Hugh Jackman

✧ Logan, who had made peace with God and had accepted the idea of a shallow grave when you, a sweet little thing, slipped into his life purely by accident. you'd hitched a ride in his limo with an itty-bitty bachelorette party, the three of you a little worse for ware and arguing in the backseat after too many screwdrivers and vodka cranberries. he hadn't been able to stop staring at your curvy little thighs in that little black dress, how your makeup was worn like flickering Vegas neon. how you smelled like your favorite scent he keeps multiples of, Cherry Smoke.

✧ Logan, who asks to see you again after you tip him generously and practically undress him with your pretty eyes in the rearview of that shitty Chrysler he hates so much. Logan, who can't breathe right when you say sure, and pop your number into his phone with a little kiss emoji and a wiggle of your fingers goodbye.

✧ Logan, who had to up his phone plan for unlimited texts because you are young, and so pretty even in words that he can't not text you back, even if it takes an hour and he doesn't know how to use emojis, whatever the hell those are. who much prefers getting voice texts from you because you ramble a little, have the best way of talking about your day.

✧Logan, who pretty much starts dreaming about you the first night he buys you your girlie drink, which you are not too big to order in front of a man who drinks whiskey like it is some kind of oxygen. who can't feel his pulse anymore when you smile and look so good in tight jeans and high heels. who has been imagining your taste since the first night you leave lipstick on his collar after a little kiss on his cheek and stumbling against him in the parking lot, all giggles and bright eyes.

✧ Logan, who courts you like a man ought to, but faster than a man should. he lasts six months before he can't live without you, before the days start having purpose again. before he starts missing your texts and wishing you'd call, missing the way you laugh in the front seat of his car or hold his hand under the stars. who can't remember the last time he inventoried the ache in his chest or the pull of his bones.

✧ Logan, who marries you after a six-week engagement in a little Vegas church because it feels so right, and the idea of finally fulfilling God's divine purpose for a man hasn't ever felt more perfect to a man designed to bleed.

✧ Logan, who's first time with you feels like the first time that's ever mattered, that rushes life back into his veins like a river. who swears there's never been anything that tastes so good or feels so beautiful. who can't imagine ever not being inside you forever, who can't think straight when you whisper his name like an intimate prayer only you know the language of. whose entire language becomes you and how you make him feel, the power you give, and take, from him.

✧ Logan, who moves you into the compound even though you deserve the world. who works long nights to give you everything you want to make this space a home for a man who's never known one, to make it less, and somehow more, him.

✧ Logan, who promises to take you to the sex doctor to put you on birth hormonal birth control, because traditional methods absolutely will not work for him, never have. who forgets your appointment in favor of staying home all day with you looking so pretty in that sundress you bought in town, just for him.

✧ Logan, who can't imagine the idea of a child even while having sex three times a week. who believes that ship is so beyond sailed, it's at the bottom of the sun. who hasn't, in his almost two hundred years of life, paused long enough to imagine being a father. who has feared the responsibility of caring for another life that belongs to him, beyond yours.

✧ Logan, who should absolutely not be surprised when you wind up pregnant less than a year after moving in, but is shellshocked by the idea just long enough to realize that this is the epiphany of living, the antithesis of dying. this is all he's ever wanted, a chance to be Logan, a man. less a weapon, more a soul. who, after the initial surprise, quietly tucks away the good feeling in his bones to save for the days it will not be easy, the days that will demand more of him than he thinks to give.

✧ Logan, who doesn't know how to act around the woman he loves carrying his baby. who starts by doing everything, but quickly learns a woman's independence is just something she needs during the hills and valleys. who takes you to the sex doctor late, now, for a whole new kind of pill that will change everything about his life forever.

✧ Logan, who discovers that this is the best kind of sex, and he's never not going to want this.

✧ Logan, who makes the compound the safest place a not-exactly-a-home could ever be. babyproofs everything, buys three kinds of car seats because none of them look the safest in the back of the little SUV he buys for you, in cash. who invests in locks, who retitles the drain tile in the "kitchen." Logan who installs a claw foot tub for you, because baths are the only thing that keep you sane through the first trimester of carrying his seed, his future.

✧ Logan, who fights with you about the color of the nursery but finally caves to that soft yellow that reminds you of him, and the soft sun.

✧ Logan, who insists on assembling all the baby furniture himself, without directions, until the diagram becomes necessary because "Nothing is as simple as it was a hundred years ago, baby."

✧ Logan, who secretly confesses every fear he has about fatherhood before God each morning the sun rises over the mesa, because this is not something he desires to survive, but to hold.

✧ Logan, who has lived lifetimes and hasn't seen anything prettier than you all fat and full of his baby. who thinks you are the sexiest thing to ever walk into his life in leggings and a too-big T-shirt you got from the thrift store because it felt right in your hands. who comes up behind you softly and lifts the weight of your belly in his big hands, because he knows it's heavy, and wants to feel all over you and the entirety of the life you make for him in your womb.

✧ Logan, who wants you to have the baby in a hospital, with doctors and nurses and all the medicine you can stand because God forbid you have pain, but agrees to a home birth with a midwife because that's your dream.

✧ Logan, who nearly rips open the world when Braxton Hicks hit at 30 weeks, and you can't breathe the first night they arrive. who holds you against his chest through every contraction, kisses away every tear and "I can't do this, Lo," from your lips.

✧ Logan, who is entirely all too obsessed with your tits when they get big and full, who thinks it is sinful God doesn't allow this without the mercy of a baby inside you.

✧ Logan, who is totally fine with a boy or girl, but in his heart desires a son to hold. who wants to pass his bloodline into the future, leave a legacy in something he could never be.

✧ Logan, who keens with a pride he can't describe when you go into town and everyone knows you belong to him and are carrying his baby.

✧ Logan, who holds you every night of your pregnancy, big hand protective over your belly as you sleep against his chest. who whispers sweet everythings to the life that thrums inside you, making promises he doesn't even know can come true, given the life he has lived. who dreams bigger than the whole damn sky because he is akin to purpose.

