#lokinks fluff

By the time they reached the corridor outside the library, they weren’t alone. Bobby had joined them, his nose twitching like a bloodhound.

“This isn’t just a normal cooking,” he said gravely. “This is... transcendent.”

It didn’t take long for word to spread.

Kurt teleported in with a bamf, looked around wide-eyed, and said, “Is there… stew?”

By the time the smell reached Charles’s study, there was a full-on parade down the hallway, people following their noses with desperate, wide-eyed hunger and mild betrayal.

“Who’s cooking and why haven’t we been invited?” Jubilee whined as they turned the final corner toward the source.

Storm joined in with a regal sniff. “That’s not just stew. That’s been slow-cooked. For hours.”

“Where’s Logan and Lumen?” Scott asked suspiciously.

“Probably smooching in their bed, forget them! Let's go to the kitchen before the food are gone.” Bobby ran to the stairs.

—-----

“I still don’t understand how you make it so good,” you said, arms crossed, hip leaning against the counter, watching Logan chop onions. “Same ingredients. Same steps. Mine tastes like a sad cafeteria lunch. Yours tastes like a holiday.”

Logan didn’t look up. “’Cause you baby it too much.”

“Excuse me?”

“You stir it too often. Pot roast ain’t needy. You let it sit, let the flavors marry. That’s what Ma used to say.”

You gave him a look. “Your mother taught you this?”

A gruff nod.

“She also used to whack me with a wooden spoon if I didn’t clean as I cooked. So if you’re gonna hover, hand me that towel.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed it at him, only for him to snatch it mid-air with mutant reflexes and smug flair. The kitchen smelled heavenly already—sautéed garlic, caramelized onions, beef browning in a heavy cast iron pot. The kind of smell that felt like home and made your stomach growl two hours before it was appropriate.

“No wine, right?” you asked, leaning in to peek at the counter.

“Nope. She never used it,” Logan muttered as he reached for the beef broth. “Didn’t like the taste of it in food. Said it made everything taste woozy afterwards.”

You snorted. “So what’s the secret, then?”

He tilted his head. “Brown sugar. Just a touch. With Worcestershire, tomato paste, and a little mustard powder. Gives it tang. But only if you do it in the right order.”

You squinted at the spice line-up. “This sounds made up.”

“Think I’d lie about roast?”

“Yes.”

He smirked. “That’s fair.”

You moved closer, brushing against his arm as you handed him a the mustard powder. “Teach me, then. Properly.”

So he did. With gruff instructions, calloused hands that were surprisingly gentle when he helped you press the garlic, and quiet little hums as he threw in a bay leaf like it was some kind of sacred ritual. The house began to fill with the low, warm smell of broth bubbling and meat melting into tenderness.

“You know,” he said after a beat, lowering the heat on the stove, “I never used to cook this for anyone.”

You blinked. “Not even for the others?”

“Hell no. You think I’d waste Ma’s roast on Beast who live on Cheetos?”

You laughed too loud at that. “That’s so mean.”

“Not if it’s true,” he muttered.

—----

“Back up—back up,” Logan growled, elbowing Bobby away from the stove. “It’s hot. You touch the lid again and you’re losing a finger.”

“I was just—” Bobby held his hands up like he’d been caught in the middle of a crime scene. “I wasn’t gonna touch it. I was just… appreciating the aroma.”

“You were hovering like a damn vulture.”

“Because you’re hoarding heaven in a pot,” Jubilee said, half-sitting on the counter, her eyes shining as steam curled from the dutch oven.

You sipped your tea in the corner and bit your lip to keep from laughing. “We’ve reached DEFCON 1, Logan. You might need to start dishing it out before they start sharpening forks.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "Should’ve cooked this in the woods."

But he didn’t stop. He ladled the thick roast—beef so tender it barely held together, nestled in rich gravy with potatoes, carrots, and caramelized onions—into bowls like a grumpy bartender pouring drinks after hours.

Jean entered next, holding a book in one hand, nose in the air. “Who lit the smell alarm?”

