood trickling from the back of his skull. He slumps against the wall, his body barely staying upright, but still conscious.

Footsteps approach. Logan walks in, his gaze immediately locking onto the scene. He stops just in time to see you standing over Killebrew, his figure now small and pitiful, sitting and leaning against the wall, panting heavily.

"Hey," Logan calls your name softly. You turn at the sound of his voice. His expression softens when he sees you, his eyes scanning you for any sign of injury. "You okay?"

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. His hand reaches for your shoulder briefly, giving you a comforting squeeze.

Logan looks down at Killebrew, who's still breathing heavily, his face twisted in pain. "Look at you two," Killebrew sneers, his voice ragged. "Gonna outlive every single person you knew on this earth, until nobody's left but the two of you. A match made in hell, an eternal damnation."

Logan glances at you, and you start walking away. He follows, his voice lowering. "Aren't you gonna finish the job?" he asks.

You shake your head. "Let him suffer."

Logan steps in front of you, halting your progress. "Woah, woah, what if someone finds him and rescues him?" He looks at you, concern flashing in his eyes.

You pause, eyes flickering to Killebrew as he struggles for breath. "If I kill him, I'm just proving his point," you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

"You're not what he created," Logan's gaze softens as he processes your words. He nods in understanding. "If he survives, he won't stop."

"I know," you sigh, running a hand through your hair. "You might think I'm crazy, but I just... I'm proving this to myself. That I'm much better than him." Your gaze falls to the floor, your emotions a mess.

Logan steps closer, his breath steady, his tone gentle. "Do you want him dead?"

"Logan, I-"

"It's a yes or no question," he says cutting you off, more firm now, his voice low but unwavering.

You take a deep breath. "Yeah." You sigh, the word heavy on your chest.

Without another word, Logan walks past you, his figure casting a shadow over Killebrew's beaten form. He kneels down in front of Killebrew and curls his fist, bringing it to the man's chest. His claws emerge with a sharp, unmistakable snikt, and without hesitation, he stabs them right into Killebrew's heart.

The life drains from Killebrew's eyes, and his body goes limp. Logan pulls his claws out, the blood dripping slowly down his wrist. He retracts them, wiping his other palm across the blood-stained hand without a care in the world.

He stands up and looks at you, your eyes flickering with something, gratitude, maybe. He approaches you, his hand warm as it rests gently on your back.

"C'mon," he says softly. "Let's get outta here."

You nod, and together, you walk away, leaving the body of Killebrew behind.

The two of you walk down a desolate road, surrounded by dense woods whose name you don't even know. Glancing at your watch, you note it's half-past midnight. You still can’t believe Logan had no better plan for getting back to the mansion than walking. It’s freezing, and the single piece of black leather you’re wearing does nothing to help. And now, left alone with Logan again, you can’t ignore the awkwardness lingering between you two.

A question drums against your skull, one you’ve yet to address properly. You cringe at the thought of saying it out loud, but it keeps circling in your mind.

What the hell are we?

Maybe drop the "hell"—just what are we? Dear god, it sounds absolutely pathetic. Maybe Logan does this often, y’know, the casual thing. You’re not against it, but the idea doesn’t sit right with you. Especially since, well… it’s Logan. He gave you the best head you’ve ever had.

Or maybe it’s better left as is. No strings, no drama. No breakups, no obligations. Nobody gets left behind because there wasn’t anything to fulfill in the first place.

The two of you keep walking down the road. A few cars pass by, and Logan halfheartedly sticks his thumb out for a ride. You quickly point out that it’s not the brightest idea.

Then, a light catches your eye—a building, glowing in the dark with a bright orange sign. "You hungry?" you ask, nudging Logan with your shoulder and nodding toward the diner across the road, about a hundred yards away.

Katz Diner, the sign reads, gleaming through the gloom of night.

"We don’t have any money," Logan says, his boots crunching against the gravel.

"You don’t have any money," you reply, reaching into the pocket of your holster and pulling out two neatly folded hundred-dollar bills.

Logan scoffs, clearly amused. "You’re carryin’ cash around on a mission?"

"What? This is a survival kit." You flash him a wide smile, and his husky chuckle follows, warm and familiar against the cold night air.

The two of you finally make it to the diner, your steps quickening as the glowing orange sign promises warmth and food. But as you reach the glass door, the truth dawns on you. A "CLOSED" sign hangs in clear view, mocking your misplaced hope. You groan, your breath fogging up the glass as you clutch yourself against the biting cold.

