#The wolverine

[4ever-feral]

GIVE ME THIS OLD MAN NOW!!! HES GIVING OLDER BOYFRIEND AND ITS DRIVING ME FERAL!! PLS ONE CHANCE HUGH!!! 😩😩

[silverskyeline]

can I request couples Halloween costumes with old man Logan who will begrudgingly dress up for his girl as long as he can get her out of her costume just as fast 😏

omg i had to write this before it got any further from halloween, hope you enjoy! 18+ f!reader x logan

logan's 'too old' for holidays, least that's what he's always told you. he's literally hundreds of years old. he's had his fill of tacky celebrations. halloween was just another thursday.

sitting in his armchair, he sits cross-legged with a book in his hand, glasses sliding down his nose as his eyes scan the words on the page. lost in his own world, oblivious to the way you're slipping into something a little more comfortable inside the bathroom - a costume.

when you open the door at first, revealing your skimpy frilly dress adorned with a red hood and white thigh-high socks, logan only glances at you. then double takes. holy fuck.

he uncrosses his legs instinctively, thick thighs parting as if inviting you to park between them, and sinks back against the chair. doesn't speak at first, eyes dragging along every curve and outline of your body, mind filled with thoughts of ripping you out of the sparse fabric. oh how he'd love to get his paws on you. . .

and you can see his mind ticking away, watching the obvious bulge growing between his legs. "little red riding hood," you chirp, giving him a little twirl, "cute, right?"

"cute's a start," he hums, standing as he stalks towards you, "there's plenty other words i could use to describe ya, though. . ." his large hands grab at your hips, harsh and wanting. you hear his breath hitch and it threatens to buckle your knees while his lips work the sensitive skin behind your ear.

you smirk, biting your lip to suppress the sounds that threaten to escape, "does that mean you'll wear it?" your hopeful eyes dart to the wolf ears and red plaid shirt laid out on the bed.

logan grips your chin, pulling back to lock your gaze as he drinks in the sight of you, "baby," he growls, words ghosting against your lips, "i'll wear a fuckin' mini skirt if it means i get to fuck you senseless in those pretty little thigh highs later. . ."

logan supposes, maybe holidays aren't entirely terrible or without purpose. not when he can celebrate them by bending you over as you milk his cock with your perfect cunt. merry christmas, to him, or whatever fucking holiday it was supposed to be.

[yourmom1232]

No old man is safe from me calling him my pretty princess

me and the logan hoes 😭

[wolvietxt]

𝓡ARE 𝓢IGHT !

pairing : logan howlett x reader warnings : fluff, budding relationship au, grumpy x sunshine tropes wc : 1.6k

logan had never considered himself much of a winter person. the cold never really bothered him, but he wasn’t exactly fond of it either. the whole idea of trudging through snow and ice didn’t appeal to him, especially not for the sake of fun. so, when you came bouncing up to him in the mansion’s hallway, eyes sparkling with excitement and cheeks flushed from the chill outside, he was already bracing himself for whatever half-baked idea you’d come up with this time.

"logan!" you called, breathless and grinning as you skidded to a stop in front of him. "come with me. it’s gonna be great, i promise."

he raised a skeptical eyebrow. "and what exactly am i comin’ along for?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. "’cause if it involves gettin’ my ass handed to me in a snowball fight, you can count me out."

you laughed, the sound bright and full of warmth, and for a moment, logan’s usual gruffness softened. there was just something about you that always managed to slip through the cracks in his defenses. "no snowball fights, i swear," you promised, tugging on his hand. "just come outside and see. i think you’ll like it."

with a sigh and a shake of his head, logan let himself be dragged along, following you out of the mansion and into the cold. the air was crisp and sharp, his breath fogging up in front of him as he walked, and he couldn’t help but notice the way you seemed to bounce with each step, your excitement palpable. he kept a watchful eye on you, a protective instinct that had taken root sometime in the last few months without him even realizing it.

you led him to the courtyard, where the fountain had frozen over, a smooth sheet of ice glistening beneath the winter sun. there were a couple of old skates resting nearby, likely borrowed from the mansion’s storage room, and you gave him an eager look as you bent down to pull them on. "c’mon, logan," you said, your voice a mix of encouragement and challenge. "you can’t tell me you’ve never ice skated before."

logan huffed, glancing at the skates with a skeptical eye. "not really my thing," he grumbled, but he was already kneeling down to lace them up anyway. there was something about the way you looked at him - like you believed he could do anything - that made it hard to say no.

"don’t worry," you said, standing up and wobbling a bit on the skates before finding your balance. "i’ll help you. promise i won’t let you fall."

logan let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest as he got to his feet. "you think you’re gonna catch me?" he asked, smirking. "darlin’, i weigh about twice as much as you do."

you grinned at him, undeterred. "guess that means you’ll just have to hang onto me, then."

and that was how he found himself out on the ice with you, his usually steady stance feeling awkward and clumsy as the skates slid across the frozen surface. he hadn’t done anything like this in years - hell, maybe even decades - but you moved with surprising ease, your gloved hand slipping into his to steady him.

"you’re doing great," you encouraged, your voice soft and earnest. "just relax a little. don’t fight the ice."

logan snorted at that, the corner of his mouth quirking up despite himself. "easier said than done," he muttered, but he let you pull him along, his fingers tightening around yours as he tried to find his balance. every time he stumbled, you were there to keep him upright, your laughter ringing out like music against the quiet winter air.

at first, he kept his focus on not falling, but soon, the rhythmic motion of gliding across the ice began to feel almost natural. he still wasn’t graceful - nowhere near it - but you didn’t seem to care. when he finally managed a full lap around the fountain without nearly toppling over, you clapped for him, your eyes sparkling with genuine delight. "see?" you said, a bit breathless. "told you you could do it."

"yeah, yeah," logan grumbled, but there was a warmth in his voice that hadn’t been there before. "guess i’m a real natural."

you grinned and released his hand, skating ahead a little before turning to face him. "now try to catch me!" you called, pushing off and gaining speed as you circled the fountain.

logan rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. "you’re gonna regret that," he warned, picking up speed and chasing after you.

you laughed, the sound echoing across the courtyard, and logan found himself surprised by just how much he was enjoying this. maybe it was the cold air against his face, the challenge of keeping up with you, or the way you kept glancing over your shoulder with that playful glint in your eye. whatever it was, he was starting to think you’d had the right idea all along.

as he got closer, you spun around again, nearly colliding with him in the process. with a startled gasp, you lost your balance, your arms flailing slightly as you tried to stay upright. before you could hit the ice, logan’s hands shot out, steadying you as he caught you by the waist. he pulled you close, your breath puffing out in small clouds between you as you clung to his jacket to keep from falling.

"easy there," he murmured, his voice low and gruff as he looked down at you, a mix of amusement and concern in his eyes. "thought you said you weren’t gonna let me fall."

"i… was testing you," you replied, breathless and smiling up at him, your cheeks flushed from the cold. "wanted to see if you’d catch me."

logan just shook his head, a faint chuckle escaping him as he held you a little closer than necessary. "and what would you’ve done if i didn’t?"

"guess i’d just have to drag you down with me," you said with a playful grin, and he found himself laughing for real this time, the sound deep and unguarded.

he kept his arm around you as you skated together, your laughter mixing with the occasional scrape of the blades on the ice. as much as he didn’t want to admit it, there was a lightness in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time, a warmth that had little to do with the winter sun and everything to do with you. it was strange, letting himself enjoy something so simple, but it was easy when he was with you - everything felt a little easier when you were around.

eventually, you both skated to a stop near the edge of the fountain, your breaths coming out in puffs of mist as you leaned against each other for support. logan’s hand lingered on your back, his touch gentle and grounding, and you felt your heart skip a beat at the closeness.

"didn’t know you could actually have fun," you teased, glancing up at him with a twinkle in your eye. "figured you were allergic to it or something."

logan grunted, his lips quirking into a smirk. "don’t get used to it," he said, but there was a softness in his gaze that betrayed his words. "might be a one-time thing."

you knew he was only half-serious, and it warmed you to see this side of him - unguarded, almost boyish in a way. "well, in that case, i’m glad i got to see it," you said quietly, your voice carrying a note of sincerity that seemed to catch him off guard.

logan’s expression softened further, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer than necessary. he reached up, almost absently, and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face. "you’re a real piece of work, y’know that?" he muttered, his voice gruff but not unkind. "always gettin’ me into things i got no business doin’."

"maybe you just like having an excuse to keep me around," you replied, your tone light but your heart hammering in your chest.

his eyes met yours, a flicker of something deeper in them as he held your gaze. "yeah," he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. "maybe i do."

before you could think of a response, a cheer from inside the mansion broke the moment. you glanced over to see a group of the x-men gathered by one of the large windows, watching the two of you with varying degrees of surprise and amusement. bobby, rogue, and kitty were practically pressed up against the glass, while scott and jean stood further back, shaking their heads with fond smiles.

logan grunted, his expression darkening slightly as he turned back to you. "damn kids," he muttered, though the irritation didn’t reach his eyes. "can’t do anything without them stickin’ their noses in it."

"well, it’s not every day we get to see logan smile," you teased, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. "you’re kind of a rare sight, y’know?"

he huffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched upwards again. "guess i’ll have to give ‘em somethin’ else to look at," he said, and before you could ask what he meant, he took your hand and led you back out onto the ice.

you let him guide you, the two of you gliding together in a slow circle, your hand

fitting perfectly in his. the rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you and the quiet rhythm of your skates on the ice. maybe you weren’t quite sure what this was between you and logan just yet, but as you skated together, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, it was the start of something good.

🏷️ logan howlett : @notacleangirl, @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @rooroen

@lemoanaid, @correnz, @coocoocachewgotscrewed, @ohmystvrk, @y08h

@lovely-liliacs, @california-boys-and-sun

[donutdrawsthings]

Can we talk about this? I feel like not enough people talk about this happening in the movie

[dreamwritesimagines]

Sunshine 9 - Sneak Peek

Series Masterlist

Who knew the aftermath of breaking your bed would be fun as well?

Logan grabbed a pack of what seemed like tiny pieces of metal to put it in the cart, and you looked around, then gasped.

“Let’s get these, they look prettier!”

“Screw anchors?”

You tilted your head. “Well if you feel that strongly about them…”

“No I mean- that’s what they’re called.”

“They’re yellow, I like yellow!” you insisted, grabbing the pack off the hook to hold it up and Logan chuckled.

“Sweetheart, if we’re going to use them on your bed, they need to be metal. Your bed frame is metal.”

You looked down at the pack. “Oh, these look plastic.”

“Mm hm, they are plastic.”

“Well, where do people use these?”

“On drywall, mostly,” he said. “When you’re hanging something—hold on, did Jamie just put a screw into the wall for those frames you mentioned?”

“Yeah.”

He blinked a couple of times, then cleared his throat and took the pack from you to put it in the cart as well.

“Yay!”

[softfem-dom]

he's so kitty cat codded 💞

Wolverine + Character Traits

[loganhowlettshousewife]

animal

chapter 3

friendly reminder that i am not a writer, i'm just a girl who loves logan howlett and wanted to write something exploring his animalistic side since i so rarely see it done. my first language is also not english, so please do not be rude when giving me any feedback.

warnings: swearing, mentions of blood, mentions of sex, non-sexual nudity

series masterlist │my masterlist

logan sleeps in your bed now. night after night you found him on the hard floor, until you couldn’t deal with the thought of him being so uncomfortable just because he wanted to be near you. so you forced him into your bed, though you’re not sure if forced is the right word to use given how willingly he slipped in next to you - as if he’d done it a million times before, as if it was normal.

he’s a walking heater - you swear there’s a fire burning under his skin, working through his veins to spread throughout his body. you naturally run cold, you always have, so cuddling up to his warmth is a luxury. even in the beginning, when you didn’t want to fall asleep in his arms for fear of what it would mean for your relationship, you would wake bundled up in his arms, safe and protected and wanted in a way that made you never want to leave the bed.

it’s nice, really nice.

and it simultaneously sucks, because you’ve started having dreams of logan, of kissing him, calling him your husband, watching him rock a baby. and you’ve had other dreams too, the ones you’re sure logan can smell on you, with his advanced senses. he’s always awake watching you when you wake up from those dreams, his body still curled against yours, hard dick pressed against you. but he never does anything.

it’s horribly endearing. he’s obviously affected but won’t leave you, knows how much comfort you’ve found in his arms. so he grits his teeth and bears it. despite being half-animal, he’s more of a gentleman than most of the men you’ve met.

and you love knowing that you affect him, knowing that your feelings for him are not completely one-sided, even if you can only be sure of the physical component. when you leave the room to start on your morning routine, he stays behind.

you can’t be certain, but you imagine him taking his dick in his hand, stroking himself to completion, hard and desperate and quick, muffling the sound of his groans with a hand pressed to his mouth.

you’re not used to being woken up like this, however. logan hovers over you, face twisted into a snarl so full of hatred it brings tears to your eyes. his claws are out and have ripped holes in the sheets and the mattress, locking you in a makeshift cage.

his eyes are glazed over, like he’s not quite present in the moment. he’s somewhere else right now, lost somewhere in his mind where you can’t reach him.

this isn’t a slow awakening where you can take time to blink the sleep from your eyes, letting them flutter shut for two more minutes to enjoy the bliss of being not-quite awake. the adrenaline hits you hard and fast, your heartbeat pounding loud in your ears.

you’re trembling, can feel it with every breath you take, shaky exhales and sharp inhales. you’re careful not to make any sudden moves, worried about what logan may do to you.

you know him, know he wouldn’t hurt you. but he doesn’t see you right now, you don’t know who or what he’s seeing in your place. but he’s never looked at you with these eyes, with this level of anger - in fact, you can’t remember a time when he’s truly been angry at you. scared, cautious, tense, maybe. but not fury like this.

���logan,” you whisper.

the sound has barely left your throat when he pulls one clawed hand away from the mattress, tearing more of it in the process, before punching his claws towards your chest. you cry out, instinctually, and that snaps him out of it.

you feel the sharp sting of his metal claws dragging over your skin as he pulls away. it’s only a scratch, and not a terribly deep one at that. you’re used to small injuries, pricking yourself in the garden or accidentally cutting your thumb while cooking or any other stupid way to draw blood to the surface of your skin.

but it’s not the pain that matters, it’s the thought that if it took him a second longer to break out of his nightmare he could have pierced your heart, killed you. 

“logan,” you ask, shaky, “are you okay?”

he’s staring at you, eyes wide and frightened, but the hatred that was there is gone. his claws retract back into his skin. he nods, slow, never breaking eye contact with you.

and then you burst into tears.

you can’t stop, your cries hysterical. logan sits on the bed, moving away from you with every cry that rakes your body, but you grab at his arms desperately, needing him. somehow, despite logan being the reason for your fear, he’s the only thing you want, your mind calling out his name like a prayer.

he hesitates to touch you at first, but you beg him with a broken “please”, and then he’s all over you, pulling you into his lap, nuzzling his face into your neck. he kisses you softly on the skin there, a habit he’s taken up that you don’t mind. you probably should mind, but you’re unable to care about that when it feels so right.

you fall asleep crying in his arms, the exhaustion pulling you under. you wake up again with the sun, logan looking haggard and pale, still holding you. it seems he didn’t fall back asleep when you had.

your throat feels raw from crying, and you can feel the tear tracks where they dried on your skin.

“what was the nightmare about?” you try to ask him.

he shakes his head, every line around his face pulled taunt, “no.”

you’d expected such an answer, something short and succinct where he refuses to lay his problems on you. still, you’d hoped he might share some information, even a sliver of his story that could help you help him.

you’re still worried about logan, but there’s not much you can do if he won’t speak to you, so you leave the bed to wash the dried tears from your face. you go on with your routine as usual, keeping a closer eye on logan, waiting for possible signs to help you uncover the mystery of whatever the fuck is happening with him.

there are none, of course - he’s very difficult to read when he wants to be.

he doesn’t touch you as much, a step further behind you than usual. but otherwise his behaviour doesn’t change too greatly. he’s still sweet and grumpy and lovely.

you teach him how to cook your favourite breakfast foods, and to your surprise, it comes naturally to him. he works by your side like he’s always been there, listening to your instructions perfectly every time. the cuts on your chest still burn slightly, but simply feeling his presence by your side makes everything better.

you’re reading a book on the couch when logan returns from hunting. he never brings anything from his hunt into the house, for which you’re grateful, but he does drag in a lot of dirt. 

you have a routine by now, or at least the bones of one. he likes it when you help him clean up after a hunt or a run in the forest, and so do you. it’s the kind of moment you imagine you’d find in a book, with a couple so deeply in love that they can hardly stand to be apart for a second.

you’re still not completely comfortable with the idea of stripping naked in front of him, but logan has no such qualms. in the bathroom, he pushes his pants and boxers down in one motion.

you blush as he steps into the shower, so unashamed of his body. there’s a wild edge to him that you notice more in moments like these, where you realise the impact of not having those human memories, the socialisation that teaches you to dislike yourself, teaches you that confidence is a negative thing, makes you vain and egotistical.

the water soaks him in an instant, flattening his cute hair tufts against his scalp and you giggle at the way he looks like a wet kitten, though less disgruntled.

he tilts his head expectantly, waiting for you. his gaze is dark and heady, intense as you pull off your shirt, leaving you in only a bra. your face warms as you take off your skirt next, watching logan’s face the entire time, the way his eyes linger on your panties for a long, long moment.

it’s not the first time you’ve undressed in front of him, but every time the effect is the same. warmth pools in your stomach, a mix of arousal and nerves. he’s intoxicating, and that’s terrifying to you.

you don’t take off your bra and panties. they feel like armour, protecting you from being fully defenceless in front of him. it’s not like he couldn’t see the full shape of you, every curve of your body, the parts that you love about yourself, that make you smile at the mirror, and those you hate. 

still, it makes you feel like the one in control - he’s completely naked and you’re not - though you know that he’s larger and stronger than you, that really he’s letting you be in control of the situation, not moving too much as you wash the blood and grime from his body. 

he cares so much about your comfort. sometimes it makes you want to cry. 

“you, now,” he grunts.

“what?”

you’re taken aback at the break in the quiet. it always shocks you a little when he speaks, his voice rough from disuse. 

“i will clean you, now,” he gestures at you and you laugh nervously, taking a step back, as far as you can until you hit the tiled wall. it’s not a very large shower, there’s not really anywhere to go.

“logan,” you whisper, heart in your throat, “no. not right now, okay? finish up your shower, i think- yeah i’m going to go now.”

you practically run out of the steam-filled bathroom, feeling like you’re going to collapse at any second. the thought of him stripping you out of your remaining clothes, unclasping your bra, pulling your panties down your legs and tossing them aside, his hands running over your body, even for something as innocent as washing you, something you’ve done with him a dozen or so times.

you’re having enough sex fantasies about him as it is, you don’t need to add more fuel to the fire. and the thing is, you want it. you want him. you want those fantasies to come to life. but you can’t help but fear that logan’s only clinging to you because you’re the one who found him when he was at his most vulnerable.

when he goes out into the world, whether that’s sometime soon or if it takes years, will he start to resent you? will he find someone better? will the soft intimacy that’s been growing between you collapse like a house of cards?

you’re in your bedroom, laying on top of the sheets, staring up at the ceiling when logan enters.

“you’re upset?” he asks, and at the tone of his voice, the pain that you hear reflected in each syllable, your head turns his way. he looks devastated, like the idea that you might be upset at him is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him in his life. you’re very certain that’s incorrect.

he looks so innocent like this, not a wild animal with claws that rip through flesh like butter, but a man, anxious and unsure and pleading. you can’t help the smile that rises to your lips. you shake your head as much as you can against the mattress and reach your arms out towards him, a wordless beckoning.

“never,” you say.

within moments he’s in your arms, hugging you tight, his face pressed into your chest. it’s nice, the solid weight of him, like a very heavy weighted blanket. minutes pass, and then logan shifts his body just enough to look up at you.

he makes eye contact with you, and in his eyes you see a raging storm. his face is blank as it often is, a mask that you can’t read, but you can feel his muscles tense as if preparing for a fight, can catch a glimpse of several different emotions in the hazel staring back at you.

he leans up, until his face is barely a centimetre away from yours, and your breath catches. you’re scared to hope, terrified, even if all signs point in one direction, so you don’t move closer but you don’t move away, eyes fluttering shut as if it’ll all become easier, as if the butterflies in your stomach will recede, if you’re not looking directly at him.

he closes the distance between you, mouth meeting yours in a chaste, soft kiss. it’s nothing like you expected from logan, feral and intense in everything he does. but he’s waiting for a response from you, scared in the way you’ve only ever seen him once, when you’d first found him in the barn.

he pulls away and you grab onto him desperately, forcing him to crash back into you. you share open-mouthed kisses, hot and urgent yet so loving. it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed about, perfect in the way little else can be, and you feel tears prickling in your eyes, a sob catching in your throat.

you’re absolutely fucked, your heart stolen by him, and you can only hope logan meets you where you are and doesn’t hurt you.

taglist: @mystiquesvendetta @raeinyourdreams @babey-fruit-bat @meetmypointlessaddiction @kneelforloki @deaky-with-a-c @hypermarvellove @littlepeanut03 @the-ruler-of-death @aliengutzstuff @misscrissfemmefatale @mynamesstevenwithav @teaganthemorningstar @blackkatzz @leryg0 @fries11 @forksloree @i5uckersblog @dragovegogrimborn @quillycrow @melday0105 @just-a-little-cellist

if your name is in white it means i couldn’t tag you for some reason. i’m very sorry :(

[logansbaby]

wip wednesday!

hi my beautiful people! this is something ive been working on between other stuff so let me know what you think!

nsfw below!

