#soft!logan

She had chosen this. To be unseen, forgotten, just another part of the mansion’s routine. It was a self-imposed punishment, one she had committed to ever since the accident. She didn’t deserve to be seen. She didn’t deserve to be acknowledged. She was here to help, to keep things in order, and nothing more.

Because being seen meant bringing people closer. And bringing people closer meant risking them getting hurt.

She couldn’t allow that. Not after what had happened before. Not after she had learned how much damage she could cause, even without meaning to.

So she kept to her routine, hidden in the night, cleaning up after the others when no one was looking. It was easier this way, safer. No one noticed the small things she did—the freshly cleaned kitchen, the swept hallways, the empty trash bins in the morning. That’s how it had always been, and that’s how it should remain.

But lately, there was something different in the air. A feeling she couldn’t quite shake.

Sometimes, when she entered a room, she could sense it. A lingering presence, a faint trace of something left behind, like someone had been there just before her. The scent of cigars, whiskey, and pinewood would cling to the space, subtle but undeniable. She told herself it didn’t matter, that it was just one of the mansion’s residents passing through. Nothing more.

And yet, each time she caught that scent, her heart would beat just a little faster, her mind wandering to places it had no business going.

For a while, she tried to ignore it—the subtle shifts in the rooms she worked so hard to maintain. Things were never exactly how she should have find them. Books were suddenly back on their shelves, chairs neatly tucked in, and papers that had been strewn about were organized, as if someone else had stepped in, doing part of her job for her.

At first, she thought it was just her mind playing tricks on her. After all, the mansion was old, and people often wandered in and out without her noticing. But the more it happened, the more it bothered her. She would arrive to clean a room only to find things already in order. She still had work to do—there was dust to sweep, floors to mop, wood to wax—but it was clear that someone had been there before her.

It felt… wrong.

This was her task, her duty. No one was supposed to take that from her. The nights were hers, the work was hers, and the silence was what she needed. Each sweep of the broom, each wipe of the cloth was part of her self-imposed penance—a way to atone for what she had done, for the hurt she had caused. She worked at night, alone and unseen, because that was the way it had to be.

But now, someone was interfering. Not out of malice, she was sure, but because they didn’t know. They had no idea that she was the one doing this, no idea that these small tasks were her way of keeping the weight of guilt from crushing her completely.

And the scent…

That familiar scent lingered in the rooms where things had been rearranged: cigars, whiskey, pinewood. It clung to the air, subtle but unmistakable, as if the person responsible had only just left before she arrived. It annoyed her more than she wanted to admit.

She wasn’t sure why it bothered her so much. Maybe it was because this was the only thing she had control over—her work, her routine, her self-punishment—and now it was slipping through her fingers. The idea that someone had unknowingly stepped into her world, cleaning up the messes she needed to fix, unsettled her in a way that made her chest tighten.

Whoever it was, they didn’t know. They couldn’t know.

But it left her feeling like a ghost, more invisible than ever, even in the one place she thought she had carved out for herself. The mansion’s halls remained unchanged, still filled with the distant hum of life that never quite reached her. And now, the only space she truly felt was hers was slowly being taken over by someone who didn’t even realize they were doing it.

And the worst part? There was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t stop them. She couldn’t tell them to leave it alone, because that would mean revealing herself, stepping into the light—and that was something she swore she would never do again.

The sky bled with the colors of dusk, deep oranges and purples melting into the horizon. It was the one indulgence she allowed herself—standing on the roof, watching the sun fade into darkness, her own personal ritual. Not for beauty, but for the weight of it. Sunsets reminded her of the things she’d lost, of promises she could never keep, and the pain she had sworn to carry. It was another way to remind herself of the wreckage she’d left behind, of a time that she had destroyed.

The light dimmed, shadows lengthening across the grounds below. From her perch, she could see the mansion in its entirety—the buildings, the gardens, the pathways winding through the estate. And there, on a worn bench under a large oak, sat a familiar figure. Logan. She froze, instinctively stepping back into the shadows, her heart thudding in her chest.

He wasn’t alone. Marie was beside him, speaking with quiet intensity, her hands moving with measured emphasis as she talked, her voice carrying faintly in the evening air. Logan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his head tilted slightly to the side as he listened. He wasn’t saying much, just nodding occasionally, offering a quiet word here and there. But his presence was steady, unshakable, like he was giving the young mutant all the time in the world.

From above, she watched, and despite herself, something twisted inside her. It was subtle, that ache, that yearning, but she couldn’t deny it. The way he listened to Marie, the way he was patient and calm—it was everything she had once craved and everything she had pushed away. Comfort, understanding, warmth. All the things she had decided she could never deserve again.

Her fingers tightened around the cold stone ledge, knuckles white. Logan was kind to Marie, gentle in a way she never allowed herself to imagine anyone could be with her. And it hit her harder than she wanted to admit—how much she longed for someone to listen to her, to be patient with her, to forgive her. But that wasn’t possible. She had made her choice, and it was for the best. No one could get close, not without risking everything.

And yet, as she watched him, that ache in her chest deepened. The way he sat with Marie, his quiet presence, the soft look in his eyes as he listened—it was a painful reminder of what she could never have. A connection. A moment of being seen, being understood.

But she had made her bed. She had chosen this exile, this self-inflicted punishment. She couldn’t allow herself to break that vow. She couldn’t risk getting close to someone like Logan. He was safe, and the safest thing for him was to stay far away from her.

Still, she couldn’t help but watch, even as it hurt.

She pulled herself back into the shadows, forcing her eyes away from the scene below. The night was creeping in now, swallowing the last traces of the sunset, and she let the darkness wrap around her, hiding her away once again. Hidden was where she belonged. In the shadows, unseen, forgotten.

And yet, as she turned to leave the roof, that image of Logan—calm, patient, listening—stayed with her, lingering in her mind like the last fading light of the sun.

The mansion had fallen into its usual stillness, the soft hum of distant voices fading as the night deepened. It had been days since she saw Logan from the roof, days spent trying to push away the lingering thoughts of how deeply he cared once he let someone in—how fiercely devoted he was to the few he allowed close. But something else gnawed at her now, more tangible than before, replacing Logan’s image in her mind. That scent—the one that clung to the rooms before she arrived, cigars, whiskey, pinewood—it had been creeping into her consciousness since the day she noticed it.

Now, as she swept through the kitchen, the familiar motions of her work provided little comfort. The rooms had been touched again before she got there. Chairs were neatly tucked in, desks mostly cleared, as if someone had been there moments before, always one step ahead. The frustration had dulled to a low, simmering ache—part of her routine now, like the weight of the broom in her hands.

She didn’t mind the work. It wasn’t about the labor. But whoever was doing this was robbing her of her punishment. Without it, what was left? The empty echoes of guilt, untethered, spinning out of control.

A creak in the floorboards jolted her from her thoughts, and instinct took over. She melted into the shadows by the pantry, her body pressed tightly against the wall. It was second nature by now, the art of disappearing into the background.

Footsteps. Slow and purposeful.

Then, he appeared.

Logan.

His broad frame filled the doorway as he paused, eyes scanning the darkened room. The scent hit her immediately—cigars, whiskey, pinewood. It was unmistakable. And in that instant, everything clicked into place. Her breath caught in her throat as realization washed over her. It was him all along. The rooms, the careful touches before she got there—it had been him. Logan.

She pressed herself deeper into the shadows, heart pounding in her chest as Logan stood there, lingering just a few feet away. For a moment, he sniffed the air, his eyes roaming around the darkness, and she thought—no, hoped—he hadn’t noticed her. A brief smile flickered across his lips, so fast she could have imagined it. His expression softened, almost imperceptibly, before he crossed the room toward the refrigerator.

Her pulse raced as he moved closer. The scent surrounded her now, stronger, more vivid. It was intoxicating, and for a moment, she found herself holding her breath just to keep from inhaling too deeply. It was him all along.

Logan opened the fridge, its light illuminating his face for a few seconds as he pulled out a soda and a wrapped sandwich. He worked in silence, his movements calm and measured, but there was an ease about him—an assurance in the way he occupied the space that made her chest tighten. She watched from the shadows, muscles tense, every part of her screaming to stay hidden, to not make a sound.

He unscrewed the bottle with a soft hiss, took a long drink, then leaned casually against the counter. As he took a bite of his late night feast, his eyes swept the room again, scanning the shadows, the corners, but not lingering anywhere in particular. He didn’t see her. Or if he did, he wasn’t giving anything away.

The longer he stayed, the heavier the air felt. She shouldn’t be here. Not that close. It was too dangerous. Even as she was part of the shadows, there was a risk of him finding her out. But still, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear herself away from the way he moved through the space, the way he seemed so… comfortable.

Logan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, finishing off the last of his midnight snack. His fingers brushed the counter as he carefully swept away the crumbs, his attention never wavering as he moved in that quiet, efficient way of his. He tossed the sandwich wrapper into the trash with a quick flick, the glass bottle clinking softly as he placed it in the recycling bin. Everything was neat, orderly. Done without a second thought.

She could barely breathe.

Then, just as he was about to leave, Logan paused at the doorway again, his head turning toward something behind him. She could see his profile illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the windows. He lingered there, one hand on the frame, his eyes closing for a brief moment as if he was listening to something only he could hear.

She held her breath once more, her heart hammering in her chest, knowing he was only a few steps away. His scent hit her again, wrapping around her like the shadows she hid in. The same scent she’d noticed in those tidy rooms. Reminding her it had been him. It had always been him.

For the briefest of moments, another small, barely-there smile tugged at his lips. Or had it? It was so fleeting that she couldn’t be sure if she’d imagined it once more.

Then he opened his eyes, turned away, and continued on, his bare feet thudding softly against the wooden floor as he made his way toward the stairs leading up to his room. She didn’t move until the sound of his footsteps faded completely.

It was only when she was certain he was gone that she finally let out the breath she’d been holding, her chest heaving as if she’d been underwater. She stepped out of the shadows, her legs shaky, her mind spinning with the weight of the realization.

Logan.

He had been the one. All this time.

But why?

She stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where he had stood, her heart still racing. The thought of him doing something for her was unthinkable. No. Of course not. It wasn’t for her. How could he have known? No one knew.

He doesn’t know. She told herself that over and over. But the scent of him lingered in the air, a reminder she couldn’t shake.

The next night, her routine began as it always did, but the night felt heavier than usual. The mansion was quiet, a silence hanging in the air that pressed down on her chest. She moved through the kitchen like clockwork, her hands performing the familiar tasks, but her mind was elsewhere, consumed by what she had realized the night before.