"Asshole," you mutter under your breath, shivering as you glare at the locked door.

Logan glances down at you, his expression unreadable except for that flicker of mischief in his eyes. Without a word, you already know what he’s about to do.

"Logan, don’t—"

Before you can finish, his fist smashes through the glass. You flinch at the sound, but Logan barely reacts, calmly reaching through the jagged shards to unlock the door. Pushing it open, he gestures for you to go in first.

"You’ll have to leave the hundred bucks on a table," he says, stepping aside with a smirk.

You roll your eyes, walking past him into the dark, empty diner.

"We’re gonna get arrested," you tease, glancing around the quiet interior. Your gaze catches a red light from CCTV camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling.

"But maybe if there’s no footage," you quip, pulling your gun from its holster.

The loud crack of the gunshot shatters the stillness, and Logan startles, snapping his head toward you. "Geez, give a guy some warning, will ya?"

"Where’s the fun in that?" you reply with a grin, holstering your weapon as you take stock of the diner.

Behind the counter, you push open the swinging door to the kitchen. A quick glance around reveals a treasure trove of ingredients—raw chicken, beef, potatoes, eggs, butter, pasta, tomatoes, sausages, bacon, and more.

"Jackpot," you mutter, pulling a few items off the shelves.

Logan steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you inspect the food. "You planning to cook or hoard?"

You toss a bag of potatoes at him, which he catches with ease. "Both," you shoot back.

Within minutes, the two of you are working side by side, a light banter filling the room as you chop, stir, and fry. Logan handles the meat, seasoning and grilling the chicken and bacon with surprising skill. Meanwhile, you focus on the carbs, boiling pasta and mashing potatoes.

"You're getting better with that," you remark, watching as Logan flips the bacon in a pan.

"Had to learn," he replies with a shrug. "Ain't gonna risk the chance of you callin' my meal closer to inedible, again..."

You chuckle recalling your own joke to him "I really did hit a nerve there huh?" you tease.

Logan smirks, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. "Wound still fresh"

The playful tone lingers in the air as you finish cooking, the warm scent of food filling the room. You walk from the kitchen to the table first, balancing your plate carefully, eager to sit and eat. But as you place it down, Logan appears behind you like a shadow, plate in hand, following without a word.

You turn back toward the kitchen, remembering your forgotten glass of water, and nearly crash into him. You freeze as he blocks your way, standing so close that you feel his warmth against the cold air of the diner. Startled, you glance up, and for a brief moment, his heavy, tired eyes bore into yours. It’s like he’s seeing through you, and you’re not sure if you want to look away or keep holding his gaze.

The tension breaks awkwardly as you both shift to move, but in the same direction, cutting each other off. You chuckle nervously. "You want water?"

Logan’s lips twitch into a soft smile, rare and disarming. "Yeah."

You gesture to his right, stepping aside to give him space. "Okay, I’ll go this way, you go that way," you say, slipping past him and retreating to grab two glasses.

Your breath feels shaky as you fill the glasses, your mind stuck on that split-second where he had looked at you. Only if he knew how much he was affecting you, how much you couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes on you.

When you return, Logan is already seated, waiting. You slide the glass to his side of the table, his quiet "Thanks" breaking the silence as you take your seat.

You eat in silence at first, avoiding his gaze, your eyes fixed on your plate. The chicken looks unappetizing, under-seasoned and bland, but you tell yourself it’s fine—you’ve had worse.

Logan, on the other hand, occasionally glances up from his plate to you. His fork pauses midway to his mouth as he studies you, the way your focus stays locked on your food, the way you keep your head down.

Finally, he speaks. "Y’alright?" His voice is steady, cutting through the quiet scrape of utensils against plates.

You shrug without looking up. "Yeah."

Your gaze shifts to the window beside you, the yellow streetlight casting a faint glow against the black of night. It’s easier to stare at that than at him. After a moment, you bring your attention back to your plate, but the awkward weight of his question still lingers in the air.

Logan’s fork clinks softly as he sets it down, leaning back in the booth. His sharp eyes don’t leave you. "What’s wrong?" he asks again, his voice gentler this time, but persistent.

"Nothing," you reply quickly, a little too quickly, cutting another piece of your chicken as though focusing on the task would shield you from his gaze.

He doesn’t let it go. "Look at me," he grumbles, his tone low but firm, the kind that makes your hand freeze mid-motion.