“My Ma’s roast,” Logan said dryly, handing a bowl to Ororo, who looked at him like he’d handed her a sacred relic.

Jean closed her book slowly. “You cooked?”

“Yes,” you said brightly. “And he didn’t kill anyone.”

“Yet,” Logan added.

Jean smirked and floated over. “Do you take compliments or just grunts and threats?”

“Depends on the day.”

Scott, peeking the stove near the coffee machine, raised an eyebrow. “He’s never cooked for us.”

“You’re not special,” Logan grunted, without missing a beat.

The room howled with laughter.

You stepped around the fridge to grab more napkins, only to turn back and see Logan scooping an extra-large helping into a bowl and sliding it toward you with the most casual, completely-not-a-softie move imaginable.

“For you,” he said.

You blinked. “That’s… that’s a double portion.”

“You helped.”

“I stirred one time.”

“And you didn’t cry when the onions hit.”

“Progress,” you said, smiling. “I’m growing.”

He gave a small grunt. “’Bout time.” But there was warmth in it. That rough-edged fondness he always tried to hide behind sarcasm and grumbling. He didn't look at you directly, just down into his bowl like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. You didn’t call him out on it. You just sat beside him, thigh brushing his, your bowl nestled in your hands.

Everyone had found a seat, either at the island or half-squatting on stools, or even sitting cross-legged on the floor like it was story time at mutant kindergarten. There was a moment of pure silence as they dug in.

Then came the chorus:

“Holy shit,” from Bobby.

“This is better than Thanksgiving,” muttered Kitty, already halfway through her carrots.

“I’d trade my entire comic book collection for this,” said Kurt reverently.

You leaned over to Logan. “You hearing this?”

He didn’t smile.

Not exactly.

But you saw it—barely there, tugging at the corner of his mouth like a well-earned secret.

“It’s just roast,” he said.

“Sure,” you whispered, bumping your shoulder into his. “And you’re just a grumpy janitor.”

He side-eyed you. “Don’t push it.”

You let yourself relax, soaking in the warmth of the food, the laughter, the sounds of your strange little found family gathered around a battered kitchen table. It felt like something carved out of a simpler time. Just… living.

Later, long after the roast was demolished, when most of the crowd had dispersed in food comas, Logan stayed behind, leaning against the counter with arms folded, watching the last curls of steam fade from the pot.

You crossed to him and nudged his hip with yours.

“You fed the entire mansion today,” you said softly.

He grunted. “Didn’t mean to. I was cooking it for us two only.”

“You did it anyway.”

He glanced at you, then down at his hands. “Ma always said food’s how you tell people you give a damn. Didn’t think I’d end up doin’ it for… this many people.”

“You made everyone feel at home.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there. You could feel it—the weight in his chest, heavy and quiet. You didn’t press. You just slid your fingers between his and gave a squeeze.

After a long pause, he murmured, “Next time… I’ll teach you how to make her biscuits.”

You smiled.

“And her chocolate fudge,” he added. “If you’re brave enough.”

“Oh, I’m brave, with my personal chef now.. i think i can make bubble sugar.” you said, grinning as you leaned into him.

The morning light creeps across the windows in soft golden streaks, slanting over the hardwood floors and the faded blue quilt tangled at the foot of the bed. You stir only slightly at first — one arm tucked under the pillow, the other loosely draped over the broad chest beside you.

Logan hasn’t moved.

He’s already awake. Has been for a while, judging by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the familiar way his thumb absently strokes your arm. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. That’s the quiet you’ve learned to love most — the kind that doesn’t demand anything from either of you.

You hum lightly and stretch, half on top of him, eyes still closed. Your voice is raspy with sleep.

“You’re still here.”

His chest rumbles beneath you, half amusement, half gravity. “Where the hell else would I be?”

You don’t answer. You just shift up and press your lips to his collarbone. He smells like cedar and flannel and the warmth of something constant.

Eventually, the moment breaks when Logan speaks again, voice low and unhurried.

“You snore, y’know.”

You lift your head slowly, squinting at him. “I do not.”

“Liar.”

You thump his chest and roll away dramatically, yanking the pillow with you.