˚｡⋆⟡♡⟡⋆｡˚

You lean back against the seat, eyes speaking a thousand words as they meet his. God, he’s so handsome. His pretty hazel eyes, the slope of his nose, the salt and pepper stubble across his cheeks. Oh, how you want to feel the burn against your—

“Stop that.” Logan’s grunt snaps you out of your thoughts,

“Stop what?” You go for innocence but really, your tone is saturated in desire and it gives you away entirely.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what, Logan?” You’re challenging him, and though you can’t see it from the backseat, his dress pants get considerably tighter at the defiance in your voice. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Bullshit,” He counters, eyes flickering to yours and you choose then to bite down on your glossy lips. His knuckles flex with the urge to release the claws piercing beneath his skin. Is he crazy for being jealous that he’s not the one biting into the plush skin? “You’re staring at me like you want me to fuck you.”

Vermillion warmth spreads from your chest to your cheeks at his bluntness. It’s completely true, but the lewdness makes you flush, and your panties to dampen at the thought.

“It’s not gonna happen, baby.” His tone is final and it pisses you off. “Knock it off.”

You roll your eyes, turning to stare out the window. You’re not sure when it started raining, but the water droplets hit the glass pane harshly with its momentum. The pitter patter of water should distract you from Logan, but it just sends you further spiraling.

How dare he deny your feelings and then call you baby?

[just-dreaming-marvel]

Love That Burns ~ 27

LOVE THAT BURNS MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 2,790ish

Summary: You're found, still in the Danger Room. The Battle of Alcatraz Island.

Warnings: mental and emotional damage, cannon level violence

Notes: Hope you guys enjoy! Share reactions!

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks! 

Retrieving Jean was a failure. Logan was almost immediately found by Magneto, and Jean clearly didn’t want to come with Logan. He did find out that they were preparing a large attack on Worthington Labs, and he knew that he needed to get the team together to stop Magneto and his followers.

“Y/N?” Logan burst through the front door of the mansion. He could only hope that someone had found you. “Y/N! Storm!”

“Logan!” Ororo came down the stairs. “Where have you been?”

“I need help. I found Jean. She’s with Magneto.”

“Where are they?”

“They’re on the move. I know where they’re going.”

“You’re saying you saw Magneto?” Hank asked, walking up.

“Yeah. Gotta go now. They’re going to attack Alcatraz.”

“There are troops stationed on that island.”

“Not enough to stop him.”

“Let’s suit up,” Ororo said.

“Where’s Y/N?”

“I thought she was with you.”

“Fuck.”

Logan broke into a run, heading down to the lower levels. He slid to a stop in front of the doors he had locked you behind. He began to pry open the door since he had destroyed the controls with his claws to keep you in there.

“What the—“

“I need help!” Logan grunted, cutting off Ororo.

Hank immediately began helping pull open the doors. Eventually, they pried the doors open enough for them to slide away. The three of them immediately laid eyes on you. You were curled up against the wall on the other side of the Danger Room. They rushed forward, and what they saw when they got closer broke their hearts. Your eyes were glazed over, with dried tear trails lying on your cheeks, and your whole body was trembling.

“What happened here?” Hank asked, sharing a worried glance with Ororo.

Logan knelt down in front of you, the guilt destroying him inside. He reached out to pull you into him but quickly pulled back when your skin burned him worse than you had ever burned him before. He looked at his burnt, blackened hands that were slowly healing.

“Logan,” Ororo’s voice was stern, “what did you do?”

“Jean connected with Y/N,” Logan began to explain, never looking away from your trembling form. “We fought about going to bring Jean back. I decided that it was best if I went. She was going to fight me, so I locked her in here for her protection.”

“You locked her in here?” Hank repeated. “She’s been in here alone all night!”

“I know that, Hank!” Logan moved to lie down in front of you, trying to get your eyes to focus on him. “Sweetheart, I need you to focus on me.” His hands slowly moved to touch your arms, not caring if he got burnt. He needed to bring you back to him. His thumbs rubbed against your burning skin. “I need you to break out of this trance. Please, baby, come back.”

“You… left… me…” You rasped, slowly coming to.

“I know, sweetheart. I know. Just let me—”

“You left me.” You scooted away from Logan’s touch as anger began to fester. 

In the hours that you had been alone, your mind had begun to play tricks on you. Well, you couldn’t tell if it was your mind or a simulation was being run in the room. Everything was so real. Stryker had appeared multiple times, reminding you of the hell that you had gone through with him. Your father had appeared, blaming you for every bad thing that had ever happened. Jean had appeared, as well as Logan. Logan had left you for her, and they taunted their relationship in front of you. 

“Y/N,” Hank called your name as he crouched down on the other side of you. “We need to get you out of here.”

“Please,” you whimpered.

Logan watched as you cooled your skin down enough for Hank to help you up. He sat up as Hank led you out of the room, keeping you in his sight until you disappeared into the hallway.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Ororo said, shaking her head. “She was alone down here for hours—more than half a day.”

“I was trying to—“

“No one wants your excuses, Logan.” She sighed. “Now we have to help her, and we’ll be one person down when we go to Magneto. Which we are also running out of time to do.”

“I can fix this.” Logan scrambled to his feet. “I can—“

“Maybe stop trying to fix things right now. Hank will handle Y/N. We should go suit up.”

Logan wanted to argue more, but he knew that Ororo had a point. You were not okay, and it was his fault, once again. How did he keep doing this to you? He was supposed to love and protect you from everything. Yet, he seemed to be the thing that was hurting you the most.

~~~

“Talk to me,” Hank urged as he checked you over.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled.

“Liar. Logan shouldn’t have done that.” You looked away, hands still trembling slightly. “Seriously, Y/N, talk to me.”

“I was stuck in a loop of my greatest fears… I honestly don’t know if it was my mind or if a simulation was running…” Your hands began to shake slightly. 

“I’m so very sorry, Y/N. You need to stay here and rest. I’ll be back to check on you as soon as I can.”

“Where are you going?”

Hank sighed. “Magneto is planning on attacking Worthington Labs at Alcatraz.”

“Is Jean with him?”

“Yes.”

“I’m coming.” 

Before you could slide off the table, Hank was holding you still. “No. You need a break. You need to rest.”

“We don’t have enough teammates, Hank. You need me. I’ll be fine.”

Hank knew that you were right and also knew that you’d burn all his fur off to get your way. “Fine. But you stay close.”

~~~

“I don’t believe this once fit me,” Hank grumbled, his old leather jacket unable to close around him. They were headed to the hangar.

“If Magneto gets ahold of that cure, there will be no stopping him,” Logan stated, tugging his leather gloves on.

“Can you estimate how many he has?”

“An army. And Jean.”

“His powers have limits, hers do not.”

Logan came to a stop when he saw you in your suit, standing with the group of students you trained and Ororo. You were refusing to look at him, understandably so.

“There’s only seven of us, Logan,” Bobby said.

“Yeah,” Logan replied. “We’re outnumbered. I’m not gonna lie to you. But we lost Scott. We lost the Professor. If we don’t fight now, everything they stood for will die with them. I’m not gonna let that happen. Are you?” Bobby shook his head. “Then we stand together… X-Men,” he looked around at the group, “all of us.”

“We’re in.”

“Let’s go.”

You watched as Hank, Ororo, Kitty, Bobby, and Colossus headed for the jet. Logan stood beside you, staring at you.

“They’re ready,” he told you.

“Yeah, I know,” you replied weakly.

“Y/N,” Logan reached out, but you stepped away.

“I can’t do this right now.” 

You rushed over to the jet and found a seat in the corner. Logan wanted to sit by you but instead sat next to Ororo in one of the pilot’s seats, knowing that you needed your space.

The battle had already begun when you arrived. Magneto had moved the Golden Gate Bridge to allow his followers to cross to the island.

“On, my stars and garters,” Hank muttered.

“Goin’ to stealth mode,” Ororo stated, pressing the needed buttons.

The jet landed on the rooftop, and you all were quickly out. Storm made your entrance known with her lightning as she floated down. Beast jumped down next with Kitty and Bobby helping each other. Colossus was fine on his own, leaving you and Logan on top of the building.

“Here,” Logan reached out to you, “get on my back.”

You shook your head. “I don’t need your help.” 

You jumped off the building, hitting the ground hard and rolling to a stop. Logan saw a few drops of blood from where you had been cut in places, and his jaw clenched. You were going to be reckless during this fight, he could feel it. Using his claws, Logan slid down the building and lined up with the rest of you.

“You men, cover the doors!” Logan ordered the military men there. “Everybody, get together! And hold this line!”

Magneto was standing at the edge of the broken bridge with more of his followers behind him. Jean was near, staring at the battle.

“Finish them!” Magneto ordered.

Magneto’s followers charged, attacking your team and the military. Your hands went up in flames as you began to throw fire at the oncoming army of mutants. Logan kept you in his line of sight at all times. He knew that you could handle yourself, but he also didn’t know what type of mutants you were dealing with. Suddenly, the speedster from days ago appeared near you. She smirked before running in circles around you. You fell to your knees as the oxygen began to disappear from the area.

“Y/N!” Logan roared as he saw what was happening.

You were choking, growing dizzy as Logan fought to get to you. With a loud grunt, Logan impaled the speedster with his claws. You fell to the ground, coughing as you tried to get more air into your lungs. Logan threw the mutant’s body away before rushing to your side.

“Y/N, are you—“

“Stay away,” you rasped, pushing yourself away from Logan. He didn’t try to mask the hurt in his expression. “I can handle myself.”

Logan clenched his jaw, eyes hardening. “Clearly.” 

You stood up and ran off to go fight more mutants, Logan’s eyes following you. Jean had watched the whole interaction. Before you could form another flame, you were suddenly lifted up and pulled toward her. Logan tried to run for you, but was quickly swamped with attacking mutants.

“Jean,” you gasped, being held in the air above her. “You can help stop this.”

“What if I don’t want to?” She replied.

“This isn’t you, Jean. Come back to us.”

You could see that only made her angrier. “This is me.”

“Let me go, Jean.”

“I always thought that Logan had feelings for me. It was always nagging in the back of my mind, but I guess, so was the real me.”

“Your words can’t hurt me. I know— I know that Logan loves me as I love him. You’re just lost, Jean. Confused. We can help you.”

“I don’t need help.”

You were suddenly launched back. You hit the building with a loud crack and fell to the ground, barely conscious.

“Y/N!” / “EMBER!” 

The world was blurry around you and pain radiated from multiple points in your body. You were sure you had a concussion and multiple broken bones. It would all heal, but with time. Out of the corner of your blurry vision, you saw a burning vehicle being hurled toward you.

“Y/N!” Logan screamed. You cried out in pain as Logan grabbed you, barely rolling away in time. “I’ve got you,” he mumbled against you, holding you too tight for comfort. “I’ve got you.”

“Lo—gan—“ you croaked.

He pulled away just enough to look at your face. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

“It—You—hurts—let—go.” Every word was an achy breath.

Logan was quick to let you go and simply kneel beside you with his hands hovering. “What can I do? Tell me what I can do.”

“Go—help—them.” Something inside yourself began to scream at you that something was wrong. Your healing should have started the slow process, but the pain was only getting worse. 

“I can’t leave you!” Logan could smell your blood and your smoke, everything worrying him to his very core.

“Go…”

Logan looked around. Fiery cars were still being thrown around, with the X-Men and the military taking cover. From your position, you would be covered as long as no mutants found you. He didn’t want to dare leave you again, but he knew he couldn’t do anything until this fight was done.

“I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, holding a kiss to your forehead. “You stay here. Stay hidden. I’ll be back. Okay?” You barely nodded. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart.”

At this point, Logan’s words were more for himself than anything. Hating to have to turn away from you, Logan rushed across the battlefield to find Storm taking cover. He noticed the car on the ground at the same time Hank and Storm did. The three of them shared a look.

“We work as a team,” Logan stated.

“Best defense is a good offense,” Storm replied.

“Bobby! You think you can take out your old friend?” 

Bobby nodded, running towards Pyro. He froze the next burning car in mid-air.

“Storm,” Logan said next, “we’re gonna need some cover.”

“Right,” Storm responded. She looked up in the sky, eyes growing cloudy as fog took over the area.

Logan went over to Colossus. “This is it.” Colossus grabbed him. “Hey, make it a strike.” 

The younger mutant lifted Logan up and spun around before launching him at Magneto. Magneto was quick to use his own abilities to stop Logan in the air, forcing him down to the ground, skidding to a stop in front of Magneto.

“You never learn, do you?” Magneto taunted.

“Actually,” Logan panted, “I do.”

Hank appeared from behind Magneto and stuck the cure into Magneto’s chest. With wide eyes, Magneto sank to his knees.

“I’m—“ He couldn’t even finish his own thought.

“One of them?” Logan taunted.

Magneto turned to face Jean. “This is what they want for all of us.”

Logan made eye contact with Jean. “It’s over, Jean. It's over.” 

“Is it?” She replied, voice hollow.

You had been going in and out of consciousness from where Logan had left you. Something was terribly wrong. You could hear the fighting all around you, but nothing was clear. Before you knew it, you were torn from your resting place and flying through the air. You came to a harsh stop in front of Jean. Logan’s eyes immediately went wide. Taking you in, it was clear that you weren’t healing. You had fresh blood everywhere, your skin was lighter than normal, and sweat glistened off of your forehead. Logan’s stomach twisted in knots. From behind, more military men, armed with guns loaded with the cure, ran over the debris. 

“No!” Logan yelled, worried for your safety. “Don’t shoot!”

Jean stopped the shots without even looking. Her eyes went back, and her skin turned dark and crackled, proving that the Phoenix was the one in control. The darts disappeared as she turned around. Pieces of debris began floating in the air, along with you, as the military men began to disappear to ash. The building and debris around them began to blow up and disappear as well, while Jean turned back to face Logan and Hank.

“Everybody, get out of here!” Hank ordered. Humans and mutants began to rush down the displaced bridge.

Storm came to a halt beside Hank and Logan. She glanced as you, dangling in the air, and then back at Logan. 

“I’m the only one who can stop her,” Logan said, willing to do what it took to get to you. “Get everyone to safety. Go!” Storm flew off as Hank ran. Logan looked at you before pulling his eyes to the woman causing all this destruction. “Jean!”  

Everything and everyone around them was turning to ash. The water from the bay began rising up over the area.

“Jean, I know you’re still there!” Logan shouted. 

Logan began to walk towards her. Jean started using her powers to slow him down. He grunted as his suit started to disappear, with his flesh trying to do so as well. His eyes flickered to you with each painful step. He could see that part of you was starting to disappear. Logan fought harder, grunting and groaning as he climbed the debris to get to Jean.

“You would die for them?” Jean’s voice sounded like pure evil.

“No.” Logan’s eyes began welling up with tears as he spared you another glance. You were completely unconscious, having succumbed to whatever Jean had done to you. “Not for them… For her… For her… Anything and everything is for her.”

Jean started growing emotional as she shook her head. “Save me.”

“I’m sorry.”

With a snikt, Logan plunged his claws into Jean. 

next chapter >

[whiskeyandcigarsmoke]

I READ THIS AT WORK AND HAD TO KEEP A STRAIGHT FACE WHEN IM CRYING🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Don't let the old man know

[i-like-media]

X-Men (2000) but only when it made me laugh

[silverskyeline]

OKAY BUT LISTEN TO ME

[amethystarachnid]

MUTANT BODYGUARD - part III

⤷ JAMES LOGAN HOWLETT

ᯓ★ Pairing: James Logan Howlett x fem!reader

ᯓ★ part 1 | part 2 | part 3

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff and spicy (I mean, it's Logan...)

ᯓ★ Story type: short story

ᯓ★ Word count: 8.3k

ᯓ★ Summary: Your life with Logan was going just fine, but fine doesn't last long in celebrities' world: first rumors of a break up, then of him having an affair, Logan can't stand to see you so upset and decides to take matter into his own hands with a livestream.

ᯓ★ TW(s): mentions of cheating

ᯓ★ Timeline: doesn't follow a timeline in the x-men movies

ᯓ★ Request: I would love to read more of this. Can you imagine Logan's reaction if the tabloids spread crazy rumors of a breakup or an affair like they do to celebrities all of the time (especially if it's about him). He'd be so confused and probably annoyed if the reader teased him about it (@needz1nk)

ᯓ★ From: Marvel Bingo, Bodyguard romance x Age Gap

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo (requests open)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ If you are a Charles Xavier lover click on this link!

ᯓ★ English isn't my first language and this isn’t proof read

In the weeks following the premiere and the much-talked-about bathroom incident, the media whirlwind surrounding you and Logan only intensified. What started as a curious whisper in celebrity news quickly exploded into a full-blown frenzy, with headlines splashing your relationship across screens and magazine covers everywhere. The story of an A-list actress and her bodyguard falling in love had the public hooked, and as the details trickled out, interest only grew. Some saw it as the ultimate fairytale romance; others found reasons to criticize. But the one thing that everyone seemed to agree on was that they couldn't look away.

To your surprise, the publicity sparked an unexpected wave of support from fans, old and new. Overnight, you gained a whole new group of followers who adored the idea of a love story that defied Hollywood norms. Your existing fans were thrilled to see a new side of you, one that was raw and authentic, and they rallied around you, excited to see you so visibly happy. They shared clips from interviews, fan edits of you and Logan on the red carpet, and screenshots from the infamous bathroom encounter. The comments flooded your social media: "Finally! She's found someone who treats her like a queen!" "They are SO cute together, I’m obsessed!" "This is real love. Logan’s the best thing to happen to her!" These fans painted your timeline with heart emojis, hashtags about true love, and affirmations that they’d “ship” you and Logan forever.

But it wasn’t just your fans who were excited; Logan found himself with an entirely new fan base of his own. Almost overnight, he was propelled from being a low-key presence in your life to a reluctant but undeniable celebrity in his own right. Fan pages popped up dedicated entirely to him, featuring candid photos of Logan at events, his brooding glances at premieres, and, most frequently, the rare, disarming smile that he would flash only at you. Girls who had likely never noticed Logan’s existence before were now obsessing over his rugged looks and quiet confidence. They analyzed his style, dissected his every movement, and swapped theories about his background. Despite his straightforward nature, Logan was an enigma to them, a new kind of celebrity who neither wanted the fame nor cared about the public adulation. The mystery only added to his appeal.

Social media was brimming with Logan-related content, much of it filled with admiration and even longing. Comments like, “If I can’t have a man like Logan, what’s the point?” and “Forget actors—I want a real man like him!” filled his unofficial fan pages. People shared photoshopped images of themselves with him, fan fiction imagining scenarios where they were in your place, and “Logan appreciation” threads discussing every aspect of his appeal. Some even went so far as to analyze the subtle possessiveness he had towards you, swooning over how protective he seemed. To many, he was the embodiment of an old-school romance hero, a modern knight who had swept in to protect and claim his woman in a world where that felt rare.

But as with anything that reached this level of fame, not all of the attention was positive. Alongside the supportive comments and fan accounts, there were plenty of harsh, critical voices determined to tear you down. Many people were quick to question what a successful actress like you was doing with someone like Logan, a bodyguard whose life had previously been so removed from the glitz of Hollywood. They called you names, some implying that your relationship was a publicity stunt, a bid for attention rather than a genuine connection. Others criticized Logan, saying he was just another “bodyguard boyfriend” trying to capitalize on your fame and insinuating that he was only with you for personal gain.

The hate was worst on social media, where anonymity often emboldened people to say things they wouldn’t dare voice in person. Comments like “What does she even see in him?” or “She’s just desperate for attention” littered your posts. Some were even more malicious, accusing you of “using Logan to stay relevant” or “replacing real talent with a guy she pays to protect her.” A few particularly harsh ones left a bitter taste in your mouth, claiming things like, “He’s way too good for her. She’ll chew him up and spit him out like every other guy.” Or, “This relationship won’t last—she’ll move on when something better comes along.”

As more and more of these comments appeared, you found yourself drawn to reading them, almost obsessively. Logan noticed, of course. He was perceptive enough to catch the flicker of hurt in your eyes when you looked at your phone, and he’d quietly reach over, pulling you close or brushing his hand along your back, grounding you in the simplicity of his presence. He didn't bother with comments himself, brushing them off like flies, reminding you time and again that the opinions of strangers meant nothing to him. But for you, it was harder to ignore. You were used to some degree of online criticism as an actress, but this—people questioning your worth as a person, as Logan’s partner—felt different. More personal.

Logan’s attitude was almost infuriating in its calm. "Why are you letting this get to you?" he’d ask in his straightforward way, his tone gruff yet gentle as he brushed a lock of hair behind your ear. "We know what’s real here. We know us." And, for the most part, you tried to hold onto that—his certainty in the face of so much noise. But as the relationship continued to grow in the public eye, so did the backlash, and it felt relentless.

One evening, after a particularly long day filled with work obligations and negative comments online, you finally snapped. You were sitting on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling through the endless barrage of insults, unable to look away. “I just don’t get it, Logan,” you said, your voice tinged with frustration. “Why do people hate that we’re together? Why does it matter so much to them?”

Logan took a seat beside you, his arm draped over the back of the couch as he looked at you with that steady gaze. “Because it’s easier for them to tear down what they don’t understand. They don’t know us—they only know what they see through a screen. And that’s their problem, not ours.”

He took the phone from your hand, setting it aside. “Let them talk,” he said simply, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. “We don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not them, not the press, no one.”

