The air in the mansion’s kitchen was thick with the scent of fresh coffee and something sweet, something that clung to the back of Logan’s throat and made his stomach do a slow, lazy roll. He stood in the doorway, a silent observer, a man out of time in more ways than one. His world was one of ash and regret, a future painted in shades of grey where hope was a luxury he’d long since forgotten how to afford. But here, in the warm, sun-drenched kitchen of the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters in 1973, there was you.

You were a dream come true.

You were humming. A soft, tuneless melody that seemed to drift from your lips as naturally as breathing. You were bustling around the kitchen, a whirlwind of energy and life. A slightly singed apron was tied over your simple, comfortable clothes, and your hair was escaping from a messy bun, framing your face with wispy tendrils. You were making pancakes. Not just any pancakes, but the kind of chaotic, multi-colored, sprinkle-laden creations that only a person with an unshakable joy could produce.

Logan had been in this time for only a handful of days, his mission a heavy weight on his shoulders. He was supposed to be finding Charles, convincing him to believe, to fight. He was supposed to be a soldier, a weapon aimed at the past to save his future. He’d seen the mansion empty and cold, a monument to a dream that had failed. He’d seen Charles broken and lost. And then, there was you.

He hadn't known you were here. He hadn’t known there was a you, at all. You were not on the present, now future, he came from. But you were a detail, a brilliant, impossible detail that had no place in the grim narrative he carried with him. You were a ghost in his history, a piece of a puzzle that made the whole picture make a different kind of sense.

You were the reason the kitchen didn’t feel like a mausoleum. You were the reason the coffee pot was always on, the reason there were daisies in a cracked vase on the windowsill. You were the bright, shining heart of the place, the thing that had kept the last embers of Charles’s hope from going out completely.

You, a mutant whose power was a rare and beautiful thing, had been a teacher here. Your power was energy, pure and simple. You could manipulate light and warmth, channeling the sun’s rays, or even your own inner vitality, to heal, to soothe, to comfort, and to protect. When you smiled, the room actually seemed to get a little brighter. When you were near, the cold that had taken root in his bones during the long, bleak future he came from began to thaw. You were like an antidepressant, but better. You were like a solar flare given human form, a source of constant, steady, reliable warmth.

Every morning, you’d be the first one awake, the first to greet the day. You’d move through the silent hallways like a ghost of joy, opening curtains, letting the light pour in. You’d sing in the shower, your voice echoing off the tiles, a sweet, pure sound that would reach his room and pull him from the tangle of his nightmares. It was the only alarm clock he needed. You’d make breakfast, always making sure there was enough for him, even if he swore he wasn't hungry. You’d set a place for him at the table, and if he was late, you’d wait, your patience a quiet, powerful force that made his chest ache with a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

And you had no idea who he was, what he was carrying. You just saw a grumpy, scarred stranger with a permanent scowl and eyes that had seen too much. And you treated him like he belonged.

Someday, he didn't know how, he hopes you'll hear his plea. Maybe in the new future he was trying to rebuild there'd be a place for you, he sure hoped so.

Someday, he hoped, even if he didn't know how, you'd bring your love to him.

“Logan, stop lurking!” you called out, snapping him out of his throughts, not even turning around, your voice light and teasing. “You’re making the shadows jealous. Come and eat. I made enough for a whole pack of wolverines.”

A simple joke. A simple thing. And it hit him right in the chest with the force of a freight train. No one called him a wolverine with such affection. No one had ever made a joke about his nature that wasn’t laced with fear or disgust. You didn’t see the monster. You saw the man, and you didn’t even seem to try.

You were making pancakes because you knew he was hungry. You always knew. You glanced up, catching him in the act of his quiet vigil, and a smile—that smile—bloomed across your face. It was like watching the sun break through the clouds after a storm. It illuminated everything. It illuminated him, chasing away the shadows that were a permanent part of his soul.

“You’re staring again, Logan,” you said, your voice a gentle, teasing lilt that was smoother than the batter you were mixing. “It’s impolite.”

He couldn’t help the low, rumbling chuckle that escaped him. It was a sound he hadn’t made in what felt like years. “Can’t help it, sunshine. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Flatterer.” you chided, but the smile on your face told him you didn’t mind one bit. You were a beacon of pure, unadulterated warmth. 

He shoved off the doorframe, walking into the kitchen like a man approaching a campfire. It felt so warm, so safe. He felt the weight of his adamantium-laced bones, the centuries of pain, the decades of fighting. He was a man forged in battle, a creature of instinct and survival. He was a black hole of trauma. And you were a sun, radiating light and warmth, completely unaware of the celestial body you were pulling into your orbit.

Every night he'd spent in this precious pocket of a time before, he hoped and prayed that you would come his way in the future. A girl to hold in his arms, and further learn the magic of your charms.

You slid a plate piled high with pancakes across the island counter, the syrupy scent filling his senses. He sat on a stool, watching you as you turned back to the stove, flipping another pancake with a flourish. You were so alive. Every movement was an expression of vitality. You were happy to be alive, to be cooking, to be here. It wasn’t a forced cheerfulness; it was a natural state of being. It was as if the light was not something you absorbed, but something you radiated from a core of pure, unquenchable fire.

