#wolverine au

“Finger-painting?” You scoffed, dropping your planner onto the table with a thud. “That’s called art education. You know, the thing that teaches your students creativity, empathy, expression—basically everything your history class crushes out of them.”

He turned, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Creativity don’t help when they gotta pass exams. My kids walk out knowin’ who started the Peloponnesian War. Yours walk out knowin’ how to glue macaroni to paper.”

There was a loud snort from the math teacher in the corner. You ignored it, leaning across the table until you were inches from Logan’s scowl.

“At least my students don’t need therapy after I grade their work.”

Logan raised a brow. “Funny. Thought therapy was half the point of art.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back. “Your class is just yelling about dead guys until the bell rings.”

“Better than babysittin’ teenagers playin’ with glitter.” He gestured vaguely at the smear of paint on your scarf. “Or are you the one playin’ with glitter?”

The science teacher coughed into her mug to hide her laugh. Someone else muttered, “God, just kiss already.”

You both froze.

Logan scowled. “Who said that?”

Nobody answered. The lounge was dead silent, except for the sputtering coffee machine trying to brew another pot.

You straightened, grabbed your planner, and shot him one last glare. “One day, Logan, you’re going to choke on that smug attitude of yours.”

He shrugged, heading for the door. “Better than chokin’ on glitter.”

The door slammed behind him, and the room exhaled all at once—half the staff snickering, half pretending they hadn’t been watching like it was prime-time TV.

You snatched up your planner, shoved your chair back with a scrape, and marched after him.

“Logan!”

He was halfway down the hall, mug in hand, walking like a man immune to authority, deadlines, or common decency. He didn’t stop.

“Don’t ‘Logan’ me,” he muttered over his shoulder. “Ain’t my fault you can’t handle a little caffeine shortage.”

You jogged to catch up, your shoes squeaking on the linoleum. “Little? That was the last cup. Do you even know what I deal with before 9 a.m.? Clay exploding in the kiln. Watercolors spilling on essays. Teenagers wielding glue guns like medieval weapons. I need coffee.”

He grunted. “Sounds like your problem, not mine.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet—” he took another sip, “—still here, teachin’ history and drinkin’ coffee like a champ.”

You made a dramatic gasp, clutching your chest. “History champ? Oh, congratulations. Truly inspiring. Did you also win gold in the Grumpy Old Man Olympics?”

That got him to stop. He turned, glaring down at you with that infuriating half-smirk. “Better than winnin’ the Messy Art Teacher Pageant. Congrats on first place, by the way. You got paint on your shirt too. Again.”

You glanced down, cursed under your breath, then glared right back. “Better paint on my shirt than nothing in my soul.”

A group of sophomores walked by, slowing down to watch. One of them whispered, “Oh my God, they’re fighting again.”

Logan caught it. You caught it. And for a split second, both of you turned in perfect unison and barked, “Get to class!”

The kids scattered like pigeons.

You looked back at him, annoyed but also… annoyingly amused. “Truce until the bell?”

He raised his mug in mock salute. “Fine. But I’m not makin’ another pot if its empty later.”

“Good,” you snapped. “I wouldn’t drink your bitter swamp water anyway.”

You walked off before he could reply, but you swore you heard him chuckle—low, rough, and smug as hell.

The hallway outside the faculty lounge was unusually quiet during lunch. No kids yelling, no lockers slamming—just the hum of the vending machine and the faint smell of cafeteria pizza.

You sat on the bench with your lunch Tupperware balanced on your lap. Half a chicken wrap sat inside, tragically abandoned mid-bite. You’d meant to eat, truly, but exhaustion had other plans. Within minutes, your head tilted back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut.

That’s how Logan found you.

He stopped dead in his tracks, coffee mug in hand, staring. The so-called “paint tornado” of the school—the one who could fire back at him with sarcasm sharp enough to cut glass—was… snoring. Softly.

He glanced at the half-eaten wrap, then back at your slack jaw.

“…unbelievable,” he muttered.

Still, he didn’t move on. Instead, he leaned against the opposite wall, watching like you were some kind of wild animal that might spook if approached. One of your students rounded the corner, spotted you, and opened their mouth. Logan shot them a look so sharp the kid froze, nodded frantically, and bolted.

“Sleepin’ in the hallway, huh?” he drawled low enough not to wake you. “Real professional.”

You stirred, mumbling something incoherent. A smear of paint was still on your wrist from class, and the sight tugged something strange and warm in his chest. He shook it off.

When you finally blinked awake, it took a second to process the scene: your cold wrap, your Tupperware askew, Logan standing there with his arms crossed.

You groaned. “Oh, fantastic. My nap had an audience.”