His scent lingered again—Logan's scent. Cigars, whiskey, pinewood. It filled the room, clinging to the air, wrapping around her with every step she took.

It had been him all along. He had been the one tidying up before she arrived, sweeping through the spaces like a ghost. Every night, just a step ahead, leaving his mark in ways that were impossible to ignore now that she knew.

Why? Why was Logan doing this?

Did he know?

Had he seen her?

No. He couldn’t have.

Could he?

The questions came faster, tangled and chaotic, driving into her mind like needles. A sudden frustration flared in her chest, hot and sharp. She grabbed the rag, scrubbing the counter harder, harder still, as if she could erase the thought of him entirely.

And why did it have to be him?

Why did she care so much?

Her hand slipped, skin scraping painfully along the edge of the counter. The sting hit immediately, sharp and raw, but instead of pulling back, she pressed harder, letting the pain anchor her, letting it bring her the twisted sense of relief she craved.

It’s okay…

The voice came softly, like a breath against her ear, but it wasn’t hers.

It was his.

Logan’s.

It’s okay, his voice whispered again, calm, soothing. You’ve done enough. You’re allowed to let go. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.

Her breath hitched, her heart pounding as the words sank in, seeping into the cracks she’d tried so hard to keep sealed.

No.

She shook her head, gripping the rag tighter, the rough fabric biting into her palm. But Logan’s voice was relentless, slipping past her defenses.

You deserve a break, his voice whispered. You’ve been carrying this weight for too long. It’s okay to rest.

Her chest tightened, a sharp ache spreading through her ribs. His voice was so gentle, so real. It felt like he was standing right behind her, his presence wrapping around her like the scent that clung to the air.

She wanted to push it away, wanted to reject it, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t stop listening.

You did good. You’ve done enough.

No.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, her throat tightening as the words wound their way deeper into her, pulling at something fragile and broken. His voice felt like salvation, offering her something she hadn’t dared think about for so long.

You don’t have to feel the guilt anymore. You’re allowed to let go.

The rag slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor with a soft thud as she braced herself against the counter, her legs trembling. She could almost feel it—the relief, the release, the burden lifting from her shoulders, just for a moment.

It was intoxicating.

You did good.

No, no, no.

A sob caught in her throat, her body shaking as the truth of those words crashed into her. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to sink into that comfort, to let the guilt and the shame slip away, even for just a second.

But she couldn’t.

She didn’t deserve it.

The ache in her chest deepened, a twisting, suffocating pressure that made it hard to breathe. Logan’s voice was still there, whispering, coaxing, telling her that it was okay, that she was allowed to take a break, that she deserved it.

But if she let herself believe that—if she allowed herself even a moment of relief—then what was the point of all of this? What was the point of the guilt, the endless cycle of penance, the constant weight pressing down on her soul?

She needed it. The guilt. The shame. Without it, she’d be nothing. She’d be… free.

And she couldn’t afford that.

Not again. Not after what she’d done.

Logan’s voice grew softer, still there, still pulling at her, but she forced herself to breathe, forced herself to remember.

This was her punishment.

Her penance.

And she couldn’t let herself forget.

I can’t… The words came out broken, barely a whisper, as her hands trembled against the counter.

She pressed her forehead to the cool surface, eyes shut tight as the tears slipped free. The guilt burned through her chest, hot and unforgiving, reminding her that she couldn’t let go, not yet. Not ever.

The weight settled back over her like a familiar shroud, heavy but grounding. She’d won. For now.

But then… something moved.

Just at the edge of her vision, a shadow flickered in the corner of the room. She froze, breath catching in her throat, her body tensing as a cold wave of fear rolled over her.

Had he…?

No.

It was nothing. Just her mind playing tricks on her.

She forced herself to move, forcing the fear away, but the lingering presence of Logan’s scent wrapped around her still, thick and inescapable.

She wasn’t sure if the shadow was real or not, but it didn’t matter. The feeling of being watched, of someone being closer than she realized, stayed with her.

Logan wasn’t here.

She was alone.

But the echo of his voice, the scent of him in the air, remained. Like a ghost, haunting her with the thought of what she could have—if only she were allowed.

But she wasn’t.

And she couldn’t let herself forget that.

The past few nights had been easier. Logan was gone. His scent—the intoxicating mix of cigars, whiskey, and pinewood—had faded from the mansion’s halls, leaving the air feeling lighter. Without him there to tidy the rooms before her, her work became just that: work. Routine. Nothing more. There was no distraction, no lingering thoughts of him creeping into her mind.

Tonight, she cleaned with precision, moving through the infirmary quickly. The sterile smell of antiseptics and medical supplies filled her nose as she wiped down the counters, scrubbed the floors, and organized the equipment. It was just like before—simple, methodical. A rare, fragile sense of peace had settled over her. But even as she worked, a small knot of unease twisted in her chest, as if the quiet wouldn’t last.

Then, from the hallway, the voices came.

She froze, her ears straining toward the sound that reverberated through the walls. The X-Men had returned.

Laughter and groans echoed from the nearby changing rooms, the sounds of victory and exhaustion blending together. She should have kept moving, stayed hidden in the shadows like always, but something held her there.

A mess.

Scott had made a mess. His uniform and gear were scattered across the benches in the changing room, and she heard Logan’s voice, sharp and full of irritation, rise above the others.

The words bounced off the metallic walls, vibrating with an intensity that stopped her cold. "Summers, what the hell is this?" Logan’s voice was rough, echoing through the narrow basement halls, carrying with it that familiar, grounding weight. "You think things clean themselves around here?"

Her heart skipped a beat. She took a step back, pressing herself against the cold, unforgiving wall, the chill seeping into her skin.

"She’s not your damn maid," Logan’s voice thundered again. "Just because you don’t see her doesn’t mean she’s not here. She cleans this place every night. You owe her some goddamn respect."

She felt her breath hitch, every muscle in her body locking in place as the weight of his words crashed over her.

He knows.

Logan knew. He knew about the work she did, about the hours she spent cleaning in silence. And he’d kept the rooms tidy… for her.

Before she could even think to move, she heard Logan again. This time, it wasn’t just his voice. His footsteps echoed through the locker room, and suddenly, as if drawn by some invisible force, he paused.

His nostrils flared.

His head tilted ever so slightly.

And then he turned, sharp and precise, his eyes locking onto hers in an instant.

Her heart skipped a beat. No. No. He couldn’t see her.

But he did.

Time slowed. The world fell away as her eyes met his, and a deep flush spread across her cheeks, hot and overwhelming. The shame, the embarrassment—it hit her all at once, suffocating.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. But she had to get out.

Without a word, she melted into the shadows, pulling herself into the safety of darkness. She moved fast, her heart pounding in her ears as she navigated the winding hallways, desperate to escape before Logan could say anything, before he could confront her.

But Logan was on her heels.

She could hear him. His footsteps, light but deliberate, echoed through the halls. He was following her, and panic flared in her chest. She pushed herself harder, faster, willing herself to disappear, to melt into the night and escape the weight of his gaze.

She slipped through the mansion, her breath coming in ragged gasps, until she reached her room. Her hands trembled as she threw open the door, closed it, and sank to the floor, her back pressed against the wood and her knees pulled tight to her chest.

But it was too late.

Logan was there. Right behind her. His scent, that mix of cigars, whiskey, and pinewood, filled the air again, just as it had the last time. She could feel him on the other side of the door, close enough that his presence was unmistakable, even without seeing him.

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, Logan spoke, his voice gruff but softer now, still carrying the weight of everything unsaid. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She pressed her palms against the floor, the cold seeping into her skin, steadying her. But she couldn’t bring herself to speak. The words stuck in her throat, too tangled in confusion and embarrassment.

Logan sighed, and she heard the faintest sound of him shifting his weight outside the door. “You do too much around here. I see you. Even if no one else does.”

The words hung heavy in the air between them, cutting through the silence like a blade. Her breath hitched, and she closed her eyes, willing herself not to feel the ache his words stirred in her. It was too much. Too raw.

“I’m not doing this for attention,” she finally whispered, barely audible through the door. “I don’t want to be seen.”

Logan’s voice rumbled softly in response, steady, unyielding. “You don’t have to hide. Not from me.”

She shook her head, though she knew he couldn’t see it. “I don’t… I don’t deserve to be seen.”

There was a long pause, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, Logan’s voice came again, quieter this time. “That’s not true. You deserve better than this. Better than hiding.”

Tears burned at the back of her eyes, but she fought them away, pressing her palms harder against the floor as if the cool surface could ground her, keep her from falling apart. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

The images flashed before her eyes—her sister, the accident, the blood. The guilt that wrapped itself around her like a vice, choking out any hope of escape. She swallowed hard, her voice breaking as she whispered, “I deserve this.”

Logan’s scent enveloped her, not just grounding, but wrapping around her like a hug she didn’t ask for—a soothing presence that was both familiar and unnerving. It was too comforting, too gentle, and it made her chest tighten. She didn’t want comfort. She wasn’t worthy of it.

But his scent lingered, warm and persistent, easing the tension in her muscles despite herself.

His voice, deep and unrelenting, was right there, like a presence that could cut through the fog of her thoughts. “No one deserves to be forgotten. Least of all you.”

She shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks despite her best efforts to stop them. “You don’t understand.”

Logan’s voice softened, and she could hear the faintest trace of vulnerability in it. “I understand more than you think. You don’t have to punish yourself forever.”

Her heart clenched at his words, the raw sincerity in them cutting deeper than she expected. She clenched her fists, her body trembling as she struggled to hold back the overwhelming tide of emotions. “Please… I don’t want to talk about this.”

Logan didn’t press. For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, in a voice so gentle it nearly broke her, he said, “I’ll be here. If you ever want to step out into the light. If you ever need someone to see you.”

She couldn’t bring herself to respond, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a physical force.

He lingered there for a few seconds more, his presence unmistakable through the door, before she heard him sigh. “Take your time,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ll be around. I ain’t going anywhere.”

And then, slowly, reluctantly, she heard his footsteps retreating down the hall. The scent of him lingered, but the weight of his presence began to lift.

Only when his footsteps faded completely did she let herself crumble.

The nights after her conversation with Logan became a quiet whirlwind of emotions. His words, his acknowledgment—they weighed on her like a heavy blanket, both comforting and suffocating at once. She carried on with her routine, moving through the mansion as she always did, but Logan’s presence was everywhere. Even when she didn’t see him, his scent lingered in the air, a constant reminder that he was aware of her now. That he saw her.