You looked into his eyes, and something inside you calmed. There, in his gaze, you saw a reminder of why this was worth it—why he was worth it. Logan’s love was fierce, unwavering, unbothered by the noise of the outside world. His grip on you was steady, grounding, reminding you that while the world might be relentless in its opinions, your relationship was a world in itself, untouched by the chaos outside.

In the following weeks, you began to focus more on the people who supported you, on those who cheered you on. Fan art, letters, and messages poured in from people who felt inspired by your relationship. There were stories from fans who saw your romance as proof that love could be found in unexpected places, that there were still people in the world who loved fully, openly, and without pretense. You shared little glimpses of your life with Logan—a cozy coffee date, a lazy Sunday spent reading together, the way he cooked you breakfast, often burning the toast but always insisting on making it himself.

The support grew, and eventually, it drowned out the negativity. You learned to scroll past the hateful comments, ignoring them in favor of the warm messages of encouragement and love. Fans sent you photos of their own relationships, shared stories of how they met their partners, and thanked you for showing a love story that felt real and grounded. You and Logan became symbols of something rare, a reminder that even in the glamorous world of Hollywood, love could be simple, honest, and unbreakable.

And though Logan still brushed off his fame with a gruff indifference, even he couldn’t ignore the sheer number of fans who now adored him. He’d laugh and shake his head at the fan edits, the swooning comments, and the declarations of love from girls around the world. It was amusing to him, in a way, but he never let it distract from what mattered most to him—you.

On one of the quieter nights, after the frenzy had calmed a bit and life had settled into a new rhythm, Logan pulled you into his arms, his gaze soft and tender. “They can say what they want,” he murmured, his thumb tracing gentle patterns along your hand. “I don’t care about the fans, the reporters, the hate. I care about you. Just you.”

In that moment, you knew that nothing could shake the foundation you had built together. You’d face the public scrutiny, the fan obsessions, and the media circus as long as you had Logan by your side. His love was your safe haven, an anchor in the storm. No matter what the world threw your way, you’d face it together, knowing that what you had was stronger than any headline, truer than any rumor, and more resilient than the relentless opinions of the world outside. And with that knowledge, you finally felt at peace.

But peace never lasts long.

The morning sunlight streamed softly through the blinds, casting a warm, golden glow over the room. You blinked awake, still heavy with sleep, finding yourself entangled with Logan, both of you cocooned in the soft sheets, the remnants of the previous night still lingering in the gentle aches and comfortable mess you lay in. Logan was tucked against you, his face nestled against your chest, arms wrapped securely around your waist. It was one of those rare, quiet moments where his usual stoic, protective demeanor softened completely, replaced with something vulnerable and at peace.

You reached up, gently running your fingers through his messy hair, savoring the way he leaned into your touch, almost nuzzling closer with a content sigh. He was still half-asleep, his breathing steady and deep, and you took a quiet moment to simply enjoy the closeness, the peaceful warmth of his body pressed to yours.

Trying not to disturb him, you carefully reached over to the nightstand for your phone, scrolling through notifications and messages that had piled up overnight. A headline immediately caught your eye, its bold letters practically screaming back at you: “Hollywood It-Couple Split? Inside Sources Say Y/N and Logan Call It Quits.” Your mouth twisted in frustration as you read the so-called “insider scoop,” filled with baseless claims and invented reasons for your supposed breakup. There were even theories about a “rising actor” who had “come between you,” speculating wildly about drama that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

The words clawed at you, stirring irritation—but then you looked down at Logan, blissfully unaware, relaxed and vulnerable in a way only you ever saw. A mischievous idea sparked, and you carefully angled your phone to capture the scene, framing his face nestled against you, his arm looped around your waist, both of you tangled together beneath the sheets. You barely stifled a laugh, sure that Logan would have rolled his eyes if he were awake.

After double-checking the photo, you typed out a quick caption: Woke up to some…interesting headlines this morning. We’re fine, thanks. Adding a winking emoji, you hit Post and set your phone aside, the grin still playing on your lips.

The post took off almost instantly, notifications flooding in as fans and friends alike chimed in. Most comments were thrilled reactions, with fans sending heart emojis and playfully chiding the tabloids for trying to mess with “the ultimate couple.” Others were friends and fellow actors tagging Logan, with messages like “Better watch out—she’s got the receipts!”

As the notifications rolled in, Logan stirred, blinking awake and looking up at you, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, as he stretched and tightened his arm around you. His eyes shifted to your phone, catching a glimpse of the notifications lighting up the screen. “What’s going on?”

You bit your lip, barely holding back a laugh as you handed him the phone. “Just correcting a few tabloid rumors.”

He squinted at the screen, his expression shifting from confusion to a smirk as he took in the post. “So…we’ve broken up, huh?” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Didn’t realize that’s how I spent my night.”

You snorted, shaking your head as he looked back at you, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Guess they think I dumped you or something,” you said, wrapping your arms around his neck. “But, you know, I figured I’d let them know I’m still kind of attached.”

He let out a soft chuckle, leaning down to press a slow kiss to your lips. “Good. Maybe now they’ll back off.” He nestled closer, resting his head back against your chest, his hand finding yours beneath the sheets. His thumb traced gentle circles on your skin, and he took a long, contented breath, settling back down beside you. “But if they keep it up…maybe I’ll give them a real reason to talk.”

You laughed, the two of you lingering in the warmth of each other and the morning, the world and its noise fading completely into the background.

The decision to go public that day felt more like a playful challenge than a chore. After the tabloid drama and breakup rumors, you and Logan wanted to make a statement—and what better way than a casual, romantic date in broad daylight? The plan was to keep it simple: a quiet brunch in one of the city’s more charming cafés, followed by a relaxed walk through a nearby park. It was your kind of day, one that would be easygoing… at least in theory.

As you strolled into the café, Logan’s hand resting firmly on your waist, you couldn’t help but feel a slight thrill at the curious glances that people threw your way. Some recognized you immediately, eyes widening as they connected the dots, their gazes shifting from you to Logan. There was something invigorating about the excitement, the quiet murmur of onlookers exchanging theories and tidbits of information about you two. Logan, however, seemed undeterred. He wore that calm, collected expression, the slightest smirk on his lips as he leaned down to ask, “Are you sure about this?”

You laughed, giving him a quick nudge with your shoulder. “Just relax. If we don’t play into it, maybe the rumors will die down, and everyone can go back to wondering who the next big rom-com couple is.”

Logan chuckled softly, but the humor didn’t mask the possessiveness in his gaze as he looked at you. “Let them look,” he muttered, his voice low and more serious than before. “They’ll get the message.”

You ordered your coffee and pastries, taking a seat by the large window, where sunlight poured in and gave the whole scene a warm glow. Logan stretched an arm along the back of your chair, his fingers tracing idle circles on your shoulder. You leaned into him, savoring the intimacy. His touch was protective, almost territorial, a statement to anyone paying attention. And given the covert snaps you noticed from a couple of phones nearby, people were most definitely paying attention.

As you sipped your coffee, you felt the heat of his gaze on you, and when you looked up, his eyes were smoldering, hinting at the simmering tension between you both. His thumb traced light patterns on your skin, a touch that seemed innocent to anyone watching, but you knew better. You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep a straight face.

“Behave,” you whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, grinning.

“Trying to,” he murmured, his lips twitching into a smirk. “You’re making it difficult.”

Just then, a group of young fans approached your table, their excitement barely contained. “Y/N, we’re so sorry to interrupt, but could we maybe get a picture with you?” one of them asked, her voice shaking slightly as she held out her phone.

You smiled warmly and stood up, nodding. “Of course! No need to apologize. It’s great to meet you all!”

Logan remained seated, watching with a mix of pride and amusement as you interacted with them. You could feel his eyes following you, as if even this brief separation was pushing the limits of his patience. When a few other fans spotted you, they hurried over, and you ended up signing a few autographs, sharing laughs, and answering quick questions. But all the while, you couldn’t shake the feeling of Logan’s gaze—protective, possessive—burning into you.

When you finally returned to your seat, you found him leaning back, a smug grin on his face. He reached out, taking your hand in his, but instead of his usual steady grip, he laced his fingers through yours, holding you close, and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. His thumb traced along your knuckles, his eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and heat. “Missed you,” he murmured, his voice low.

You bit your lip, the warmth in his touch sparking a subtle thrill. “I was only gone for a minute.”

“Yeah, well, felt like longer,” he replied, his gaze slipping down to your lips. And with that, he shifted closer, so close that his arm practically enveloped you.

As you exchanged glances, you noticed movement outside the café window. A few paparazzi were hovering, cameras clicking as they angled to get the best view of you two. You suppressed a sigh, your fingers giving his a light squeeze.

Logan noticed them too, and a smirk tugged at his lips. “They’re going to have a field day,” he said, voice low, almost amused.

“Well,” you replied, leaning back in your seat and resting your hand on his leg, “let’s give them a reason to talk.”

Without hesitation, Logan slipped his arm fully around you, his fingers gently tracing up your spine, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. He pulled you in a bit closer, his other hand finding its way to your knee, sending sparks through you. His touch felt like a secret promise, an unspoken agreement that this day would end much differently than it started.

For a while, you both stayed there, the casual intimacy you shared made even more tantalizing by the audience beyond the glass. The café staff seemed oblivious, while the other patrons either pretended not to notice or tried unsuccessfully to hide their intrigue. But Logan’s focus was solely on you, his gaze dark and hungry. When he shifted his hand slightly, trailing his thumb along your thigh, you felt your breath catch. His fingertips pressed into your leg with a subtle possessiveness, and you found yourself pressing closer to him, drawn by the warmth radiating between you.

After what felt like an eternity of heightened tension, you finally looked up at him, the simmering heat between you both almost unbearable. “Maybe we should head back?” you suggested, your voice a little breathless.

Logan’s smirk widened, and he nodded, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Good idea.”

You left the café, his hand resting on your lower back as he guided you outside. The paparazzi didn’t miss a beat, following as you both made your way down the street. Logan’s arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you closer, and he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, his touch protective and intimate. You felt the heat of his body against yours, the silent promise in every gentle graze of his fingers, and it made your pulse quicken.

Once you were out of the immediate view of the photographers, Logan’s pace quickened, his hand firmly grasping yours as he practically guided you through the bustling street back toward your penthouse. The urgency in his touch sent a thrill through you, and you matched his steps, the excitement building with every block closer you got.

By the time you reached the front door, he was practically pressing into you, his hands slipping to your waist as he leaned down to capture your lips in a deep, searing kiss. You fumbled with your keys, finally managing to open the door, and Logan wasted no time as he swept you inside, shutting it firmly behind you. His hands found your waist, drawing you close as he kissed you again, his touch heated and demanding, all traces of the earlier restraint gone.

In the elevator up to your penthouse, the air between you was charged, every glance and touch laced with unspoken desire. When the doors finally opened, he pulled you through the hallway, neither of you able to keep your hands off each other. You finally reached the bedroom, and Logan wasted no time, pressing you gently against the door as he captured your mouth in a kiss that was fierce and full of promise. His hands roamed your body, drawing out every shiver and gasp as he reminded you exactly why you were his and no one else’s.

Hours later, the two of you lay tangled in bed, your skin still warm and hearts racing. Logan’s arm was wrapped around you, holding you close as you traced lazy patterns on his chest, both of you basking in the afterglow. His fingers trailed along your back, grounding you in the quiet intimacy that followed the rush of your passion.

You looked up at him, finding his gaze soft and content as he watched you, the earlier fire replaced by a gentle warmth. “That was some date,” you murmured, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

Logan chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Best one yet.” He wrapped his arm tighter around you, his hand resting on the small of your back as he held you close. “You think they got the message?”

You laughed, leaning up to kiss him, savoring the way he responded, his touch possessive yet tender. “I’d say so. But even if they didn’t, I think I did.”

Logan’s smirk softened into a smile, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he gazed at you. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low and full of promise. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

And you believed him when he told you that, maybe it was a mistake.

Logan's departure that morning had been straightforward enough, or so you thought. He’d given you a warm kiss, his hand lingering at the small of your back before he told you he had to step out for a meeting with his boss at the security company. He looked over at you with a reassuring smile, promising to be back soon, and you smiled back, content to spend a few hours on your own, catching up on your script and maybe even indulging in a bath while he was away. But as soon as the door closed behind him, you felt a pang of loneliness tug at you, surprising you with its strength.

Settling into your routine, you tried to distract yourself. The penthouse was quiet, bathed in soft, early-morning sunlight, and you could almost convince yourself to relax as you flipped through the pages of your script. But then, only half an hour after Logan left, your phone buzzed with the first notification, and then another, and another.

With a quick glance, you saw a string of messages, each one loaded with concern—or worse, nosy excitement.

“Did you see?!” “Is it true? I can’t believe it!” “Are you okay, Y/N?”

A frown creased your brow as you scrolled, your stomach sinking. It wasn’t like you to entertain rumors, especially when they came from gossipy texts and half-informed messages. But curiosity, and a rising dread, got the better of you. Taking a deep breath, you tapped on one of the links a friend had sent, dreading what you might find.

The headline blared across the screen: "Hollywood Bodyguard Logan Hunter Seen Entering Hotel of Y/N's Onscreen Rival—Secret Affair?"

You felt a pang in your chest, an ache that spread like ice through your veins. The article went on to detail how Logan was supposedly spotted entering a high-end hotel known for housing out-of-town celebrities. It even specified that just last night, the actress playing your onscreen rival had checked into that very hotel, sparking an avalanche of speculation. Photographers had apparently captured Logan, his head down, wearing his usual serious expression as he slipped through the hotel doors.

Scrolling down, you were greeted with low-quality images that only seemed to confirm what the article suggested. Your stomach twisted as you looked at each one, desperately searching for anything that might tell you it wasn’t him or that this was just some ridiculous, elaborate misunderstanding. But there was no denying the figure in the pictures, no denying his familiar stance and his unmistakable gait.

The words blurred on the screen as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You wanted to dismiss it as another fabricated rumor, but you couldn’t shake the sick feeling churning inside. Why hadn’t he mentioned meeting anyone else? And why had he gone to a hotel—especially one that you knew was currently hosting the actress you’d been cast against?

Your phone buzzed again, breaking you from your spiraling thoughts. It was a text from your best friend:

“Are you okay? I’m here if you need to talk.”

The floodgates opened, and you wiped at a tear slipping down your cheek. The logical part of you wanted to believe there was some other explanation, that this was all just some twisted coincidence, but doubt gnawed at you. How many times had you seen stories of relationships torn apart by the pressures of Hollywood, of people you thought you knew falling for someone else?

The hours ticked by slowly, each minute dragging as you paced the penthouse, your mind replaying the images of Logan entering the hotel over and over. You tried distracting yourself, tried focusing on the work in front of you, but everything felt meaningless, drowned by a painful insecurity that left you feeling hollow. Every time your phone buzzed with another notification, you felt a jolt of dread, bracing yourself for more damning evidence, more messages laced with pity or curiosity.

By the time the sky had darkened, you’d grown exhausted from waiting, from the endless battle in your mind. Just when you were beginning to think you couldn’t handle it any longer, you heard the click of the front door. Logan stepped in, looking tired but offering you that familiar smile. But one look at you, and his expression softened, worry instantly replacing the calm he’d walked in with.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle as he crossed the room toward you, brow furrowed with concern.

You swallowed, the hurt in your chest making it hard to meet his eyes. But you forced yourself to look up, forcing out the words. “Where were you today, Logan?”

He blinked, clearly not expecting the question. “I told you—I had a meeting with my boss. It was… it took a bit longer than expected.”

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “Why did I see pictures of you going into that hotel? The one where…” Your voice trailed off as you struggled to get the words out. “Where she’s staying?”

Realization dawned in his eyes, and he reached out, but you took a step back, needing space to breathe. The last thing you wanted was to let him see how deeply his absence had hurt you, but you couldn’t help the hurt and confusion that flashed across your face.

Logan’s gaze softened, his shoulders slumping as he realized the depth of your pain. “Y/N… I can explain everything. But please believe me, I would never hurt you. Never.”

His words were soft, sincere, and they tugged at your heart, urging you to believe him. But the images, the articles, and the words of everyone who’d reached out to you that day weighed heavily on your mind.

“Then tell me,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Logan took a deep breath, looking down for a moment before meeting your gaze again. “I was at that hotel, yes, but it had nothing to do with her.” He took a step closer, hands raised in a calming gesture. “My boss, he’s in town for a security conference. He booked a suite there for some meetings, and that’s where we met. I didn’t even know she was staying there, Y/N. And if I had, I would’ve told you.”

Your heart ached as you listened, torn between relief and residual doubt. “But why didn’t you tell me you’d be going somewhere like that?” you asked, the words spilling out, carrying with them the vulnerability you’d tried so hard to hide.

Logan’s expression softened, and he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. “I should have. You’re right. I didn’t think twice about it because it was just a meeting. But I never meant to hurt you, and I certainly didn’t mean to give you any reason to doubt us.” His thumb brushed gently along your cheek, his touch grounding you, and you closed your eyes, leaning into his palm.

He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’re the only one, Y/N. I don’t care who else is around, or what anyone else thinks. It’s you. Always.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, but this time, it was from relief. His sincerity, the warmth in his eyes, and the quiet conviction in his voice slowly chipped away at the walls you’d built up over the course of the day. You let out a shaky breath, nodding as the tension in your shoulders began to dissolve.

“I was scared,” you admitted, the words spilling out in a whisper. “I didn’t want to believe it, but… seeing those pictures…”

Logan’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and you buried your face in his chest, letting the warmth of his embrace soothe the ache that had settled in your heart. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I never wanted to put you through that. I should’ve thought it through, should’ve told you exactly where I was.”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him through damp lashes, a weak smile tugging at your lips. “I guess I’ve just gotten so used to having you here, with me, that even a few hours apart feels… different.”

He smiled softly, his fingers brushing along your cheek as he gazed down at you. “And I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” His voice was steady, and you felt the weight of his words settle over you, anchoring you in a newfound sense of security.

As the evening continued, the doubt that had clouded your mind all day finally began to dissipate, replaced by the reassurance of his presence. You knew there would always be whispers, rumors, and challenges that came with dating someone in the public eye, but standing there in his arms, you realized that together, you could weather anything.

For the rest of the evening, Logan held you close, his touches soft and gentle as if to make up for the strain you’d endured. You knew that while today had shaken you, it had also strengthened your bond, reinforcing the trust that lay at the heart of your relationship.

And as you fell asleep that night, wrapped securely in his arms, you knew that no matter what headlines the world threw your way, you and Logan would face them together, grounded in a love that was real, unwavering, and stronger than any rumor.

As the gentle rise and fall of your breathing softened into an even rhythm, Logan watched you, a small smile tugging at his lips. You looked so peaceful curled up beside him, your face nestled in the crook of his arm, completely unaware of the world—and of the storm of rumors that had swirled around you all day. The day had been rougher than he’d anticipated; the flood of doubt and worry on your face when he’d walked back into the penthouse had hit him harder than he wanted to admit. And now, with you safely sleeping, he wanted to reassure you and everyone else that he wasn’t going anywhere.

As his eyes drifted toward your phone on the nightstand, an idea crossed his mind, one he hadn’t considered before. Logan wasn’t exactly tech-savvy—social media wasn’t his thing—but he had watched you do enough Instagram lives that he thought he could probably figure it out, even if he wasn’t sure why people watched them. Maybe if he said something himself, directly to the people spreading rumors, they’d get the message. He carefully leaned over, stretching for your phone without disturbing you. Punching in the familiar digits of your anniversary date, the screen unlocked, revealing your Instagram feed. The notifications were relentless: messages, comments, and tags, all seemingly tied to today’s hotel incident.

Taking a deep breath, he found the camera icon, hesitating as he checked the lighting. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of your bedside lamp, which cast a warm glow over your face as you slept soundly against his chest. He shifted the camera angle to show you snuggled against him, and after a moment of deliberation, he pressed Go Live.

The screen suddenly transformed, displaying a timer and a small notification telling him people were beginning to join the live stream. His brow furrowed as he stared at the screen, suddenly feeling a wave of nerves he wasn’t used to. Hundreds of comments began to flow in, and he squinted at them, trying to make sense of the tiny, fast-moving text.

“Alright, uh…” he began, his voice low and gruff, though he kept his volume low to avoid waking you. He fumbled for a moment, adjusting the angle so more of his face was visible, along with a glimpse of your peaceful form. “So, yeah… I’m not sure exactly how this works, but I think I’m doing it right. People are watching, right?” He squinted at the screen, realizing there were now thousands of people in the chat.

OMG, is that Logan? Is Y/N asleep?! This is so cute! What’s going on? He’s using her phone?!

“Okay, yeah, I see you guys commenting.” He cleared his throat, glancing down at you to make sure you were still fast asleep. “So… I’m here because there’s been some… well, garbage circulating today about me, and I didn’t want you—any of you—to get the wrong idea.”

He ran a hand over his face, clearly uncomfortable but determined. “Look, I’m not the kind of guy who does this ‘social media’ thing. I leave that up to her because she’s got that… influencer magic touch or whatever.” He let out a small huff, almost laughing at himself. “But there’s one thing I won’t tolerate, and that’s people thinking I’d do anything to hurt her. That’s not happening. Not today, not tomorrow. Not ever.”

The comments poured in, filled with everything from declarations of support to playful teasing:

Protective Logan is everything. Never thought I’d see this man on IG live. Logan is going OFF and I’m here for it. Who else is already recording this?

Logan sighed, glancing down at you with an unmistakable softness in his gaze. “She’s everything to me,” he said, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “I know you all see us together on red carpets or in the news or whatever, but what you don’t see is this.” He adjusted the phone so it framed you perfectly, curled up in his arms, the corners of your lips turned up in a peaceful smile. “This is her. My girl. She’s got the softest heart in the world, and today… today she was hurting because of something stupid. Something that never even happened.”