“I liked you better when you were brooding silently.”

“You liked me best when I was makin’ pancakes yesterday morning and let you lick syrup off my thumb.”

You narrow your eyes and throw the pillow at his face. “That’s because you always ‘forget’ to put a shirt on when you cook.”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered, catching the pillow with ease and tugging you right back under his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Heat from the stove. Can’t risk overheating.”

“Mhm. Right. That must be why Rogue nearly choked on her coffee.”

“Kid should learn to keep her eyes in her damn head.”

You laugh against his shoulder, the sound unguarded. And God, it still feels so new sometimes — this version of you who laughs easily. Who sleeps beside someone without one foot half-out the metaphorical door.

Logan’s fingers trail lazily along your spine, drawing nonsense shapes. “You got plans today?”

“Not if I stay like this.”

“You’re not gonna help Ororo in the greenhouse?”

“Nope....hmmm.”

“Not gonna assist Kurt with the meditation class?”

You lift your head again, serious this time. “Not unless you want me to accidentally trap a bunch of teenage mutants inside a forcefield when I fall asleep upright.”

Logan huffs another quiet laugh. “Fair point.”

He doesn’t argue when you settle back into his arms. Doesn’t make jokes when you sigh and close your eyes again like it’s the safest place you’ve ever known.

Because it is.

The mansion might still bustle. There might still be Danger Room drills and emergency meetings and young students knocking at the door needing help, guidance, hope.

But right now, in this moment?

There’s just you and Logan.

And the sun, and the stillness, and the quiet kind of love that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud to be felt.

You must’ve drifted off again.

Because when you open your eyes, the light is higher on the wall, and Logan’s no longer beside you. His warmth lingers in the sheets, and there’s the faint sound of something clattering down the hallway — the telltale weight of his boots pacing the kitchen, slow and steady.

You stretch with a low groan, drag yourself up, and shuffle to the doorway still wrapped in the quilt like a makeshift cape. It trails behind you, softening your steps. You blink blearily toward the kitchen, and sure enough — there he is.

Logan’s shirtless, of course. Plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips, one hand gripping a pan handle, the other expertly flipping eggs like he’s been doing it for a hundred years. Because he has. His hair’s still wild from sleep, sticking up in a way that says he’s too stubborn to run a comb through it. And the best part?

He’s muttering under his breath.

You hover by the door, arms crossed, smirking as you listen.

“Damn thing keeps stickin’... should’ve used butter. No, Lumen insisted on olive oil ‘cause it’s ‘healthier’—and now look at this mess—”

“I heard that,” you call sweetly.

Logan startles only slightly — enough to glare over his shoulder. “You were snorin’. Thought I had at least ten more minutes before the sass kicked in.”

You glide into the kitchen, barefoot and smug, snagging a piece of toast from the plate beside him. “You keep saying I snore. I don’t. You hallucinate in the mornings.”

“You keep sayin’ that like it makes it true.”

He eyes the toast in your hand but doesn’t stop you. Instead, he slides eggs onto a second plate and grabs a fork. You settle at the small table, pulling your knees up into the chair while still swaddled in your blanket cocoon.

“I dreamt about you,” you mumble between bites.

That gets his attention.

Logan pauses, brows lifting slightly as he leans against the counter. “Yeah?”

You shrug, suddenly shy. “It was dumb. You were yelling at a raccoon. Said it looked at me the wrong way.”

“…Was it?”

“Was it what?”

“Was it lookin’ at you funny?”

You roll your eyes. “It was a dream.”

He makes a vague grumbling sound, sits beside you, and steals half your toast like he owns it. You let him. It’s a silent agreement by now — you steal his hoodies; he steals your breakfast.

You finish eating in easy silence. A few sleepy students shuffle past the kitchen doorway, one of them waving. Logan grunts something that might be “morning,” and you raise your coffee mug in salute.

The quiet returns. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just... calm.

Then Logan leans back, arms crossed behind his head, eyes on you.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I used to think I’d never have this.”

“This?” you echo.