It was wrong. It had to be wrong.

She didn’t deserve that.

But even as she told herself this, she couldn’t help but notice the subtle shifts. One night, while cleaning a classroom, something caught her eye. By the corner of one of the desks, a water bottle sat—unassuming, placed as if it had been forgotten. But it hadn’t.

As she approached, her heart sped up. Logan’s scent clung to the bottle like a ghost, wrapping around her, warm and steady. It felt like a hand on her shoulder, a silent gesture of support. She picked it up, fingers brushing over the smooth surface, and that’s when she noticed the paper wrapped around it. Right under the brand name, there was a small, hastily scribbled note.

Thank you.

Her breath hitched. She stared at the words, unable to process them for a moment.

The warmth from Logan’s presence swirled around her, settling deep in her chest. She shouldn’t feel this way. She shouldn’t feel seen, shouldn’t feel appreciated. The work she did was supposed to be penance, not something to be rewarded.

And yet, she held onto the bottle.

A part of her—small but undeniable—welcomed the warmth. She liked it. And that realization sent a jolt of guilt through her, twisting her stomach into knots. It was as if something in the back of her mind, something dark and cold, stirred at her discomfort. That feeling of shame began to grow, like a seed planted in her chest.

No. She didn’t deserve this. She never did.

The next night, there was another token. This time, it was a small cup of tea left on the window ledge of another room she was cleaning. The scent hit her immediately—strong and unmistakable. Cigars, whiskey, pinewood. The warmth of the tea soaked into her fingers as she picked up the cup, the steam swirling up in the cold night air. For a moment, it felt like he was there, his presence wrapping around her again, silent and steady.

It’s okay to feel seen, the thought whispered in her head, the voice unmistakably Logan’s.

Her heart clenched painfully. It wasn’t okay. How could it be okay? She wasn’t supposed to enjoy this. The tea, the note, the water bottle—these were signs of appreciation. Acknowledgment. But her job wasn’t to be acknowledged. She was supposed to stay hidden, to scrub away the mess, to atone in silence.

The warmth in her chest turned sour as guilt washed over her once again. Something in the back of her mind latched onto that feeling, feeding on it, amplifying the shame. She put the cup down quickly, her fingers trembling. The guilt was overwhelming now, making it hard to breathe.

She didn’t deserve this.

But that didn’t stop her from lingering. It didn’t stop her from savoring the warmth of his presence, even as the guilt gnawed at her insides. Every time she found another token—a small gesture, a simple acknowledgment—her emotions tangled in knots.

Each night, Logan’s scent filled the air again. It was like a hug she didn’t deserve but couldn’t help leaning into. She found herself craving it. And that terrified her.

The cycle continued: the appreciation, the warmth, the guilt, and the shame. Each night, she found herself more torn, more conflicted. The small voice in the back of her mind kept reminding her of the darkness she carried, the guilt that was hers to bear. She had to atone. She couldn’t let herself enjoy this. It wasn’t right.

And yet, she couldn’t stop.

Night after night, she found the small tokens of kindness left behind—Logan’s scent clinging to them like a whispered promise. A fresh bottle of water, another warm cup of tea left waiting on the counter, the steam curling faintly into the cold, empty air. Sometimes, a note would appear on the blackboard of a classroom, his handwriting rough, hurried, yet unmistakably his. And each time, as she stumbled upon these simple gestures, something inside her twisted and coiled, tightening until it was hard to breathe.

They should have been easy to brush aside, but they weren't. His presence lingered long after he was gone, like the faintest trace of warmth left in a room, and it gnawed at her. The intentions behind these small acts were too pure, too undeserved. The shame dug deeper into her bones with each passing day, a reminder of what she could never have. She couldn’t allow herself to want this—to want him.

She didn’t deserve him.

Then, one evening, something new appeared—a pebble. Small, smooth, still warm, like it had just been pulled from his pocket. It sat next to his offering, quiet and unassuming, yet it carried a weight she couldn’t explain. She picked it up, the warmth seeping into her palm, and for a brief moment, it was like he was standing beside her. But that warmth was a cruel trick. It only deepened the ache in her chest, the shame curdling in her gut.

A childhood memory flickered in her mind—stories of children leaving pebbles behind to find their way home. The realization hit her harder than she expected. You can find me if you want to. That was his message. The simplicity of it was devastating, and she hated how much it stirred something inside her.

The pebble should have been light—insignificant. But in her hand, it felt impossibly heavy, like it carried the weight of her guilt, her shame. Each night, another pebble appeared. Each one felt heavier than the last, though she knew they hadn’t changed. It wasn’t the pebbles. It was her. She didn’t leave them behind. She couldn’t. Instead, she placed them on her windowsill, stacking them carefully, night after night. She couldn’t get rid of them, couldn’t bring herself to throw them away. No matter how much she wanted to stay in the shadows, she couldn’t let go. Because deep down, some part of her wanted to give in.

Logan's persistence was a knife, cutting through the walls she’d built around herself. He was relentless, his kindness unwavering, and it only made the ache worse. She wanted to hide, to disappear into the shadows where she belonged, where she couldn’t hurt anyone else. It was the only way to protect him, to protect anyone. The shadows were where she was safe—safe to carry the weight of her guilt and shame, and safe to keep others from the danger she posed. She couldn’t be allowed to crawl out. But Logan refused to let her. His quiet, stubborn presence was a constant, pulling at her, even as she tried to bury herself in the darkness.

The flashes came more frequently now. The accident. The blood. The way everything had unraveled in an instant. The guilt of it had carved a hollow space inside her, one that she had filled with shadows and silence. She had hurt someone. She could never be forgiven for that. The weight of that truth was a burden she carried every day, every night. It was the punishment she had accepted, the one she deserved. But Logan—he kept pushing against it, against the darkness that had claimed her.

His scent lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of what she couldn’t allow herself to feel. Cigars. Whiskey. Pinewood. It wrapped around her like a ghost, stirring something deep within that she fought to suppress. It was a comfort she wasn’t allowed, a warmth that only made the cold inside her more unbearable. If she gave in, even for a moment, she knew she’d never be able to crawl back into the shadows again.

But the shadows were where she belonged. They were the only place where she could keep the world safe from her. If she stepped into the light, if she let Logan pull her out, everything would unravel. She would unravel. And the thought of that—of being exposed, of letting him see the broken parts of her—was more terrifying than the darkness itself.

The guilt twisted inside her, sharper with each pebble left behind. His kindness was both a lifeline and a curse, pulling her closer to something she couldn’t have. She didn’t deserve him. And yet, every night, the pebbles appeared, a silent plea that she couldn’t ignore, no matter how much she tried.

The pile on the windowsill grew, and with it, the weight on her chest. Each pebble felt like another nail in the coffin of her guilt, a burden that would crush her if she let it. She was losing herself to it, slipping further into the shadows with every passing night. But Logan—he wouldn’t let her go. He wouldn’t leave her to drown in the darkness, no matter how much she wanted him to.

And every night, the pebble was waiting.

The next few nights were suffocating.

It began with whispers, barely perceptible, like a trick of the mind. She dismissed them at first, blaming the silence of the empty mansion and her own exhaustion. But the whispers grew. Low, fragmented voices—like conversations she couldn’t quite catch, always just beyond the edge of her hearing. She would pause, trying to make sense of the sound, but every time she focused, they vanished.

The darkness around her started to feel… different. Shadows moved more freely, quicker, darting in the corners of her vision, gone before she could even turn her head. But she could feel them—cold, heavy, like they were watching her.

Waiting.

And then there were the gaps.

She’d find herself somewhere without remembering how she got there. Her hand would be mid-swipe with a rag, scrubbing down a counter or a desk, and she’d suddenly realize she hadn’t been paying attention. Minutes lost, wiped from her memory like they were never hers to keep.

The disorientation gnawed at her, dragging her thoughts into a muddled fog. She tried to tie herself to reality, to keep herself focused. But even when she was fully aware, the mansion itself felt warped.

Too quiet. Too empty. Like it was swallowing her whole.

She pressed on. She had to. It was her burden to carry. But the more she pushed, the more everything blurred together.

She was slipping.

The shadows were always there now, lurking in the corners, stretching longer than they should, moving when she wasn’t looking. She’d snap her head to the side, expecting to see something—anything—but there was only darkness. It wrapped itself around her like a second skin, thick and suffocating.

And the whispers… they followed her everywhere.

Sometimes, it sounded like her own voice, crawling out from the pit of her mind. Other times, it was nothing more than fragments, taunts she couldn’t ignore.

You don’t deserve peace. You never did.

The shame, already festering deep inside her, began to bloom. What was she even doing? Why was she still fighting it? This was her punishment. This madness—this slow unraveling—it was exactly what she deserved.

She started moving faster through the mansion, each room blending into the next.

It didn’t matter. Nothing felt real. Nothing felt right. She was losing her grip...

And then, the scent hit her.

Cigars, whiskey, pinewood. Logan.

It swept over her like a wave, crashing into her, filling her senses. She inhaled deeply, feeling the warmth of it settle around her, tethering her, wrapping her in an unspoken comfort. Her hand instinctively gripped the pebble resting in her pocket, the one she had found earlier that night. For a second, just a second, she felt… safe.

But then the guilt surged.

How could she want this? How could she allow herself to be soothed by it? She didn’t deserve this warmth, this fleeting comfort. The shame twisted in her gut, sharper than before. Logan’s scent wasn’t meant for her. She shouldn’t need it. She should be embracing the darkness, not fleeing from it.

Let go, the voices whispered again, louder this time, more insistent. This is it. The punishment you seek. Give in. Fall.

Her legs felt weak. The world tilted. Her vision blurred, shadows curling at the edges of her sight, threatening to consume everything. The mansion walls seemed to bend, the halls stretching into a distorted abyss.

She stumbled, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her pulse a frantic drum in her ears. The shadows flickered—too fast, too alive—swarming around her, closing in like hands, cold and clawing.

She tried to ground herself, reaching out for something, anything. But even the scent that had once offered comfort now felt like a noose tightening around her throat.

You don’t deserve him.

She heard the thought as if it were whispered directly into her ear. The shame and guilt crushed her, unbearable, choking. She couldn’t escape this. It was always going to end this way.

Her knees gave out.

The floor was hard beneath her, the waxed wood biting into her skin. Her body trembled, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. The darkness, the whispers, they were all-consuming. Wrapping tighter, pulling her down, down into the abyss.

And then… her name.