He paused, as if collecting his thoughts, then let out a breath. “People are saying I’m seeing someone else. They got pictures of me going into some hotel, and yeah, I was there, but it was for a meeting with my boss. That’s it.” He emphasized the words, his eyes narrowing as if daring anyone watching to argue. “She knows now; I explained it to her, and she trusts me. That’s what matters. But just in case any of you want to keep talking about it… remember this.”

The camera shifted slightly as he moved his hand, gently running his fingers through your hair as he looked down at you. “This is the only place I want to be. Right here, with her.”

The comments exploded.

THIS IS THE CONTENT WE DESERVE Is he really doing this while she’s sleeping? Protect them at all costs, pls. Logan, you absolute legend.

Logan squinted again at the comments, clearly struggling to keep up. “There’s… a lot of words on here,” he muttered, looking slightly flustered. “Not sure I get how you guys read all this so fast. Anyway, I just wanted to set the record straight. I’m not seeing anyone else, I’m not cheating on her, and honestly, if you keep saying it… well, I’m not gonna be happy about it. And you don’t want to see me unhappy.”

There was a beat of silence as he scratched his head, visibly uncomfortable but pushing through, clearly determined to make his point. “Look, I don’t care about fame, or fans, or what any of you say about me. I’m here for her. I want to protect her, to take care of her. If any of you really care about her too, then… then don’t buy into this nonsense. Don’t let them tear us apart with stupid rumors.”

Another wave of comments flooded in, and he leaned forward, trying to read a few.

Can we talk about how soft he looks rn? Why is this the cutest thing ever? Logan’s angry rants are kinda romantic?!

“Yeah, yeah, I see some of you making jokes,” he grumbled, though his lips twitched as he read the reactions. “Think I’m soft, huh? Well, maybe I am—maybe I am a little bit soft when it comes to her.” He looked down at you, his features softening again. “She deserves it. She deserves everything.”

He paused, scratching his head again, then sighed in defeat. “Alright, how do I turn this thing off? Seriously, does anyone know?” He squinted at the screen, tapping at random buttons and muttering to himself. “I swear, I’m gonna break this thing if it doesn’t—”

The comments came to his rescue:

Top right, Logan! Hit the ‘X’! Someone help this man before he deletes her whole profile.

“Right, thanks,” he grumbled, following the instructions. “And if any of you save this video or… or make this into some kind of meme, I’m gonna find out. Got it?”

With one final glance at you, Logan ended the livestream, letting out a long exhale as he set the phone down. He looked down at you, his heart swelling with relief and affection as he watched you sleep peacefully, blissfully unaware of the emotional monologue he’d just delivered to thousands of fans.

Unbeknownst to him, the livestream was already gaining traction, clips of his soft, protective words flooding the internet. By morning, #LoganProtectsY/N and #SoftLogan were trending, with fans dissecting every second of his heartfelt speech. They praised his loyalty, laughed at his awkward attempts at using Instagram, and swooned over the way he’d looked at you, sleeping in his arms.

But for Logan, all that mattered was knowing that he’d done everything he could to protect you. He’d cleared the air, shut down the rumors, and, hopefully, sent a message to anyone who dared question his commitment.

When you woke up hours later, snuggled in his arms, you had no idea of the viral sensation that had taken place while you slept. Logan greeted you with a quiet kiss, a content smile on his face as if nothing had happened.

It wasn’t until you reached for your phone and saw the thousands of notifications, trending hashtags, and tags of Logan’s accidental “love confession” that you looked up at him, wide-eyed and stunned.

“Logan… what did you do?” you asked, a mix of amusement and surprise in your voice.

He simply shrugged, his expression calm as he held you close. “Just told them the truth.”

It didn’t take long for Logan’s unexpected livestream to become a global sensation. In the days following, clips of his heartfelt speech continued to circulate, with fans clamoring for more of his accidental charm. The two of you were trending for days, fans flooding the comments with supportive messages, heart emojis, and endless excitement over Logan’s protectiveness and gruff sweetness. You couldn’t resist laughing when you saw the #SoftLogan hashtag popping up alongside video edits and reaction memes. And as soon as you showed Logan, his eyes rolled, but his cheeks flushed, a telltale sign that he secretly loved it.

So, when the holiday season rolled around and you suggested going live together—on purpose this time—Logan didn’t put up much of a fight. A Christmas-themed livestream, with baking and festive lights? He pretended to be indifferent, but you could tell he was secretly looking forward to it. The idea of spending the holidays together was already a dream, and now, getting to share a cozy, lighthearted moment with fans made it even better.

And so, a few days before Christmas, the two of you set up in your kitchen. The decorations were up, twinkling lights wrapping around the windows and mistletoe hung strategically above you—an idea Logan had teased you about at first but eventually grew fond of himself. The flour, sugar, butter, and other baking ingredients were all lined up on the counter as you set up your phone on a tripod.

You hit the Go Live button and waited as viewers began flooding in, the comments coming in almost immediately.

OMG they’re back together in a live! Are we getting a SoftLogan Christmas special?! Y/N, girl, blink twice if you’re safe with Logan in the kitchen! Does Logan even know how to bake?!

You glanced over at Logan, who was already eyeing the ingredients with a mix of curiosity and mild apprehension. “Alright, everyone,” you began with a grin, addressing the growing audience. “We’re going to attempt to bake Christmas cookies today. And by ‘attempt,’ I mean Logan has promised to help, even though he has very limited experience in the kitchen.”

“Limited?” Logan scoffed, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow at you. “I’m not that bad.”

“You burn toast,” you shot back, laughing. “So, yes, we’re going to attempt baking Christmas cookies, and I can already tell this is going to be… interesting.”

The comments were rolling in faster than you could read them:

Logan is definitely the guy who thinks ‘preheating’ is optional. We love to see Y/N dragging him; the dynamic is everything! CAN WE PLEASE SEE LOGAN IN A SANTA APRON?!

You grinned at the last comment and nudged Logan. “The fans want to know if you’re willing to wear the Santa apron.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but you noticed the small smile on his lips. “No way am I wearing an apron with Santa on it,” he protested, but he reached for it, putting it on with exaggerated reluctance. “Only because it’s Christmas,” he muttered, the red apron looking unexpectedly charming on him.

As you got started, Logan reached for the flour, spilling an unnecessary amount onto the counter in his attempt to pour it into the mixing bowl. You couldn’t hold back your laugh as you tried to rein in his enthusiasm.

“Logan! We only need a cup of flour, not the entire bag,” you teased, wiping some of the flour off the counter.

He shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Can’t make cookies without flour. I’m just… being thorough.”

You shook your head, adjusting the camera slightly to catch both of you as you attempted to salvage the flour situation. Your fans were in hysterics in the comments:

We love a man who’s thorough, Y/N! Does Logan think flour is the only ingredient?! Imagine calling this thoroughness ‘baking skills.’

“Next is sugar,” you continued, holding the measuring cup out. “And we need half a cup, half, Logan. Not ‘one heaping mountain,’ just half.”

He gave you a look of pure innocence, his hand hovering over the sugar as he tried to pour it carefully. But his definition of “half” was still far more than necessary, and you bit back laughter, shaking your head. “We’re making cookies, not cement, Logan!”

Logan chuckled, a soft laugh that brought a twinkle to his eye. “Look, this is harder than it looks, alright? You just tell me what to do, and I’ll follow.”

You shot him a skeptical look but continued with the instructions, going step-by-step as he did his best to keep up. Between his overly generous measurements and your frequent corrections, the kitchen was quickly filled with laughter and playful banter.

When it came time to roll out the dough, Logan took the rolling pin in his hands, looking at it like it was an alien object. “How hard can this be?” he muttered, pressing down on the dough with way too much force, causing it to stick to the counter and flatten beyond recognition.

“Logan!” you cried out, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. “You’re supposed to be gentle with it, like… like when you’re putting your arm around me or something.”

“Oh, like that,” he said, his tone teasing. He softened his touch, rolling the dough more delicately, though it was still sticking in awkward patches. You tried to help him, guiding his hands, and by the end, the two of you were a flour-covered, laughing mess.

“Okay, now we’re going to use these cookie cutters,” you said, holding up a few shapes: a snowman, a reindeer, and a Christmas tree. “Pick your favorite.”

“Easy.” Logan grabbed the reindeer cutter, pressing it into the dough and proudly holding it up. “Reindeer cookies it is.”

The two of you cut out the rest of the shapes, arranging them on the baking sheet and finally putting them in the oven. As the cookies baked, you read through more fan comments, laughing with Logan at the endless string of humorous observations and questions.

Please tell me Logan won’t be in charge of frosting. This man is dangerously close to ruining Christmas cookies. But seriously, they look so cute together. I’m calling it now: Logan doesn’t even know how to use an oven timer.

Logan furrowed his brows at the last comment. “Wait, we need a timer?”

“Logan!” You let out a laugh, immediately setting the timer yourself. “Yes, we need a timer. Otherwise, we’ll just have burnt reindeer shapes instead of cookies.”

When the timer finally went off, you took the cookies out, laughing together over the misshapen but somehow adorable treats. The two of you set about decorating, Logan’s hands steady but not quite precise as he attempted to pipe frosting on a reindeer. The result was… less than impressive, and you both burst out laughing at his attempt.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, trying to hide his embarrassment as the fans commented enthusiastically.

Logan’s reindeer is questionable, but we stan his effort. I’d still eat it! Best rom-com scene ever.

Finally, with the cookies decorated, you turned back to the camera, holding up a plate of your (very creatively decorated) creations. “Well, here you have it, folks. Our version of Christmas cookies! We may not be experts, but we had fun, right, Logan?”

“More fun than I expected,” he admitted, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “Thanks for making me do this.”

You smiled up at him, and for a moment, you forgot all about the livestream. That was, until the comments started rolling in faster than ever:

OMG did he just look at her like that?! THE SOFT LOOK, I CAN’T. Guys, please tell me you saw that too. He’s going to propose. He has to.

Logan read the comments, his face shifting to something both nervous and determined. He glanced at you, taking a deep breath as he reached into his pocket, fingers grazing over something small and shiny. You looked at him, curious, as he took your hands in his.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice suddenly a little rough. “These last few months… they’ve been everything to me. I didn’t think I’d ever be the guy doing Christmas cookie livestreams or… any of this social media stuff. But I’d do it every day for you.”

Your heart was pounding as he knelt down on one knee, pulling a ring box from his pocket and opening it to reveal a beautiful, sparkling ring.

The comments erupted into chaos, but you barely noticed, your focus entirely on him as he held your gaze.

“I don’t know if this is the way you imagined it, but…” he smiled, that soft smile that had become your favorite. “Will you marry me?”

Tears filled your eyes as you nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. You threw your arms around him, laughing through the tears as you whispered a quiet, “Yes.”

The fans went wild, and Logan chuckled, holding you close as you realized that the whole world had just witnessed your engagement. But in that moment, nothing else mattered. You were in his arms, right where you belonged. And as he slipped the ring onto your finger, both of you covered in flour and frosting, you couldn’t have imagined a more perfect, hilariously romantic proposal.

The comments from fans cheering and congratulating the two of you were endless, but Logan just looked at you, a gentle pride in his eyes as he whispered, “Merry Christmas, love.”

it's November so it's basically Christmas I don't make the rules I'm sorry, maybe at December I could start a new game where you can request any type of fanfics set in Christmas? Or something like that? let me know in the comments If you have other ideas! <3

if you liked the story don't forget to like, reblog and drop a follow if you want to read more!

[pandapetals]

The Edge of Safety

Living in Lowtown meant crime happened all the time. After your sister gets taken, you turn to Patch for help to find her.

patch/logan howlett x fem!reader - takes place in madripoor, no y/n used, no reader description but reader does have a sister named emily, violence, blood, death, killing, very action packed, some sexual tension, patch is an asshole, angst, reader is a lowkey badass, kid and sweetheart nickname used

a/n: okay this one is an essay of an author’s note but listen….I honestly haven’t stopped thinking about Patch since deadpool and wolverine soooo I did some research on Patch’s character, read some comics and googled it. Then like a vision this idea came to me so i was like okay gonna write it after i finish other stuff but nope, ended up writing nonstop so. Not complaining (okay maybe my fingers are) but yeah, hopefully this is accurate. i did take some creative liberties because patch is still logan just in a “disguise”---if you can call an eye patch a disguise. lol

word count: 21k

The acrid stench of sweat and cheap cologne filled the cramped convenience store, mingling with the faint buzz of flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you gripped your sister’s hand, pulling her close. The rough concrete floor felt cold even through your shoes, grounding you in the grim reality of the moment.

 Lowtown was no stranger to crime—muggings, drug deals, the occasional gang scuffle—but you’d always managed to keep your head down and avoid it until now.

“Don’t make me ask again!” The man’s voice was rough, edged with a brittle desperation that set your nerves on edge. His eyes darted around the room, wild and unfocused, like he was looking for an excuse to pull the trigger. The barrel of his gun swung in a lazy arc, cutting through the air as he fixed his gaze on the store owner. With a sneer, he herded everyone to the front of the store, shoving people together like cattle pressed up against the cold metal shelves.

His eyes fell on you and your sister, and something dark flickered in his expression—a hint of menace that made your stomach drop. You tightened your grip on her hand, feeling the tremor in her fingers as she clung to you. Her wide, fearful eyes darted around the store, seeking a way out, but there was none.

The store owner, a grizzled man with leathery skin and a face set in a permanent scowl, barely blinked. He watched the gunman with an almost bored expression like he’d seen this kind of thing too many times to muster any real fear. The gunman’s jaw clenched his impatience mounting. “You heard me,” he barked, voice cracking as he waved the gun in your direction as if you were somehow responsible for the old man’s slow compliance. He stabbed the air with the muzzle, the barrel now pointed squarely at your chest. “Open the register, or I swear I’ll blow her head off!”

Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs. The gun was only inches away, the metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. You could feel your sister shaking beside you, her small fingers squeezing yours so tight it was almost painful. 

You took a step back, instinctively trying to shield her with your body, but the movement only drew the gunman’s attention. His eyes narrowed, zeroing in on you, a twisted grin stretching across his lips.

“I said, hurry up!” The man’s voice was splintered, the wild edge creeping further in. There was something unhinged in his eyes—a flicker of mania that made your skin crawl. This wasn’t just a man looking for a quick score. This was a man on the verge of losing control, and you were all trapped in his orbit.

The store owner finally sighed, his shoulders slumping as if he was annoyed. He shuffled over to the register, his gnarled fingers moving with an infuriating slowness as he popped it open. The old, rusted drawer creaked, and he began peeling off crumpled bills one by one, as though he had all the time in the world.

A low growl escaped the gunman’s throat, his patience wearing dangerously thin. “Faster, old man—”

Suddenly, the air exploded with movement. The gunman lurched forward, his arm swinging as he reached for your sister, his fingers digging into her arm with a brutal yank that tore her from your side. The world seemed to splinter at that moment, her terrified scream slicing through the heavy silence like a knife. Time slowed, the sounds around you muffled as adrenaline flooded your veins.

Without thinking, you lunged after her, instincts overtaking reason. You swung wildly, aiming for anything you could reach—a fist, an arm, something to get him off her. But he was faster, or maybe just more desperate, and in one fluid motion, he spun around and cracked the butt of the gun against your head.

Pain flared, white-hot and blinding, and the world tilted. Your vision blurred, your knees buckling as darkness closed in at the edges of your sight. The last thing you heard before everything went black was your sister’s panicked cries, growing fainter, slipping away into the shadows as you fell into oblivion.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You awoke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of medical equipment. Your head throbbed like someone was pounding nails into your skull. The sterile white of the hospital room pressed in on you from all sides. Panic spiked through your veins as the memories rushed back—the robber with greasy hair, the gun, your sister’s terrified face.

“She’s gone!” The words tore from your throat, raw and ragged. You struggled to sit up, but a firm hand pushed you back down.

“Easy now, hon,” a nurse said, her voice soothing but firm. She was a broad-shouldered woman with lines etched deep around her eyes. “You’re safe. Just breathe, okay? You're in the hospital. You took a nasty blow.”

“My sister—” You fought against the dizziness threatening to drag you under again. “Where is she? Did they find her?”

The nurse’s expression tightened, sympathy clouding her eyes as she glanced away, studying the dull linoleum as if it held an answer. “No one knows where she is yet, sweetheart. The police are looking.”

You shook your head, frustration tightening in your chest. “The police won’t help,” you spat, your voice cracking. “This town is rotten—crime’s everywhere, and the cops don’t do a damn thing.”

“I know,” the nurse began, her voice gentle but uncertain, “but—”

“No, you don’t understand!” The words erupted from you, raw and desperate. Your throat burned with the effort to keep from breaking down. “I have to find her. She’s all I have left. My only family.” The last words came out like a plea.

The nurse hesitated before her eyes softened. She leaned in closer, her tone shifting, becoming almost conspiratorial. “Listen,” she whispered, her gaze flicking to the doorway and back again, “there’s someone who might be able to help you.” Her voice dipped lower, barely audible over the hum of the machines.

You blinked, struggling to steady your breath. “Who?” you managed, your voice thin and rough.

“A man they call Patch,” she said as if the name itself carried weight. It slipped from her lips like a secret traded in the dark. “He’s... not with the police. More of a vigilante, some say. Others call him a mercenary. Word is, he deals with the kind of trouble that the law won’t touch. The kind that hides in the shadows.” She glanced at the door again, then took a step back, as if wary of saying too much. “If you’re serious about finding your sister, he might be your best shot.”

The name hung in the air between you, heavy with promise and risk. A flicker of hope sparked, but doubt quickly smothered it. Who was this Patch? And would he care about some girl from Lowtown?

You pushed the thought aside. You couldn’t afford to be picky. “Where can I find him?” you asked, forcing the words past the knot in your throat.

The nurse’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “It won’t be easy,” she warned, her gaze steady. “Patch isn’t exactly the friendly type. He’s got a reputation for being... rough around the edges. Dangerous, even.”

“I don’t care,” you said, your jaw setting with grim determination. “Just tell me where.”

She sighed, folding her arms across her chest as if trying to shield herself from the weight of what she was about to say. “He usually hangs out at a place called The Lucky Dragon,” she said. “It’s a casino in Hightown. You can’t miss it—big neon sign, a dragon wrapped around a roulette wheel. Classy place, for all the wrong reasons. Just…” Her voice softened, almost pleading. “Be careful. Hightown’s not like here. It’s meaner. More secrets. And Patch—well, if you get on his bad side, don’t expect him to show mercy.”

Her words settled over you, cold and unyielding. There was a flicker of a warning laced within them. The kind that whispered, if you were willing to walk through the fire, there was still a chance.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, though your voice shook a little. “I just need to find her.”

The nurse gave a slow nod as if deciding whether or not to believe you. “Then good luck, hon,” she murmured. “Oh, and—Patch isn’t in the habit of doing favors. You’d better be ready to give him a reason to care.”

You swallowed hard, pushing down the fear and doubt that threatened to surface. It didn’t matter. None of it did. There was only one thing you had to do now—find Patch, and hope that somewhere in that smoke-filled casino, amid the clatter of dice and the murmur of broken dreams, lay a path that would lead you back to your sister.

The image of your sister—small, terrified, yanked out of your reach—burned itself into your mind. It was like a fever that spread through your limbs, propelling you off the hospital bed. The dull throb in your skull was nothing compared to the hollow ache in your chest, a void that swallowed every other sensation. You had to move. You had to do something.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

Outside, the city loomed like a beast under a blanket of murky night. Neon lights buzzed, reflecting off the rain-slicked pavement as if mocking your urgency. You stumbled into the street, your legs feeling weak. Everything seemed to cling to you, as you raised a hand to hail a cab.

The first few drove past without even slowing, and panic tightened its grip around your throat. Finally, one screeched to a halt, and you threw yourself into the backseat.

“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. His eyes widened a little when he took in your bruised face, blood-stained clothes, and the hospital bracelet still dangling from your wrist.

“The Lucky Dragon,” you said, voice hoarse. “In Hightown.”

The driver’s eyebrows lifted. “You sure, lady? That’s not exactly a place for—”

“Just go,” you snapped, too drained to care about his judgment. You slumped back in the seat, your hands balled into fists on your lap as the cab sped off, the engine’s low rumble vibrating through your bones. The city blurred past outside the window—crumbling brick, flickering signs, and the occasional flash of blue and red from a distant police cruiser. It was a cruel world you’d stepped back into, and every second that ticked by seemed to deepen the chasm between you and your sister.

As the cab climbed the steep hill toward Hightown, the landscape began to shift. The streets became wider, the grime less visible under the garish glow of high-rise billboards and polished storefronts. The Lucky Dragon stood near the end of the strip, towering above the other buildings like a gaudy temple. A giant neon dragon wrapped around a roulette wheel glared down at you, its ruby eyes glinting like a predator’s in the darkness.

You tossed a handful of crumpled bills at the driver and stepped out, feeling the weight of stares from passersby almost immediately. Your clothes were wrinkled from sweat with bits of dried blood splattered on them making you look completely out of place. 

The cold air bit your cheeks, and you could feel the eyes crawling over you: casino patrons in tailored suits and glittering dresses, eyeing you with a mix of suspicion and contempt. A few whispered, nudging each other as you walked by. You kept your chin up, though it felt like every step was sinking you deeper into quicksand. You didn’t belong here, and everyone knew it.