You hesitate, but eventually tilt your head, meeting his eyes. They’re heavy with something you can’t quite put into words—concern, maybe frustration, but most of all, care.

"What’s wrong?" he repeats, this time softer, your name slipping from his lips like an anchor, grounding you.

You hate that. Hate how much his concern cuts through your walls, hate the way it makes your chest tighten. It’s unbearable, so you break the contact, dropping your gaze back to your plate.

"I don’t know," you admit, your voice small, barely above a whisper. You spear the last bite of chicken and shove it into your mouth, hoping to end the conversation.

But Logan doesn’t move. He doesn’t pick his fork back up, doesn’t shift his attention elsewhere. You can feel him watching you, his patience unnerving.

"You do," he mutters, his voice calm but resolute.

You glance up briefly, your brow furrowing. "No, I don’t," you insist, the words coming out sharper than you intended.

Logan leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. "You’re not a good liar, y’know that?"

The corner of your mouth twitches, but you don’t let the smile break through. "Guess I need more practice."

His lips quirk in a faint smile, but his eyes remain serious. "You don’t need practice. You need to talk."

You shake your head, suddenly feeling exposed under his unwavering attention. "Not now, Logan. Can we just… drop it?"

For a moment, it seems like he might push further, but then he exhales heavily, leaning back again. "Fine," he says, though his tone suggests he’s not letting it go forever.

You stood up quickly, desperate to put some space between you and Logan, the weight of everything hanging in the air. You felt a mix of frustration, confusion, and something you couldn’t quite place. But before you could walk away, his voice stopped you.

"Hey."

You froze, heart pounding, and turned to face him. His eyes were locked onto you, steady and unyielding. He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out your mother’s necklace, holding it out to you. The sight of it hit you like a punch to the gut, and you could barely process it.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stepped closer. "Where the hell did you find that?" you demanded, your voice coming out shakier than you intended as you snatched the necklace from his arm.

"Your bathroom’s floor," Logan said, his tone almost too casual, like it was no big deal. A smirk tugged at his lips, but there was no hint of apology.

"My bathroom’s floor?" You repeated, disbelief taking over. You could feel your anger rising, the frustration bubbling up. "What the fuck, Logan? Why the hell would you put it in your pocket?!"

Logan's eyes narrowed, and he shifted, standing up from the booth in one smooth motion. He was inches from you now, his body tense with frustration. "Jesus, calm down. It’s just a necklace."

"Just a necklace?" You snapped, voice rising. "It’s my mother’s! You don’t just take things and shove them in your pocket like it doesn’t matter!"

You stood there, fury coursing through your veins, your heart pounding in your chest as Logan continued to stand in front of you. He looked almost unbothered, his stance relaxed, but his eyes—his eyes were anything but.

"You always do this," you said, stepping closer, your voice low but trembling with frustration. "You make me feel like I’m the one losing my mind while you—" you gestured sharply at him, "just stand there like nothing’s wrong!"

Logan’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. "And you think I’m not losing my mind too? You think I don’t feel this—" he waved vaguely between you both, his voice rising, "whatever the hell this is?"

"This?" you shot back, your chest tightening. "This is you pushing and pulling untill I don’t even know where I stand with you!"

His laugh was bitter, almost a scoff. "Yeah? Well, try being on this side of it. Try waking up every day thinking—" He stopped abruptly, his words catching, and his eyes darted away.

"Thinking what?" you demanded, stepping closer. "Say it, Logan. For once, just say it!"

His head snapped back toward you, and his voice dropped, low and rough, like he was forcing the words out. "Thinking that if I get too close, I’m gonna ruin you. And if I stay away, I’ll hate myself for the rest of my goddamn life."

The air between you felt like it might break. Your pulse pounded in your ears, but you couldn’t look away from him.

"Then what do you want me to do?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan’s lips parted, but the words seemed to stick, his throat working as he searched for something to say.

"Stay," he murmured raw and pleading. "For once in your damn life, just stay."

You shake your head hesitantly. "Why?" Your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes stinging as you fight back tears.

Logan steps closer, the warmth of his body radiating toward you. His gaze searches your face as if memorizing every detail, etching it into his mind.

"Because we need each other," he says, his voice rough but steady. "You and I... we can be quite destructive on our own. But together—" he pauses, his jaw tightening as if the words are caught in his throat, "we cancel that out."