He nods toward the messy counter, the shared plate, the way your feet are curled under the chair but pressed lightly against his leg. “This. Mornings. Blankets. Breakfast with my own wife, God. I can't still believe this.”

You smile slowly. “You’re getting soft.”

“No,” he deadpans. “I’m gettin’ comfortable. There’s a difference.”

You reach across the table and trace a lazy line down the back of his hand. “I like you comfortable.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just threads his fingers through yours and holds on — firm and steady. Like the world isn’t on fire outside these walls. Like, for once, you both get to be normal.

Maybe this isn’t the kind of life either of you thought you’d have — not with the pasts you carry. But it’s real. It’s earned. And it’s yours.

Even on mornings like this, when he’s grumpy and your hair’s a mess and the toast are slightly burned.

Especially on mornings like this.

Series masterlist

Xavier’s Mansion – shared kitchen, 11:00 PM

Logan stood in front of the open fridge, staring like it had just personally betrayed him.

“Where the hell is my steak?”

From the doorway, you didn’t flinch. You leaned casually on the dining chair, hair up in a loose bun wearing pyjamas, holding a book like you were halfway through a Victorian murder mystery and not the actual suspect in this one.

“Define ‘your’ steak,” you said, flipping a page.

He shut the fridge door slowly, menacingly. “The one I put in the back. In foil. Had my initials on it.”

“You mean the one that said 'L.H. – DO NOT TOUCH' like some post-apocalyptic warning label?”

“That one.”

You blinked. “Huh. Weird. I thought the H stood for ‘Help Yourself.’ So I did.”

Logan stared at you. His eye twitched. “You ate it?”

“I salvaged it. From rotting in the fridge. You’re welcome.”

“It was in there for less than 24 hours.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I have enhanced senses!”

“And I have hunger and zero regrets.”

He walked toward you slowly, like you are a deer he intended to wrestle to the ground. You held your ground, casually put the book away on the table. “Wasn’t even that rare,” you said thoughtfully.

He stopped in front of you. Close. Dangerous close.

“That was a perfect medium rare and you know it.”

You smiled. “I pan-seared it again.”

Logan’s entire soul left his body.

“You reheated it?”

“Yup.”

“In a pan?”

“Cast iron.”

“Without oil?”

“…Butter?”

He groaned and turned around like he physically couldn’t look at you. “You’re a menace.”

“You dated me knowing I was a leftover thief, Logan.”

He spun back to you. “You’re a food criminal. There are rules in this house.”

“I didn’t see a labelled legal code in the fridge, officer.”

“There’s a system! You see foil with my initials, you back the hell off!”

“You see a full moon and a low blood sugar situation? You don’t get in my way.”

“Oh, so now we’re blaming the moon?”

“...Would you prefer I said PMS? Shark week?”

He stared at you.

You stared back, unbothered.

“…This is war,” he muttered.

“It was dinner.”

“I’m gonna start hiding food in the ceiling tiles.”

You shrugged. “I’ll find it. I’ve got Charles’s mental map of the house and zero shame.”

He stepped in again, this time chest nearly brushing yours. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You tilted your head, all mock innocence. “Oh, now I’m cute?”

“When you’re not actively destroying everything I love? Yeah.”

“You love steak more than me?”

“Depends how it’s cooked.”

You punched his arm.

He grinned.

"That’s cute, sweetie," Logan muttered again, jabbing the fridge shut like it owed him reparations.

You shrugged. “You’ve said that three times now. Getting kinda repetitive, grumpy.”

“Grumpy?” He turned with a mock-scandalized look. “I’m not grumpy. I’m betrayed.”

“You’re dramatic. I ate a piece of meat. You didn’t lose a limb.”

“That steak was my limb.”

You blinked at him. “Did you just... emotionally personify your dinner?”

“I hunted it down myself!”

“You ordered it from DoorDash.”

“Same thing.”

“No it’s not.”

Logan ran a hand down his face and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I should’ve dated someone with a moral compass.”

“Too late, bub,” You said sweetly. “You already shacked up with the kitchen cryptid.”