The casino doors hissed open, releasing a wall of sound that crashed over you—laughter, the ringing of slot machines, the clink of glasses, and the low murmur of conversations spoken in secret. The Lucky Dragon’s interior was drenched in crimson and gold, a haze of smoke curling beneath the chandeliers. You drifted in, feeling small beneath the vaulted ceiling, and glanced around, searching for a face that meant nothing to you. How were you even supposed to know who to look for? The nurse had given you a name, but nothing more—no description, no sign to point you in the right direction.

The poker tables caught your eye. Figures hunched over cards, some grinning like foxes, others steely-faced, staring down their opponents. Then you saw him. It was as if the world sharpened, everything else fading into the background.

He sat at the farthest table, a tall, brooding figure in a crisp white suit that made him stand out against the dark wood and dim lighting. His hair was dark, almost black styled into two high tufts. An eye patch covered his left eye, leaving the other to gleam with a harsh intensity as he studied his cards. There was a casual elegance in the way he leaned back in his chair, a hand resting on his chin, but the lines of his body spoke of coiled strength, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

You hesitated, your legs suddenly heavy as you took a step forward. What were you even going to say? You didn’t have a plan, just desperation driving you forward but the thought of your sister—lost, afraid—pushed you into motion. You could feel the weight of judgmental eyes again as you approached the table, but you didn’t care. Not anymore.

“Are you Patch?” The question came out stronger than you’d expected, even though your heart hammered against your ribs.

The man didn’t look up right away. He flipped a card over with a lazy flick of his wrist, then let out a low, dismissive chuckle. “Depends on who’s asking.” His voice was deep, rough around the edges like gravel. 

Finally, he raised his gaze to meet yours, and you felt the full force of that single, piercing eye lock onto you, taking you in from head to toe—the blood-stained clothes, the bruises, the desperation etched into every line of your face.

He arched a brow, an almost amused smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “You lost, sweetheart? 'Cause you sure as hell don’t look like you belong here.”

You swallowed hard, steeling yourself against the urge to wilt under that gaze. “I need your help,” you said, fighting to keep the tremor out of your voice. “Someone took my sister. I was told you’re the kind of guy who could help.”

His expression didn’t change, but the air around him seemed to shift, growing colder, and heavier. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and for a moment, you thought you saw something flash in his eye—something dark and dangerous, like a knife unsheathed. 

“Kid,” he said slowly, “do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”

“I don’t care,” you replied, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find my sister.”

Patch’s gaze held yours, unyielding, for what felt like an eternity. His single eye was cold, appraising—like he was stripping you down to the bones, searching for the truth behind your words. You could feel a bead of sweat forming on the back of your neck, your skin prickling under the weight of his silence. His stillness was unnerving, like the calm before a storm, and the longer he just sat there, the more your frustration flared.

Finally, you couldn’t take it. You shifted your weight and crossed your arms as if bracing yourself. “Look, mister,” you snapped, your voice cracking from the strain of holding back tears. “The police aren’t going to do shit. Lowtown’s a goddamn warzone, and you know it.” You took a step closer, your fingers tightening into fists at your sides. “While you sit here, lounging around in a fancy suit, playing cards, and sipping drinks, people like me are getting robbed, beaten, and killed.”

Patch’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in that eye—a spark, a shadow, gone too quickly to read. He leaned back in his chair, casually swirling the remnants of his drink as if your outburst had barely registered. “And what makes you think you’re any different?” His voice was low, edged with a hint of boredom. “Another desperate girl with a sob story, wandering in from Lowtown, hoping someone else will clean up her mess.”

His words cut deep, stoking a fury that flared hot in your chest. “This isn’t just some ‘sob story,’” you spat back, your voice rising despite the stares from nearby tables. “My sister is out there—taken by some lowlife who had a gun in her face. I can’t just—” Your breath hitched, and you forced yourself to push through it. “I can’t just sit around hoping she’ll magically come home. I have to do something.”

Patch’s gaze sharpened, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. He set his glass down, the dull clink resonating like a judge’s gavel. “And you think coming here, shaking like a leaf, is doing something?” There was a bitter edge in his tone as if he was testing you, pushing to see how far you’d go before you broke.

You took a steadying breath, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks. “You think I wanted to walk in here like this?” you shot back, gesturing to the dirty clothes clinging to your skin. “I came because I don’t have any other choice. I was unconscious in a hospital bed while some bastard dragged her away. So yeah, I’m desperate. But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to give up.”

For a heartbeat, the silence stretched between you. The murmurs of the casino faded to a dull roar in your ears as you locked eyes with Patch, refusing to look away even though every instinct told you to. His expression remained inscrutable, but there was a shift—a subtle change in the air between you, like the first stirrings of a breeze before a storm breaks.

Slowly, Patch’s lips curved into a humorless smirk. He tapped a finger against the poker table as if coming to some unspoken decision. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But guts don’t count for much if you don’t know what you’re doing. The kind of people who snatch girls off the street don’t just give them back because someone asked nicely.”

“Then tell me what I need to do,” you said, swallowing hard. “Or are you just going to sit there?”

Patch’s smirk faded, replaced by a cold, calculating look. He stood up slowly, the chair scraping against the floor, and took a step toward you. The scent of smoke and whiskey clung to him like a second skin. He was close enough now that you could see the faint scars trailing along his knuckles, the signs of countless fights hard-won. “I don’t take on charity cases,” he said quietly, his breath warm against your cheek. “You want my help, you’ve got to prove you’re worth my time.”

“How?” you asked, your voice trembling but resolute.

He held your gaze a moment longer, then jerked his head toward the back of the casino, where the neon lights barely reached and the air was thick with shadows. “There’s a back room here where debts get settled,” he said. “People who owe money and don’t pay. There’s a guy inside—a dealer who owes the house more than he’ll ever be able to repay. Find out what he knows. If you can handle that, then maybe—maybe—I’ll think about helping you find your sister.”

Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and began to walk away, the white of his suit disappearing into the crowd like a ghost fading into the night. You took a shaky breath, glancing toward the shadowed hallway he’d indicated.

How the hell were you supposed to make some guy talk? You didn’t have the kind of presence Patch had—the kind that could silence a room with just a look. He was the sort of man who wore danger like a second skin, and you’d bet he could get a confession out of someone without saying a word, just by staring them down with that single, unnerving eye. 

You? You were just a woman caught between terror and adrenaline, your whole body trembling as you tried to keep your breaths even. The absurdity of everything pressed down on you like a weight, threatening to crush you. 

You sighed, your breath shuddering out of you as you glanced toward the darkened hallway Patch had pointed to. The back room where debts got settled—the very idea sent a chill crawling up your spine. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been in shady places before, growing up in Lowtown, but this was different. This was Hightown’s version of shady, where the rich got away with sins even the criminals in Lowtown wouldn’t touch.

The image of your sister flashed in your mind again—her wide, frightened eyes as the gunman dragged her away. A hollow ache twisted in your chest, and you straightened up, forcing your limbs to stop trembling. You didn’t know how to do this, but you were about to learn. There was no other choice. There never had been.

You slipped through the crowd, weaving past tables and drunken gamblers. The din of the casino grew muffled as you approached the dimly lit hallway. The red and gold of the main room faded, replaced by shadowed walls and the stale scent of sweat and cigar smoke. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses died down to a murmur like the world had turned down its volume, leaving just the thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy door loomed, the kind you could tell wasn’t meant for guests. You hesitated in front of it, feeling the weight of the moment pressing on you. How were you supposed to do this? What were you supposed to say? You didn't have Patch’s cool composure or his casual air of authority. All you had was your desperation and that gnawing emptiness inside you—fuel that burned hotter than your fear.

You shoved the door open and stepped inside.

The room was cramped and dimly lit by a single dangling bulb, casting harsh shadows across stained walls. A poker table sat in the center, scattered with crumpled cards and empty whiskey glasses. In one of the worn-out chairs slouched a man in a rumpled suit, his fingers drumming nervously on the table's edge. His eyes flicked to you as you entered, his expression shifting from bored indifference to wary curiosity.

“You’re not one of them,” he said, his voice gravelly, squinting as if he was trying to place where you’d come from. “What do you want?”

You took a breath, forcing yourself to step further into the room, your sneakers silent on the gritty floor. “I need information,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though it wavered at the edges. “About a girl. She was taken recently. You know anything about that?”

The man’s gaze darted toward the door, then back to you. A thin, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, sweetheart,” he sneered, reaching for the cigarette resting on the ashtray in front of him. “I don’t know anything about any girls, and even if I did, why the hell would I tell you?”

His tone was dismissive, the kind of tone that told you he thought you were harmless, a nuisance to be shrugged off. It stung, but it was also exactly what you needed—because he didn’t see you as a threat.

You took a step closer, letting the harsh overhead light catch the bruises on your face, the hospital bracelet still dangling from your wrist. “Because if you don’t,” you said, your voice hardening, “the next person who walks through that door won’t be as nice.” You leaned in just enough that he’d have to catch the seriousness in your eyes. “It’ll be Patch.”

The name dropped like a stone, and you could see the reaction ripple across his face. It was slight—a tightening of the jaw, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes—but it was there. He looked you up and down again as if reevaluating what kind of game he’d walked into. “Patch sent you?” he scoffed, but there was less conviction.

You nodded, playing up your calm, letting it stretch out like you had all the time in the world. “He sent me to ask nicely,” you said, “but I’m sure he’d be happy to finish this conversation his way if you’d prefer.”

The man’s cigarette wavered between his fingers, his gaze sliding to the door as though expecting Patch to walk through it any second. You didn’t have to know what kind of history lay between them to see that he was rattled, that the mere mention of the name had carved a crack in his defenses.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face as he exhaled slowly. “Alright,” he muttered, stubbing it out in the ashtray. “What’s the girl’s name?”

You swallowed, relief flooding through you even as you kept your expression neutral. “Her name is Emily,” you said, your voice steady now. “And I need to know where they took her.”

The man’s eyes darted away, his fingers tapping anxiously on the table again. “Look, I don’t know much,” he said, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “But I heard some guys talking a few nights ago—something about a shipment coming through the docks. They mentioned girls, and... well, it didn’t sound like they were there by choice.”

Your stomach twisted, a knot of dread tightening as his words sank in. “What else?” you pressed. “What do you know about the men involved?”

He shook his head, glancing nervously toward the door again. “That’s all I’ve got,” he said. “Just some lowlife dealers from the docks. If Patch wants more than that, he’s gonna have to dig for it himself.”

You turned to leave, but before you reached the door, the man spoke again, his voice barely audible. “If you’re smart, you’ll walk away now,” he murmured a note of pity in his tone. “People who go looking for the kind of trouble you’re in don’t usually come back.”

You didn’t respond. There was no point because you would do whatever it took to get your sister back even if it meant crossing lines you never thought you’d cross.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You wandered the casino, weaving through the smoke and noise, scanning every shadowed corner and poker table for a glimpse of that white suit. It was like he’d disappeared into thin air. Your pulse quickened with each passing second, dread tightening its grip on your lungs. What if Patch had already left? What if he’d sent you into that back room as some kind of test and then walked out, leaving you here alone?

“Excuse me, ma’am?” A voice cut through the din, and you felt your stomach drop.

You turned slowly, your heart thudding in your chest. A security guard stood a few feet away, arms folded over his broad chest. He gave you a once-over, his eyes narrowing as he took in your disheveled hair, the bruises darkening your cheek, and the smear of dried blood on the sleeve of your jacket.

You swallowed, forcing a shaky smile and trying to smooth down your hair. “Me?” you said, aiming for innocence, though your voice betrayed a tremor. “Is there a problem?”

The guard’s gaze hardened. “You don’t exactly look like a regular customer,” he said, his tone flat, the words edged with suspicion. “And you shouldn’t be wandering back here.” He took a step forward, making it clear that you were not welcome in this part of the casino. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

Panic flared hot and fast in your chest. You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could get a word out, another voice broke in, smooth and cold as steel.

“She’s with me.”

The guard stiffened and stepped back as Patch emerged from the crowd, his white suit pristine, his expression as calm and dangerous as before. He didn’t even spare the guard a glance as he brushed past him, catching your arm with a firm grip and steering you away.

The guard hesitated, clearly unsure whether to question Patch’s authority, but in the end, he simply nodded and stepped aside, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer before he turned away.

Patch’s fingers tightened slightly on your arm as he guided you through the casino, weaving between the slot machines and roulette tables until the noise faded into a low hum behind you. He led you down a narrow hallway lined with plush crimson carpeting, the lights dimmer here, the atmosphere more intimate, as if you were walking deeper into the belly of the beast.

Finally, he steered you into a small, secluded alcove near a back exit. The muffled sounds of the casino were barely a whisper now, and the only light came from a single wall sconce casting long shadows across Patch’s face. He released your arm and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded you with that unblinking, solitary gaze.

"Well?” he said, arching a brow. “Did you get anything, or did I just save you from getting thrown out for nothing?”

You took a breath, steadying yourself as the adrenaline still coursed through your veins. “The guy I talked to,” you began, your voice stronger than you expected, “he said something about the docks. A shipment coming in. Girls, and… it didn’t sound like they were there by choice.” The words tasted bitter as they left your mouth, and you could feel the knot of dread tightening in your stomach. “He mentioned dealers. Low-level guys, but he didn’t have any names.”

Patch’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in his eye—something hardening as if your words had confirmed something he already suspected. “The docks,” he echoed, his voice low. “That’s a rough place to start, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Does that mean you’ll help me?” The question escaped before you could stop it, and you hated the raw edge of hope that colored your voice. “You said I had to prove myself.”

Patch’s gaze locked onto yours, sharp and measuring. He didn’t speak for a long moment, and you wondered if he was about to tell you to walk away, that this was as far as your desperation would carry you. But then he gave a slow nod, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Alright, kid,” he said, his tone carrying both a promise and a threat. “I’ll help you. But you gotta follow my lead. No questions, no hesitation.”

You nodded quickly, the relief rushing through you like a wave. “I understand. I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said, your voice firm despite the uncertainty gnawing at your gut.

“Good,” he replied, his gaze flicking toward the dimly lit hallway you’d come from. “We start at the docks tonight. If this lead turns out to be a dead end, then you better start praying your sister’s got a hell of a lot more luck than you.”

Patch turned, already heading for the back exit, and you hurried after him, determination burning in your chest. For the first time since you’d woken up in that hospital bed, you felt like you were finally moving forward. Toward answers, toward your sister, and deeper into a darkness you didn’t understand yet.

“You should probably get some fresh clothes,” Patch muttered, not bothering to look back as he strode ahead. His long strides ate up the distance, and you had to hurry to keep pace, your sneakers slapping against the tile. 

“Yeah, well,” you quipped, a touch of dry humor creeping into your voice as you picked up the pace, “I don’t exactly have a lot of money lying around, and my apartment’s in Lowtown, so unless you know a cheap boutique nearby…”

Patch slowed just enough to glance over his shoulder, his eye narrowing. “Watch the attitude, kid,” he growled, his voice low and edged with a warning. “I’m already going out of my way for you. Don’t push it.”

You huffed, struggling to keep up as he picked up the pace again, his white suit cutting a path through the dim casino lighting like a shark through water. “I’m just saying,” you muttered, “it’s not like I have a lot of options. I did just wake up in a hospital bed.”

Patch stopped abruptly, turning to face you with a look that was half annoyance, half something else—curiosity, maybe. “You don’t have any options,” he said flatly, “which is exactly why you’re stuck with me.” He ran a hand through his dark hair as if trying to brush away the frustration clinging to his voice. “Come on,” he added, a resigned sigh escaping his lips. “I know a place.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “A place?”

“Yeah,” he replied, already moving again. “My place.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and you couldn’t help the flicker of surprise that crossed your face. Patch had struck you as the type to drop you off at some dingy motel, toss a few bucks your way, and call it a night. But his place? You weren’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

“Wow,” you said, with a hint of a smirk you didn’t quite feel. “Didn’t know you were so generous.”

Patch shot you a sidelong glance as he pushed open a back door, leading you out into a narrow alley where the neon lights from the casino cast strange shadows on the wet pavement. “Don’t get used to it,” he said. “I’m not running a charity. I just don’t want you drawing attention while we’re out there.” He paused, then gave you a once-over, his gaze lingering on the bruises darkening your skin. “Besides,” he added dryly, “you look like you crawled out of a dumpster.”

You snorted despite yourself, falling in step beside him as he led you down the alley. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”

He grunted in response, guiding you toward a sleek, black motorcycle parked near the mouth of the alley. “You think you can hold on without falling off?” he asked, tossing you a helmet.

You caught the helmet awkwardly, feeling a little thrill of apprehension run through you. “Guess we’re about to find out,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. You climbed onto the back of the bike, wrapping your arms around Patch’s waist a little too tightly.

“Relax,” he muttered as he revved the engine. “You’re gonna crush my ribs.”

“Just making sure I don’t fall off,” you shot back, loosening your grip a fraction.

The motorcycle roared to life, and Patch sped off, weaving through the city streets with practiced ease. The wind tore at your hair, and the city blurred around you in streaks of neon and shadows. The ride didn’t last long—ten minutes, maybe fifteen—but it felt longer with the weight of everything pressing down on you. The docks. The men you were about to face. Your sister’s terrified eyes. You shoved it all down, focusing on the feel of the road beneath you and the solid presence of Patch in front of you.

He pulled into an underground parking garage beneath a sleek high-rise on the edge of Hightown, the kind of place that whispered money and power. Definitely not the kind of place you would’ve pictured Patch calling home. You dismounted and handed him the helmet, your eyes drifting up to the polished glass and steel above you.

“Seriously?” you asked, a brow arched. “This is where you live?”

Patch shot you a look that bordered on amused irritation. “I like my privacy,” he said simply, leading the way to an elevator tucked into the corner of the garage. He punched in a code, and the doors slid open, revealing a mirrored interior that seemed too pristine for someone like him.

You stepped inside, feeling out of place amid the gleaming metal and polished surfaces. “This definitely beats Lowtown,” you muttered under your breath.

Patch gave a noncommittal grunt as the elevator ascended, his eye fixed on the glowing numbers. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he said as the doors slid open on the top floor. “You’re here to change, not to move in.”

The elevator opened directly into his apartment, a spacious loft with an open layout and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of the city stretching out below like a sea of lights. It was surprisingly clean—minimalist, with a few leather couches, a glass coffee table, and a sleek kitchen in the corner. It didn’t seem like a place anyone actually lived in. More like a picture in a magazine, or a safehouse for someone who moved around a lot.

“Bedrooms down the hall,” he said, jerking his head toward a narrow corridor. “There should be some clothes in the closet that’ll fit you.”

You hesitated, glancing around. “You just… keep women’s clothes lying around?”

Patch’s expression remained impassive, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve had company before,” he said dryly, then turned away to rummage through a cabinet near the kitchen. “Go get dressed. We’re burning time.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You hurried down the hall and found the bedroom—spare and uncluttered like the rest of the place. There was a walk-in closet filled mostly with men’s clothing, but you found a few items that looked like they might fit—a pair of black jeans, a faded gray t-shirt, and a leather jacket that was slightly too big. You changed quickly, tossing your clothes onto the bed and taking a moment to look at yourself in the mirror. You still looked a little rough around the edges, but at least you didn’t feel like a walking mess anymore.

When you emerged, Patch was leaning against the kitchen counter, a half-empty glass of whiskey sitting on it. He gave you a quick once-over, then nodded. “Better,” he said, pushing off the counter. “Now let’s go.”

You fell in step beside him as he led you back toward the elevator, the weight of the night settling back onto your shoulders. You were dressed, you were ready, but the uncertainty still gnawed at you. The stakes hadn’t changed. Your sister was still out there, and you were about to walk straight into the kind of trouble most people wouldn’t even dare to think about.

Patch glanced at you as the elevator doors closed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Try not to get yourself killed, kid,” he said, his tone laced with a mixture of sarcasm and something almost resembling concern.

You shot him a sideways look. “I’ll try my best,” you replied, your voice steady with a resolve you hadn’t felt in a long time. “Just make sure you don’t get in my way.”

His smirk deepened as the elevator descended, the faintest hint of approval in his gaze. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving the docks shrouded in a deep, restless darkness. As Patch’s motorcycle rumbled to a halt, you slid off the back, the chill of the night seeping into your bones. The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea, mixed with diesel fumes and the faint, distant clatter of metal on metal. Every shadow seemed to twist and stretch, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched from all sides.

Patch cut the engine and swung a leg over the bike, his movements fluid and controlled. “Could you calm down?” he muttered, shooting you a sideways glare. “I can’t hear a damn thing with your heartbeat pounding like a drum.”

You stared at him, your brows knitting together. “You can hear my—”

He just gave a curt nod, already turning away as if the matter was of no consequence. “Here’s the plan, kid,” he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You stay here. I go in, see what I can find out. If things get ugly, you get the hell out of here. Got it?”

Your jaw tightened at the implication. “Then why am I here? What am I supposed to do? Just sit here while you play hero?”

Patch’s eye flicked back to you, a glint of annoyance—or was it amusement?—in that sharp gaze. “You can either stay here and let me handle this, or you can come in and get yourself killed. Your call.” Without waiting for your response, he started toward the darkened warehouses at the edge of the docks, his steps silent on the cracked asphalt.

You stood there for a moment, anger flaring in your chest. There was no way you were just going to sit back while he did all the dirty work. He might’ve been right about you being out of your depth, but that didn’t mean you weren’t willing to dive in. You glanced around, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, then quietly trailed after him, keeping a safe distance. If he noticed, he didn’t let on.

Patch moved like a predator, his silhouette blending into the night as he slipped between shipping containers and rusted machinery. You followed as quietly as you could, your breath catching in your throat each time a loose pebble crunched underfoot or a metal chain swayed in the wind.