“Not much of a nap,” he said, smirk tugging at his mouth. “You were droolin’.”

Your eyes went wide. “I was not.”

“Could’ve watered a plant with it.”

You shoved the Tupperware into your bag, mortified. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He took a sip of his coffee, looking smug. “Highlight of my day.”

You squinted at him. “Don’t you have papers to grade? Dates to memorize? Dead people to worship?”

“Don’t you have glue sticks to sniff?” he shot back.

The bell rang before you could retort. Logan tipped his mug toward you like it was a hat brim.

“Try not to nap through class, Picasso.”

You threw him a glare over your shoulder as you walked off, muttering, “Better than teaching like a caveman.”

And damn him—he was still grinning.

Your classroom was chaos in its purest form. Paintbrushes clattered in water jars, paper scraps littered the floor, and at least two students had somehow managed to get more clay on their clothes than on the sculptures in front of them.

You stood in the middle of it all, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back, gesturing dramatically toward the whiteboard where you’d scrawled Expression = Heart + Technique.

“Remember,” you told your students, “art isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing what you feel. If you want perfect, go ask the math department.”

That earned a wave of laughter.

The door creaked open.

Logan leaned against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand like it was permanently glued there. He scanned the chaos with one eyebrow raised.

“Looks like a crime scene in here,” he said. “Did a paint bomb go off, or is this just a normal Tuesday?”

You didn’t even flinch. “Funny, I don’t remember inviting cavemen to my class. Did you get lost on your way to the faculty lounge?”

The kids snickered.

Logan’s eyes flicked to them, then back to you. “Your students always this messy, or you teachin’ ‘em bad habits?”

“Messy means they’re trying,” you shot back. “Unlike in your class, where breathing too loud gets you detention.”

That drew louder laughter from the students. One kid whispered, “She got him.”

Logan gave the kid a look that shut them up immediately, then smirked at you. “Don’t know how you deal with all this glitter and glue.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “One day I’ll sneak some into your classroom. Your beard would sparkle beautifully with a little silver.”

The kids lost it.

Logan muttered something under his breath that definitely wasn’t school-appropriate. He turned to leave, but not before tossing you one last jab.

“Don’t let ‘em eat the paint, Picasso.”

“Don’t let yourself choke on chalk dust, Grinch,” you called after him.

The door shut.

Your students immediately erupted into chatter.

“Miss, are you two, like… married?”

“Why do you always roast him?”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

You held up your hands dramatically. “Children! Focus! The only romance here is between you and your unfinished projects. Now sculpt!”

They groaned, but the sparkle in their eyes told you everything—you’d never hear the end of this.

The end of the school day left you drained. Your classroom looked like the aftermath of a hurricane—paint splatters, abandoned sketches, and a suspicious glitter trail leading straight out the door. You sank into your chair, staring at the email again.

“Staff Appreciation Dinner – Attendance Encouraged (strongly).”

Which, in Principal Drew’s world, meant: Be there, or expect guilt-trips until retirement.

You groaned, kicking off your shoes. The last thing you wanted was to sit at a long table pretending to enjoy lukewarm chicken while fielding small talk about standardized tests.

Worse—Logan would be there.

Just the thought of sitting across from his smug scowl made your skin itch. He’d probably show up in his usual flannel, scaring the new staff into submission. You could practically hear his growl: “What the hell’s a canapé?”

Still… you knew if you skipped, the whispers would follow. “Oh, the art teacher thinks she’s too good for staff functions.” And truthfully, a part of you didn’t want to give Logan the satisfaction of calling you a no-show.

So, after about thirty minutes of dramatic pacing, you pulled yourself together. Hair brushed, shoes swapped for something halfway presentable, scarf swapped for one without paint stains. You caught your reflection in the mirror and muttered:

“God help me if they seat me next to him.”

You arrived, looking around. The cheap restaurant reservation dinner space, tablecloths and little floral centerpieces that looked suspiciously like they’d come from the dollar store. Teachers milled about with plates and glasses of wine, trying to look more civilized than they did during morning coffee brawls. You sighed. Cheap skate Mr. Drew, the school principal and the school funds.

And there he was, the man you like to pick fight with.

Logan, at the far end of the room, sleeves rolled, hair somehow more disheveled than usual, holding a plate like he wanted to throw it out the window. When his eyes met yours across the crowd, that damned smirk appeared.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath. “Just great.”

You straightened your shoulders, grabbed a glass from the passing tray, and stepped in. If you were going to survive this evening, you’d need two things: patience… and wine.

You slid into the crowd, clutching your wine glass like a lifeline, scanning for an empty seat far away from certain plaid flannels and scowls.

Too late.