It echoed through the haze, distant but firm. A voice she recognized, deep and rough, cutting through the fog like salvation. It was calling for her. But it sounded so far away, like it was reaching for her through the murky waters of her mind.

Her eyelids fluttered, heavy, her breath shallow.

Warmth. Strong arms wrapping around her. A brief, fleeting moment of safety before everything faded to black.

She woke with a start, heart still racing, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to her like a heavy fog. The mansion was quiet, the soft morning light filtering through the window. Everything was as it should be.

She was in her bed. In her room. She sat up slowly, rubbing her temples. The long nightmare had felt like it spanned weeks, so vivid and consuming. The shadows, the darkness, the guilt—it had felt real. Too real. But now, it was gone, and the world had returned to its normal rhythm.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stood, stretching out the stiffness in her body. A faint scent hit her—cigars, whiskey, pinewood—Logan. She paused, frowning. That scent had been there in the dream too, wrapping around her like a safety net.

She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the nightmare’s grip. It didn’t matter now. She was awake. She was fine.

The mansion was already coming to life as she made her way downstairs. A few students passed her in the hallway, offering friendly nods or smiles. It was strange, but she couldn’t shake the odd sense of distance between her and them, like she was observing them through glass. She brushed the feeling off. It was just the lingering unease from the dream.

In the classroom, she went about her day as usual, teaching a class on mutant ethics, helping students navigate the complex moral dilemmas of their powers. As she spoke, they listened, engaged—but something was wrong. Their faces were… off. Not at first, but gradually, subtly. Their eyes seemed too bright, their expressions too static, like they were wearing masks. She blinked, trying to focus, but the feeling gnawed at her, eating away at her concentration.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was stuck. The minute hand hadn’t moved since she started class.

Clearing her throat, she forced a smile. “Has anyone noticed anything strange today?”

One of the students, a girl sitting in the front row, looked up. “No, Professor. Everything’s fine.”

But her voice—something was wrong with her voice. It was too flat, too empty. And the way she was staring… it wasn’t right.

She tried to shake it off, but as the minutes dragged on, the sense of wrongness grew. The students’ faces became more distorted, their features bending and warping, smudged around the edges until they were barely recognizable as human.

A cold shiver ran down her spine.

This wasn’t right. None of this was right.

She left the classroom in a rush, heart pounding in her chest. Something was very wrong. She searched for someone—anyone—who could explain this. But the hallways were empty now, eerily so. The normal bustle of the mansion had vanished. The walls seemed to close in, shadows growing longer, darker, pressing against her from every side.

No, she told herself, trying to stay calm. You’re awake. This is real.

But the scent was back. That familiar, grounding scent of cigars, whiskey, and pinewood.

It was stronger now, like it was following her, wrapping around her. She inhaled deeply, trying to use it to steady herself. But instead of comforting her, the scent made her heart race. Why was it here?

She hurried down the hallway, her footsteps echoing unnaturally loud. Turning a corner, she found herself in the mansion’s kitchen. The air was thick, oppressive, but nothing was out of place. A cup of hot tea sat on the counter, steam still rising from it, and beside it rested a small, smooth pebble, warm to the touch.

She didn’t remember making tea.

Her eyes darted around the room, and that’s when she saw it—a photograph on the table. Her sister. The same photo she kept in her nighstand, now sitting in the middle of the kitchen like it belonged there.

She reached for it, but as her fingers brushed the frame, the world around her seemed to distort, warping at the edges. The walls of the kitchen twisted, the light flickering like it was struggling to stay on. The photograph melted away in her hand, turning to black liquid that dripped onto the floor, disappearing into the shadows.

Panic surged in her chest.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

She stumbled back, clutching the pebble, her pulse roaring in her ears. As she turned to flee, the whispers returned. Faint at first, almost imperceptible, but growing louder with every step. They echoed in the air around her, overlapping, a cacophony of voices.

You never left. You’re still there. Still trapped.

The mansion warped around her, the hallways stretching into impossible lengths. The walls bent and twisted like they were alive, closing in. The air thickened, suffocating, shadows pressing against her skin like cold, clammy hands.

“Stop it!” she shouted, clutching her head, trying to drown out the voices.

But there was one voice—one familiar voice—that cut through the madness, calling her name. Deep, rough, and steady. His voice.

She gasped, hands shaking. Logan.

His scent was overwhelming now, wrapping around her like an anchor: cigars, whiskey, pinewood. It was suffocating, smothering, and yet… it was the only thing tethering her to reality.

That and the pebble.

The whispers grew louder, frantic, fighting to keep her there, to pull her deeper into the nightmare.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real!

His voice called her name again, breaking through the chaos, pulling her toward it. She followed it, clinging to the sound, pushing through the suffocating darkness.

Then everything cracked. The world shattered, and she felt herself falling, spinning, her mind reeling as the nightmare crumbled.

And then—she woke up.

Cold sweat drenched her skin, chest heaving as she gasped for breath, her fingers clenched tightly around the pebble. The room was dimly lit, the scent of antiseptic sharp in the air. She was in the infirmary.

Soft murmurs filled the room—voices she recognized. Charles, Jean, Hank. And then, his voice again. Rough, steady, pulling her back into reality.

She turned her head, vision still blurry, but she saw them there, standing over her. Logan’s scent was strongest of all, wrapping around her like an lifeline.

“Easy now, bub,” he said, voice low, steady. And in that moment, the weight of the dream lifted, if only slightly, as reality pulled her back into its embrace.

The infirmary was bathed in a faint, almost ethereal light, soft enough to avoid blinding her but bright enough to keep the shadows at bay. It felt wrong. The shadows had always been there, always a safe haven—except now, she knew better. Charles’ words hung in the air, heavier than any weight she’d ever carried.

“You can’t hide in the darkness anymore, my dear,” Charles said gently, his voice like a calm breeze trying to soothe a raging storm. “Not for now. Something is feeding off you from within it. That’s why the urge to stay hidden, to punish yourself, has been so strong lately.”

She swallowed hard, the air in her lungs suddenly thick. The guilt was still there, the shame gnawing at her edges, but this… this thing lurking in the shadows… it was deeper now, darker than anything she could name.

“I’m relieving you from your duties,” Charles continued, his eyes kind but unyielding. “Until we figure out how to destroy it, or at the very least, subdue it, you cannot risk feeding it more. That means no more using the shadows to hide.”

The words twisted in her chest. The shadows had been her refuge. It was where she felt least seen, least exposed. Now, they were forbidden.

“We’ll keep the light on,” Charles added, “just faint enough to give you peace, but bright enough to push back whatever lurks in the dark.”

She nodded, though something inside her recoiled at the thought of staying in the light. It felt wrong, foreign. Like the dark was a familiar, vicious circle, but at least it was hers. What did it mean to step outside of it? To be seen and not hidden?

Charles' voice softened. “Someone will be with you at all times. We can’t risk this happening again. It was difficult enough to break the hold it had over you. You need rest—physical, mental. But most of all, you need to stay in the light.”

She nodded again, not trusting her voice. The comfort of shadows had been a constant companion, and without them, she felt exposed. Raw. Like a nerve left out in the open air.

The others—Jean, Hank, and Charles—exchanged quiet words as they prepared to leave, their faces soft with concern. They didn’t linger too long, sensing that too much attention was already overwhelming. One by one, they slipped out, leaving only Logan behind.

He settled into a chair a few feet away, not too close but enough to stay within arm’s reach if necessary. His presence, though rough around the edges, was anchoring. He didn’t look directly at her, instead keeping her in his peripheral vision as though trying to offer her some privacy despite staying vigilant.

He exhaled deeply, the sound almost like a sigh, his body sinking into the chair with a quiet creak. “You scared the hell outta me, bub,” he muttered, his gruff voice tinged with something softer—something closer to worry. “One minute you’re there, the next…”

He trailed off, his fingers twitching slightly, as though wrestling with something he wouldn’t say. The silence stretched between them, and the guilt flared again. She hadn’t meant to scare him. She hadn’t meant to collapse. But the world had spun out of control, slipping from her grasp faster than she could hold onto it.

She didn’t respond at first, her voice caught in her throat. She made herself small, curling into the bed, trying not to be seen, even though it felt impossible now. The dim light flickered faintly, and every instinct screamed at her to run—to melt into the darkness like she always had. But she couldn’t.

“Y’know,” Logan started again, his voice low but steady, “this whole thing… It’s gonna take some time to get used to. But you’re not alone in it.”

She blinked, staring at the edge of the blanket, her free hand tracing the pattern to keep her focus while the other clutched tightly around her pebble. Something inside her stirred—a small flicker of warmth—but it was quickly smothered by the rising shame. How could she want that warmth when she didn’t deserve it?

“I know it doesn’t make much sense right now,” Logan continued, still not looking directly at her. His voice was rough, but there was an odd tenderness underneath, like he was trying to handle something fragile without breaking it. “But you’re gonna be alright. You got people here. And I’m right here.”

She turned slightly toward him, but still didn’t meet his gaze. Her throat was tight, and she couldn’t trust herself to speak. But she didn’t need to. The silence felt full, not empty.

Logan shifted in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight. “You should try to sleep,” he murmured. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna get to you with me sittin’ here, bub.”

The reassurance hit harder than it should have. It wasn’t about safety from the outside world—it was about safety from her own mind. From the guilt, the shame, the shadows that lurked just beyond the light. Logan didn’t need to say more. His presence was enough to keep her tethered, if only by a thin thread.

“I’ll be here,” he added, his voice softer now, more like a promise. “When you wake up, I’ll still be here.”

She nodded, trying to push down the fear, the guilt, the crushing weight of it all. Logan was here. That should’ve been enough to keep the darkness away. But deep inside, something still gnawed at her, whispering that it wouldn’t be enough. That she didn’t deserve it.

Still, she closed her eyes, clutching the pebble harder as she tried to let the faint warmth of Logan’s presence and his scent settle over her, while the dim light fought to keep the darkness at bay.

She woke with a start, her breath sharp, eyes darting around the dimly lit infirmary. The unfamiliarity of it gnawed at her for a moment until she caught the scent in the air—cigars, whiskey, pinewood. It was grounding, familiar, and steady.

“You’re alright, bub,” Logan’s voice rumbled low, just enough to pull her fully into the present. “Take it easy. You’re safe.”

The reassurance hit deeper than she expected. Her fingers loosened their grip on the pebble, though she didn’t release it entirely. The small stone, so simple and unassuming, felt like the only thing keeping her tethered to this moment—to Logan’s presence.