Up ahead, Patch stopped near a cluster of abandoned crates. You crept closer, just in time to see him crouch beside the door of a warehouse, his body tensed like a spring. He pressed an ear to the corrugated metal, listening. For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of distant waves lapping against the docks. Then, with a sudden SNIKT, three gleaming blades sprang from his knuckles, each one catching the faint glint of moonlight.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight but it was short-lived.

Before you could fully process it, the warehouse door burst open, slamming against the wall with a metallic clang. Three men spilled out, their footsteps heavy, voices raised in harsh, hurried whispers that cut through the still night air. 

Patch moved before they even noticed him—a blur of muscle and precision, springing forward like a coiled viper. His fist shot out, striking the first man square in the throat. There was a sickening crunch, a dark spray of blood, and the man staggered back, eyes bulging as he choked on a gurgled gasp. He collapsed in a heap, his body going limp on the cold concrete.

The other two froze, their faces draining of color, eyes widening as they processed what had just happened. You pressed yourself against the steel container, the chill seeping through your clothes as you struggled to stay hidden. Your heart pounded so loudly you could almost feel it in your throat, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the scene unfolding before you.

Patch didn’t give them a chance to recover. He spun, fluid and lethal, his focus shifting to the man who’d just drawn a knife. The man lunged, but Patch sidestepped effortlessly, his movements smooth and economical. In a flash, he caught the man’s wrist, twisting it with brutal efficiency. The sickening snap of bone echoed through the night, followed by a strangled scream that sent a shiver down your spine. Patch barely hesitated, driving his fist into the man’s temple with a fierce, controlled strike. The man crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around him.

The third man, panic etched into every line of his face, fumbled for a gun at his waistband, his fingers clumsy in his desperation. You saw his hand close around the weapon, saw him raise it, aiming squarely at Patch’s unguarded back.

Before you could even think, instinct took over. You darted out from behind the container, your hand grasping a rusted metal pipe lying discarded on the ground. Without hesitation, you swung it with every ounce of strength you had. The pipe connected with a dull, sickening crack against the gunman’s shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. The gun slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground.

Patch reacted instantly. He pivoted, claws slicing through the air. In one swift motion, he drove them into the man’s chest, his strike precise and merciless. The man’s eyes went wide, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as his body jerked, then fell slack. Patch withdrew his claws, letting the man crumple to the ground in a lifeless heap.

For a moment, the silence was absolute. You stood there, breathless, the weight of the pipe still in your hands as you stared at the bodies sprawled on the ground. Your pulse was a thunderstorm in your ears, your hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline that coursed through you.

Patch turned toward you, his eye narrowing, the tension between you crackling like static. “You were supposed to stay put,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

“And you have knives coming out of your hands,” you shot back, your voice trembling with adrenaline and disbelief. “I wasn’t about to let you get shot.”

He stared at you for a long beat, his gaze sharp and unyielding, as if he were assessing whether you were brave, reckless, or just plain stupid. Maybe a bit of all three. “Don’t make a habit of saving my life, kid,” he said finally, his tone edged with a reluctant sort of approval. “I’m not in the business of owing favors.”

Before you could think of a response, he jerked his head toward the warehouse. “Come on,” he said, his voice losing some of its sharpness but not its urgency. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

You followed him inside, the metal pipe still gripped tightly in your hand like a talisman against the darkness. The warehouse was cold and dimly lit by a few flickering overhead lights. As your eyes adjusted, you saw rows of metal cages lining the walls, each one filled with frightened girls. Some were sobbing quietly, others stared blankly into the distance, their faces pale and hollow. Your stomach twisted at the sight, and you had to swallow back the bile rising in your throat.

Patch was already moving down the line, his gaze hard as he scanned each cage. “Look for your sister,” he said, his voice flat and steady. “Quickly.”

You moved down the line, your eyes scanning each girl’s face, desperation clawing at your chest. But as you reached the last cage, a sick realization settled in. She wasn’t here. None of these girls were Emily.

Patch came up beside you, his gaze shifting from the empty cages to your face, reading the despair etched there. “She’s not here, is she?” he asked quietly, though there was a certainty in his tone as if he’d already known the answer.

You shook your head, dropping the pipe, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “No,” you whispered, the word tasting bitter and hollow. “She’s not.”

Patch let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. “Then this was only the start,” he said, his tone hardening again, as though he was steeling himself for the battles still ahead. “The guy at the casino gave us a lead, but it’s not the end of the line. We’re going to have to dig deeper.”

Your gaze drifted back to the girls still trapped in the cages, their hollow eyes pleading silently for rescue. “What about them?” you asked, your voice cracking. “We can’t just leave them here.”

For a moment, Patch’s expression softened—just a flicker of something almost human in the harsh lines of his face. “Stand back,” he said, his tone gruff as if trying to mask that brief flash of empathy.

You obeyed, retreating a few steps as Patch’s claws slid out with that familiar, metallic SNIKT. He moved down the row of cages in one swift motion, slashing through the padlocks like they were made of paper. The harsh sound of metal being cleaved filled the warehouse, and then the doors swung open one by one. The girls hesitated, their limbs trembling, but as the realization that they were free sank in, they began to stumble out, some leaning on each other for support.

Patch pulled a cell phone from his pocket, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said gruffly as if the person on the other end was already expecting his call. “Got a situation down at the docks. Girls in cages—trafficking operation. Send someone to clean it up.” He paused, glancing over at you before adding, “And make it quick. We’re not sticking around.”

He hung up and turned back to you, his expression returning to its usual gruffness. “We’ve done all we can here. Let’s move.” He gestured toward the exit, already heading for the door.

You hesitated for a moment, watching as the girls huddled together, some whispering frantic prayers of relief. You wanted to stay, to make sure they were alright. But you knew that finding your sister meant pushing forward, following Patch down whatever dark road lay ahead.

You followed him out into the night, stealing a glance at his profile—the way his jaw was set, the hard lines etched into his face. He wasn’t just a man with claws. There was something else there, simmering beneath the surface—something raw and wounded like he understood exactly what it was like to lose someone.

Patch glanced back at you, his lone eye narrowing slightly as if he could read the turmoil simmering just beneath your surface. “They’ll be alright,” he said, his voice gruff but softer than before, almost as if he was trying to reassure you. But there was also a distance behind his tone that suggested he was more used to dealing with facts than offering comfort.

You shrugged, quickening your pace to fall in step beside him, the frustration bubbling up and out before you could bite it back. “How can you be so sure?” you snapped, your voice cracking from a mix of exhaustion and desperation. “We didn’t even do anything but cut them loose. What if someone else shows up before your people get here? What if they just get taken again?” The questions spilled out of you, each one sharper than the last. “And my sister—” You said, sucking in a breath. “How are we going to find her with no leads?”

Patch stopped walking, and you nearly collided with him. He turned to face you fully, his expression hard, but not unsympathetic. For a moment, you thought he was going to snap at you for doubting him. Instead, he took a slow breath and looked at you in a way that made you feel like he was seeing past your words, straight into your doubts and fears.

“You don’t think I ask myself the same thing every day?” His voice was low, gravelly, but there was a crack in the armor, a flicker of something almost vulnerable in the way he spoke. “How many people I’ve helped just end up right back where they started?” He shook his head, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. “The difference is, I don’t let it stop me from trying.” He let out a breath, his gaze flicking briefly to the dark waters of the bay. “Sometimes, you just do what you can and hope it’s enough.”

The words landed heavily, and you found yourself searching his face for some deeper understanding. The hard lines, the unshaven jaw, the haunted look in that lone eye—all of it told you this wasn’t the first time he’d been up against impossible odds. He looked like a man who had seen the worst the world had to offer and was still fighting against it, even if he didn’t believe in winning anymore. There was a kind of comfort in that, knowing you weren’t the only one feeling helpless.

You took a breath, your voice quieter now. “But we still don’t know where she is,” you said, hating the desperation that crept into your tone. “And if we don’t have any leads, then—”

“We do have a lead,” Patch interrupted, his tone firm but not dismissive. He started walking again. “It’s just a small one.”

You frowned, hurrying to keep up with him. “What lead?” you asked, trying not to sound too skeptical.

“The convenience store,” he said, casting a sidelong glance at you. “Where you and your sister were before she was taken. I assume this wasn’t the first time there’s been trouble there. Lowtown’s full of secrets—it doesn’t take much for a place like that to hear things, see things. Somebody might’ve seen something, or maybe the owner knows more than he’s letting on.”

Your stomach tightened at the thought of going back there. The memory of that night was still raw—your sister’s terrified scream, the flash of the gun, the feeling of helplessness that had wrapped around your throat like a noose. “You think he’ll talk?” you asked, your voice coming out smaller than you’d intended. “The owner… he didn’t exactly seem like the helpful type.”

Patch’s mouth curved into a sardonic half-smile. “People talk when they have a reason to,” he said. “And if he doesn’t want to…” He tapped his knuckles against the claws sheathed inside his hand, the faintest snikt sound slipping through. “Well, let’s just say I have ways of encouraging them.”

You rolled your eyes at the display, though you felt a small spark of relief. “So your plan is to scare him into talking?” you asked, forcing some of your earlier skepticism back into your voice. “What if that just makes him clam up more?”

Patch gave a short, dry chuckle. “Then we improvise,” he said simply as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Most people can’t handle pressure the way you might think.” He glanced down at you, his expression softening for a moment. “Besides, you might be surprised what they’ll say if they think they’re helping you.”

There was a beat of silence, and then you shook your head. “Why would you care if someone helps me or not?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could fully think it through. “You don’t even know me.”

Patch looked away, his gaze settling on the lights shimmering on the bay. “Maybe I see something familiar,” he said quietly, his voice rough around the edges. “Someone who doesn’t know when to back down, who’s got too much fire for her own good.” He shrugged, the motion almost dismissive. “Or maybe I’m just a sucker for a lost cause. Take your pick.”

Something about the way he said it—the hint of a confession buried in his gruff tone—made your throat tighten. You didn’t know if you believed him, but you could tell he meant it, at least on some level.

You fell into step beside him, a new determination building in your chest. “Alright,” you said, your voice steadier than before. “Let’s go back to the store. But if we don’t find anything there…” You trailed off, the unspoken fear still lingering between you.

Patch glanced at you, his eye glinting in the dim light. “If we don’t find anything,” he said, his voice low and steady, “then we keep looking. We dig until there’s nothing left to dig.” He paused, his gaze locking onto yours with a kind of fierce intensity. “And I won't stop, sweetheart. Not until we find her.”

​​You felt a tiny flicker of hope catch in your chest. It was a fragile thing, barely more than a spark. But it was enough to keep you moving, enough to help you push back the darkness that seemed to cling to the edges of everything. There were still shadows, countless unknowns waiting for you in the dark. But now, you had someone walking with you who understood the weight of desperation and the need to fight, even when the odds seemed impossible.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The early morning sky had just begun to soften to a pale, grayish-blue creeping over Lowtown like a faded bruise. The convenience store loomed ahead, its cracked neon sign buzzing faintly, casting an uneven glow over the peeling paint and grimy windows. As you climbed off Patch’s motorcycle, the knot in your stomach twisted tighter, a dull ache spreading through your chest. You hadn’t slept, and the weariness settled over you like a heavy fog, making every step feel like wading through quicksand.

Patch swung his leg off the bike and glanced at you, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can go in alone,” he said, his tone more a suggestion than an order, though his eyes flicked warily toward the store.

“No, it’s fine.” The words came out harsher than you intended, and you pushed past him, crossing the street before he could respond. The truth was, you didn’t want to sit back and let him do all the talking. This was your fight, and you needed to feel like you were doing something—anything—to get closer to finding your sister.

The bell above the door jangled as you stepped inside, the familiar scent of stale coffee and cheap cleaning products hitting you all at once. The store looked the same as it had the night your sister was taken—dimly lit, cluttered shelves, a few bored customers milling about, and behind the counter, the same old man with his scowling expression and deep-set eyes. 

He glanced up as you approached, his gaze flicking briefly to Patch before settling on you. Recognition flashed in his eyes, and he immediately stiffened, his scowl deepening.

“Back again?” he grunted, his tone dripping with irritation. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you so soon. Look, if this is about that night, I already talked to the cops—”

“This isn’t about the cops,” you interrupted, your voice cold. “This is about my sister.”

The store owner’s mouth tightened into a thin line, his fingers drumming against the counter. “I already told the police everything I know,” he said with a shrug. “Not that they cared much. It’s Lowtown. Crime happens.”

“Yeah, well,” Patch cut in, his voice a low growl, “you’re going to have to do better than that.” He leaned in, letting just a hint of menace creep into his posture. “You’re going to tell us exactly what you saw that night, old man.”

The owner bristled, his eyes darting nervously to the gleaming claws sheathed inside Patch’s fists as if sensing their presence even though they hadn’t made an appearance. “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” he muttered, his gaze shifting away. “I’m just trying to run a business here. I didn’t see anything more than I already told the cops.”

A wave of frustration surged through you, hot and sharp. You didn’t have time for this—didn’t have time for vague answers and excuses. Before you could think, you stepped forward and grabbed the front of the old man’s shirt, yanking him toward you across the counter. “Stop lying!” you snapped, your voice trembling with a raw edge. “This isn’t just some robbery we’re talking about—my sister was taken! If you know anything, you better tell us now.”

The owner’s eyes widened, shock flickering across his face as he took in the desperation in your expression. “Hey, hey—calm down,” he stammered, his hands coming up defensively. “I don’t know anything, I swear!” His gaze darted nervously to Patch, who stood back with a raised brow, clearly surprised but not intervening. “The guy that night—he’s just some lowlife who’s robbed me a few times. That’s it! The police don’t even bother arresting him anymore—they say he’s small-time. He usually hangs out at this old abandoned building a few blocks from here.”

You tightened your grip on his collar, leaning in closer. “Where?” you demanded, your voice a low, dangerous whisper.

The owner swallowed hard, his face pale under the flickering fluorescent lights. “It’s an old warehouse on Canal Street,” he said quickly. “Just a few blocks west. The place has been falling apart for years—nobody else goes near it. That’s all I know, I swear.”

You released him, letting out a shaky breath as you stepped back. The owner stumbled slightly, his hand flying up to straighten his collar, his eyes still wide and wary. “You better not be lying,” you said, your tone cold. “Because if you are—”

“He’s not,” Patch interrupted, his voice calm but edged with finality. He gave the old man a hard look before turning to you. “Let’s go.”

You nodded, your pulse still racing from the adrenaline, the anger. As you turned to leave, the store owner’s voice trembled after you, “Good luck, kid,” he said, almost reluctantly. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. That guy… he’s trouble.”

Outside, you took a deep breath, trying to shake off the intensity of the moment. You hadn’t even realized how tightly wound you were until now. Patch glanced at you, his expression unreadable as he pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it. He took a long drag, the smoke curling around him as he studied you.

“Didn’t know you had that in you, sweetheart,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of approval. “You might just make it out of this alive after all.”

You shot him a look, not quite sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. “I’m not doing this for your approval,” you said, still feeling the heat of anger simmering in your veins. “I’m doing it for her.”

Patch blew out a cloud of smoke, a half-smirk curling on his lips. “I know,” he said simply, then nodded toward the street. “Come on. We’ve got a warehouse to check out.”

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The roar of the motorcycle faded as Patch brought it to a stop near the crumbling entrance of the old warehouse on Canal Street. The place looked like it hadn’t seen upkeep in decades—rusted metal siding, cracked windows covered in grime, and a faded sign that had long since lost any meaning. Despite the early morning light breaking over the horizon, the shadows clung to the corners, refusing to let go.

Patch scanned the building, his keen gaze narrowing, his head tilting slightly as if tuning into a frequency only he could hear. He took a slow breath, nostrils flaring, and you knew he was using that heightened sense of his to pick up anything unusual—sounds, scents, even the faintest movement.

After a moment, he exhaled, frustration curling his lips into a scowl. “It’s quiet,” he said, his tone flat. “Too quiet. I don’t hear a damn thing in there. If anyone’s here, they’re either dead or—.”

“Or maybe they’re hiding,” you argued, your voice trembling slightly despite your effort to sound resolute. “Or maybe Emily’s in there—” You cut yourself off, refusing to say the rest. You didn’t want to give voice to your fears, the idea that if she was here, she could already be—no. You weren’t going to think like that.

Patch gave you a hard look, the concern in his gaze surfacing just enough for you to catch it. “You need to stay out here,” he said, his voice low and firm. “If something goes down, you’ll be in the way.”

But you were already moving, your feet carrying you toward the warehouse entrance before you could give yourself time to hesitate. “I’m not staying out here,” you snapped. “I didn’t come this far to wait around while you do all the work.”

Patch reached for your arm, his fingers closing around your wrist in a firm grip. “You think you’re ready for whatever’s in there?” His voice was almost a growl, frustration lacing every word. “You’re running on fumes, kid. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You yanked your arm free, anger sparking hot in your chest. “I don’t care what you hear or don’t hear Patch,” you shot back, your voice rising. “I’m going in there. Whether you like it or not.” You turned and pushed through the door, the rusted metal creaking as it swung open.

The air inside was musty, thick with dust and the lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke. Rows of abandoned crates and broken-down machinery loomed in the gloom. You took a cautious step forward, your senses on high alert. The silence pressed in around you, heavy and suffocating, but it did little to quell the desperate hope burning in your chest. Emily could be here, you told yourself. She has to be.

As you ventured deeper into the warehouse, you heard a faint shuffle, the quiet scrape of a shoe against the concrete floor. You froze, squinting through the dim light until your eyes locked on a figure crouched behind a stack of crates. It was a man, the same one you remembered from the convenience store—greasy hair, ratty clothes, and a face you’d never forget. 

Rage flared white-hot inside you, burning away the exhaustion and fear. Before you knew it, you were moving—your feet pounding the ground, the world narrowing to just you and him. “Where is she?” you shouted, your voice echoing off the warehouse walls as you closed the distance. “Where’s my sister?!”

The man scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with recognition and panic as you lunged at him. He tried to swing a fist at you, but you ducked and slammed your shoulder into his chest, knocking him backward. You grabbed him by the collar, slamming him against a nearby metal beam. The impact sent a hollow clang reverberating through the building.

“Where is she?!” you screamed again, your grip tightening as you pulled back a fist and drove it into his jaw. The pain in your knuckles barely registered over the adrenaline surging through your veins. “Tell me where you took her!”

The man grunted, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he tried to shove you off. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he spat, his voice trembling. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” You struck him again, your fist connecting with his ribs this time. He let out a choked groan, his knees buckling as he struggled to stay upright. “I saw you! You took her from the store! What did you do with her?!”

You were about to hit him again when a strong hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you back. “Enough,” Patch’s voice rumbled behind you, deep and commanding. He yanked you away from the man, spinning you around to face him. “You’re not going to get anything out of him like this,” he said, his tone calmer but edged with warning. “Let me handle it.”

You shook your head, the rage still burning hot in your chest. “No!” You struggled against Patch’s grip. “I was handling it just fine. He knows something—I know he does!”

The man coughed, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. “Alright, alright!” he croaked, his eyes darting between you and Patch, desperation etched into every line of his face. “I took her, okay? But I swear I don’t know where she is now!”

Patch let go of you and took a step toward the man, his expression darkening. “Start talking,” he growled, the claws sliding out of his knuckles with a menacing SNIKT.

The guy’s face went pale as he eyed the claws, swallowing hard. “Okay, okay!” he stammered, raising his hands in surrender. “I sold her! That’s what we do—grab girls and sell them off to whoever’s buying! She was taken to some place up north—private buyer, big money!” His breath hitched as he glanced nervously at you, then back at Patch. “That’s all I know, I swear! They don’t tell us where they take the girls after the sale, just that it’s out of town, upstate!”

Your heart sank, the anger in your chest twisting into something darker, colder. “You sold her,” you whispered, the words tasting like bile. “You sold my sister.”

The man opened his mouth to speak, but Patch stepped forward, the glint of his claws catching the dim light. “You’re going to give me the name of the buyer,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Or you won’t be leaving this place in one piece.”

The man’s eyes darted frantically around the room as if searching for an escape that didn’t exist. “I—I don’t know his real name!” he cried. “They just called him ‘The Collector.’ That’s it! I swear! He deals in... special requests. High-profile stuff. If you want more than that, you’re gonna have to talk to someone higher up the chain.”

Patch held the man’s gaze for a moment longer, then retracted the claws with a snikt and turned to you. “Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “We’ve got what we need.”

You hesitated, a storm of anger and helplessness roiling inside you. A part of you wanted to drag every last bit of information out of the man, to beat the truth out of him until he confessed something useful—anything that would bring you closer to finding Emily. “We can’t just let him go,” you said, your voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “He’s a criminal. He sold my sister.”

You took a step closer to the guy, your hands curling into fists at your sides. The man flinched, shrinking back against the metal beam, his eyes darting toward the door as if planning an escape. But you were ready to lunge if he even tried.

Patch stepped in front of you, blocking your path to the man. “What do you want me to do, kid?” he said, his tone flat and calm, but with an edge that hinted at something darker. “Kill him? Beat him to a pulp?” He glanced over his shoulder at the man, who was trembling now, his eyes wide and pleading. “Or maybe you think turning him in will make the cops give a damn?”

The truth in his words hit you like a slap. You knew how things worked in Lowtown. The police wouldn’t waste their time on some street-level thug, even if he had been part of something bigger. People like him slip through the cracks all the time. That was just the way it was. But the thought of letting him walk away, after everything he’d done, twisted your insides into a knot.

You swallowed hard, taking a step back. “I just don’t want him to get away with it,” you whispered, the fire in your voice fading to something more fragile. “He deserves to pay.”