✧ Logan, who cries when your child is born. who doesn't even feel you gripping his hand like the earth belongs to him, and he can change it. who agonizes with you through two days of labor, borderline anxious for your life. who can't even stitch together common words when the small life, the universe of you and him, is passed into his arms, all soft and innocent.

✧ Logan, who, for the first time, understands what purity is when he gazes into the face of his son. the deeply perfect, soulful mix of everything beautiful in his life, of everything he'd been chasing under the sun the last half century of his living days. who kisses the soft crown of your son, whispering his name like it is a prayer language, "hi, sweetheart, I'm your dad."

✧ Logan, who can't imagine anything outside of this life, and can't even feel his breath when you snuggle against his chest and sigh, exhausted and pure in every living thing as you stare at what he has given you. who can't even feel his own blood anymore when you whisper, "I want another, Lo."

✧ Logan, who gives you another baby eight months later, because you beg for it every time he makes love to you. who tries to remind you that you just had a baby but instead moans into your ear that he'll give you as many as you want because you feel so good and are such a good mama.

✧ Logan, who is beside himself when you turn up pregnant.

You smoothed the card out on the table and looked at it.  

‘This is just the sweetest thing,’ you said, smiling. 

You and Logan didn’t do Valentine’s Day. All the years you’d been together you’d either both been working when the day itself rolled around or you were trying to come to terms with Logan’s failing health. Also in his own inimitable way, Logan didn’t see the point when he told you he loved you every day anyway.   

‘I’m sorry she didn’t do one for you,’ he said.  

‘Why? I think it’s lovely she made it for you,’ you smiled.  

Still, Logan’s never-ending guilt about just about anything nibbled away at him.  

‘Why do you need to take both of them with you?’ You asked.   

Logan was going into town to pick up a few things and taking both Laura and Marie with him. You had risen your eyebrows at this. Not that you doubted his parenting abilities but you knew that Logan hated going shopping at the best of times, adding two energetic children into the mix made you wonder if he had lost his mind.  Logan would need all senses, enhanced or not, on high alert.  

‘Because I do,’ he said, strapping the girls into the car seats.  

‘Okay. Well, give me a call if you need rescuing,’ you said.  

He gave you a look, then a kiss and drove off.  

‘Where are we going, daddy?’ Laura asked from the back seat as they motored along. 

‘Gonna get mama a Valentine’s gift,’ Logan said, ‘and I want you to help me choose it.’ 

‘Okay,’ Laura said, ‘but not Marie cos she’s just a baby.’ 

Logan smiled. 

‘She is, sweetheart, but she can still come along.’ 

‘But she can’t speak yet!’ Laura pointed out, her little sister’s shortcomings all too evident to her when it came to her father’s plan.  Logan just smiled. 

As Logan drove, he realised he was passing by the diner where you and he had first met.  He slowed as it drew nearer. 

‘Hey, how about we get some pancakes first?’ he said to enthusiastic cheers from the back seat. 

Logan pulled into the parking lot.  He’d not been back here for some years now but not much had changed.  As he got the girls out of the car he looked around.  There was where he’d stopped his limo, the three bullet wounds in his torso searing in pain and where you had tried to help him for the first time.  Over there was where your car wouldn’t start.  He smiled at the memories.  Even the one with him being shot.  He almost – almost – thanked those idiots who tried to steal his car.  If it hadn’t been for them he might never have met you.   

Carrying Marie, and Laura skipping by his side, Logan pushed the door of the diner open.  He realised that he had never actually been there during the day. 

‘Hi!’ said a friendly waitress, ‘table for three and a highchair?’ 

‘Yes please,’ Logan said and she led him and the girls to an empty table.  She went off and came back with a chair for the baby and handed Logan some menus. 

‘Get you some coffee, hon?’ she asked. 

‘Thank you,’ he said. 

‘And what about you, sweetie, what do you want to drink?’ 

Laura pondered this for a while. 

‘Um....a strawberry milkshake,’ she said finally. 

The waitress caught Logan’s eye and he nodded. 

‘If that’s what the lady wants,’ he said. 

The drinks arrived and Logan ordered some chocolate chip pancakes for the girls and some plain ones for himself, lots of bacon.  As they waited for their food to arrive, Logan pointed over to the corner.   

‘See that seat over there?’ he said to Laura, ‘that’s where me and your mama used to sit and talk.’ 

Laura’s eyes widened. 

‘Really?’ 

‘Really.  A long time ago, before you were born.’ 

‘Wow!’ 

The waitress put their plates down and smiled. 

‘What’s the wow?’  

Logan told her what he told Laura and she grinned broadly. 

‘Well isn’t that the loveliest thing!’ she said, ‘and now you’re married with these two little darlings?’ 

‘Yes we are, ma’am,’ Logan smiled. 

‘The last thing I'd have imagined this place to be was anywhere romantic but that’s really made me smile.’ 

She walked off and came back a few minutes later with a slice of pie in a box which she put down in front of Laura.   

‘For you to take home, for your mama.  On the house.’ 

Logan smiled and thanked her.  As he sat there, eating his own pancakes and helping the girls with theirs, he started thinking.  When he was paying, he asked the waitress  

‘The manager around?’ 

‘A problem?’ She asked, looking worried.  

‘No, just had an idea,’ he smiled.  

 *** 

When Logan presented you with a gift on Valentine’s Day you felt instantly guilty.  

‘I didn’t get you anything!’ You said.  

‘I know. I didn’t want you to.’ 

‘Logan…’ 

‘Seriously. And we’re going out tonight. Your sister is going to take the girls. All arranged.’ 

You looked shocked.  

‘We are? Where did you find with a reservation this late?’ 

He smiled and shrugged.  

‘Just found a little place.’ 

Logan wouldn’t tell you where. You just had to trust him, he said.   

‘What should I wear?  I don’t want to put jeans on if you’re taking me to The Ritz,’ you smiled, nudging him. 

Logan sighed and kissed you. 

‘Doesn’t matter what you wear, darlin’, just as long as you’re there.’ 