Logan was already striding over, plate piled high with enough food to shame the buffet line. He stopped in front of you, looking you up and down like he hadn’t expected you to scrub up decently for once.

Then his mouth curled into that infuriating half-smirk.

“I was prayin’ you weren’t comin’ tonight.”

You took a slow sip of wine, savoring the dramatic pause. “Funny. I was praying you wouldn’t either. Guess God doesn’t like either of us.”

A couple of teachers nearby choked on their drinks, pretending not to listen.

Logan grunted, leaning a little closer. “Suppose this means we’re both doomed.”

“Only difference,” you quipped, tilting your glass at him, “is I look good while doomed. You just look… grumpy.”

He glanced down at his flannel, clearly not caring, and stabbed a fork into his potatoes like he was threatening them.

Before you could retreat to a safer table, the principal’s voice rang out:

“Alright, everyone! Please take your seats—yes, assigned seating. You’ll find your names on the cards!”

You froze. Logan’s smirk deepened.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” you muttered, scanning the tables until your stomach sank. There it was. Your name card. Right next to his.

Logan leaned in, voice low and smug. “Looks like we’re dinner dates, Picasso.”

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through the centerpiece flowers. “This is going to be the worst night of my life.”

He raised his glass of water like a toast. “Cheers to that.”

You hadn’t even touched your food before Logan leaned back in his chair, all smug satisfaction, and muttered just loud enough for you to hear:

“Relax, darlin’. You’re makin’ that vein in your forehead pop.”

Your fork froze mid-air. Slowly, you turned, voice low but venomously sweet.

“Don’t. Call. Me. That. Are you crazy? People will think we’re dating. And that is the last thing I want.”

Logan arched a brow, completely unbothered, and speared a piece of chicken. “Trust me, darlin’, you ain’t the prize I’d be braggin’ about.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, tossing your napkin onto the table. “Unbelievable. You can’t even eat without being insufferable.”

Across the table, the chemistry teacher leaned over to the science teacher and whispered (not nearly quiet enough), “They bicker like an old married couple.”

Both you and Logan snapped your heads toward them in unison.

“We are NOT a couple!”

Half the table jumped. The principal cleared his throat, smiling just a little too knowingly. “Well, it’s good to see the staff bonding.”

You slouched back into your chair, cheeks burning, stabbing at your salad like it had personally wronged you. Logan was still smirking, of course.

“You know,” he said casually, “keep shoutin’ it like that, and people’ll start thinkin’ you’re overcompensating.”

You glared. “One more word, Logan, and I swear I’ll ‘accidentally’ spill this wine on your shirt.”

He leaned closer, voice low, almost amused. “Wouldn’t be the first stain you’ve given me, Picasso.”

Your jaw dropped. The whole table erupted into muffled laughter.

Worst. Dinner. Ever.

…

You told yourself you wouldn’t actually do it. You told yourself you had self-control, maturity, dignity.

And then Logan made one more comment.

He leaned over, fork tapping against his plate. “Careful with that wine, Picasso. Wouldn’t want you gettin’ clumsy in front of the boss.”

That was it.

Your elbow jerked, glass tipped, and in one horrifying instant—deep red wine cascaded across the tablecloth and straight down Logan’s shirt.

The table gasped in unison.

“Oh my God!” you clapped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide. “I—oh no—Logan, I didn’t—”

“Of course you didn’t,” he growled, rising from his chair as the wine dripped down his flannel. “Whole damn glass, right on me. Real subtle.”

The principal, bless his optimistic heart, tried to smooth it over. “Accidents happen!”

Logan shot you a look that said he was not buying it. At all.

You grabbed a handful of napkins and shoved them at him. “Here, blot, don’t rub!”

“Oh, now you’re an expert?” He snatched the napkins, glaring as he pressed them to his shirt. “This thing’s ruined.”

“Maybe it’s an improvement,” you muttered.

A couple of teachers nearly choked on their breadsticks.

Logan froze, slow-turning toward you. “What’d you just say?”

You pasted on your most innocent smile. “I said, uh… it’s a bold look. Wine red really brings out your… temper.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly fighting a smirk, and shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re overdramatic,” you shot back, though your face was burning.

The science teacher leaned over to the math teacher and whispered: “They’re definitely dating.”

Both of you snapped in unison: “WE ARE NOT!”

The room erupted in laughter, leaving you and Logan glowering at each other across the mess of spilled wine and napkins.

Logan was still dabbing at his shirt, scowling like he’d just lost a fight with a bottle of Merlot. You sighed, leaning closer so the other teachers wouldn’t overhear.

“I got a spare clean shirt in my car,” you murmured, still holding a wad of useless napkins. “It was my brother’s. He wouldn’t care if it goes missing.”