Patch held your gaze for a moment, then turned back to the man. “Yeah, he does,” he agreed, his voice cold as ice. Before the guy could even react, Patch’s fist lashed out, striking him squarely across the jaw. There was a sharp crack, and the man slumped to the ground, unconscious, his body hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Patch flexed his fingers, the claws sliding out then back into place with a faint snikt as he turned to you. “There,” he said. “He’s not going anywhere now.” He nudged the man’s limp form with the toe of his boot, then glanced up at you, his expression unreadable. “But we’re not sticking around, either.”

You took a shaky breath, staring down at the unconscious man. It wasn’t enough—it would never be enough—but it would have to do for now. “What now?” you asked, the adrenaline ebbing and leaving you feeling drained, almost hollow.

Patch rubbed a hand across his jaw, then lit up a cigar, taking a long drag before speaking. “Now,” he said, exhaling a plume of smoke, “we regroup. We’ve got a name—The Collector—and we know he’s the kind of scumbag who deals in ‘special requests.’ That’s more than we had before.” He glanced over at you, his gaze lingering on the bruise forming on your knuckles, the scrapes on your face. “But you’re running on empty. You need to rest and clean yourself up. We’ll go back to my place.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him that you didn’t need rest, that there wasn’t time. But the exhaustion hit you all at once, like a weight settling on your shoulders. Your hands were still trembling from the adrenaline, your head spinning slightly from the lack of sleep. You hated to admit it, but he was right. You weren’t going to be any help if you collapsed before you even found another lead.

“Fine,” you muttered, the word tasting like defeat. “But just for a little while. Then we’re going after this Collector.”

Patch gave a small nod, his mouth curling into something that was almost a smirk. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not planning on sitting around,” he said as he started toward the exit, the early morning light spilling into the warehouse. “I’ll reach out to some contacts, and see what I can dig up while you get cleaned up. We’re just getting started.”

As you followed him out, you couldn’t help but glance back at the man sprawled on the floor, his breathing shallow and uneven. You still felt a simmering rage in your chest, but at least now you were moving forward. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The motorcycle ride back to Patch’s place felt longer than before, every bump and turn jarring your already frayed nerves. When you finally arrived, you climbed off the bike, wincing as your muscles protested. Patch led you back up to the sleek high-rise apartment. 

Inside, he gestured toward the bathroom down the hall. “There’s a first aid kit under the sink,” he said. “Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll be making some calls.” He pulled out his phone, already scrolling through contacts as he lit another cigar.

You nodded and headed to the bathroom, pausing when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked like hell—hair tangled, dirt smudged across your face, dried blood on your knuckles. You almost didn’t recognize the person staring back at you. You didn’t feel like the same person you’d been yesterday. 

As you scrubbed the grime from your skin, letting the hot water beat against your sore muscles, you could hear Patch’s voice rumbling down the hall. His tone was low and gravelly, clipped in a way that spoke of urgency and frustration. 

“Yeah, The Collector,” he was saying. “He’s back in the market. Upstate, from what I hear. Need you to dig up any recent sightings, transactions… anything that’ll give me a trail.” There was a brief pause, and you could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose as he listened. “Yeah, I owe you one. Just get it done.”

The water scalded, but you welcomed the sting—it was better than feeling numb. You wrapped a towel around yourself and padded softly into the bedroom. You noticed Patch by his closet, rifling through a stack of clothes. He must have heard you, because he glanced over his shoulder, his gaze trailing over you sending a shiver down your spine.

“Anything?” you asked, your voice husky from fatigue, though there was a thread of hope laced in the question.

He pulled out a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, handing them to you. “Got a few leads,” he said, watching you with that sharp, assessing eye. “The Collector’s keeping a low profile, but he’s been spotted at a private estate upstate—real exclusive, where the rich and dirty go to do business no one else should see.”

You took the clothes from his grasp, your fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm and rough like he was someone who had been through hell and dragged himself back. “I don’t think I’ve said this yet,” you murmured, averting your gaze as you pulled the shirt over your head. “But… thank you.”

Patch arched an eyebrow, a slow smirk curving his lips as he leaned casually against the wall, arms crossing over his chest. “Don’t get all soft on me now, sweetheart,” he drawled, his tone edged with amusement. “You’re making me blush.”

You shot him a glare, though it lacked any real bite. “I’m serious, Patch. You didn’t have to help me. Most people would’ve just told me to get lost.”

His gaze softened, just a fraction, and for a heartbeat, you thought you saw something flicker in his eye. “You’re not most people,” he said quietly, then his mouth twitched into a half-smirk again. “Besides, I’ve got a soft spot for troublemakers.”

“Must be why you’re helping me,” you shot back, tossing the jeans and towel on the nightstand. “You just can’t resist a little chaos.” You meant for it to sound teasing, but there was an unspoken tension humming between the two of you, thickening the air. It lingered there, a spark that could easily ignite, but Patch was already turning away, the moment slipping back into the shadows.

“Get some rest,” he said, his tone gruff again as he nodded toward his bed in the center of the room. “I’ve still got a few calls to make. I’ll wake you when I’ve got something solid.” He glanced back at you, his gaze briefly dipping to where the hem of the shirt you wore brushed against your thighs. 

You settled onto his bed reluctantly, exhaustion tugging at your limbs. As much as you wanted to stay awake, to keep pushing forward, the weight of the day was catching up with you. The pillows were firm and smelled faintly of leather and cigar smoke, and despite the situation, it was surprisingly comforting. You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The nightmare hit you like a punch to the gut. One moment, you were sinking into sleep, and the next, you were back in that convenience store—hearing Emily’s screams, seeing her being dragged away. The scene replayed in sharp, agonizing detail, but this time, you weren’t paralyzed. You fought, struggled, reached for her, but every time you got close, she slipped away, her face twisted in terror as the darkness swallowed her whole.

You woke with a gasp, your heart pounding violently against your ribcage, your skin slick with sweat. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights filtering in through the window. You struggled to catch your breath, your fingers digging into the sheets beneath you as you tried to shake off the remnants of the dream.

“Bad one?” Patch’s voice was low, coming from the other side of the room. You hadn’t noticed him there, sitting in an armchair, one leg propped up on the coffee table. His gaze was steady, and even in the dim light, you could see the concern etched in the hard lines of his face.

You nodded, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. “Just… couldn’t stop seeing her,” you whispered, hating the vulnerability that crept into your voice. “I keep thinking, what if we’re too late? What if she’s already—”

“Don’t go there,” Patch interrupted, his tone firm. He got up from the chair and crossed the room in a few strides, crouching down beside you. “Fear’s a poison, kid. It’ll eat you alive if you let it.” His hand rested on your shoulder, a steadying weight, and when you looked into his eye, you saw something raw, something familiar—a shared understanding of pain.

“Is that how you deal with it?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Just… shut it down? Pretend you’re not scared?”

Patch’s jaw tightened slightly, and he looked away for a moment as if considering how much to reveal. “I’m not afraid of dying,” he said quietly. “Been through that more times than I can count.” He hesitated, then continued, his voice rough. “But losing people… watching them slip away and not being able to do a damn thing about it—that’s a different kind of fear.”

His words settled over you, heavy and cold. “How do you deal with it?” you asked, unable to keep the desperation from leaking into your tone.

Patch’s gaze flicked back to you, his hand still resting on your shoulder. “You don’t,” he said simply. “Not completely. But you keep moving, keep fighting. Because giving up isn’t an option. Not if you’ve got something worth fighting for.” His grip tightened just slightly, the roughness of his skin grounding you in the present. 

The air between you seemed to crackle, the unspoken understanding deepening the tension that had been building since you’d met. His touch lingered, warmer than you’d expected, the lines on his face softer, as if he’d let you see a glimpse of the man behind the mask.

You found yourself leaning just a little closer, your breath mingling with his. “I’m not used to someone sticking around,” you admitted, your voice hushed.

Patch’s mouth twitched, that smirk returning, but his eye remained steady, serious. “Well, don’t get used to it,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “I’m just here to see you don’t get yourself killed before we find your sister.”

“Is that all?” you murmured, the corner of your mouth curling up as you felt the familiar spark of challenge in your chest.

His gaze held yours for a long moment, something unspoken passing between you that felt like the edge of a blade, sharp and dangerous. “For now,” he replied, standing up and stepping back, the distance between you stretching out once more. “Get some more sleep. You’re going to need it.”

You nodded, lying back down, but this time, it was different. The darkness wasn’t as suffocating, the fear not as overwhelming. You weren’t sure if it was because of Patch’s words or the warmth of his touch that still lingered on your shoulder. Nonetheless, you drifted off again. 

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

“Wake up, kid.” Patch’s voice rumbled above you, and his hand shook your shoulder with just enough force to rattle you out of sleep.

You groaned, the heaviness of exhaustion clinging to your limbs as you blinked against the dim light of the apartment. “Five more minutes…” you muttered, your voice thick with sleep.

“Sorry, sweetheart. We don’t have five more minutes,” he said dryly, stepping back and crossing his arms as he waited for you to sit up. “The Collector’s making a move. Got word he’s doing a deal in Hightown tonight. We’re running out of time.”

The mention of The Collector jolted you awake, your pulse quickening. You rubbed a hand over your face, forcing yourself to focus. “Tonight?” you echoed, pushing yourself up off the bed. “How’d you find that out?”

Patch’s smirk was a little too smug for your liking. “I’ve got my ways,” he replied, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. “Turns out, a lot of people are willing to talk when you give them the right incentive.” He leaned back against the wall, his gaze trailing over you as if assessing whether you were ready for what was coming next. “Or when you’ve got claws that can slice through steel.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for the jeans on the nightstand. “Guess you didn’t need my help for that, then.”

His smirk deepened, the corner of his mouth curling up. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m just not big on watching you sleep while I do all the work.”

You shot him a glare as you pulled on your jacket. “Don’t act like I’ve been sitting around doing nothing. I’m the one who got us that lead on Canal Street, remember?”

He gave a casual shrug, but his expression softened—just a touch. “Fair point,” he conceded. “But if you’re coming with me tonight, you’d better be ready for things to get ugly.” He tilted his head, eyeing you up and down like he was measuring whether you could handle whatever lay ahead. “The Collector’s not your average street thug. He’s a heavy hitter with connections. If he’s making a deal, it’s gonna be big and dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid of a little danger.” There was a challenge in your voice, a fire that hadn’t been there before. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or sheer desperation, but it felt like the only thing keeping you upright.

Patch’s gaze held yours, a glint of approval flashing in his eye. “You’ve really got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said. “Just try not to let them spill out tonight.” He turned and headed toward the door, his voice drifting back to you. “The deal’s happening in one of the private clubs in Hightown. Real swanky place where the rich get their hands dirty without staining their clothes.”

You followed him, your pulse quickening with each step. “And what’s our plan? We’re just gonna walk in and ask politely where my sister is?” you asked, trying to match his casual tone, though there was a sharp edge beneath it.

Patch’s chuckle was low and rough, almost a growl. “Not exactly. We’ll blend in as much as we can,” he said, glancing over at you with a faint smirk. “I can pass for someone with money to burn. You, on the other hand, might need a bit of work.” He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking over your current attire.

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him. “What, you’re saying I don’t look the part?” you shot back, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “I think I can fake a little high-class attitude.”

Patch tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “You’ve got plenty of attitude, that’s for sure,” he remarked, his tone dripping with teasing. “But attitude’s not gonna get you past the doorman. You need to look like you belong there. Right now, you look more like you belong in a street fight than in a place with crystal chandeliers.”

You crossed your arms, your brow lifting in defiance. “Then I guess you’d better help me, Patch,” you said, your voice laced with sarcasm. “You seem to know a lot about dressing up.”

He shook his head, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Fine, kid. I’ll see what I can dig up.” He gestured for you to follow him back down the hallway. “But if anyone asks, you’re my date for the night. Try not to embarrass me.”

Your laughter was sharp, filled with tension. “Oh, don’t worry,” you replied as you walked behind him. “I’d hate to ruin your reputation.”

Half an hour later, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror in Patch’s apartment, barely recognizing the person staring back at you. The dress he’d found was sleek and black which hugged your figure in a way that made you feel both exposed and powerful. Your hair was pulled back in a loose twist, a few tendrils framing your face to help hide the bruises. You hadn’t worn anything this fancy in… well, maybe ever. You couldn’t decide if you liked it or if it made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

“Not bad,” Patch said, leaning casually in the doorway, his arms crossed as he looked you over. “You clean up pretty well, kid.”

You turned to face him, a slow smirk curling on your lips. “You almost sound impressed,” you said, lifting an eyebrow. “Didn’t think I could pull off the high-class look?”

He shrugged, but the gleam in his eye betrayed his amusement. “Just wasn’t sure you knew how to wear anything that didn’t involve bloodstains.”

You took a step closer, your gaze locked on his. “Guess I like to keep you on your toes,” you replied, your voice low.

He didn’t move away, his expression unreadable as he stared back at you. For a moment, the air thickened between you, and you found yourself acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, the way his jaw tightened just slightly as if resisting the urge to say something. But then, just as quickly, he turned and gestured toward the door.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice back to its usual gruffness. “We’ve got a date with The Collector.”

You followed him out of the apartment, your nerves buzzing beneath your skin. The thought of walking into a club filled with dangerous people didn’t exactly thrill you, but if it got you one step closer to Emily, then it was a risk you had to take.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The club in Hightown was an entirely different world. It oozed luxury—plush velvet drapes, glittering chandeliers, and people dressed in expensive clothes that screamed wealth and power. The low thrum of jazz music hung in the air, mingling with the scent of perfume and cigar smoke. As you and Patch approached the entrance, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself,” he murmured near your ear. “We’re supposed to blend in, remember?”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Is this where I swoon and cling to your arm?” you whispered back, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“If you want to sell it, yeah,” he replied, his tone half-teasing, half-serious. “And if anyone asks, I’m taking you on a private tour of the club. Just follow my lead.”

You took a deep breath, letting the warmth of his touch steady you as you stepped inside. Your gaze swept over the room, searching for anything or anyone that looked out of place. But everyone here seemed to belong—except you.

Patch’s grip on your waist tightened slightly as you entered, his body tensing ever so subtly. “The deal’s happening in one of the private rooms upstairs,” he murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “We need to get up there without drawing attention.”

Your heart hammered in your chest as you took in the sight of the staircase leading to the upper levels. The plush carpet, the gold-trimmed railings, the way the lights seemed dimmer up there—it all felt like a line you weren’t sure you could cross. A rush of panic tightened your chest. This was a different kind of danger than what you’d faced so far. Up until now, you’d been chasing shadows, following vague leads, but here… here you’d be walking straight into the heart of it.

“How are we going to get up there?” you asked, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. Your eyes flicked to the hulking security guard posted at the base of the stairs, his arms folded over a chest that looked like it could stop a freight train. “I don’t think saying you’re giving a private tour is going to cut it.”

Patch’s mouth quirked into a half-smile, his gaze sliding over to the guard and then back to you. “Good thing I just came up with a better plan than that,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. He pulled you snugly against his side. “Just follow my lead, sweetheart,” he added, his breath warm against your ear. “And try not to blush.”

You barely had time to react before he steered you toward the staircase, his grip on you firm but gentle. You glanced up at him, narrowing your eyes. “So what’s the plan?” you whispered through gritted teeth, trying not to stiffen at the way his hand rested against your hip. “Charm our way past him?”

“Something like that,” Patch replied, his voice laced with amusement. “Just play along, act like you can’t get enough of me.”

“I’ll try to contain myself,” you shot back, matching his smirk.

As you approached the guard, you plastered a flirtatious smile on your face, leaning a little closer to Patch as if you were hanging on his every word. The guard’s gaze flicked to you, then to Patch, his expression shifting to one of suspicion.

“Upstairs is off-limits,” the guard said, his voice a low rumble. “Private event.”

Patch didn’t miss a beat, flashing a grin that was somehow both casual and threatening. “Come on, big guy,” he said, his tone smooth. “I’m just showing my girl here a good time. She’s never been to a place like this before.” He tightened his hold on your waist, his fingers brushing the exposed skin just above your hip. “Figured I’d give her a taste of the finer things.”

You caught the guard’s gaze, widening your eyes just a bit, adding a hint of breathlessness to your tone. “He’s right,” you said, forcing a giggle that felt foreign coming from your lips. “I’ve heard about the view from upstairs… I’d hate to miss out.” You leaned into Patch as though seeking his warmth, hoping the performance was convincing enough.

The guard’s eyes narrowed, flicking over you with a mix of skepticism and something darker. He seemed to hesitate, his gaze drifting to Patch as if weighing the consequences of letting you through.

“Look,” Patch said, his voice dropping an octave, adding a dangerous edge. “I’d hate to cause a scene, but if you’re going to make this difficult, I can always take my business elsewhere.” His hand shifted to your lower back, his thumb brushing in a way that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

The guard grunted, his jaw tightening. “Fine,” he said reluctantly, stepping aside. “But if anyone asks, you didn’t come up this way. Got it?”

“Crystal clear,” Patch replied, giving the guard a curt nod. As soon as you started up the stairs, his grip on you relaxed slightly, though his arm remained draped around you.

When you reached the first landing, you pulled away, shooting him a glare. “You enjoyed that way too much,” you whispered, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

Patch’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Maybe I just like seeing you squirm,” he teased, his gaze flicking down to your flushed cheeks. “You played the part well, though. Almost had me convinced.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your skin still buzzed where his hand had been. “I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve had to sweet-talk your way into someplace you’re not supposed to be.”

His smirk widened. “You’d be surprised.”

Before you could come up with a retort, the distant sound of raised voices drifted down the hallway to your left. You stiffened, instinctively reaching for Patch’s arm. He noticed the change in your posture, his expression hardening in an instant.

“That’s coming from one of the private rooms,” he murmured, his gaze darting down the corridor. “Could be our guy.” Without waiting for your response, he took your hand and guided you forward, moving quietly toward the source of the commotion.

The closer you got, the more you could make out—a gruff voice barking orders, someone else protesting in a panicked tone. As you reached the door, which was slightly ajar, you caught a glimpse of a man in an expensive suit, gesturing animatedly while another figure, partially obscured by shadows, sat calmly at a table, watching with an air of detached amusement.

Patch glanced at you, his eye gleaming with intensity. “Stay behind me,” he whispered. “And if things get ugly, don’t try to play the hero.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, Patch had already nudged the door open with his shoulder, striding into the room as if he owned the place. You followed a step behind, your pulse racing as the room fell silent and all eyes turned toward you.

The man at the table—a thin, elegant figure with cold eyes—raised an eyebrow, a slow, serpentine smile spreading across his face. “Well, well,” he drawled, his voice as smooth as silk. “What do we have here? I wasn’t expecting company.”

Patch’s smirk was all teeth, dangerous and casual. “Just thought I’d drop by,” he said, his tone deceptively light. “Heard you were doing a little business tonight. Figured I’d see if you had something I might be interested in.”

The Collector’s gaze flicked from Patch to you, lingering just a bit too long for your comfort. “And who’s this lovely creature?” he asked, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. “I wasn’t aware you brought dates to negotiations.”

Patch’s grip on your waist tightened slightly. “She’s not for sale if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, his voice low and edged with a warning. “But you might have something—or someone—I’m looking for.”

The Collector’s smile faltered, and for a moment, his gaze turned calculating. “I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for,” he said slowly. “And how much you’re willing to pay.”

The air in the room seemed to thicken, the tension vibrating like a live wire. You could feel the Collector’s eyes boring into you, as though he was trying to peel away your façade and see what you were really after.

You swallowed hard, keeping your expression composed as you glanced up at Patch, hoping he had a plan. There was a moment of hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze that made your stomach twist.

“I heard you have girls for sale,” Patch said, his voice calm but edged with danger. He made sure to keep a measured distance between himself and the Collector, his tone deceptively casual. “And I’m looking to buy one. Willing to pay quite a lot.”

The Collector's lips curved into a slow, mocking smile as he shook his head. “I don’t know where you heard that,” he replied, his voice a smooth purr. Rising from his chair, he placed his ringed fingers on the table and leaned forward. “But that’s not the kind of business I’m in.”

His gaze found yours, his eyes cold and piercing. You felt a shiver wash over your entire body like an icy hand sliding down your spine. The way he looked at you was invasive, stripping away your bravado layer by layer. Patch’s hand on your waist tightened ever so slightly, a warning to stay calm.

“I guess I misheard, then,” Patch said, his tone even, but you could sense the tension beneath it, like a taut wire ready to snap.

The Collector’s smirk widened as he straightened, folding his hands behind his back. “Is that why you brought her here?” he asked, raising a brow as his eyes raked slowly over your figure. “To distract me? She’s a pretty little thing, I’ll give you that. But you must think me a fool, Patch.” He chuckled a low, contemptuous sound. “You think I don’t know who you are?”

Patch’s jaw clenched, but before he could respond, you felt a surge of anger rise in your chest, hot and raw. You weren’t about to stand there and let this bastard talk circles around you, not when Emily could be here—could be just behind one of those doors.

You stepped forward, pulling away from Patch’s grasp, and leveled your gaze at the Collector. “Stop pretending you don’t know,” you said, your voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Where’s my sister?” You took another step, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “I know you’re the one who took her. Just tell me where she is!”

The Collector's smile didn’t falter, but a glint of amusement danced in his eyes as if he found your outburst entertaining. “Your sister?” he repeated, his tone dripping with false innocence. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. You see, I conduct legitimate business here. But I suppose if you were willing to make it worth my while, I could—”

The door to the private room swung open, cutting off his words. Two of the Collector’s men strode in, dragging a small group of girls with them. Your breath caught in your throat, the world narrowing to a pinpoint as you scanned their faces.