You found a dress in the back of your wardrobe.  Nothing too fancy but not some scrap that didn’t look presentable. 

Laura, who clearly knew the entirety of Logan’s plan, was positively levitating with joy at the thought of Logan’s secret.  You could tell it was taking every single ounce of restraint that she possessed – which at five years old was not much – to not blurt it out.   

‘That girl is going to go pop,’ you said, ‘was it wise to tell her?’ 

Logan grinned. 

‘She helped me organise it,’ he said proudly, ‘come on, we need to get going.’ 

Once the girls were dropped off at your sister’s, you got back in the car and stared at Logan as he drove.  A small smile was playing on his lips.  Whatever this was, it was making him very happy.  Which, you hoped, meant it would make you very happy as well.   

When Logan came to a stop, all became suddenly clear. 

‘Oh my god,’ you muttered. 

Logan grinned and opened the car door for you, holding out his hand for you to take. 

‘Ma’am,’ he smiled. 

You tucked your arm through his and walked up to the door of the diner.  Logan had told you he’d taken the girls here and given you the slice of pie. You told him you didn’t even know the place was still open. 

‘Neither did I until today,’ he’d said.  

Logan opened the door and let you walk in.  The place was empty, which was odd, but when you looked around you saw why.  The booth, your booth, yours and Logan’s, was covered in a starched white tablecloth, flowers and candles in the middle of the table, fairy lights strung around the seats. 

‘Oh Logan....’ you breathed. 

‘Do you like it?’ 

You turned to him and nodded, feeling teary now.  When Logan decided to be romantic, he always seemed to choose something that made you want to cry, in a good way.  The waitress Logan had spoken to a few days before showed you to your booth and handed you the menus.  Those hadn’t changed at all either. 

‘Thank you,’ you said to her as she poured you both some coffee. 

‘My pleasure, sweetie,’ she glanced at you then nodded her head at Logan, ‘you’ve got a good one there.’ 

You reached out and took Logan’s hand. 

‘I do, don’t I?’ 

As you both sat there and ate your waffles, pancakes and whatever else you recalled enjoying from all those years ago, Logan watched you. 

‘Better than some fancy restaurant you can’t relax in?’ he asked. 

‘You can’t relax in them, I have no problem with it,’ you said, popping a piece of waffle in your mouth. 

Logan smiled. 

‘Whatever you say, sweetheart.’ 

You looked at him. 

‘Seriously though, this is the best.  Thank you.’ 

Logan took your hand and kissed your palm. 

‘I had a lot of catching up to do.’ 

‘Hmmm.  And what’s the plan after this?’ 

‘Well,’ Logan said, leaning back against the booth, ‘there’s a motel down the street.  We could check in there and fuck until the sun comes up.  Won’t have to worry about waking anyone.’ 

‘What about the people in the other rooms?’ 

Logan snorted. 

‘Like they won’t be doing the same as us.’ 

You laughed and pointed your fork at him. 

‘You are a corrupting influence, Logan Howlett.’ 

‘Isn’t that why you love me?’ 

You threw a piece of waffle at him. 

You left the diner and after a brief discussion you did go down the street and check into the motel.  It wasn’t the fanciest place but when were they.  You lay on your front, breathing hard, you could still feel Logan’s hands on you, your thighs hummed with the feeling of where he’d grabbed them and held them open.  You could still feel the ghost of his cock, slamming into you.  Logan came out of the bathroom and got back on the bed, one hand skimming over your backside, fingers trailing up your spine.  He caught your lips in a kiss. 

‘Ready to go again?’ he asked. 

‘God you’re romantic,’ you said and he laughed. 

‘Well, are you?’ 

You moved and lay yourself down on top of him, his cock caught between you both. 

‘Give me a few more minutes and then you can have your wicked way with me again,’ you said, kissing him and wiggling a little to make him groan. 

‘Thank you for this evening,’ you said. 

‘Makes up for all the ones we missed?’ 

‘I don’t care about that, but I’m glad you did this.’ 

Logan rolled you over and rested his weight on his elbows. 

‘I love you,’ he said. 

‘Love you too,’ you said back. 

Logan began to make love to you again, you raked your fingers through his hair and he swallowed your sighs and moans with kisses.  To anyone else, a diner and a cheap motel was not a grand gesture of love but to you it was everything.  It was memory and love and thoughtful and kind. As Logan moved above you, you stared at him, this man.  This broken and hard and closed off man who had opened up his heart to you and let you in.   

Rescuing a kitten from a tree? Good.

Punching a guy at a bar because he didn’t feel like being acknowledged? Bad.

Saving countless lives from mass destruction? Good—heroic, even.

But killing others to do it? Bad—condemnable, scum of the earth.

Where does that leave him? Which side has laid claim to his soul? He’s long accepted he’ll never see the pearly gates.

When the day comes that his body can no longer take it, and he only grows wearier, he’s pretty sure there’s a special place in hell with his name on it, etched in some grave awaiting to be filled.

Maybe Satan’s already counting down the days until he shows up at his door, who knows?

Yet, the more time passes by, the less afraid he is of what lies beneath the surface. He’s learned to coexist with the darkness, with the kind of pain and loneliness that would crush most men.

He doesn’t know how, but he survives it—the agony, the memories, the solitude that hits him from time to time.

And still, he doesn't lose himself entirely. He’s tempted, of course, to linger in the past—it’s always easier to drown there.

If he could go back, he knows he wouldn’t be alone in choosing that path. Some days, it feels like the only option.

But there’s no you in his past.

Logan inhales sharply when your tongue teases his slit, lapping at the precum pooling there. You hum at the taste, your hand resting on his bare thigh, fingers pressing into his skin. Your other hand lazily strokes the length of him, working the inches your mouth can’t take.

It’s clear you’re enjoying this. He can tell from the way your lashes flutter each time he thrusts a little deeper into your slick warmth. A win-win situation.

Letting a girl like you do this to him? That’s bad. Very bad. Red flags all around.

He meets you when he least expects it.