Logan froze, glancing at you like you’d just offered him your kidney. “What, you keep men’s shirts in your car for emergencies now?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, because that’s my hobby—stockpiling laundry in the trunk. Just take the shirt, Logan. You look like a murder suspect.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He tilted his head, voice dropping low. “Your brother’s shirt, huh? Not some ex’s?”

Heat shot up your neck. “Are you seriously interrogating me right now?”

He leaned in, wine-stained and smirking, like the world’s most irritating outlaw. “Just makin’ sure I ain’t walkin’ into somethin’ I’ll regret.”

“Trust me,” you hissed, standing up and snatching your car keys. “The only regret here is me ever sitting next to you.”

And still—still—he followed you out of the restaurant, grumbling, but not enough to hide the fact that he was actually going to wear the shirt you brought him.

The night air was cooler than you expected, a breeze tugging at your hair as you unlocked the trunk. The overhead streetlamp buzzed faintly, making the whole scene feel more exposed than you liked.

You pulled out the folded plaid shirt and turned, holding it out. “Here. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Logan didn’t even hesitate. He just grabbed it, set it on the trunk, and started unbuttoning his ruined shirt like he was standing in his own damn bathroom.

Your jaw dropped. “You’re not seriously—Logan!”

“What?” he grunted, stripping off the wine-soaked flannel and shrugging it off his shoulders. “Ain’t like anyone out here cares.”

“I care!” you hissed, spinning halfway around, shielding your eyes with your hand. “This is a school function. People could walk out and—oh my god, you’re actually—”

“Relax,” he drawled, voice dripping smugness as fabric rustled behind you. “Ain’t like I’m givin’ you a show.”

“That’s exactly what it looks like!”

He chuckled low in his throat, pulling the fresh shirt over his head. “Then stop lookin’.”

You peeked—of course you peeked—and instantly regretted it. Broad shoulders. Muscles you had no business noticing. That scar along his collarbone.

You whipped your head back around. “Unbelievable. No sense of shame whatsoever.”

Behind you, the new buttons clicked into place. Then his voice, closer now: “Better?”

You turned slowly. He was grinning, faintly smug, looking far too comfortable in your brother’s old shirt. And—dammit—it did suit him.

You crossed your arms. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, tugging at the collar. “Already planning how I’m gonna ‘accidentally’ spill soup on you next time. Fair’s fair.”

You glared. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He smirked. “Wouldn’t I?”

Logan tilted his head toward the parking lot exit, already halfway thought to leave. “C’mon, let’s ditch.”

You folded your arms. “I can’t ditch. I left my handbag in there.”

He blinked. “...You’re kiddin’ me.”

“No, I am not kidding,” you said firmly. “That bag has my keys, my wallet, and my entire dignity in it. I’m not leaving without it.”

Logan gave a long-suffering groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really think anyone’s gonna steal it in a room full of teachers?”

“Yes,” you shot back instantly. “Teachers are theft professionals. Have you ever seen the staffroom fridge?”

That finally cracked him. His shoulders shook with a laugh he tried to smother, but the smirk slipped through. “You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?”

“Thank you,” you said primly, brushing past him toward the door. “Now come on. I’ve got dessert and a handbag to reclaim.”

Logan muttered something under his breath—sounded suspiciously like “stubborn woman”—but followed anyway, still tugging at the borrowed shirt like it was the most ridiculous thing that had ever happened to him.

Logan leaned one arm on the car roof, giving you that lazy, scheming look that always made your blood pressure rise.

“I could just grab your bag and leave. Say you’re already drunk and I’m driving you home.”

You squinted at him. “Why do you want me to join you in leaving the party early? I literally want a cheesecake. It’s free.”

His mouth twitched, like he was fighting a grin. “Cheesecake? That’s what’s keepin’ you here?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “Do you know how often the principal actually spends money on decent dessert? Once a year, tops. I am not missing it because you’re allergic to socializing.”

Logan huffed, muttering, “Cheesecake. Unreal.” He straightened, giving you a mock-serious look. “Fine, but when everyone starts whisperin’ about us sneakin’ back in together, that’s on you.”

You rolled your eyes, striding toward the doors. “Good. Maybe they’ll think you’re too busy dating me to keep scaring off the cafeteria ladies.”

He smirked, following right on your heels. “Oh, sweetheart, if I was dating you—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, glaring at him over your shoulder. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”

But the grin on his face said he absolutely would—eventually.

You pushed the door open with a little too much force, practically marching back into the dining hall. The chatter dimmed just a fraction—just enough for you to feel it.

Logan strolled in behind you, casual as ever, tugging at the cuff of the plaid shirt like he owned the place.