She exhaled slowly, her pulse gradually slowing as the panic ebbed away. Logan’s steady breathing was the only sound in the room for a while, the weight of his watchful eyes never too heavy, just… there.

After what felt like forever, she finally found her voice, though it was quiet and hoarse from the turmoil of the night. “Thank you,” she murmured, barely louder than a whisper.

Logan’s brow furrowed, and his gaze flickered to her, but he didn’t interrupt. He just waited, giving her space to say what she needed.

“For… everything,” she continued, her voice a little stronger now. “And…” Her fingers tightened around the small stone still clutched in her hand. “For the pebbles…” She could feel how strongly her heart was hammering inside her chest. “I kept them.”

Logan blinked, surprised for a beat before his expression softened. “Yeah? Well, you knew they were there. That’s what matters.”

She hesitated, staring at the tiny rock in her hand. “I didn’t think I could… I didn’t think I should follow them. I didn’t deserve to.”

Logan shifted slightly in his chair, his eyes narrowing just a bit, but not in anger—more like concern. “Bub, you gotta stop thinkin’ that way. It’s not about deserve or not. It’s about what you need.”

His words sank into her like stones, guilt gnawing at the edges of her thoughts. What she needed. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Every time she tried to let herself feel anything good, anything warm, something in the back of her mind twisted it into guilt, into shame. Like she wasn’t allowed to need anything other than punishment.

“I don’t know how to stop it,” she admitted softly, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.”

Logan didn’t answer right away. No quick fixes, no rushed advice. Instead, he stood up slowly, boots heavy on the floor, and moved closer, sitting at the edge of her bed. Close, but not overwhelming. His scent—cigars, whiskey, pinewood—washed over her again, stronger and warm, like a steadying hand on her shoulder keeping her tethered.

“You’re not gonna fix it overnight,” he said, his voice low and rough. “But you ain’t gotta do it alone. You got people here, bub. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Her breath hitched slightly, something unfamiliar stirring in her chest—something that wasn’t guilt or shame. She didn’t deserve his patience or care, but he was here, offering it anyway.

“That’s why I left the pebbles,” Logan added, his voice softer. “Wasn’t expectin’ you to come chasin’ after me, but… figured you oughta know you could if you wanted to.”

She stared at him for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in deeper, the knot in her chest tightening. “Why?” she asked, her voice quiet. “Why did you do it?” The question had been eating at her. Why had he bothered with her?

Logan’s gaze dropped for a moment, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was rough but honest. “’Cause I’ve been there, bub. More times than I’d like to admit.”

She blinked, surprised by the admission. She didn’t know him, not really, but if there was something she had picked up from all her time hiding in the shadows of the mansion, it was that Logan rarely talked about himself, especially not about something so personal.

“I know what it’s like,” he continued, his words slow, careful. “Feelin’ like you deserve every bit of crap that comes your way. Thinkin’ you’re better off stayin’ in the dark ‘cause that’s where you belong.”

His gaze flicked to her then, softer, but serious. “Saw you doin’ the same thing, hidin’ away. So I figured… maybe you needed somethin’ else. Wasn’t about what you deserved. Just about what I could do. And I just… wanted to help. Even if it was in small ways, tidyin’ up rooms and leaving little rocks.”

Her throat tightened, a mess of emotions swirling inside—guilt, gratitude, shame. And something else, something she couldn’t name. She hadn’t followed the pebbles, hadn’t gone to him, even though she’d wanted to. Instead, she’d clung to the dark, the thing that had been eating her inside out.

“I didn’t…” her voice trembled as she insisted. “I didn’t follow them.”

Logan shook his head gently. “Didn’t have to,” he said, his voice softer now. “You kept ‘em. That’s what matters.”

Her gaze dropped to the pebble still clutched in her hand, its smooth surface warm from her touch. It wasn’t much—just a small stone—but it felt heavier than anything else in her life. The weight of it, the meaning behind it, was something she wasn’t sure how to carry.

“I don’t… I don’t know what to say,” she admitted, her voice barely steady.

Logan gave a small shrug, not making a big deal of it. “Ain’t gotta say nothin’. Just rest. Chuck’ll be back with a plan soon. Until then, you’re safe.”

She nodded, her chest tight but something inside loosening, just a bit. Logan’s words settled into her, like anchors keeping her from drifting too far into that darkness again. Safe. It felt foreign, like something she hadn’t let herself feel in so long, but the man’s presence at her side, his scent, were starting to give it meaning.

“I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for. For not following the pebbles? For being too scared to ask for help? For clinging to the darkness when she should’ve let it go?

Logan’s eyes softened, his gruff exterior melting for just a moment. “Don’t be,” he said quietly. “Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for.”

She nodded, expecting him to move back to his chair, but instead, he shifted more comfortably, settling at the foot of her bed, his back against the wall. His presence wasn’t overwhelming, just steady, solid, and comforting. He wasn’t watching her closely, but she knew he was there, keeping guard.

The room fell into a peaceful quiet. Not awkward, just… still. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to take in Logan’s face. Really take it in. The lines, the ruggedness, the way his expression softened when he wasn’t putting up his usual walls.

She stole quick glances, not wanting to seem rude by staring. But of course, Logan noticed. His smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he turned to catch her eye. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her, really looked, like he hadn’t done before.

Before the moment could stretch too long, the door to the infirmary slid open, and Jean walked in, carrying a tray of food and water. Her eyes flicked between the two of them, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

“Thought you both could use something to eat,” Jean said softly, setting the tray down on the table beside the bed.

Logan gave a nod of thanks, accepting one of the bottles of water she handed him before passing the second to the younger woman lying in the bed he was sitting on. She nodded in return, fingers curling around the bottle before she opened it and took a slow sip, releasing a small sigh.

“How’re you feeling?” Jean asked, her concern evident in her soft tone.

“Better,” the woman whispered, though the tightness in her chest hadn’t completely left. But there was something else now—something steadier, thanks to Logan and the small stone still pressed into her palm, grounding her in ways she couldn’t quite explain.

Logan took a sip of water as well, his gaze flicking back to her. “Told ya,” he murmured. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry about. You’re not alone anymore.”

Once Jean had left the room, time passed lazily. Logan remained at the end of the bed, keeping watch as they both finished the food that had been brought. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it settled like a soft blanket, a quiet understanding stretching through the minutes. Every now and then, she caught Logan’s gaze, and her heart would do that little flutter it had grown used to around his scent. He didn’t talk much, just watched, and somehow, that felt more like protection than anything else.

There wasn’t much to say, anyway. They had both been through enough in the past few days to know that words weren’t needed. So, they ate quietly together, their eyes meeting every so often, and that was enough.

Then, the door slid open, and Charles wheeled in, his expression as calm as ever, though a certain heaviness clung to his presence.

“Jean has informed me that she checked on you, my dear,” Charles began, his tone gentle but clear as he entered the room, his eyes sweeping the space before resting on her. “We are continuing to search for a solution to your… situation. Unfortunately, we have yet to make significant progress.” His voice carried its usual steady calm, but the brief flicker of a frown at his lips betrayed his concern. At the foot of the bed, Logan shifted slightly, his attention sharpening.

“But,” Charles continued, his voice softening a touch, “we have come to the conclusion that keeping you confined here, despite the safety it offers, is not ideal. You are not a prisoner, and we believe some freedom will benefit you.” His eyes met hers with a reassuring warmth, though the gravity of his words remained unmistakable.

She nodded as he went on. “As for your previous quarters,” he said, “I’m afraid they are no longer suitable for habitation.” The weight of what had happened there hung unspoken between them. The darkness that had clung to her had left its mark, and the thought of stepping back into that space sent a knot of anxiety tightening in her chest.

“We’ve made arrangements for a new room, closer to the others, where we can ensure your safety.” Charles’s gaze flickered to Logan, who remained silent but watchful, his presence as steady as ever.

Logan leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ll help you move,” he said simply, his voice gruff and final, leaving no room for debate. “Ain’t lettin’ ya do this on your own.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes shut her down before she could get the words out. There was a quiet intensity in them, an unspoken promise that went beyond just keeping her safe from the shadows that lurked around her.

“Thanks. But really… I can handle it,” she still tried, feeling embarrassed to drag him into something so trivial.

He shook his head, eyes narrowing just a little. “It ain’t about whether you can handle it. It’s about what happens if that thing shows up again. I don’t trust anyone else to deal with it but me.”

That was Logan—blunt, to the point, and impossible to argue with. And somehow, even with the roughness of his words, something about them made her heart do that strange, warm flutter again.

Charles glanced between the two of them, nodded once, then turned to leave. “Take your time, my dear. We’ll have everything ready when you’re settled in.”

She nodded in thanks, and as she watched him leave the room, she shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for her shoes. Logan waited for her to finish before standing as well. She glanced up at him with a tight-lipped smile, still feeling awkward about dragging him into something so mundane, but he just gave her a small, encouraging nod before walking to the door.

She followed him out of the infirmary, and as they made their way through the mansion—every hallway buzzing with life—she felt uneasy. The place looked different in the daylight, strange and unfamiliar. She had spent so much time moving through its corridors under the cover of darkness that seeing it like this felt almost wrong. It reminded her of her nightmare and a shiver run down her spine.

But no matter the odd looks people gave her, no one approached as she walked alongside Logan, heading toward the upper floors, to one of the furthest wings of the vast old building.

When they finally reached her old room, it felt even smaller than usual as Logan stepped inside with her. There wasn’t much to gather—just the few things she had kept over the years: some clothes, three books, an old notebook, two pencils, a photograph of her sister, and a metal tea box where she stored tiny treasures. Logan lingered near the door, his gaze scanning the space, pausing at the window where a small stack of pebbles sat.

For the briefest second, something like a smile flickered at the corner of his lips before vanishing just as quickly. He knew what they were—the small, smooth stones he had left behind for her while she had hidden herself away in the dark. She hadn’t lied. She had kept every single one of them.

There were seven pebbles on the windowsill now, and as she moved to collect them, she felt Logan’s eyes following her movements closely. She took her time, brushing her fingers over their cool, smooth surfaces, making sure they weren’t dirty or damaged. She knew exactly why she had kept them. At the time, she hadn’t been able to follow them back to him, but the thought of leaving them behind had been unbearable.

When she picked up the first pebble, Logan’s expression shifted slightly, something unreadable crossing his face. He didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. She had told him she had kept them, but seeing it for himself made him realize just how much those little stones had meant to her.