It’s a night like any other. He’s been driving for God knows how long. His joints ache from being in the same position for hours, and a part of his left knee he didn’t even know could hurt begins to throb.

It takes everything in him not to call it quits for the night, not to turn around and head home like a coward.

When exactly his life fell into this monotonous cycle, he’s not entirely sure, but it happened somewhere along the way. Now, it’s all the same: taking care of Charles during the day, catching an hour or two of sleep, then gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, driving through endless stretches of road, resisting any attempts at small talk from the passengers he chauffeurs around.

They all try—every single one of them. They think if they can crack his harsh and bitter exterior, he’ll open up, reveal something, anything to make their eyes go wide.

But why? Why do they insist on breaking through his shell? What do they hope to discover?

No one really cares what’s going on in his mind. They just want to feel good about themselves—like they’ve been kind, amiable, empaths intending to fill some empty and obscure corner of their own lives.

Logan refuses to be the person who grants them that satisfaction.

You slip into the backseat of his limo, closing the door with a soft click. The night clings to you, the scent of the bar still lingering on your clothes. The music is loud enough for him to hear from outside, and he sees the people lined up at the door, willing to cause a fight if it means securing a good time.

There's a slight frown tugging at your features, your lips pulled downward, though your voice is still polite when you blurt out your address.

Five minutes into the drive and you haven’t said a word. Internally, he’s savoring the silence, so happy he could jump on one foot.

This kind of peace is rare. He’d grown unaccustomed to it. The tension in his shoulders eases as the city lights blur past.

But, all good things come to an end, because—

“How’s your night going?” you ask, fiddling with the seatbelt to have something between your fingers. Logan glances at you through the mirror, his eyes catching yours just for a moment, long enough to see the faint, apologetic smile you offer him. He allows himself a heartbeat more to take you in before focusing back on the road.

You click your tongue, a soft sound of disapproval ringing in his ears. “Well, thank you.”

He lets out a quiet huff, grinding his teeth together. “I’d prefer if we stayed like we were before,” he mutters, his voice rough and gravelly. His attention flickers between the passing cars and the occasional glimpses of you that startle him every time he searches for the mirror. Cars. You. Cars. You. You. You. “Y’know, not talking.”

“But that’s no fun at all,” you retort, sliding more to your left, nearly positioning yourself in the middle of the backseat. It gives him a better view of you—whether intentional or not, he can’t say.

The lipstick on your lips is still flawless. A sparkly necklace glints just above the neckline of your dress, and matching earrings dangle from your ears. Wrapped in a leather jacket, you look effortlessly alluring.

This entire sequence is enough to confirm that by no means is he going to heaven. Straight to hell, he thinks, allowing his gaze to trace over each detail of your frame. Straight to hell.

You don’t give up. “Your aura is off.”

That prompts a crooked smirk from him, a shake of his head as he mumbles under his breath: “M’sorry, my what’s off?”

“Your aura,” you clarify, motioning toward him with a light jingle from the many bracelets adorning your wrist. “It’s the energy that surrounds you.”

Logan snorts, amused for a brief second. “Well, you weren’t exactly a beacon of life when you got in either.”

You chuckle softly, leaning back against the seat and looking out the window. “I’m much better now.” A pause before you continue, your tone shifting, losing strength. “My date stood me up. Last-minute cancellation.”

It’s not anger, nor is it disappointment, that laces your words. You seem more resigned than anything else. He’d have expected you to sound at least a bit more conflicted.

“I should’ve seen it coming. He’d been asking to move it forward for a while.”

Does he look like the type of driver who doubles as a therapist? He wishes he could understand why you're telling him all this.

“That sucks,” he still responds, because even though he hasn’t gone out with a woman in what feels like centuries, he understands that sensation all too well. “First time meeting him?”

Listen up, everyone—he’s genuinely engaging in conversation with another soul. This doesn’t happen often.

He hears you hum, eyes still trained on the outside world. You sigh, crossing your arms over your torso. “Would you mind rolling your window up? I’m kind of freezing here.”

“I’d mind that very much,” he says, his voice carrying its usual gruff edge. He fights the urge to grin, but then you unbuckle your seatbelt, leaning in closer to him. Your body is wedged between his seat and the passenger’s, and he perceives your stare boring into his side profile. “Put your seatbelt back on.” 

“You’re fucking with me.” Your finger taps his shoulder once, twice. “First, I get all dolled up for an idiot who bails on me, and now you have the nerve to make fun of me? Give me a break.”

Your eyes stay on him, a smile plastered on your face, anticipating any possible answer.

Crack, crack, crack—you intend to break through his shell, watching him from the front row, waiting for the moment it gives way.

Before you can say more, he cuts you off. “Seatbelt.”

It’s a command, an instruction, and you comply without hesitation.

Warmth pools and stirs low in his gut as he notes how quickly you obey him. 

Would you still look at him like that if you knew the blood he’s scrubbed off his hands? The flesh that his claws have shredded? The names of the lives he’s taken?

Would your warm gaze turn cold, filled with dread instead of curiosity?

Maybe this is hell. Are you the Devil in disguise, tempting him to cross a line he won’t be able to come back from?

A few minutes later, he pulls up to your building. A really nice one, he notes. You announce you live on the sixth floor. He doesn’t need to know that, does he? Why would you tell him that? Why give that piece of information to a complete stranger?

You linger in the backseat, as though you’re expecting him to turn and look at you. And he does, though not for the reason you might expect. “You got everything?”

Eager and full of life, you nod, clutching your purse to your chest. You avert your gaze to read his ID tag, the one that contains his personal details. “James?”

“Glad you can read,” he utters, pulling out a small bottle of liquor from under the seat. He drains it all in one go, savoring the fleeting burn as it slides down his throat, which is enough to keep him going. “C’mon, kid. I already charged you.”

“You drink while you drive?”