Mrs. Henderson, the librarian, spotted him first. Her fork froze halfway to her mouth. “Logan… weren’t you wearing blue before?”

Every head at the table swiveled.

You plastered on a smile that screamed nothing to see here. “I stained the shirt. It was a… wardrobe emergency.”

Mr. Patel raised an eyebrow. “And you just happened to have a spare men’s shirt lying around?”

You felt your soul leave your body. “It’s—not what you think—”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Chen whispered, grinning. “Matching outfits by spring, then?”

Logan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “She insisted I take it,” he drawled. “Said I’d look good in it.”

Your jaw dropped. “I did not!”

The table erupted in laughter, forks clattering, wine glasses raised like they were toasting.

Someone shouted, “Finally!”

Another added, “Knew it was only a matter of time.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I just wanted cheesecake,” you groaned.

Logan leaned down, voice low and smug. “Told ya they’d talk.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “I hate you.”

“Sure you do,” he said, snagging a plate of cheesecake from a passing tray and setting it in front of you with a wink.

The night had finally coughed up its last awkward toast and polite laughter. Teachers trickled out of the restaurant in clumps, still gossiping about you and Logan. You didn’t care. Your stomach was stretched to its limit, heavy with pasta and cheesecake, and the only thing you wanted now was sleep.

You leaned against your car, arms wrapped around yourself, head tipped back. “I’m too full to drive,” you muttered, groaning softly. “If I move, I’ll explode. They’ll find me in the parking lot, cause of death: tiramisu.”

Logan came strolling up, hands in his borrowed plaid’s pockets, looking irritatingly unbothered despite being the subject of half the night’s rumors. “Told you to ditch.”

You cracked one eye open. “And miss three types of dessert? Over my dead body.”

He smirked. “Thought that’s what you just said happened.”

You let out a laugh, weak and muffled. “Don’t make me laugh. It jiggles the cheesecake.”

Logan shook his head, leaning on the car beside you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re smug.”

“Maybe. But I ain’t the one leanin’ against my own car like I need to be rolled home.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Shut up. I’m savoring my victory.”

“Victory?” he echoed.

“I got my cheesecake,” you said proudly, eyes half-closed. “That’s a win.”

For a second, neither of you spoke. The quiet hum of the lot, the buzz of the streetlight above, and the warmth of his shoulder just a little too close—it all pressed in around you.

Then Logan chuckled low, glancing sideways. “Y’know, you’re somethin’ else.”

You smirked, without opening your eyes. “Don’t get poetic on me. I’m too full for compliments.”

He huffed, but stayed right where he was, shoulder brushing yours in the cool night air.

Logan tipped his head toward your keys dangling lazily from your fingers. “I could drive you home. We live in the same neighborhood.”

You cracked one eye open, squinting at him. “No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do,” he said evenly, like you were the one losing your mind. “I moved. Mid-year. It’s closer to school than my old place. Only fifteen minutes from my new lair.”

You straightened a little, suspicious. “Your lair?”

He smirked. “What else am I supposed to call it?”

“Uh, a house?” you shot back. “An apartment? Literally anything other than lair? People are going to think you’re plotting crimes in there.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

You rolled your eyes, still stuck on the first part. “Wait. Hold up. You moved? When?”

“Middle of the year.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“Not exactly somethin’ I announce on the morning bulletin,” he muttered, giving you a sidelong look.

You frowned. “How come? It’s nosy neighborhoods everywhere around here. I thought you liked your old place.”

He was quiet for a beat, staring at the ground like the words weren’t his usual type. Finally: “Too far from school. Got tired of the drive. This place is easier. Quieter than it looks.”

That surprised you more than you cared to admit. You studied him for a moment, then smirked to break the tension. “So… what, should I expect to see you lurking around the corner store now? Brooding over cartons of milk?”

Logan snorted, shaking his head. “If I ever catch you in pajamas at the gas station, I’m takin’ a picture.”

You snort. “You wish I get out to get gas in my pyjamas.”

“Everyone does it.” he drawled, sliding you that infuriating grin.

You squinted at him, still leaning against your car. “Wait a second. Where’s your bike?”

Logan’s jaw ticked, eyes narrowing just slightly. “At home.”

“At home?” you echoed, incredulous. “Since when do you not roll up everywhere like you’re auditioning for Sons of Anarchy?”

He gave you a long look, then shrugged. “Can’t exactly park a Harley in a nosy neighborhood without everyone peekin’ out their curtains. Figured I’d drive a truck for once. Less questions.”

You grinned, unable to stop yourself. “So you’re hiding it. Like a secret girlfriend.”

His head snapped toward you, glare sharp. “It’s nothin’ like that.”