After carefully inspecting each one, she placed them into the small metal tea box, settling them among the other trinkets inside—a smooth piece of glass, a little old key that no longer opened anything, a few old coins, a faded stamp. Logan’s eyes never left her hands, watching as she arranged them with quiet care.

“You’re takin’ those with ya?” His voice was low, rougher than usual, but there was something softer beneath it.

She nodded, glancing up at him for a moment before turning back to the window. “They… remind me that I’m not alone.”

Logan grunted, the sound carrying something like understanding. And when she finally turned to face him, the way he looked at her—his eyes softer, his shoulders relaxed—made something stir deep inside her. There was no judgment in his gaze, only a quiet knowing.

And with that, she was done packing. Logan slung her small bag over his shoulder, and she tucked the tea box under her arm, feeling its familiar weight—a silent reminder of all that had passed between them without words.

The walk down the hallway was silent, Logan’s presence steady beside her. Her new room was only a few doors away from his, and though she didn’t say it out loud, the thought of being so close to him made her feel… safer. But it was a different kind of safe—less about hiding, more about something steady, something real. His quiet strength kept at bay the shame and guilt that had followed her for so long.

He hadn’t needed to offer, but he had. And as she stepped into her new room, small but comfortable, she couldn’t shake the feeling that things were shifting. Slowly, quietly, but surely.

Logan placed her bag on the bed, turning back to her with that same serious look he always wore, but there was a new softness in his eyes.

“I’ll be close by,” he said, his voice low and gruff. “If ya need anythin’, knock.”

She nodded, warmth rising in her chest. “Thanks, Logan.”

He paused for a second, his gaze lingering on her before he turned toward the door. “Anytime, kid.”

And as the door clicked shut behind him, she found herself smiling. For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t feel alone. And it felt good.

The days in the mansion passed slowly, like a soft rhythm, one beat after the other, as she tried to adjust to living in the light again. It felt strange at first, stepping into the daylight with eyes still trained for the shadows, moving through halls that had always been empty and silent in the night. Now, she passed students, teachers, people living their lives in the day—something she had forgotten how to do.

Each step felt like a reminder of something lost, a strange ache in her chest that she couldn’t quite place. But Logan was always there, hovering nearby, a silent sentinel. He never crowded her, but his presence was constant, a shadow in the sunlight, always just out of sight but close enough to make her feel… grounded.

The mansion, full of bustling life during the day, took some getting used to. She returned to her duties, cleaning during daylight hours now, though every so often, when the unease crept up on her, she found herself lingering in a room a little too long, ensuring that every light was properly lit. There was something about the brightness, about making sure the darkness couldn’t crawl in around her, that gave her peace of mind.

And in her pocket, there was always a pebble. One of those little rocks that had tied her to Logan in the first place. It was a quiet reminder, something she could reach for when the world felt too bright, too exposed. She could run her thumb over its smooth surface, tether herself, remind herself that she wasn’t alone.

As the days turned into a week, she started to find her footing again. The library became one of her favorite places—quiet, familiar. She spent hours there, helping the younger students with their homework when they came looking for books. They quickly learned that she knew the library’s layout like the back of her hand. She’d been putting books back on shelves for so long that she could tell them exactly where each one belonged without a second thought. They trusted her with that, and she found a strange comfort in the small interactions.

Outside, the world was bright and wide. At first, she’d stand on the edges, watching from afar as the sun painted the sky during its rise and fall. She didn’t join the others, preferring the quiet solitude as she observed from her usual spot, high up on the mansion’s rooftop or perched near the old garden. But, over time, Logan started showing up too. In the beginning, he kept his distance, respecting the silence she had made for herself.

She could feel his eyes on her sometimes, the quiet comfort of knowing he was there but not intruding. He’d stay just far enough away that she didn’t feel watched, but close enough that she knew he was nearby.

And then one evening, as the sky started turning gold and the first traces of purple and pink began to streak across the horizon, he sat down next to her. He didn’t say anything, just settled down beside her with a quiet grunt, his presence as solid as the bricks beneath them. There was no need for words. The silence stretched between them, comfortable now in a way it hadn’t been before. It felt like something had shifted.

The sunsets became a routine. Each evening, she found herself looking forward to that quiet time spent together. Sometimes, Logan would speak, his deep voice rumbling softly as he talked about his day or the things he’d seen. Other times, he was silent, just there, a warm, steady presence at her side.

And every once in a while, her hand would slip into her pocket, her fingers brushing over the pebble, a reminder that the light wasn’t as terrifying as it once was—not with him beside her.

It had been a little more than a week since she started living in the daylight again, and for a while, she had held onto the hope that maybe Charles, Hank, and the others would have found a solution by now—something that could finally rid her of that thing feeding on her. But the parasite was elusive, and with every day that passed without a breakthrough, the knot of anxiety in her chest only tightened further.

That’s why, when she was called to Charles’ office that afternoon, her stomach dropped. She didn’t know what to expect, but the moment she reached his door, her ears caught the tail end of a heated argument.

“I’m telling you, Charles, it’s too risky!” Logan’s voice, low and rough, carried through the door, sharp with anger. “We don’t know how strong this thing is. She could get hurt!”

She froze just outside the door, heart pounding in her chest. She’d never heard Logan sound like that before. He was always so calm, even in the worst moments—but now, there was something different in his voice. Something raw.

“We don’t have a choice, Logan,” Charles’ reply was quieter, more controlled, but there was an edge of tension in his voice as well. “It’s the only way to learn more about this creature. We’ve exhausted every other option.”

She took a breath to steady herself, then knocked lightly before pushing the door open.

Logan was standing, fists clenched at his sides, his whole body taut like a spring about to snap. Charles, seated behind his desk, maintained his usual calm, though there was a heaviness to the air between them. The moment she stepped inside, Logan cut himself off mid-sentence, his jaw tightening as he looked her way. For a moment, his gaze softened, but the frustration in his expression was unmistakable.

Charles gave her a small nod. “I’m sorry to call you in like this, my dear,” he said gently, casting a glance toward Logan before continuing. “But we need to discuss something important.”

She remained standing, unsure of what to say, the tension pressing down on her chest. Logan hadn’t looked away from her, and she could feel the full weight of his worry—how thick it hung in the air around him.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Charles said again, this time addressing Logan, his voice heavy with regret. “But we have no other choice.”

Logan let out a low, frustrated growl, clearly not liking where this conversation was going, but he didn’t argue further. Instead, he turned away and ran a hand through his hair, pacing slightly.

Charles turned his focus back to her. “We still don’t know enough about the parasite that’s been… feeding off of you,” he began, his tone measured and soft. “Despite our best efforts, Hank and I haven’t been able to find a solution. Not yet.”

Her heart sank, dread curling tight in her chest.

Her heart sank at his words, dread curling its way through her chest, tightening like a snake in her gut. But Charles wasn’t done.

“We believe,” he continued, “that the best way to understand what we’re dealing with is to make the parasite reveal itself. To do that, we need you to reconnect with it, to put yourself in the environment where it thrives.”

It took a moment for the words to truly land. But when they did, her breath caught.

The darkest darkness.

They wanted her to go back into it.

Logan’s frustration boiled over at that. “You want to throw her back into that darkness and hope for the best? That’s your plan?” he snapped, voice rough.

His words made her blood run cold, her mind spiraling with the implications of what Charles was asking her to do. The thought of returning to that place—of standing in the heart of the shadows that had fed on her for so long—it made her skin crawl.

But Charles didn’t flinch beneath Logan’s anger. “It’s not ideal,” he admitted, voice still even, “but it’s the only way we can learn what we’re truly dealing with. Without knowing more, we can’t fight it.”

Then Logan turned to her, eyes blazing with frustration… and something else—something softer. Concern.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice low and firm. “If you don’t want to… you don’t have to.”

The room fell into a heavy silence. Both of them were watching her now, and while Logan’s words were meant to reassure her, the fear gnawing at the edges of her mind made it hard to breathe. The mere idea of stepping back into that darkness… it terrified her.

She had barely managed to escape it before, and now they were asking her to willingly go back into its grasp.

But as scared as she was deep down, she knew Charles was right. There was no other way. They needed to understand the parasite if they had any hope of stopping it. And she couldn’t keep living like this—haunted by shadows, waiting for the inevitable, knowing it could return at any moment.

She took a slow breath, heart hammering in her chest as she met their eyes.

“I’ll do it,” she said quietly, voice steady even as fear kept coiling inside her like a living thing.

Logan’s expression tightened, his jaw clenching as he turned his head away, clearly unhappy with her choice, but knowing there was nothing he could do to change it. “Damn it,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair again. When he looked at her once more, the anger had dulled into something softer. Still frustrated, but steady. “I’ll be there,” he said, voice gravelly. “I’m not leaving you alone in that darkness again. I’ll be close. Just in case.”

She nodded, grateful beyond words for his presence, even if it wouldn’t be enough to keep the shadows at bay entirely. The thought of him nearby made the idea of facing the parasite a little less terrifying.

Charles nodded as well, his expression solemn. “We’ll proceed with caution,” he promised. Still, doubt flickered behind his eyes—as if he wasn’t entirely sure what caution would even mean in this case. “But it must be done. The moment we learn more, we’ll act.”

She nodded again, even as the whirlwind of emotions inside her swirled and spun. Logan moved at her side, his closeness anchoring her, a quiet reminder that, no matter what came next, she wouldn’t be facing it alone.

The days dragged on, each one darker than the last as the new moon approached. She could feel the weight of it pressing down on her, the shadow of what was to come creeping closer with every breath. Charles and Hank had set the date for when she’d step back into the darkness—the next new moon. It made sense, logically. The less light, the easier it would be to reconnect with the parasite.

But that knowledge didn’t make it any easier to sleep at night.

Every time she lay down in her new room, her bedside lamp glowing faintly beside her, the tension coiled tighter in her chest. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to flicker and shift when she wasn’t looking, and sometimes she swore she could feel the parasite stirring, like it was growing impatient.

Hungry.

At first, it was just a faint unease, a weight that settled in her gut as she tried to sleep. But as the days passed and the moon grew smaller, that unease turned into something darker, something colder.

Fear.

One night, as she lay in bed with her lamp still glowing dimly beside her, her eyes felt heavy. The tension that had been gnawing at her chest all day pulled her under, and soon enough, she was asleep.

And that’s when the nightmare began.

She was back in the mansion, but everything was wrong. The hallways twisted and turned in impossible ways, the walls stretching and closing in around her. There were no windows, no light—only endless shadows that slithered along the floor like living things. She could feel them reaching for her, their cold fingers brushing the edge of her skin, sending shivers down her spine.