“Keeps me entertained,” he says dryly. It’s the only thing he knows how to do. Raising the empty bottle in your direction, he arches a brow. “Goodnight, darlin’. Leave me a good review on your way out.”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

For a couple of days, you don’t bother him again. Bother—notice the implication of the verb in question.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of you after that drive. Each time his phone buzzes, a small, restless part of him hopes it’s you, asking for his services, wanting him to be the one you seek out.

And it happens. The best things seem to occur when the moon hangs high and bright.

You: Hi.

He stares at the message, recognition washing over him. He knows it’s you; he can see the other texts you exchanged that night he took you home.

You: Are you working tonight?

You’ve got to be kidding him.

Logan: Why are you texting me?

He types the words with frustration, his thumb hovering over the screen longer than usual. 

You: Why are you answering me?

Oh, you’re smart. 

Logan: Take my advice. Talk to a guy your own age.

You: Damn. Already jumping to conclusions. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to have a drink with me.

Logan: I’m busy.

You: Well, what time do you get off?

Logan: I work all night.

You: Can’t even make a quick stop? I swear it won’t take you more than twenty minutes.

An impulse to throw his phone out the window surges within him, but he manages to restrain himself.

Then, as if on cue, the device vibrates again—of course, it’s you.

You: The drinks are on me. Let me know if you change your mind.

Do you think he’s going to let you pay for him? Absolutely not. 

What surprises him more than the message is how easily he remembers your address. It appears to be ingrained in his mind.

He cancels his next trip, scheduled for ten minutes from now, his new destination being your building.

Once he pulls up, he does what feels most natural: he honks. Multiple times. Maybe he’s lucky and you’ll tell him to fuck off.

But you don’t. You’re laughing as you make your way over to the limo, sliding into the backseat in the same way you did a week ago. Your plan had succeeded—you had him exactly where you wanted.

Far from hiding it, you make it evident, obvious. Your heartbeat thrums in the air, and Logan can hear it loud and clear, like the bass in one of those funky songs he likes.

There’s no room for mistakes. He won’t deny it. Even if the feeling is mutual, he can’t shake the idea that he’s doing something wrong.

In his eyes, you’re the forbidden fruit—irresistible, the ultimate temptation known to humankind, camouflaged in the fur of a pretty woman.

You, his paradise on earth, could only lead to one thing: a longing for a chance with you, which he should never be granted in the first place.

He’s diving headfirst into disgrace, and the more he realizes it, the worse it feels. If he were to be scolded like a child, maybe he’d feel relieved, but he’s no kid. He’s a grown-ass man who should be able to resist.

Yet, self-restraint is like sand slipping through his fingers—never lasting long enough.

“You came.” Astonishment. Uncertainty. Amusement. Blinking your eyes at him, you sit very upright, and you don't even bother fastening your seatbelt. “Honestly? I thought you were going to block me.”

I can’t, he thinks. I wouldn’t be able to. I’m not that strong.

“What happened this time? Another failed date?” he inquires, still not starting the car. A look of perplexity appears on your features, puzzled about why he’s not moving. “Ain’t you forgetting something?” He tugs on his own seatbelt for emphasis, the fabric snapping back into place against his coat.

Once again, you follow his lead. “I don’t need to get stood up to want to see you,” you say, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance—or so he tells himself. It takes him all his willpower not to collapse right then and there. “Besides, I’m not bad company. I’ve been told I can be pretty funny.” 

“I see…” he trails off, catching your gaze through the rearview mirror, not shocked in the slightest to find you waiting for him to look back. “Where to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you should. You invited me.”

How easy it is to make your chest rumble with laughter, the genuine sound bubbling up, pure and unrestrained. He feels like some amateur comedian who has just realized his real passion is to cause this type of response in others.

Except, it’s not just anyone’s laughter he insists on provoking—it’s yours, and yours alone.

An unsettling sensation envelops him the second you retrieve your hand, not before squeezing his shoulder in a friendly manner. “There’s a bar I go to with my friends sometimes,” you suggest after a beat, shoving your phone in the pocket of your jacket. “We could try that one.”

The moment he steps inside, regret washes over him. Why is everyone here under forty? He feels ancient, like fucking Fred Flintstone.

A fossil out of place, meant to dwell in the shadows, not in a scene like this.

When he freezes in the middle of the bar, your fingers intertwine with his, tugging him along, and he follows after you like a lost puppy. The only thing he’s missing is the leash.

You’re met with his quirked eyebrows as you peer into his eyes over your shoulder, a toothy grin threatening to shake the floor beneath his feet. “You know, people usually sit down before they start getting shit-faced.”

“I’m not getting drunk tonight.” Logan exhales a deep breath, trying to hide his discomfort, his eyes scanning the room. “And neither are you,” he practically yells in your ear trying to make himself heard above the pounding music and incessant chatter. He wonders if you even hear him at all.

The two of you eventually settle at the counter, drinking in silence. Logan half-expects one of your comments to pierce through the quiet, but you delight in proving him wrong.

Instead, your head sways gently to the rhythm of the song playing in the background, and you take a trial sip of your beer.

He’s acutely aware of the stares from the rest of the patrons. He can pretend to be oblivious, but the weight of several pairs of eyes burning holes into the back of his neck doesn’t go unnoticed.

Being watched has never been his favorite pastime, and somehow, it feels even more uncomfortable with you by his side.

He knows what those looks imply, can nearly taste the hidden implications behind each fleeting glance.

What’s a girl like you doing with a man like him? A question that makes no sense.

Does he have money? A well-endowed reputation? Did he recently inherit any properties?

Are you truly that desperate for human contact?

Is your bed so cold that you decide to go for the first guy who can string ten words together?

Logan doubts whether this whole experiment is part of the community service you must be doing. Maybe he should look up your name online to see if any criminal records come to the surface.

Now that he takes a moment to ponder it, you certainly fit the mold of the criminal type. The kind who gets what she wants when she wants it, leaving a trail of intrigue on her wake.

His fingers circle the glass so tightly he fears it might shatter into a million shards. You notice his tension, nudging his arm with yours, aiming to meet his eyes.