Your fingers tighten around the heart-shaped pendant in your hand. He reaches for you, his touch impossibly gentle, and you resist, unwilling to let go of this fragile barrier. But the tenderness in his hand disarms you, and slowly, your grip softens.

Logan carefully takes the necklace, holding it as though it’s something sacred. His gaze softens as it locks onto yours. "I've been the best version of myself when I'm with you. And I think—no, I know—you feel the same."

He steps behind you, his movements slow, deliberate, as he fastens the necklace around your neck. You close your eyes, his nearness overwhelming. The familiar scent of him—leather, smoke, and something distinctly Logan—wraps around you, grounding you and pulling you apart at the same time.

"Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll stop," he says softly.

You don’t answer. Words fail you as his fingers brush the back of your neck and lift your ponytail for adjusting the clasp. Your breath catches when his hand grazes your waist, the touch featherlight but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

His voice drops, barely audible. "Just one chance. That’s all I’m asking."

You lean into his touch despite yourself, your head tilting slightly as his breath warms the curve of your neck. When his lips hover, hesitating, your resolve weakens entirely.

"Logan..." you whisper, though you’re not sure what you’re asking for.

He exhales sharply, the sound laced with longing. His palm rests firmly on your waist, and his other hand grazes the zipper of your suit. Your heart pounds as he begins to pull it down, his touch deliberate and maddeningly slow.

Unable to take the tension any longer, you turn to face him, the suit unzipped halfway. His hands find your waist again as you rest yours on his shoulders, grounding yourself against the storm building between you.

"What do you want?" you ask, your voice trembling as his forehead touches yours, his nose brushing against you in the smallest, softest gesture.

"You," he breathes. "I want you."

His hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing your skin with a gentleness that sends heat spiraling through your chest. Before either of you can think twice, you close the gap, your lips crashing into his.

Logan kisses you back with equal intensity, his lips moving against yours in a way that feels both desperate and certain. It’s messy, passionate, and utterly consuming. When your tongue slips past his lips, he meets it eagerly, a low growl escaping his throat.

Without warning, a wild thought flickers through your mind, and you bite down on his bottom lip hard enough to hurt and leave an impression. Logan pulls back with a sharp inhale, his eyes wide with surprise.

You grin, mischief playing on your lips as you watch the small wound heal almost instantly. He licks the blood from his lip tasting the iron.

He cooed "Easy there" the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk.

You grab his wrist after he moves to wipe the blood away and bring his finger to your lips. Slowly, deliberately, you lick the crimson from his skin, your eyes never leaving his.

Logan lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle. "You’re gonna be the death of me," he growls, his voice thick with desire.

"Then I’ll make sure it’s slow and satisfying," you reply, your voice a whisper dripping with challenge.

He doesn’t give you a chance to say anything else, his lips crashing into yours again, hungrier this time. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel his body tense against yours as if holding himself back from unraveling completely.

"Logan," you moan against his lips.

"Say it again," he murmurs, his voice raw as his lips trail down to the edge of your jaw.

Your breath stutters. "Logan..."

The way he reacts, the way his name seems to break something inside him, sends your heart spiraling.

Logan pulls back suddenly, his gaze darting to something behind the counter. His expression is unreadable as he peeks over, making you furrow your brows in confusion.

“Logan, what—?” you start, but before you can finish, a familiar tune blasts through the speakers.

'I could stay awake... just to hear you breathing...

Watchin’ you smile while you are sleeping.'

Your eyes widen as you recognize the opening chords of Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing by Aerosmith fill the room.

Logan steps back toward you, a mischievous grin on his face. With a slow, deliberate motion, he extends his arm, inviting you to take it.

“What are you doing?” you ask, half-laughing, but you instinctively reach out, letting him guide your hand to his.

“Dance with me,” he says confidently, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You let out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head but allowing him to pull you closer.

“Didn’t take you for a sucker of romance,” you tease, laughing softly as he spins you around the empty diner.

His movements are surprisingly smooth, his hand guiding yours to his shoulder while the other stays firmly at your waist. “Yeah, well,” he smirks, “I don’t even know how to dance.”

“Sure you don’t,” you reply with a grin, noticing how effortlessly he leads.

'Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure.....'

As the music swells, your eyes meet his, and the warmth in his gaze makes your chest tighten. This song—it hits every nerve just right.

And then, as if on cue, the two of you burst out in unison:

“Don’t wanna close my eyes…”

Your voice is off-key, and so is his, but neither of you care. You’re singing with abandon, your joy filling the room.