“Oh, it is exactly like that,” you teased, enjoying yourself way too much. “Poor bike, abandoned in the garage, wondering why you don’t take her out anymore—”

“Alright, enough,” Logan cut in, rubbing a hand down his face. “You makin’ fun of me, or are you always this dramatic when you’ve had too much cheesecake?”

You smirked. “Both.”

He muttered something under his breath—sounded like “smartass”—but you caught the faint twitch of a smile before he could bury it.

You barely noticed the jingle until your keys were gone. Logan twirled them around his finger like he’d won some kind of prize.

“Hey!” you protested, straightening off your car. “Give those back.”

“Nope,” he said, already unlocking the driver’s side. “You’re too full of cheesecake to drive. Last thing we need is you noddin’ off at a red light.”

You groaned, stomping around to the passenger side. “Unbelievable. I can drive just fine.”

“Sure you can,” he said, settling behind the wheel like he’d done it a hundred times. “You can also spill wine with pinpoint accuracy. Doesn’t mean I trust ya behind the wheel tonight.”

Sliding into your seat, you crossed your arms and huffed. “Thank you, chauffeur.”

He smirked, starting the engine. “Careful. Keep talkin’ like that, I’ll start chargin’ fares.”

You side-eyed him. “What, in sarcasm?”

“Nah,” he said, glancing at you with that irritating grin. “Cheesecake.”

You groaned, slumping back against the seat. “You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

And with that, Logan pulled smoothly out of the parking lot, looking way too pleased with himself.

The drive didn’t last long. You’d promised yourself you’d stay awake, maybe toss a jab or two at your so-called chauffeur. But the combination of full stomach, soft hum of the truck, and the faint vibration of the road lulled you under before you realized it.

By the time Logan pulled into your street, you were out cold, cheek tipped against the window, breathing even.

He killed the engine, the sudden quiet filling the truck. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at you like he wasn’t sure what to do with the peace.

You, quiet, wasn’t something he was used to.

The streetlight outside washed a faint glow across your face, softening every sharp edge of sarcasm he usually braced himself against. He caught himself thinking—dangerously—that you looked almost… easy to be around like this.

He leaned back in the seat, arms crossed, and let out a long breath. Could’ve shaken you awake right then. Didn’t. Instead, he waited. Gave you that time.

When you finally stirred, blinking groggily, he tilted his head toward your house. “Welcome back to the land of the livin’,” he rumbled.

You rubbed your eyes, catching sight of him. “Did I—? Oh my god. Did I fall asleep?”

“Out like a light,” he said, mouth twitching. “Didn’t even make it past the first stop sign.”

Mortified, you groaned, covering your face. “Fantastic. Real professional. My chauffeur probably thinks I drool in my sleep.”

He smirked. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”

You snapped your head toward him, wide-eyed. “Did I?!”

He only chuckled, low and warm, and nodded toward your door. “Go on. Before I start addin’ late fees.”

You were still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, fumbling for your bag, when Logan’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Come on,” he said, leaning an arm over the steering wheel, “don’t make me carry you inside.”

Your head snapped toward him, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

He gave a lazy shrug, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “You look half-asleep still. Figured I’d save you the trouble of face-plantin’ on your own front steps.”

You scoffed, unbuckling your seatbelt with more force than necessary. “You are not carrying me. This isn’t some cheesy romance novel.”

“Could be,” he muttered, smirking as you froze with your hand on the door handle.

You whipped around. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” he drawled innocently, but his eyes glinted with mischief.

Rolling your eyes, you pushed the door open, mumbling, “I heard it,” as you stepped out.

He leaned across the seat, calling after you. “I’m serious—if you trip, I’m pickin’ you up. Won’t even hesitate.”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Try it, Logan, and I’ll dump a bucket of paint on your head next time.”

That earned you a low, satisfied chuckle that followed you all the way to your doorstep.

You slid your key into the lock, still muttering under your breath about smug chauffeur and cheesecake threats. The door gave its familiar little click—

And then came the crash.

A sharp, unmistakable thud from inside, followed by the sound of something toppling over.

You froze, hand still on the knob.

Logan was already moving. He straightened in an instant, shoulders squared, every line of him alert like a switch had flipped. “Stay here,” he muttered, low and firm.

You spun toward him. “Excuse me? This is my house.”

He shot you a look, fierce enough to pin you in place. “And if someone’s in there, it’s my problem now.”

Before you could argue, he brushed past you, pushing the door open with a cautious hand. His posture shifted—less school teacher, more predator.

“Logan—” you whispered, but he raised a hand, silencing you.

The air inside felt heavier somehow, every shadow stretched too long. He moved quietly, eyes scanning, muscles taut, like he’d done this a thousand times before.