When you do (because, as he said, criminals have their own ways), you smile, and he internalizes that gesture as something familiar, something he feels he’s grown used to. Something rankled in his memory.

It’s as if he’s known you for a lifetime.

“Thank you for coming,” you say softly, and he may be going down the path of hallucinations,  but your attention remains a little too long on his lips. Then, just as quickly, it flickers back to the rest of his face, and you lean back to drink from your beer once more.

Straight to hell, he thinks, tasting the remnants of whiskey on his tongue, for ever daring to believe himself worthy of even a moment of your precious time.

You’re probably the first person to have his full, undivided attention. And that’s… well, that’s saying something.

Most days, you’re pretty talkative, a steady stream of conversation, your words pouring out in an endless flow.

You tell him about your family, your career, that pet of yours that died when you were six years old. You mention a friend you no longer speak to, and the events that led to the downfall of your friendship.

There’s also that dish from your all-time favorite restaurant, the one you buy at least once a week because it never fails to comfort you.

Nonstop, you talk and talk, and Logan doesn’t mind one bit. Soon, he finds himself becoming an active listener—asking follow-up questions, chuckling at your jokes, even when they’re not funny at all.

He sincerely cares about what you have to say.

This whole situation with you is beyond his comprehension. Before he realizes it, you start wanting to spend more time with him.

Sometimes, you ride along in the passenger seat while he drives aimlessly through the city.

Sometimes, you invite him over, cook a meal, and he always takes the leftovers with him, as if a part of you goes with him when he leaves.

Sometimes, you come over to his place, and the roles reverse—you’re the one with the mic, asking the questions, fully aware that you’re treading on holy ground. 

Logan’s got a sign on his forehead that reads ‘Stop: do not enter.’ It’s rough around the edges, hardened by the years, all capital letters in stark blank ink. But in the end, you just take the sign and set it aside.

He never goes into too much detail. Not because he doesn’t trust you—it’s just that there’s too much to unpack, and you don’t need to know all of it. You’ll be better off not carrying the garbage he does.

Yet, you’ve got him by the throat, encouraging him to cough up disjoined pieces of his life, bits of his day, his thoughts, his feelings. It sounds stupid to him, but you make him feel alive. 

You never judge him, never flinch when he brings up stories from his past. As he sits at your table one afternoon, you look at his hands, his claws fully extended, and you don’t shy away. You rub the pad of your thumb across the rough skin of his knuckles, right where the adamantium tears through his flesh.

You don’t care that he’s a mutant, that he’s killed people. You don’t try to deny who he is or what he’s done. Oddly enough, you just wish to be by his side, staring off into the void with him. 

“But why?” he asks, partly flattered, partly frustrated. This could be compared to learning a new sport from scratch—he can’t figure you out, can’t understand why you haven’t run the other way yet.

He likes your company, though he’s always bracing himself for the inevitable day you find a better hobby and leave.

Your reasoning defies logic, and he’s afraid that at any moment, you’ll grasp the gravity of your choices.

Almost as if you could feel the turmoil brewing in his mind, you simply say: “You’re nice to be around.”

Nice. Nice. Nice. He’d cackle if he were alone. That word reverberates through him. When was the last time someone called him nice?

Bad-tempered, sure.

A pain in the ass? Definitely.

But nice? Not a term people employed to describe him.

It’s a quality reserved for you, with your endless charisma and kind heart, but not for a man of his kind.

He’s nothing more than a chauffeur, a driver, someone who does and says what’s necessary to survive. Does that make him nice? 

When he tells you he’s probably going to hell, you don’t try to make him feel better. Anyone else in your position might try to soothe him, to offer some hollow reassurance.

Your intention isn’t to change him, for him to pretend to be something he’s not. “Then I’ll meet you there,” you mutter, your shiny eyes searing into his. Under the table, your hand finds his, tender fingers grazing over his knuckles, and for once, he doesn’t pull away.

Could it be that an afterlife catching fire doesn’t sound so bad after all?

As much as he likes to admit how easily you can shift his mood, today is not one of those days.

He’s had a nightmare—nothing new, but this one had been… different. The empty bottle on the nightstand hadn’t been of any help; it never does when they visit him in his sleep.

The ghosts of those who used to be his friends, his family, tiptoe around his dreams in the form of shadows.

Blood. Screams. Shouts of his name. He can’t save them all. Walking through the wreckage, he dodges the bodies of those he couldn’t protect, the knot in his throat tightening with every step, not allowing him to breathe.

Wherever he turns, there’s death, destruction. Sadness. Did he save them all?

It’s always the same routine. He wakes up, screaming, chest aching from the effort. His lungs burn, and he has to remind himself that the limbs attached to him are his own and not the remnants of an immobile corpse.

Sweat clings to his skin, pooling at his temples and nape. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, rubbing at the soreness in his neck.

His phone rings somewhere in the distance, pulling him from his dizzy state. He scrambles to his feet, accepting the call just before it hits voicemail.

It's you. Despite it being late, he swears he feels the gentle kiss of the sun over his brow. Your sweet voice chases away the lingering shadows of his dreams, replacing the bitter taste in his mouth with something real—a reason to get up, to start moving.

He holds onto every second of the brief call, replaying those thirty seconds in his head as he steps into the shower. When the cold water shocks his system, it pulls him fully back to consciousness. He has to get ready.

Even though you insist on getting a taxi, he refuses. He doesn’t mind the drive. His gas tank does, his wallet maybe, but Logan? He just doesn’t.

At the end of the day, he’s protective by nature, and who knows what kind of men are roaming the streets at night?

God forbid they’re anything like him—eager to prompt a smile from you, trying too hard to impress you. He arrives at the conclusion that he’d rather lose fuel and money if it means orbiting around you for longer.

You make him feel better, and tonight, he needs it more than ever. He needs you.

(Now he’s driving. He honks five times when he pulls up to your building. You get on the limo, giggling as you say: “My neighbors must hate you.” He grins. You kiss him on the cheek. Subtle. Not the first time. Still, it doesn’t get old. He feels the faint residue of lip gloss on his skin. He doesn’t wipe it off.)