She ran.

Her feet pounded against the wooden floors, echoing in the silent, empty halls. Every door she tried to open was locked, every path she took seemed to lead deeper into the mansion’s maze. The shadows were getting closer, swallowing the light, and no matter how fast she ran, they were always just behind her, nipping at her heels.

“Logan!” she screamed, her voice bouncing off the walls, but it sounded so small, so far away. “Logan, please!”

But there was no answer. Just the endless sound of her own footsteps, her own ragged breathing as she ran from room to room, desperately searching for him. The shadows closed in, pressing against her skin, wrapping around her like tendrils of cold night. She could feel them dragging her down, pulling her deeper into the dark.

“Logan!” she cried again, but it was like her voice had been swallowed whole by the darkness. The mansion twisted again, and the walls seemed to melt away, revealing a staircase that spiraled down, down into the black.

She couldn’t breathe. The air was too thick, too cold, and the shadows were everywhere, pressing in from all sides, suffocating her. She stumbled, falling to her knees as the darkness crept over her, clawing at her skin.

The cold fingers of the shadows wrapped around her throat, and she gasped for breath, her vision blurring as they tightened their grip. She tried to scream for Logan one last time, but the sound wouldn’t come. The darkness was too thick, too heavy.

It was going to pull her under.

And then—

She woke up screaming.

Her body jerked upright, drenched in cold sweat, her heart pounding so hard in her chest it felt like it might burst. The room spun around her, and for a terrifying moment, she couldn’t tell if she was still dreaming or not.

“Hey, hey! You’re alright, bub. You’re awake.”

Logan’s voice cut through the panic like a lifeline, rough but steady. His hands were on her shoulders, firm and warm, grounding her back into reality. He was kneeling beside her bed, his brows furrowed in concern, his expression more serious than she had ever seen it.

She was still shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to focus on his face, on the solid presence of him beside her. The darkness was gone, replaced by the soft glow of her bedside lamp, and the warmth of Logan’s hands on her skin.

“I… I thought—” she stammered, her voice trembling as the tears welled up in her eyes.

Logan’s expression softened as he pulled her into his arms, holding her close. “It was just a nightmare,” he said quietly, his voice low and reassuring. “I heard you from my room, but I couldn’t wake you up.”

The tears came then, hot and heavy as they spilled down her cheeks. She buried her face in his shoulder, the sobs wracking her body as she clung to him like a lifeline. The fear, the exhaustion, the overwhelming weight of everything she had been carrying finally broke free, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out between sobs. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I don’t want to be a bother.”

Logan’s arms tightened around her, his voice rough but gentle. “You ain’t a bother, bub,” he said firmly. “Don’t even think that.”

He didn’t let go, didn’t pull away as she cried into his chest, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on her back. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice a quiet rumble in the dimly lit room. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

She stayed like that for what felt like hours, wrapped in his warmth, until the tears finally slowed and her breathing evened out again. Her body was still trembling, but the fear had begun to fade, replaced by the steady beat of Logan’s heart beneath her ear.

Eventually, Logan shifted, leaning back slightly so he could look at her. His hand brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his eyes soft in the lamplight. “You good now?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “Yeah… yeah, I think so.”

Logan stayed beside her, sitting on top of the covers, his presence a steady comfort as she lay back down. “Get some sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

And for the first time in days, she actually felt safe again.

The mansion was eerily quiet that night, suffocating in its stillness. No moon, no lights—just a vast, endless darkness pressing in from all sides. It felt as though the world had ceased to exist outside these walls, and all that remained was her… and it. The next step was supposed to be simple. Do everything the way she had before. Go through the motions. Clean the rooms. Act as if the darkness hadn’t nearly swallowed her whole once.

But this time, it was different. She could feel it.

Her shaking fingers clenched the cloth in her hands tighter than necessary, the tension winding through her muscles. She’d barely made it halfway through the room, but already, every nerve in her body was taut. Logan’s scent was everywhere, the soothing blend of cigars, whiskey, and pinewood lingering on the surfaces he’d tidied earlier. It grounded her, barely. But it wasn’t enough. Something… something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Her heart beat faster with each passing second, the air thickening, almost tangible with the weight of the shadows. The pebble in her pocket pressed against her palm, the only anchor she had to keep herself from floating away. She clung to it, gripping it like it might somehow pull her back from the brink. But the guilt… it was still there. It hadn’t gone away, even after those days in the light. The shame clung to her like a second skin, an ever-present whisper reminding her of her failures. Like an old toxic friend, feeding on her mistakes.

It was her fault, wasn’t it? All of it. The accident. The pain. The shadows she had invited into her life.

The room twisted, stretched, like it was mocking her. The shadows—her constant companions, weren’t they? She tried to ignore the way they moved when she wasn’t looking, flickering just beyond her vision. But every time her eyes darted in their direction, they were still again. It was like the world was playing a cruel joke on her, and she was the punchline.

She stopped, trembling as the pebble and her nails dug harder into her palm, leaving small indents. A lifeline. But how much longer could she hold on? The air itself felt alive, thick with a creeping dread that crawled beneath her skin, snaking its way into her chest. Every breath was an effort, and each one felt like it filled her lungs a little less.

And in the deepest part of her, she could feel it. It. The parasite. Not just lurking anymore. It was awake. Growing. Watching. She’d been foolish to think she could face it. That she could walk back into its den and survive. She wasn’t the same person she had been before, but neither was it. It was hungry. Stronger. And she… she was nothing but prey in the dark.

The walls around her shifted again, distorting, bending. Her eyes darted to the nearest door, desperate for an escape. She reached for it, stumbling toward it, but her hand passed through empty space.

There was no door. There was nothing.

Just shadows.

Her breath quickened, the sound of it too loud in her ears. She couldn’t stop the panic swelling, taking root in the pit of her stomach and clawing its way up. It was taking her. It’s going to take me, like it had before. She tried to think of Logan, of the others waiting somewhere in the mansion, hidden. Just out of sight. Ready. They’d save her. They’d stop it. But what if they couldn’t? What if she’d dragged them into this with her, into a nightmare they couldn’t wake up from?

She pressed her back against the wall, desperate for something solid, something real. Her fingers grazed the doorframe, and for a split second, she thought maybe she was safe. Maybe she could escape.

But then she felt it—icy hands, invisible, pressing down on her shoulders.

And that voice.

“Saved once…”

Cold terror ran through her veins as it slithered into her mind, so many voices tangled together that they lost meaning. She could barely make out the words over the cacophony, but the intent was clear.

“But now, who will save you again? Who are you to think you deserve it? You’ve always been a very bad girl… and now, you’ll regret stepping out of the shadows.”

The voices pierced through her thoughts, sinking their teeth into her fears. Her vision blurred as she felt the thing move closer, its breath hot and rancid on her neck. She gagged as the sickening stench of decay filled her lungs, choking her.

It’s going to kill me.

She slid down the door frame, body trembling as her knees buckled. The strength she had thought she regained felt like a distant memory, fading fast beneath the weight of her terror. She was just a puppet, a vessel, a meat suit, waiting for it to wear it.

But then, through the fog, she saw her—Jean, stepping into view, her arm outstretched, fingers rigid. She could feel her mind reaching out, her telekinetic grip latching onto the creature behind her.

“I think I got it!” Jean’s strained voice cut through the haze, a life jacket she barely had the strength to grasp. “Damn it’s slippery, hurry!”

She didn’t have time to think before Bobby’s voice rang out, sharp with urgency. “Stay still!” Ice shot past her, followed by the blinding heat of Scott’s laser, both aiming directly at the thing clinging to her. But the creature twitched, flickering just out of reach. She could feel it behind her, hovering, waiting, like a predator toying with its prey.

“Give up.”

It brushed its shape against her head like a messed-up cat, enjoying her scent, her warmth. And the words in her mind grew louder, pressing harder, filling the empty spaces inside her. “They can’t help you. They’ll die trying.”

More shots passed her, but the parasite evaded them once more, glitching, like a broken image, it shifted just out of the way, inches from the blast, slipping through the darkness like a phantom.

It twisted, pulling tighter, feeding on the fear coursing through her. And then, just as she was about to lose hope, she smelled it.

Cigars, whiskey, pinewood. Logan.

Logan was there, his claws ripping into the thing with a sickening squelch. The creature screeched, and she could feel it—feel the pain of it deep inside her, ripping through her body like a shockwave.

The sound. The agony. It was unbearable.

A horrible, keening screech that tore through her mind, like a million nails scraping against a blackboard, shredding through her soul, leaving jagged, raw edges in its wake.

She screamed, doubling over, her hands flying to her head, the pebble in her hand falling to the ground as she tried to drown out the sound, but it was too loud. Too overwhelming. She could feel herself unraveling, piece by piece, the parasite clawing at the core of who she was, pulling everything apart.

It wasn’t just pain. It was her very being being torn apart. Her body started convulsing violently, no longer her own, each spasm tearing her apart from the inside.

Logan’s voice, raw with desperation, barely broke through the crushing noise in her head, his words distant and distorted, like echoes lost in a storm. “Stop! Stop, we’re hurting her! Hank, turn on the lights!”

Tears poured from her eyes, blood from her ears, warm and thick, running in slick trails down her neck. Her senses were betraying her, overwhelmed by the parasite's relentless grip. Snot clogged her nose, mixing with the drool that dripped uncontrollably from her lips, as if her body had become a grotesque puppet under the creature’s psychic attack.

The edge of her vision darkened, blurring as her consciousness slipped further away with each second until there was nothing left… but darkness.

She woke to the low hum of machinery and the sterile smell of the infirmary. The light was dim—probably the lowest it could be—but even then, it stabbed at her eyes like needles, aggravating the headache throbbing behind her temples. Her body felt heavy, like she’d been submerged underwater for days, each movement sluggish and painful. But at least she was alive.

Barely opening her eyes, she took in the room. Jean sat nearby, studying the monitors that displayed her patient’s vitals, her gaze occasionally flicking to the woman. Hank was further away, hunched over something—his broad back blocking her view, but she could hear the quiet clinks of lab equipment, his concentration unwavering. And then there was Logan.

He was there, in the chair not far from her, his face etched with worry that softened only when he saw her stirring. In an instant, he was at her side, his rough hand gently pressing against her arm. “Jean, she’s awake.”