He turned slowly. “You called yourself that like it’s something to be proud of.”

You smirked. “I haunt leftovers and I regret nothing.”

Before Logan could deliver a rebuttal worthy of war, the door swung open and in walked Ororo, wearing fuzzy socks, a silk robe, and a face that screamed I’ve dealt with enough today.

She stopped. Took in the scene.

“…Are you two fighting over steak again?”

“It was my steak,” Logan growled.

“It was unattended,” You countered.

Ororo held up both hands. “Nope. I’m not your therapist. I’m not your judge. I just want my lemon tea and five minutes of peace.”

She shuffled to the kettle, turned it on, and added, without turning, “If you two are going to fight, take it to the Danger Room. At least then I can bet on it.”

You leaned in toward Logan, stage-whispering, “She always bets on me.”

He didn’t even blink. “Because you cheat.”

“Because I win.”

“You bite.”

“You like it.”

He stared. “Not in combat!”

The kettle whistled. Ororo left with her tea and zero intention of dealing with either of them again.

Logan stood there, still reeling, hands on his hips like a man who’d just found out his retirement plan had been invested entirely in wet paper.

You, meanwhile, were unbothered. “If it makes you feel better, I paired it with the mashed potatoes in the second shelf Tupperware.”

He snapped his head around. “Those were Jean’s!”

“…Were.”

“Oh, you’re gonna start a house-wide incident.”

You shrugged, walking over to grab a water bottle. “If I’m going down, I’m going down on a full stomach.”

Logan groaned, eyes narrowed like he was calculating the exact velocity required to launch himself out the window in peace.

“Also,” you added casually, “I used the last of the Dijon mustard.”

There was a full five seconds of pure, soul-shattering silence.

“…You—what?”

You opened the cap, took a sip, and looked him dead in the eye. “It just… spoke to me. Like your steak did, probably.”

He looked skyward. “Charles, if you’re listening, tell Cerebro to add mustard theft to the threat level system.”

You grinned. “Oh, is this going in your next mission report? ‘Subject devoured protein-based asset and condiment support. Threat Level: Hangry.’”

“You think this is funny.”

“I think it’s delicious.”

Logan stalked toward you again, this time dramatically slow, like some old cowboy about to draw his claws at high noon. “I’m gonna start labelling things with blood. Maybe then you’ll get the message.”

You leaned against the counter, unshaken. “You think a little blood’s gonna stop me? I once ate half a burrito I found in the common room fridge. Do you know the kind of risk assessment that takes?”

“I do, actually,” he muttered darkly, “I had to carry you to the medbay after that.”

You lifted your water bottle like a toast. “And yet I live, stronger and wiser. Like a battle-hardened raccoon.”

Logan threw his hands up. “You’re unhinged!”

“You’re in love with me.”

He paused. Stared. “That’s not the point.”

You smirked. “Oh, but it is.”

Right on cue, Scott passed by the kitchen, holding a protein shake and already tired of existing.

“…Do I want to know?”

Logan pointed aggressively. “She ate my steak.”

Scott didn’t even break stride. “You left it in the fridge. That’s on you.”

You turned to Logan, smug. “See? X-Men fridge law. It’s the jungle in there.”

Scott kept walking, calling over his shoulder, “Also, if you touch my protein powder, I will file an incident report.”

You raised your water bottle again. “I respect boundaries.”

Logan crossed his arms. “No you don’t.”

You leaned into him with a little grin. “No, I respect Scott’s boundaries. Yours are like mildly worded suggestions.”

His jaw ticked. “One of these days—”

“You’re gonna kiss me so hard you forget the steak ever existed?”

He blinked. “I was gonna say lock the fridge.”

You snorted. “You tried that once. I picked it.”

“I welded it shut.”

“I melted the hinges with my powers and took a selfie.”

“YOU POSTED THAT TO INSTAGRAM.”

You grinned like a gremlin. “Got 500 likes.”

“I want to be mad,” Logan muttered, dragging a hand down his face again, “but honestly… it was kinda badass.”

You nudged his side with your elbow. “You’re soft for me.”