Not in the mood to cook, you declare as you step into his place. The mouth-watering aroma of the Chinese food you bought fills the air, but when he reaches for the bags, you insist that he sit and relax.

Sure, he can take a seat. But to expect him to relax with you around, playing this intricate game? That’s simply impossible. You’re asking for too much. He’s a player at heart, drawn to the thrill of the chase, and he will play along.

What seems inconceivable is the expectation that he can act as if nothing is happening between these four walls.

His attempts to focus on you are futile, as his mind betrays him tonight. All he hears spilling from your lips is pure and plain gibberish. Your very presence is no longer enough to anchor him.

Already immune to your charm, Logan eats his noodles, occasionally nodding when your voice rises at the end of a sentence, indicating a question.

But he nearly chokes on his drink the moment he registers your serious expression, having never witnessed you like this before.

“Are you even here?” you ask, shoving your food aside with a swift motion of your wrist.

What should he answer? What is it that you want to hear? Of course! I’m here, listening to you. It’s a delightful night. Should I start by telling you about my most recent nightmare? Quite the entertainment!

There’s a shake of his head as he lowers his gaze, escaping your concerned expression. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.” You tug your chair forward, claiming a piece of his personal space. You know he doesn’t mind. “Want to talk about it? Did something happen?”

“My brain is just… off today.”

“Many thoughts at the same time.” Not a question. Have you completely figured him out?

“Yeah.”

He remains still, dragging his plastic fork across the now-cold steamed veggies, which have lost their appeal.

How amusing—your knees bump against his, drawing his attention. “Can I help you?” It’s new, the breathy tone you’re using, a whisper of agitation weaving through your calm demeanor. 

“Can you erase my memory?” he shoots back, attempting to smirk through the wave of memories that flash behind his eyelids. When he looks into your eyes, the siren in his head blares.

Your pupils are dilated, blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweaty palms that you wipe on your jeans. Tongue darting out to lick your lips. Your heartbeat accelerates, drumming wildly like the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings.

He hasn’t been with a woman in ages, but he knows how they react when they see something they like—or, in this case, someone.

“Logan.” His name rolls off your tongue once more, tinged with an unmistakable need. The thought of checking his temperature dances through his mind, but the heaviness in his limbs roots him in place. He feels feverish. “I want to help you.”

Oh, no. No, no, no, no—

“What—what are you on, sweetheart?” Get up. Find your keys. Drive her home. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”

Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his head. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?”

He’s no longer in control of his actions. His right hand crawls up your knee, palming the fabric of your pants. It’s numbing: a lapful of you, your rich smell, your quickened pulse.

Tempting. So fucking tempted to take you right now, just like this, without the need for words. Your bodies can communicate in a language of their own, one that transcends spoken phrases. 

I want you, he lets you know through the way he gropes your breasts over your shirt, squeezing them together. He’s always been good with his hands. But what the hell am I supposed to do with a sweet thing like you?

His patience teeters on the edge of a precipice. “Tell me what you want.”

“I asked you first.”

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t know the answer?” He thrusts into the air, grinding against your clothed core, and you close your eyes. He’s rock hard beneath you, the bulge in his jeans shockingly obscene, bordering on grotesque. “We both know what I want, but I’m no telepath, baby. Need you to speak up.”

Twisting the locks of hair at his nape, you press your lips to his neck. “I want to make you forget, to focus on this moment. I want you to live in the present, Logan.” A bite on his earlobe sends shivers down his spine, and he grips your hips with a primal growl. “I can do whatever you want. Just tell me. Tell me, and I’ll do it, please.”

Please? He’s spiraling. Please? That’s it—he’s doing it. He’ll grant you your plea, which aligns perfectly with his own desires.

Once his back meets the mattress in his room, you get to work. With delicate precision, you pull down his pants, sliding his boxers off until only his thick thighs and the crown of short curls adorning his cock remain in sight. Your fingers tremble slightly before you wrap them loosely around his length, and it springs to life in your grasp.

Your gaze pierces into his, mirroring the intensity of his own. But something holds you back, prompting you to reach for his hand.

At that moment, it all clicks into place. Logan urges your head down onto him, and he’s welcomed by the slick warmth you provide.

Indeed, he’s very much alive.

“That’s it. That’s—fuck. There you go.” 

His fingers dig into the mattress, clutching the cotton sheets, stopping himself from thrusting into your mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—God, he does—but tonight, he’s on his best behavior.

He wipes the trail of drool from your chin, smearing it gently across your cheek, his thumb lingering as he watches your nostrils flare with a strained, muffled gasp.

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he tastes the wetness on it the same way you’re sucking him: greedily, without any trace of mercy.

This proves I’m going to hell, he thinks, enraptured by the sight of his cock disappearing between your parted lips. Straight to hell.

You draw him back to the present, nuzzling your face against his thigh, your humid breath teasing his thick shaft, pulling him from a deep reverie. Your glossy eyes roam, exploring until they find his, and you gift him an authentic smile. Wrecked and blissed out, it’s as if the lights are on, but no one’s truly home.

He would’ve never guessed how much you reveled in sucking cock, radiating enthusiasm with each of your movements.

“Am I doing it okay?” you wonder aloud, hovering over the tip, swirling your tongue around the velvety head. He’s no fool, and neither are you; deep down, you know you’re doing more than just okay. Actually, you’re giving him the best blowjob of his long, long life.

Each panting, airy praise he huffs fuels your eagerness, making you even more receptive to his desires as the words slip past his lips.

“Fuckin’ amazing, honey. Got me so hard, y’see?” His tone is heavily charged with carnality, gripping himself and smacking the tip against your mouth, the wet sound echoing like music to his ears.

He pulses against your tongue, and you seize the opportunity to trace the thin veins scattered along his length. Gulping, with his gaze fixed on you, Logan notices how you’re still wearing your clothes, wiggling your hips against the mattress, rubbing your thighs together to get something in return. “Are you wet?”

Humming against him, you suck in shaky breath. 

“Words.”