Her throat felt raw, voice nothing more than a croak. “Hey…”

He leaned in closer, concern laced in his voice. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck,” she rasped, grimacing as the brightness intensified the pounding in her head. “And this light…”

Logan’s brow furrowed, his thumb grazing over her wrist. “Yeah… We can’t dim it more. Gotta keep those shadows away.”

Jean appeared beside him with a painkiller and a glass of water. “Here, this should help.” Her voice was gentle but professional, her empathy held behind the mask of control she always wore in times like these.

Logan helped his protégée sit up, his arms supporting her weight as she struggled to pull herself upright. The motion sent a wave of dizziness crashing over her, but she pushed through it, taking the pill from Jean and downing it with the water.

“We’ve still got a few tests to run,” Jean continued, “we waited until you were awake. But once we’re done, you can go back to your room.”

The woman barely nodded, too tired to even ask what tests. It didn’t matter. All she wanted was to crawl back into bed and disappear beneath the covers. But she knew there was no avoiding it, so she endured the prodding, the pricks as Jean drew blood, the cold glare of a flashlight as the redhead checked her eyes. Logan was there the whole time, hovering like a shadow, his presence a strange comfort despite the way his worry seemed to seep into every glance.

She wobbled on her feet as Jean tested her balance, making her stand on one foot, then the other. The world tilted and swayed, and only Logan’s steady grip kept her from falling. When Jean snapped her fingers near her ears to check her hearing, her patient flinched, the sound echoing through her aching skull.

“I think that’s enough for now, she’s exhausted,” Logan finally interjected, his voice a low growl, the edge of impatience seeping through. “If you got more tests, they can wait. She’s done for now.”

Jean hesitated, but after a moment, she sighed, relenting. “Alright. Everything seems rather normal anyway.” She offered a small, reassuring smile. “Need anything before we let you go?”

“I just want to take a shower and sleep for a week,” she mumbled, trying and failing to suppress a yawn.

Jean’s lips twitched in amusement, though Logan remained unamused, his concern deepening. “Come on. Let’s get you to your room, kid,” he said, offering his arm.

The woman couldn’t help the tired smile that tugged at her lips at the way he called her "kid"—even if she was in her thirties.

Despite the painkiller starting to take the edge off, every step sent fresh waves of ache through her muscles. The walk back to her room was slow, but Logan kept pace with her, his arm steady and unyielding as she leaned on him. A few students passed by, their faces lined with worry, offering her quiet smiles of concern. She nodded weakly in acknowledgment, grateful but too tired to do much else.

When she finally reached her room, she felt like she’d run a marathon. Logan led her straight to the bathroom, his voice low and gentle. “You gonna be alright in there?”

She nodded, feeling the exhaustion pull at every fiber of her being. “Yeah… thanks.”

“I’ll be in the next room. Just call if you need anything,” he told her, his eyes scanning her face for any sign of uncertainty.

She smiled faintly. “I will. Thanks, Logan.”

His gruff reply was almost reflexive, his eyes softening as he stepped away. “Don’t mention it, kid.”

Once the door was ajar, she stripped out of her ruined clothes, wincing at the stains of blood and grime that clung to her skin. As she met her reflection in the bathroom mirror she couldn’t help but flinch. That thing had really done a number on her. With a heavy sigh she turned her head away from her worn out twin in the looking glass and stepped into the shower.

The hot water from the stream was a balm, washing away the remnants of the battle, the stench of death, and the lingering weight of fear. She stood there, eyes closed, letting the warmth soak into her bones. For the first time in what felt like forever, she was grateful to still be alive.

Fifteen minutes later, wrapped in towels, she peeked out from the bathroom, careful to keep herself modestly hidden. Logan was sitting at her desk, flipping through one of her books, his brow furrowed in concentration. The sight brought a tired smile to her lips.

“Logan?” she called softly, her voice hoarse but steady. “Could you grab my pajamas? Under the pillow.”

His head snapped up, and for a brief moment, surprise crossed his features before he broke into a small smile of his own. “Yeah, sure.” He fetched them, handing them to her with a gentle nod. She thanked him quietly before retreating to the bathroom to change, still leaving the door ajar just in case.

By the time she stepped out in her pajamas, feeling a little more human, she heard the familiar creak of the chair as Logan settled back into it. The painkiller had finally kicked in, numbing the aches that had tormented her body.

“Do you want me to leave?” Logan asked, his voice softer than usual, as if he was afraid of disturbing the peace that had finally settled over the room.

She hesitated, the words hanging on her tongue. “You can stay… if you want. I feel… safer with you around. But if you need to go, it’s okay. Either way.”

Logan gave her a look that said he wasn’t going anywhere. “Alright,” he murmured, picking up the book again, his eyes scanning the pages though you could tell his focus wasn’t entirely on the words.

As she climbed into bed, she could almost feel his gaze on her, the weight of his worry palpable in the air. She shifted slightly, trying to reassure him, and started the conversation she knew he needed.

“What happened after I passed out?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Logan closed the book, his fingers drumming lightly against the cover. “Hank cranked up the lights, and the thing ran… jumped into the shadows that were left. I carried you to the infirmary. When Hank caught up, he said whatever it was left some residue. He’s still running tests on it.”

“At least something good came out of it,” she mused, though the smile that followed was faint, lacking its usual spark.

Logan returned the smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, but…”

“I’m okay, Logan. Really. I just need some sleep in a real bed.”

He nodded, but the worry never left his face. When she patted the bed beside her, inviting him to lie down, a soft smile tugged at his lips. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, settling in on the covers beside her, the book back in his hands.

She curled up on her side, her back brushing against his shape through the blankets, feeling the comforting warmth of him close by. The slow rustle of the pages and his steady breathing lulled her into a deep, dreamless slumber, knowing that, for now, she was safe once more.

She stirred from sleep slowly, the softness of the bed beneath her feeling unfamiliar after the chaos of the previous night. It took a moment for her to realize where she was—her room. The pain from earlier had dulled to a manageable throb, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the curtains, she became aware of a comforting warmth beside her.

Logan.

He was still lying next to her, on top of the covers, his presence a quiet reassurance. She turned her head slightly, taking a moment to study him. He looked different when he slept. The hard lines of his face were softened, his usual stern expression gone, replaced by a rare peacefulness. His chest rose and fell steadily, the book he had been reading now forgotten, lying open against him. A few stray locks of hair had fallen across his forehead, and without thinking, she reached out, her fingers lightly grazing his hair.

The moment her touch met his skin, his hand shot out like a reflex, fingers curling around her wrist in an unyielding grip. His eyes snapped open, sharp and alert, scanning the room for threats. But when he realized it was only her, his expression softened, and he quickly let go of her wrist.

“Sorry,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. “Didn’t mean to grab ya like that.”

She shook her head, offering a small smile. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have… I just—”

I just couldn’t help it, was what she wanted to say, but she caught herself in time, afraid of how her words would make him feel.

He gave her a look, one eyebrow raised slightly in question, but didn’t push. “No harm done,” he said, before sitting up and stretching his arms above his head. As he moved, the hem of his shirt rode up, revealing a glimpse of toned muscles. She quickly averted her eyes, a flush creeping up her throat. She didn’t need him catching her staring.

Logan smirked as he caught her reaction anyway, but didn’t comment. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, scratching the back of his neck as she slipped out of the covers, her stomach rumbling in protest.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, heading for the bathroom. After quickly changing into fresh clothes, she rejoined Logan, and the two of them made their way down to the kitchen. The mansion was quieter than usual, the aftermath of last night’s events hanging in the air like a heavy fog.

Once in the kitchen, they both grabbed something to eat, the smell of food awakening her appetite. Logan was quiet as usual, but his presence was grounding, even comforting, as she sat across from him.

A few minutes into their meal, Bobby walked into the room. “Hey, how’re you feeling?” he asked, grabbing a snack from the counter.

“Better,” she replied with a small smile, “now that I’m about to eat my weight in food.”

Bobby grinned at her joke. “Glad to hear it. By the way, Hank and the Professor are looking for you two. They’re in his office.”

Logan grunted in acknowledgment. “We’ll be up after we’re done here.”

“Got it,” Bobby said, offering a two-fingered salute before heading out.

The rest of their meal passed in comfortable silence, Logan finishing his food with quick efficiency. When she was done, they both stood, cleaned behind them and made their way to the people waiting for them, her muscles still aching but the pain manageable.

When they arrived, Hank stood near the far wall, a data pad in hand, while Charles sat behind his desk, his expression thoughtful as she and Logan entered.

“Glad to see you’re up and about,” Charles greeted, his tone warm. “We’ve made some progress regarding last night.”

Logan stood behind her, tense, his arms crossed over his chest as he listened.

Hank glanced up from the data pad. “The residue from the wound you inflicted, Logan—it’s reacting to blue light in a way we’ve seen with certain bacterial organisms. It’s as if the parasite weakens or becomes vulnerable when exposed to the right frequency of light.”

Charles steepled his fingers, looking at her. “We wanted to ask, my dear, do you feel comfortable trying to draw the parasite out again? This time, we may have an advantage.”

The weight of his question settled over her like a blanket. Before she could respond, Logan cut in, his voice gruff and laced with concern. “It’s too soon. She just got out of the infirmary, Chuck.”

Charles held up a hand to calm Logan. “I understand your concerns, my friend. It wouldn’t be immediate. We’d plan for next month, on the next new moon.”

She hesitated. The thought of facing that thing again… she wasn’t sure she was ready for it, even if they had a potential weapon.

“I have to think about it,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I’ll need some time.”

Charles nodded, his gaze soft. “Take all the time you need, my dear. It’s important that you feel prepared. If not next month, then the one after—or whenever you’re ready.”

Hank chimed in, “It’s a monthly occurrence anyway, so there’s no rush. We’ll be ready whenever you are.”

She gave a small nod, appreciating the space they were giving her. As much as she wanted this nightmare to be over, she also knew she needed to be in the right headspace before confronting the parasite again.

“I’ll let you know when I’m ready,” she said.

Logan, who had been silent since his earlier protest, spoke up. “In the meantime, I’ll train ya,” he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “You’ll need to be ready to defend yourself, for whenever you decide to face that thing again.”

She looked at him, the fierce protectiveness in his eyes clear. She knew he wasn’t going to let her stand against anything unprepared again.

Charles smiled gently, sensing the conversation had run its course. “Very well. We’ll keep preparing on our end. In the meantime, take care of yourself.”

With that, the meeting ended, and she and Logan left the office, heading back to the mansion’s main corridors to continue their day, the weight of what lay ahead heavy but manageable, knowing she wouldn’t face it alone.

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