“I’m suffering because of you.”

“You’re smiling.”

“That’s because I’m imagining throwing you out the window.”

You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “You’d miss me before I even hit the grass.”

He grumbled something unintelligible but didn’t step away.

From the hallway came Hank’s voice: “If you two are done flirting through felony, can someone please tell me where all the mashed potatoes went on lunch earlier?”

Logan just pointed at you wordlessly.

You raised your hand. “Guilty.”

A beat of silence.

“…Did you at least pair it with something?”

The toaster was smoking.

Bobby was hiding behind the fridge.

Ororo was sipping her coffee in the corner like she’d already washed her hands of this whole situation.

Logan walked in, stopped, and just… stared.

That’s when you noticed him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, brandishing the spatula toward him.

“I’m deciding if you’re worth the paperwork,” he said flatly.

“Paperwork?” you echoed.

“Yeah. You set the place on fire, I gotta fill out three separate incident reports for Chuck. And he writes in that tiny professor handwriting. Gives me a headache just thinkin’ about it.”

Bobby piped up from behind the fridge. “It’s not on fire! … Yet.”

“Shut up, Ice Cube,” you shot back, then sprayed something into the toaster like you had any idea what you were doing. It hissed ominously.

Logan’s eyebrow twitched. “What the hell are you even—”

“Toast,” you said, as if that explained everything. “I was hungry. The toaster broke. I was fixing it.”

“You were electrocuting yourself in the name of breakfast?”

“Yes. That’s called commitment.”

“Uh-huh.” Logan stepped forward, grabbed the plug, yanked it out of the wall, and slung the whole toaster into the sink like it was a ticking bomb. “There. Crisis averted.”

You frowned. “That’s not fixing it.”

“That’s called preventing me from explaining to Chuck why you fried yourself like bacon.”

“Speaking of bacon—” You hopped down from the counter. “I was making some. But then Bobby froze it on accident.”

Bobby leaned out from the fridge. “I was trying to help! It was burning!”

“It was cooking, Snow Cone.”

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath about “idiots” and “needing a beer in morning.”

As you moved toward the stove, he caught your wrist. “Where you goin’?”

“Making another breakfast.”

“You’re gonna sit your ass down before you blow up the whole school.”

“But—”

“Nope.” He shoved a granola bar into your hand like that was a valid substitute. “Eat that. Less chance of me havin’ to talk to the fire department.”

You took a bite, glaring at him around a mouthful of oats. “You didn’t have to wait for me, y’know. I could’ve handled this myself.”

“Bub,” Logan said, dead serious, “leaving you alone in a kitchen is like leavin’ a lit candle next to a pool of gasoline. I’m not stupid.”

Ororo snorted into her coffee. Bobby tried to sneak out but Logan nailed him with a glare that sent him back to fridge exile.

You swallowed, then smirked. “So you were waiting for me.”

Not even a dangerous one. Not life-threatening. Just a late-night recon with Scott and Jubilee that ran longer than it should have. You didn’t come back until nearly 2 a.m., and Logan was waiting in the kitchen, arms crossed, scent tense, jaw tight.

“You couldn’t text?” he said the second you walked in.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“You didn’t answer. Not once.”

“I was in the field, Logan. I didn’t have my phone.”

He tossed the dish towel onto the counter. “You always have your phone.”

You bristled, brushing rain off your jacket. “And what, you assumed I died?”

“No,” he bit, then paused. “Yeah. Kinda.”

You sighed, peeling off the gloves. “I’m not some reckless rookie. You know I can handle myself.”

“That’s not the goddamn point.”

“Then what is?”

“You left,” he said—quiet, almost bitter. “You left and didn’t tell me anything. You were gone six hours longer than planned. No call. No comms. Nothing.”

“You don’t get to pull that card every time I’m not glued to your side,” you snapped, louder now. “I’m not some fragile thing that needs protecting.”

His eyes darkened. “Didn’t say you were.”

“Then stop acting like it.”

A thick silence settled between them, heavy with the weight of words neither had said yet.