You hovered at the doorway, heart hammering, torn between fear and the unsettling realization that you’d never seen him like this. Not just smug, not just irritating—deadly serious.

Another faint noise—something skittering deeper inside.

Logan’s jaw clenched. “Get your phone. Call police if I say so.”

You stiffened at the second sound, pulse racing… then squinted through the dim entryway. A flick of a tail, a sudden leap from the counter, and the culprit revealed itself.

“…No,” you exhaled, relief loosening your shoulders. “It’s only a cat.”

Logan paused mid-step, head tilting toward the blur of fur now perched smugly on your shelf. His gaze cut back to you, and you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

“Only a cat,” he repeated flatly.

“Don’t say it like that. She’s crafty,” you whispered, crouching to scoop the guilty little beast up before she could knock anything else down.

Logan stood there, arms crossed, watching you cradle the animal like it was a priceless artifact. His brows lifted. “So this is what had you ready to dive into a break-in.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You were ready to break someone’s neck over my cat.”

“Damn right,” he muttered, then looked away, clearing his throat like he’d said too much.

The cat purred in your arms, oblivious to the fact she’d just witnessed her owner’s favorite sparring partner nearly go feral over nothing.

You scratched the little furball’s chin and presented her like she was royalty.

“This is Snoofle. Snoof, for short. Very cuddly.”

Logan blinked at the cat, then at you. “…Snoofle?”

“Yes,” you said with complete seriousness. “She responds to it. Judge her, not me.”

He huffed out a laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “Figures you’d have a cat with a ridiculous name.”

You hugged Snoofle tighter, lips twitching. “Don’t insult her. She has more charm than you.”

The cat, as if on cue, stretched one paw toward Logan like she was extending an olive branch. He eyed it suspiciously, then tentatively scratched behind her ear.

“…Soft,” he admitted reluctantly.

“See? Cuddly.” You smirked. “She likes you. That’s rare.”

Logan glanced at you, gruff but unable to hide the faintest grin. “Guess she’s got bad taste, then.”

You yawned, scratching Snoofle’s chin one last time before setting her down. She immediately circled Logan’s boots like she’d known him all her life.

You folded your arms, leaning on the doorframe. “It’s late. See you tomorrow at school.”

Logan looked down at the cat still purring against him, then back at you. “Your cat’s not lettin’ me leave.”

“She’ll survive.” You waved him off with a tired grin. “Go. Before she climbs your leg and you’re stuck here all night.”

He chuckled low in his chest, finally stepping back. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Goodnight, Logan.”

He gave you one of those crooked half-smiles, already walking away. “Night, Snoof. Night… trouble.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and you found yourself glaring at Snoofle.

“Don’t you dare fall for his act.”

She meowed. Which, unfortunately, sounded suspiciously like agreement.

Few weeks later.

You were shoving books into your bag, balancing your coffee like a pro, when Logan appeared in the doorway of the art room, leaning casually against the frame. His smirk was already in place, like he’d rehearsed it all night.

“Morning, Picasso,” he drawled.

You froze, glaring. “Don’t you dare.”

“Dare what?” He sauntered closer, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room like he owned it. “Callin’ me smug already? Or was that part of your morning ritual?”

“You know exactly what I meant,” you snapped, sliding your coffee onto the counter. “I mean don’t you dare call me that in front of students.”

He raised an eyebrow, grin widening. “Or what? You gonna throw that brushes at me?”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the counter. “Try me, Logan. One wrong move and this brush set becomes a weapon of mass destruction.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “That’d be a shame. I kinda like walkin’ around covered in your artistic disasters.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you warned, stepping closer. “Or I’ll start ‘accidentally’ tripping over your feet in front of everyone. Every day.”

He leaned just a little closer, voice dropping. “And if I start… catching you? What then?”

You smirked, tapping a finger against your temple. “Then you’ll have to deal with a full-scale vengeance campaign. Starting with your coffee tomorrow.”

His smirk didn’t falter. “Sounds… dangerous. I like danger.”

“Good. Then I’ll make sure your entire week is hazardous. Consider this a threat.”

“Noted,” he said, voice low and teasing. “I’ll be watchin’. You better be worth it, Picasso.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, tossing him a pointed glare before striding to your easel.

He lingered just a moment longer, smirk still in place, watching you go like a predator quietly enjoying the chase.

You were halfway across the classroom, arms full of sketchbooks, when his voice cut through like gravel dipped in smugness.

“Dinner with me?” Logan drawled, casual as if he was asking about the weather.

Your brain short-circuited. Feet tangled. And before you knew it—thud—one sketchbook hit the floor as you tripped over your own shoe.

“Smooth,” he muttered, bending down to pick it up before you could recover.