“I’m—I’m wet,” you rasp, voice hoarse. You try to guide him into your mouth and fail miserably, because his grip only tightens, stroking himself instead. “Logan,” you keen, stretching your neck in a silent plea, “don’t be mean.”

“Not mean. Just enjoyin’ myself,” he replies, pulling the foreskin back to expose the head, arching his eyebrows. His fingers curl around your chin, drawing your face nearer to his girth, fascinated by how your eyes flutter shut the more you surrender to the pleasure. “C’mon. Be polite.”

Blame him for it—he believes he’ll never get tired of this game.

“Please.” You whisper, returning to your begging while tenderly rolling his balls, staring at him through your lashes. And then you say it again: “Please.”

Your gaze burns a hole through his crumpled heart. He lets you have it, eager to give whatever you may ask him for. You dive back into it, engulfing his length and bobbing your head up and down with fervor. Hushed whines escape your lips, savoring another bead of his precum.

Logan almost loses it as you hollow your cheeks, instinctively cradling the back of your head. “Easy, baby. M’not going anywhere. Take your time.”

Whenever he feels himself approaching that long-awaited release, he forces his mind to conjure thoughts that will stall his impending orgasm.

The water stains from flooding on the walls.

The supermarket list.

The rising price of gas.

The—

“Fuck. Slow down,” he groans, utterly captivated by the way you point your tongue to draw imaginary patterns along his cock, seemingly memorizing every detail. “Don’t go too hard on me, remember?”

You mumble something under your breath, and at first, he can’t quite make it out. “What is it?”

“I said I want you to fuck me.”

Under no circumstances is he surviving this night.

“Really, doll?” Logan seeks the reassurance he desperately needs, fearing that this is all a dream from which he’ll awaken the moment he properly touches you. “You sure you want this old man to fuck you?”

You’re a rambling mess, murmuring Yes, Logan, please, until he maneuvers you to lie on his chest, his glistening cock sliding against your clothes, leaving a trail of dark spots. A whimper dies on your tongue as you brush your lips together, your hot breath enveloping him. “Give me a kiss at least.”

Tilting your head up, he connects his mouth to yours, growling as he detects the dull, sour tang of what must be him. He sucks your bottom lip, hardly aware of what his hands are doing until he shifts your positions, pinning you down.

Logan tugs at your clothes, peeling them away with urgency, his fingers dancing over your nipples until you’re grinding against his thigh, quivering beneath him. With a nip at your damp skin, his eyes flutter open as he studies your expression, casting you a glance that seeks your permission.

A ripple of desire courses through him when you dutifully turn over beneath him, pressing your face further into the pillow. He runs his knuckles along the curve of your ass, his throat going dry as you follow after his touch, arching your body in response.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, he licks a long, slow stripe up your wet folds, keeping his tongue flat against your clit for a brief moment. Your arms give out and you stumble forward, stuttering as you mewl his name, fully consumed by the feeling.

So he does it again, and again, and again, flicking the sensitive bud, even though you’re already beyond soaked. It’s a pleasure he indulges in simply because he can.

Straight to hell, he thinks, coating his length with your arousal, teasing your entrance while pushing in only the tip. That motion alone is enough to make him draw a trembling breath before he continues, gradually feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

Straight to hell, the voice in his head utters as he buries himself to the hilt deep within your body, his heavy balls resting against your ass.

Like an intruder in your territory, he’s free to do as he pleases, and you let him have his way with you.

If only this moment could stretch into infinity—he longs for time to relent and never draw to a close. 

What will happen after? Will you spend the night? Does he—

“L-Logan,” you mumble, having adjusted to his size. You rock back into him, impaling yourself even more on his cock. “Please, move.”

The pace he establishes is brutal. Your warm, inner walls exquisitely massage him, and the earth as he knows it stops spinning. Fire pools low in his abdomen, his hands holding you by the flesh of your hips to keep you anchored, each thrust driving you closer to the headboard with an intoxicating urgency. 

“You wanted it from the very start, didn’t you?” He doesn’t know if a response will ever come, but these kinds of thoughts are impossible to contain. He’s just a simple man, powerless against the allure of a tight cunt. “Just got in my car and knew it would end like this?”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

His next thrust punches a whine out of your lungs. Even as you clench around him, stuffed and filled to the brim, you beg for him to fuck you harder. He would’ve laughed at you were he able to catch his breath.

With a more deliberate rhythm, he rolls his hips, jackhammering your most sensitive spot, pulling you closer as he wraps an arm around you. When his fingers find your clit, drawing slippery circles, a cry escapes you, and your body merges with the mattress under you.

Your release takes him by surprise, urging him to continue as you reach back, encouraging him to chase his own climax. He knows all too well the struggle of bringing you to this point without succumbing to his pleasure too soon. Your nails graze along his thigh, leaving delicate marks in their wake, and somehow, the passion and bliss he’s been nurturing ignites into a fiery crescendo.

Shortly after, he goes completely rigid inside you, pressing his forehead against your back as he bites down on your shoulder to muffle his groans. His hand squeezes your breast tightly, riding out his high, blood buzzing in his ears, continuing to spill into you. You spam around him, milking him until the last drop of his seed, his release painting your insides with his warmth.

Logan tucks you under his chin as his vision returns to clarity. You nose his jaw, your fingers softly tracing the contours of his beard. He pulls you closer into his chest, gliding his hands up and down your back.

Half a minute of dreadful silence, then: “Can I stay?”

Oh, yes—pillow talk. He’s not great at this either. Despite that, his eyes soften, snapping to your face.

Logan pauses for a moment. “Sure,” he retorts, dragging his fingers along your shoulder blades. He’s a one-word kind of guy. Just perfect.

Tell her you like her. Tell her you don’t want this to be a casual fling. Tell her it’s more than just sex for you.

Or maybe don’t. Get ahold of yourself, will you?

“Logan?” you ask, resting your palm against his heart.

“What is it?”

“I know.”

You do?

Try as he might, he can’t deny it. He might care about you more than he ever realized.