Logan stepped forward, voice low and rough. “You don’t get it. You vanish—and I mean really vanish. No trace. No trail. You’ve done it before. You’re good at disappearing.”

You stilled.

That one cut deeper than it should’ve.

your voice was soft when you replied, “That was different.”

“Not to me.”

The air shifted. Softer now. Quieter. More dangerous in the way only truth could be.

“You think I’d walk out again?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Logan didn’t answer.

And that was worse than anything he could’ve said.

You stepped back like he’d struck you. “Wow.”

“Lumen—”

“No. No, it’s fine.” you grabbed the back of a chair to steady yourself. “You still think I’ve got one foot out the door.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you feel it.”

He looked away, jaw clenched. “I can’t help it.”

You swallowed thickly. “I’ve given you everything, Logan. Two years of trying to show you I’m here. That I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracked now, raw around the edges. “Because I’m exhausted trying to prove it to someone who never stops expecting me to leave.”

The room was silent again.

Logan stared at the floor, the old tile worn beneath his boots. He wanted to say something. Anything. But the words didn’t come. His throat felt tight. All those years of silence and grief had taught him how to bottle pain, not how to fix it.

You turned, heading for the hallway.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t chase.

Didn’t know how.

You didn’t sleep in your shared room that night.

You curled up in the guest lounge instead, arms around your knees, watching the moon bleed through half-closed blinds. Your chest ached, not with anger — but with heartbreak. The quiet kind.

You weren't used to this. Not with him.

You thought they'd moved past this part.

But some ghosts took longer to exorcise.

Next morning.

You hadn’t expected him to come find you.

But there he was. At the door. A coffee in one hand. 

He looked tired. Like he hadn’t slept either.

“I was wrong,” he said. No hesitation. Just raw honesty.

Your eyes flicked up, guarded.

“I panic when I don’t hear from you,” he continued. “That’s not your fault. That’s mine. And I’m sorry.”

You didn’t speak.

“I know you’re not going anywhere,” he added, voice rough. “I just… I still wake up thinking you will. And I hate that part of me. I’m trying to kill it. It’s just… slow going.”

You stared at him for a long time.

Then, quietly you said, “I never wanted to make you feel like you weren’t enough.”

He stepped forward, coffee forgotten on the side table. “You didn’t. That’s me, too. My mess.”

You took a breath. Then another.

You folded into him like you always did—head tucked under his chin, hands fisting in his shirt.

He held you tighter than usual.

His voice is lower now. “I’m not used to this part.”

“What part?”

“Loving someone who stays.”

It hits you like a punch to the ribs — soft, but staggering.

You shift to face him too, folding the edge of the blanket between your fingers. “I don’t leave because I don’t want to,” you say. “Even when we fight. Even when it’s messy. You get that, right?”

Logan stares at you. That unreadable look he gets when his mind is sprinting but his mouth can’t catch up. 

“I’m trying to believe it.”

“What? That I love you?”

He shakes his head faintly. “That I deserve it.”

And there it is. The raw, unarmored truth of the man beneath the adamantium. The kind that doesn’t bleed, but bruises deep.

You reach for him, gently threading your fingers through his.

“Logan,” you whisper. “You’ve saved me more times than I can count. Sometimes from other people. Sometimes from myself. I don’t stay because I’m stubborn or out of options. I stay because you’re home.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard.

Then he pulls your entwined hands to his chest, right over his heart — holding them there like he’s afraid they might vanish if he lets go.

You shift closer, pressing your forehead to his.

His voice is hoarse when he says, “I don’t wanna be the reason you hurt.”

“You never are,” you murmur back. “Even when you’re scared. Even when you push. We are okay...I am still here.”

He exhales — a long, slow breath that feels like surrender.

Later, you end up curled on the couch together in the common room — him with a book he’s pretending to read, you with your legs in his lap. You already dozed off. There’s a blanket. A quiet fire. Bobby walks in at some point and stares, felt like intruding a private moment, before backing away with a muttered “never mind.”

Logan doesn’t even look up.

His thumb moves in slow, absent-minded circles on your calf. Protective. Constant. There.

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