“I don’t wanna fall asleep, ‘cause I’ll miss you, babe!”

Logan laughs, a deep, husky sound that makes your stomach flutter, and you can’t help but join in.

“And I don’t wanna miss a thing!”

You yell out the lyrics, your voices echoing through the diner. Logan suddenly lifts you off your feet, spinning you around, and you shriek with laughter, clinging to his shoulders.

“‘Cause even when I dream of you…” Logan sings the line. You laugh so hard tears prick your eyes.

“The sweetest dream will never do…”

You quiet down, your smile fading into something more genuine as he carries you in a slow, swaying circle.

“I’d still miss you, babe…”

Your chest tightens, emotion welling up as you press closer, resting your forehead against his.

“And I don’t wanna miss a thing,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

Logan’s grin softens, and he pulls you even closer. His chin rests gently on top of your head as the two of you move in slow, easy steps to the rhythm of the song. Your hand squeezes his arm, and you close your eyes, letting the moment take over.

The beat of his heart is steady beneath your ear, grounding you. His hand at your waist tightens, his touch warm and reassuring. For the first time in a long time, everything feels right—no fights, no pain, just the two of you and this perfect, fleeting moment.

'Then I kiss your eyes and thank God we’re together,

And I just wanna stay with you,

In this moment forever, forever and ever.'

The song continues to pour through the diner speakers as the two of you move in slow, deliberate steps. You pull your head away from Logan’s chest, your eyes flickering with unspoken gratitude. He holds your gaze, leaning in closer, and brushes his lips against yours in a soft, tender kiss.

Outside the diner, across the road, Scott and Jean stand in their gear, clearly fresh from their mission. Ellie and the children have been safely returned to the mansion, and with the tracker embedded in your suit, it wasn’t hard for them to find you and Logan in the middle of nowhere.

What they didn’t expect was… this.

Under the diner’s bright lights and with its large glass windows, you and Logan are clearly visible, completely absorbed in each other.

Scott lets out an incredulous sigh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable,” he mutters.

Jean chuckles, nudging him playfully. “Man, can’t believe we both lost this one,” Scott grumbles.

Jean smirks. “Lovebirds,” she teases, crossing her arms as they continue watching the scene unfold.

Scott huffs, stepping off the curb. “Alright, let’s break this up.”

The two of them approach the diner, standing awkwardly just outside the glass. They exchange a glance, silently debating what to do. Finally, Scott knocks loudly on the glass, startling you both mid-kiss.

You jolt, pulling away from Logan as your heart jumps into your throat. “Fucking hell,” you mutter, your face flushing as you spot Scott and Jean standing there, Scott looking thoroughly unimpressed and Jean offering a thin, awkward smile.

Logan doesn’t look even remotely phased. He’d sensed their presence long before the music even started, but he hadn’t cared. With a soft grunt, he reaches behind you and zips your black leather suit back up, taking his sweet time.

Scott and Jean step carefully through the broken glass on the diner floor, their expressions half-amused and half-annoyed.

“I had high hopes for you two,” Scott says, his tone dry as he surveys the scene.

Logan raises an eyebrow, his hand still resting on your lower back. “You’ve got a point, Summers, or are you just here to gawk?”

Jean laughs lightly, shaking her head. “Don’t mind him. He’s just sulking because he bet you’d get together in the next forty-eight hours.”

Scott scowls. “And she bet it’d take at least a week,” he grumbles, gesturing at Jean. “Turns out, we were both wrong.”

You blink in disbelief, glancing at Logan, who looks utterly amused. He lets out a low, satisfied chuckle.

“Guess you two underestimated us,” he says, flashing a smug grin before leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your lips—right in front of them.

Your cheeks warm, but you can’t help the wide smile spreading across your face as you lean into Logan’s side.

Scott groans, throwing his hands up. “Alright, get a room, you two. Your ride’s outside. Time to go home.” He turns, wrapping an arm around Jean’s shoulders as they head for the door.

'Don’t wanna close my eyes…

I don’t wanna fall asleep…

I don’t wanna miss a thing,'

the song continues, fading behind you as Logan intertwines his fingers with yours.

“Home,” you murmur with a soft smile, glancing up at him.

Logan’s lips press gently against your temple, his touch grounding and warm.

“Home indeed,” he echoes, voice filled with quiet contentment.

Together, you walk out of the diner, leaving the music behind and a two-hundred-dollar bill on the counter by the radio.