Yes, he wanted a girl to call his own. He wanted a dream lover, so he wouldn't have to dream alone.

“Charles is having a rough morning,” you informed him, your voice softer now, laced with a gentle concern. “He’s in the library, he’ll come out when he’s ready. He said to tell you that your ‘genius plan’ is just as crazy today as it was yesterday.”

Logan grunted, a flicker of something akin to respect for Charles’s stubbornness. He forked a piece of pancake into his mouth. It was perfect. Fluffy, sweet, and warm. It tasted like something he hadn’t realized he was hungry for. Not just food, but this. This feeling of simple, domestic peace.

He watched you as you poured yourself a cup of coffee, leaning against the counter opposite him. Your smile was effortless, and it was directed at him. He felt like a man who had been lost in a blizzard for a century, suddenly stumbling into a warm, safe cabin. He’d been so frozen for so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like to feel the heat.

Oh, dream lover. Where are you? Where were you in his future, that he had never met you in the grey landscape he came from? With your love, oh, so true, and a hand that he could hold?

“You’re staring.” you snapped him out again, a playful glint in your eyes.

“Just trying to figure you out,” he hummed, his voice a low husk. “How can you be so… happy? All the time?”

Your smile softened, becoming something more reflective. “I’m not happy all the time, Logan. That would be exhausting. But I can’t afford to not be bright. The world is a heavy place. It’s a lot of dark. The kids that used to live here, Charles, Hank… they all need a little light. A little hope.”

“And you just… give it away? For free?”

“Why would I charge?” you asked, genuinely baffled. “That’s what it’s for. To be shared. To be given. What’s the point of having it if you just keep it for yourself?”

It was such a simple concept, so profound in its innocence, that it left him speechless. He was a man who had taken for survival. He had hoarded his anger, his pain, his strength. He never gave anything away. He barely had anything left to give. But you gave everything, freely and without hesitation. You were like a wellspring of hope, and he had been wandering through a desert. He was parched, and he had finally found an oasis.

He wanted to drink you in. He wanted to be the one who got to orbit your warmth. He looked down at his plate, the pancakes a testament to your kindness, and he felt something inside of him unclench. The knot of tension he’d carried in his gut for as long as he could remember loosened just a fraction.

Later that afternoon, he found you in the old library, a book open on your lap. Dust motes danced in the shafts of late afternoon sunlight that slanted through the tall windows. The scent of old paper and polished wood was a comforting, familiar perfume. You were curled up in a large armchair by the window, the fading light painting you in gold.

He stood in the doorway, watching you. He had spent the rest of the day wandering the mansion, learning its nooks and crannies, trying to find a way to reconcile the ghost of its future with its vibrant, hopeful present. But he kept gravitating back to wherever you were. He was like a compass needle, and you were magnetic north.

“You’re lurking again, Logan.” you hummed, without looking up from your book. “It’s a habit, isn’t it?”

He grunted, stepping into the room. “This place is quiet. A man can think.”

You looked up then, your eyes meeting his. And for a moment, the world seemed to stop. There was a gentle curiosity in your gaze, a lack of judgment that was unnerving and intoxicating all at once. “You seem like a man who does a lot of thinking. And not a lot of talking about it.”

“More’s the pity for anyone who’d have to listen.” he sighed, settling onto the ottoman near your chair. He was closer now. He could see the flecks of gold in your eyes, the gentle curve of your smile.

“Oh, I don’t know.” you said, closing your book and giving him your full attention. “I’m a pretty good listener. Better than our telepathic friend, I might boast. He always knows what you’re going to say before you say it. There’s no mystery.”

“Mystery’s overrated.” he muttered, though he didn’t believe it. You were a mystery. You were the most profound mystery he had ever encountered. A woman who could look at him, see all the scars, all the violence, all the broken pieces, and not flinch. A woman who saw him and didn’t want to fix him, but just wanted to share the sunshine.

In that moment, he knew what the future held for him. He knew that if he failed, he would come back to a version of this world that didn’t have you. He would be going back to a future without this bright, beautiful sun. He would be returning to a universe where he would never know the feeling of your hand in his, the sound of your laugh, the taste of your pancakes.

A profound, crushing grief washed over him. It was a pain that dwarfed all the physical agony of his past. It was the pain of knowing he had found his home, his anchor, his sun, and that it was just a dream. A beautiful, impossible dream.

Unless..

Some way, he didn't know how, he brought his love to you.

And so he looked at you, seeing the future he could have.

He was living in that someday. He had found the girl to call his own. You were here, in his arms, in this one moment in time. But it was a borrowed moment. If he wanted you with him, he was going to have to work for it.

But just for a moment, here right now, in the past, he allowed himself to believe in the dream. To hold it close. To let you be his dream lover, just until the dawn.

pre vought, solo work ( 18-19 )

during vought, the seven ( 20-29 )

early post vought, after relocation, patrol work ( 30-35 )

retirement, recruitment by Butcher ( 47 )