And then you saw her.

Emily.

She was hunched over, her hair tangled and her clothes dirty, but there was no mistaking the familiar curve of her cheek, the frightened wideness of her eyes. She looked up, her gaze finding yours, and her expression crumpled into a mix of relief and terror. “Sis?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“Emily!” you cried, starting to move toward her, but one of the men stepped in front of you, blocking your path.

Patch's claws shot out with a sharp snikt, his voice turning into a low growl. “Move,” he said to the guard, his tone like gravel grinding together. “Or I start decorating this room with your blood.”

The guard hesitated, glancing back at the Collector, who simply raised a hand, signaling him to stand down. “Ah, there she is,” the Collector said with a sigh as if he were showing off a piece of fine art. “You know, Patch, I really didn’t want this to get messy. But since you’ve found what you’re looking for, I’m afraid we have a little problem.”

Patch stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you. “The only problem here,” he said, his voice low and deadly, “is how many pieces I’m going to leave you in.”

The Collector’s smile faded, and he took a step back. “You think you can just walk out of here with her?” he said, gesturing to his men. “I don’t think so.” His tone sharpened. “Get them.”

Before you could blink, the room erupted into chaos. The guards lunged forward, and Patch was already in motion, his claws slashing through the air in a deadly arc. The first guard barely had time to react before Patch’s fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. The second guard swung a baton, aiming for Patch’s head, but Patch ducked, his claws slicing across the man’s chest in one swift motion.

You ran to Emily, pulling her behind you as you backed toward the door. “We’re getting out of here,” you whispered fiercely, your hands trembling as you gripped her arm. “Just stay close.”

As you turned, one of the guards grabbed you by the shoulder, yanking you back. You lashed out instinctively, throwing an elbow into his ribs, but his grip didn’t loosen. Emily screamed, and in that split second, you saw Patch’s eyes flash with a wild, feral rage as he barreled toward the guard, knocking him away from you with a force that sent the man crashing into the wall.

“Go!” Patch shouted, shoving you and Emily toward the door as he whirled around to face the Collector. “Get her out of here!”

You hesitated for a heartbeat, your gaze flicking between Patch and the exit. There was something in his eyes—a promise, or maybe a threat—that made it clear he wasn’t leaving until this was finished.

“Come on, Em,” you said, pulling your sister toward the exit. “We have to go. Now.”

As you stumbled into the hallway, you glanced back one last time. Patch was still there, standing between you and the Collector, his claws gleaming in the dim light, a snarl on his lips. Whatever happened next, you knew he wouldn’t let anyone get to you or Emily without going through him first.

You ran, Emily’s hand clutched tightly in yours, your heart pounding with a mixture of relief and fear. You had her—you finally had her. But you also knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You hurtled down the stairs, pulling Emily along behind you, weaving through the throng of well-dressed patrons who barely glanced your way. Panic thrummed in your veins, making each step feel like a jolt of electricity. Your grip on Emily’s wrist was tight, almost desperate, as you fought to keep her on her feet. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and every few steps she stumbled, but you didn’t slow down. You couldn’t.

The club's entrance loomed ahead, and you shoved past the last of the guests, bursting through the doors and out onto the street. The night air hit you like a slap, a mix of humid heat and the lingering scent of car exhaust. You glanced wildly around, searching for anything that looked like an escape. 

There was no doubt in your mind that he had eyes all over Hightown. Staying in one place too long was as good as signing your own death warrant.

Emily stumbled, nearly dragging you down with her. “Em, we have to go,” you urged, your voice strained as you pulled her back to her feet. “I know you’re hurt, but we can’t stop now.”

She looked up at you through the tangled mess of her hair, her face pale and drawn, dark circles underlining her wide, fearful eyes. “I know,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I’m trying.” You could see the exhaustion settling over her, her limbs heavy and sluggish from whatever she had endured.

You spotted a taxi at the curb and practically hauled Emily toward it, banging on the window. “Please, we need a ride!” you shouted, your voice pitched with desperation.

The driver’s eyes flicked over you and Emily—her dirty clothes, your frantic expression. He shook his head quickly, his gaze hardening. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said, his voice muffled behind the glass. “Go find someone else.”

“Please!” you begged, yanking open the door, only for the driver to slam it shut again. “Just drive us out of here! I can pay—”

“I said no!” the driver barked, throwing the car into gear and peeling away from the curb, leaving you standing there with Emily slumped against your side.

“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath, your eyes scanning the streets for another option. This was Hightown though, and here, you and Emily stuck out like a sore thumb—two bedraggled figures in a sea of polished suits and cocktail dresses. Even now, people were starting to notice you, their curious stares prickling the back of your neck. 

You wrapped an arm around Emily’s waist and started moving, half-dragging her along as you navigated through the winding streets. “Come on, Em,” you whispered, forcing strength into your voice. “Just a little further.”

Your pace was frantic, your steps uneven as you guided Emily down narrow alleys and across cobblestone squares. More than once, you heard voices behind you—shouts, the click of heels on the pavement, the low rumble of an engine as a black car turned a corner. Each time, you forced yourself to keep moving, ignoring the burn in your legs and the way Emily’s weight seemed to grow heavier with each step.

You turned another corner and spotted a familiar building in the distance, the sleek high-rise where Patch’s apartment was located. It wasn’t much, but it was somewhere safe, somewhere out of sight. “We’ll go to Patch’s,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Just… we just need to get there.”

Emily nodded weakly, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she clung to you. “Okay… okay,” she mumbled, though you weren’t sure how much longer she could hold out.

When you finally stumbled into the underground parking garage of the high-rise, you were both out of breath, your dress sticking to your skin with sweat. You dragged Emily toward the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly as if that would make it arrive faster. The doors finally slid open, and you hurried inside, practically collapsing against the wall as you hit the button for the top floor.

The elevator ascended with a dull hum, the minutes stretching out painfully, each one feeling like a lifetime. When the doors opened to Patch’s apartment, you half-carried Emily down the hallway, her head lolling against your shoulder until you set her down on the couch. Her eyes were already closing as exhaustion overtook her. 

“Just rest for a minute,” you whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I’ll get you some water, and then get you cleaned up.”

You turned toward the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers for anything you could use to clean up Emily—cloths, bandages, a bottle of antiseptic. By the time you returned to the couch, Emily had already passed out, her breaths coming slow and even, her small body curled into itself like she was trying to disappear. You dipped the cloth in warm water and gently wiped the dirt and sweat from her face, your heart aching at how fragile she looked.

The elevator doors slowly open, and you jumped to your feet, the cloth slipping from your hand. Patch strode in, his white suit spattered with blood—some of it fresh and still glistening in the overhead light. He moved with a noticeable limp, his jaw set in a grim line, but there was a wild energy about him, a rawness that hadn’t yet settled. It was like he’d just walked off a battlefield and wasn’t entirely convinced he’d left it behind.

“Patch?” you breathed, your pulse quickening as the elevator doors shut behind him. “Are you… okay?”

He glanced at you, then at Emily on the couch, and for a fleeting moment, his expression softened, a quiet tenderness flashing in his eyes. But it disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual gruffness. “I’ve had worse,” he replied, his voice rough around the edges. He rolled his shoulder, testing for injuries, and you watched in awe as the faint cuts and bruises on his skin began to fade, healing right before your eyes.

You stepped around the couch, taking a hesitant step closer to him, your gaze locked on the bloodstain spreading across his pant leg. “How…?” you began your voice barely above a whisper, your breath catching in your throat. “Apparently, there’s more to you than I thought.”

Patch met your gaze, a flicker of something raw and unguarded passing across his face. “I don’t go spilling all my secrets, sweetheart,” he said, his tone casual, though there was a faint vulnerability beneath it. “Healing factor. Fast one. Comes in handy.” His lips curled into a sardonic half-smile like he was letting you in on a joke only he understood.

You blinked, trying to process what he’d just said. “And here I was willing to risk my life for you,” you teased, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “All this time, you could just… heal?”

Patch took a step toward you, wincing slightly as his weight shifted onto his injured leg. “Healing’s not instant,” he muttered, his tone dropping lower. “And the son of a bitch got me pretty good.” He paused, his gaze flicking to Emily. “Enough about me. Is the kid okay?”

“She’ll be fine,” you replied, but your eyes were still on his leg. The blood was soaking through the fabric, a dark, spreading stain that told you he wasn’t healing as quickly as he usually did. “Sit down,” you said, your voice firmer than before. “Let me take a look at that.”

Patch started to protest, shaking his head. “I told you, I’ll be fine. It’s already healing—”

“Yeah, but it’s being slow about it,” you cut him off, your gaze hardening with a determination that left no room for argument. “You said it yourself—he got you good. Now, sit down and let me help.”

For a moment, he looked like he was going to argue, his jaw tightening, but then he relented with a resigned sigh, limping over to the armchair and lowering himself into it. “Fine, but don’t get any ideas about playing nurse, sweetheart,” he grumbled, but there was a hint of a smile in his eyes as he watched you kneel beside him.

“Just shut up and let me help you,” you shot back, grabbing the first aid kit you’d set aside for Emily and popping it open. “Take off your pants.”

Patch arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “Usually, I get dinner first.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the faint flush that crept up your neck. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, as Patch stood. He slid down his pants revealing a deep cut in his leg. The skin was jagged and raw, already knitting itself back together but slower than you’d expected.

You worked in silence for a moment, cleaning the gash and wrapping a bandage around his leg with steady hands. Patch watched you, his expression unreadable, but his gaze was heavy, almost curious. You could feel the intensity of it, and it made the air seem thicker, more intimate.

“Why is it taking so long?” you asked quietly, your fingers brushing against his skin as you secured the bandage.

He let out a breath, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it before. “Healing takes time,” he said, leaning back in the chair as he studied your face. “Some wounds are deeper than others.” There was a weight to his words that felt like more than just the injury itself.

You glanced up, meeting his gaze, and before you could stop yourself, you reached for the eye patch he always wore. “And this?” you asked, your fingers hesitating just an inch away from the black fabric. “Is it just for show?”

Patch’s expression tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then, with a sigh that seemed to carry years of weariness, he reached up and removed the eye patch himself. Underneath, his eye was perfectly normal—sharp, hazel, and very much intact.

You blinked in surprise, your breath catching. “Why…?”

“Disguise,” he said simply, his voice rougher than usual. “Keeps people guessing, like I told you. Besides…” He gave a wry smile. “Makes it easier to be someone else when you don’t look like yourself.”

“Someone else?” you echoed, your voice softer now. The way he looked at you, so unguarded, made your chest tighten.

“Undercover,” he explained, leaning a little closer. “Madripoor’s a cesspool of crime and corruption, and someone’s got to keep the worst of it from spreading. Not everyone needs to know who I really am.” There was a pause, then his voice dropped to a murmur, “Until now.”

The honesty in his eyes, that raw vulnerability he rarely showed, made the space between you feel impossibly small. You could see the weariness etched into the lines of his face, the scars that healing couldn’t erase. For the first time, you realized that his roughness wasn’t just armor—it was a way of surviving, of keeping the world at arm’s length.

Without thinking, you reached up and cupped his cheek, your thumb grazing the stubble along his jaw. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you said softly, your voice steady even as your pulse quickened. “You’ve done enough for me, for Emily. Let me help you for once.”

Patch’s gaze flickered, a mix of surprise and warmth. His hand came up to cover yours, his touch rough but careful. “I don’t let a lot of people in, kid,” he murmured, his voice like gravel. “But… maybe you’re an exception.”

The words hung in the air between you, thickening the tension until it felt almost suffocating. He leaned in, just a fraction, his breath brushing against your lips. “If I didn’t know any better,” he said, his voice low and rough, “I’d say you’re trying to get me to stick around.”

You smiled, your heart racing as you met his gaze. “Guess I like the idea of you keeping an eye on me.”

Patch chuckled softly, the sound vibrating between you. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he whispered, his lips just inches from yours.

“Guess that’s why you like me,” you replied, closing the distance just a little more.

Before the moment could tip over into something deeper, Patch’s expression shifted, and he pulled back slightly, his tone turning serious. “You can’t stay here,” he said, his voice low and steady. “They’ll come looking, and you need to be gone before that happens.”

“You want me to leave Madripoor?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “Where would we even go?”

Patch rose to his feet, his gaze steady on yours. “Somewhere they won’t think to look,” he replied, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips as though trying to lighten the weight of his words. “Somewhere you and your sister can actually get a fresh start. Away from all this.”

You followed him into the kitchen, the silence stretching between you, filled with things you didn’t know how to say. “I don’t have money or... anywhere to stay,” you murmured, your fingers curling into fists as you tried to keep the fear from creeping into your voice.

“I’ll take care of it,” Patch replied, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he’d already made up his mind. He stopped in front of you, taking a step closer, closing the distance between you until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. His presence was overwhelming, filling up the space between you until there was nothing else. You could feel his breath on your skin, the intensity of his gaze boring into yours, like he was searching for something you hadn’t yet offered him.

You swallowed hard, the tension thickening like a slow, bittersweet ache in your chest. “And what about you?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Are you… coming with us?”

His gaze softened, a mixture of regret and something unspoken passing across his face. “I can’t,” he murmured, his hand lifting to brush lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. His touch was careful and tender, as though he was committing the feel of you to memory. 

“There’s still work to be done here. I killed most of the Collector’s men, but he got away. Even if I did manage to track him down, someone else would just take his place. It’s a never-ending cycle.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “And I can’t just walk away knowing he’s still out there.”

“But it’s safer if you come with us,” you insisted, leaning into his touch, your pulse racing beneath your skin. “It’s safer if we stick together.”

Patch shook his head slowly, a faint, rueful smile touching his lips. “It’s safer for you and your sister if I’m not around,” he said. “You don’t need me making things more dangerous than they already are.” His thumb continued to trace gentle circles against your cheek, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. “You can handle yourself, sweetheart. You’ve proven that.”

The words, meant to be reassuring, only made your chest tighten with something that felt like a loss. You reached up and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, keeping his hand against your skin for a moment longer. “What if I don’t want to handle it alone?” you whispered, the honesty slipping out before you could catch it.

He looked at you then, his hazel eyes searching yours with a depth that made your breath hitch. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said softly. “And you’ll be even stronger for her.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the couch where Emily lay sleeping, and the tenderness in his eyes was almost painful.

You leaned up and pressed a light kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the rough stubble. “Thank you, Patch,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

He closed his eyes briefly, as though savoring the touch, and then pulled back, his expression hardening slightly as he took a step away. “Get some rest,” he said, his tone rougher now, as though putting a barrier back up between you. “You’ll need it for the flight.”

You ended up sharing his bed, the mattress firm beneath you and the covers smelling faintly of leather and cigar smoke. You lay beside Patch, the silence settling over you like a weight. It was strange, being so close to him, feeling the warmth of his body beside you but knowing that this was temporary—just a moment stolen from the chaos of everything else.

You turned slightly to face him, your hand resting on the space between you. “You’re sure you won’t come with us?” you asked quietly, the darkness making it easier to admit how much you wanted him to say yes.

His gaze shifted to meet yours, his expression unreadable. “You know I can’t,” he murmured, his voice strained as if it hurt him to say the words. “This life… it’s not for you. It’s not for her.” He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face, the touch lingering. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t be watching out for you. From a distance.”

You managed a small, bittersweet smile, your chest aching at the thought of leaving him behind. “You’d better,” you whispered, turning your face into the pillow to hide the sting of tears. “Or I’ll come back here and drag you out of Madripoor myself.”

His chuckle was soft, almost tender, as he reached over and squeezed your hand. “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart,” he said, but there was a quiet sadness in his tone that told you he wished things could be different.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

A few hours later, Patch drove the three of you to the airport in the dead of night. The roads were mostly empty, the city still and quiet, as though it was holding its breath. Emily dozed in the back seat, exhausted from everything she’d been through, while you stared out the window at the passing lights, your heart heavy.

When he pulled up to the curb outside the terminal, Patch cut the engine and turned to you, his face partially shadowed in the dim light. “I’ve already arranged for your tickets,” he said. “The flight will take you far enough away from here that the Collector won’t be able to reach you. You’ll be safe.”

You nodded, struggling to find the right words, knowing that nothing you said would be enough. “Thank you,” you managed, your voice breaking slightly. “For saving her. For… everything.”

Patch reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped free. “You’re tougher than you look, kid,” he murmured. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

You leaned into his hand, the warmth of his touch grounding you. “And what about you?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Will you be okay?”

His mouth twitched into a small, sad smile. “I’ve been through worse,” he said, though his eyes betrayed a loneliness that ran deeper than words could express. “And I’ve survived. So will you.”

You nodded, and then before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned forward and kissed him—a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of goodbyes and promises left unspoken. He didn’t pull away, but when you finally did, there was a look in his eyes that told you he’d carry the memory of this moment with him, wherever he went.

“Go,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Before I change my mind and drag you back with me.”

You gave him one last, bittersweet smile, then turned and helped Emily out of the car. As you walked toward the terminal, you glanced back over your shoulder, half-expecting him to follow.

Yet, Patch stayed in the car, watching you go, a lone figure against the darkness of Madripoor. Even though you knew you were doing the right thing, it felt like leaving a piece of yourself behind.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

“You’ll be fine!” you called out, laughter bubbling up in your voice as you watched Emily wave to you from the passenger seat of her friend’s car.

“I’ll text you when I get there!” she yelled back, her voice bright and carefree in a way that still felt fragile to you. You smiled and nodded, giving her one last wave as the car pulled away, the taillights disappearing down the street.

As soon as she was out of sight, you let out a long sigh, the tension easing from your shoulders just a bit. Even after nearly two years of being away from Madripoor, that gnawing feeling of worry hadn’t left you. It was a constant presence, a shadow that followed you around no matter how much time had passed. You still slept with one eye open, double-checked every lock, and scanned the street whenever you stepped outside.

Letting Emily live a normal life again had taken everything in you. She deserved to go to college, to have friends, to be young and reckless without always looking over her shoulder. You’d even taken up martial arts classes just to convince yourself that you could protect her if the past ever tried to catch up. But every time she left your sight, that familiar knot of fear tightened in your chest.

“Surprised you let her go,” a familiar, gruff voice rumbled from behind you.

You spun around, already feeling the sting of tears prickling at your eyes as if your body knew before your mind did. 

There he was—standing just a few feet away, his broad figure unmistakable even after all this time. He was different from the last time you’d seen him. Gone was the bloodstained white suit and eye patch. Instead, he wore a plain white shirt and jeans with a leather jacket slung casually over his shoulders, his hazel eyes, both of them, piercing and clear.

“Patch?” you whispered, your breath catching in your throat as disbelief crashed over you. For a moment, you wondered if you were hallucinating, if your constant vigilance had finally taken its toll and made you see things that weren’t there.

He nodded, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his lips, that familiar hint of mischief in his gaze. “Told you that was just a disguise, sweetheart,” he said, his voice softer than you remembered. “Call me Logan.”

A strangled laugh escaped you, and before you knew it, you were moving, closing the distance between you in a few hurried steps. You threw your arms around him, the leather of his jacket cool against your cheek as you buried your face in his chest. He stiffened for a moment, as if surprised, then wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly. It was like something inside you finally unclenched, a pressure you hadn’t even realized was there releasing all at once.

“You’re real,” you breathed against his chest, your voice trembling. “You’re actually here.”

“Last time I checked,” he murmured, his tone carrying that familiar edge of sarcasm. But there was a warmth in the way he spoke, a tenderness in the way his hand rested on the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. “Figured it was about time I came to see you. Make sure you’re not getting into too much trouble.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, blinking away the tears that blurred your vision. “I thought… I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly.

His smile softened, and he reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “You know me, kid. I don’t stay away forever,” he said, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that made your heart twist. “Besides, I made a promise, didn’t I? To keep an eye on you.”

You let out a shaky breath, your hands still resting against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. “Two years is a long time,” you whispered. “I didn’t know if… if you made it.”

“Had a few close calls,” he admitted, a shadow passing over his features before he pushed it away. “But I’m here now.” His gaze grew more intense, his hand still warm against your cheek. “And so are you. Stronger than when I left. I can see it.”

You managed a small, bittersweet smile, remembering all the nights you’d spent wondering where he was, if he was alive if he ever thought about you. “I tried to be,” you said. “For her. For myself.”

“And you did good,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “Better than good.”

The words settled over you like a balm, soothing old wounds. You reached up and placed your hand over his, leaning into his touch. “Why now?” you asked quietly. “What made you come here?”

Logan’s gaze flickered, and he let out a breath that seemed to carry years of unspoken thoughts. “I finished what I started in Madripoor…and because I couldn’t stay away any longer,” he confessed, his thumb tracing slow, tender circles on your skin. “I thought… maybe I owed you more than just disappearing.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the honesty in his tone. “So… you’re staying?” you asked, hope threading through your voice despite yourself.

Logan hesitated, a faint smile touching his lips. “We’ll see,” he said. “For now, I’m here. And if you’ll have me… maybe I’ll stick around.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded, a soft laugh escaping you as more tears finally spilled over. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” you whispered, reaching up to swipe at your damp cheeks.

His grin widened the familiar glint in his eyes making him look younger, almost carefree. “Yeah, well… I guess that’s why you like me,” he teased.

You laughed and leaned your forehead against his, feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin. “Maybe,” you whispered. 

For the first time in a long while, that gnawing feeling of fear seemed to ebb, replaced by something softer. You stood there in his arms, the world feeling a little less dangerous and you let yourself believe that maybe the future didn’t seem so bleak anymore.