You snatched it back, cheeks heating. “Don’t. Say. Stuff. Like. That.” Each word jabbed the air like a dagger.

“What? ‘Dinner with me’?” He leaned on a desk, arms crossed, grin tugging at his mouth. “You act like I just proposed marriage.”

“You might as well have shouted it through the school intercom!” you hissed, glancing at the door like a paranoid fugitive.

His smirk grew. “Relax. Not like the kids are listenin’.”

As if on cue, two passing students peeked in, whispering before giggling their way down the hall.

You groaned, covering your face. “I hate you.”

“Nah,” he said, voice low, with that infuriating confidence. “You just hate how much you’re thinkin’ about it now.”

You shot him a withering glare. “Threat still stands. Coffee. Tomorrow. Salt and rat poison instead of sugar.”

He chuckled, backing toward the door. “Better make it worth my time, Picasso. Friday night, seven.”

Before you could fire back, he was already gone, leaving you fuming—and dangerously aware your heart hadn’t stopped tripping since you did.

You nearly missed it—one break between classes, the hallway a thin ribbon of chatter and clattering lockers, and then Logan was at your table like he belonged there, two cold cans of soda clutched in his big hand. 

He held one in front of you with that infuriating half-smile. “I’m serious, Picasso. Have one dinner with me. If it turns out shit, we won't talk about it ever again.”

You smack his arm before your brain could think better of it, the smack more theatrical than painful, then jabbed a finger into his chest and dragged him—yes, actually dragged him—into the small corner of your classroom that hid behind a stack of drying prints and a tall rolling cart.

 The corridor noises muffled; the fluorescent light hummed; the smell of turpentine and wet paper wrapped around you like a familiar, messy blanket. “Shhh,” you hissed, voice low and sharp, because three passing sophomores had just slowed down and were obviously tuned to this exact frequency of drama. “Not out here, you idiot. We’re not a circus.”

He let you pull him until the corkboard hid most of him, and then tipped his head, soda can glinting. 

“Fine. Corner of shame it is. But are you gonna say yes, or keep playin’ coy while you stew about dessert choices?” His gaze was ridiculous—serious and teasing all at once—and for a beat you forgot how to sound clever.

You crossed your arms,  like armor, and recited terms with the solemnity of a treaty negotiator.

“One dinner. One. No tricks. No 'darlin’. You don’t bring it up at faculty meetings. If it’s awful, we walk away and pretend it never happened, and if it’s good—don’t get smug—then we’ll talk about it like normal idiots.”

You watched his mouth, waiting for the predictable scoff, the grab for leverage, the dramatic refusal.

Instead, he tipped the can toward you like a toast and his expression softened just enough to be dangerous.

 “Deal. No ‘darlin’ in public.” He paused, then added in that gravel voice that scraped right across your defenses, “But if it’s good, I reserve the right to be smug in private.” 

You rolled your eyes because of course you rolled your eyes, because of course he said that, but the tiny, traitorous part of you that loved the idea of being the cause of his smugness stirred and didn’t bother to hide.

 “Fine,” you said, because you always did. “This Friday. We meet at seven, Jim Smoke House. And you’re buying dessert.”

He let out a sound that might have been a laugh, then bumped your shoulder with his in a faux-affectionate shove.

 “Seven. Prepare to be underwhelmed.” He shoved the soda back at you as if that made it official and then turned to walk out, already slipping into the corridor.

You stayed in the corner a second longer, watching his broad back disappear between lockers, and somehow the room seemed a little less loud and a lot less lonely.

Friday night, you showed up early. Too early. The little restaurant you’d picked wasn’t fancy, but it had good cheesecake, and you’d convinced yourself it was the perfect middle ground: casual enough to downplay how much your stomach had been somersaulting all week, but nice enough to pass for a real date if anyone asked.

You sat at the corner booth, hair done, outfit picked after an embarrassing three outfit changes, and the soda can he’d handed you during break replayed in your head like a charm you couldn’t shake. This is ridiculous, you told yourself, drumming your nails against the table. It’s just dinner. It’s not even a real date. Just dinner.

The waiter came by once. Then twice. You ordered water just to look occupied.

Half an hour passed. Then an hour.

Your phone stayed stubbornly blank. No calls. No texts. Every minute your excitement soured a little more, like fruit left in the sun. The giddiness that had carried you all week curdled into a heavy, tight knot at the base of your throat.

By the time you finally stood, your legs stiff from sitting, disappointment burned hotter than any of your banter with him ever had. He hadn’t just been late. He hadn’t come at all.

No message. No excuse. Nothing.

You drove home in silence, every streetlight slicing through your windshield like it was exposing you. Like it was laughing at you. Snoofle met you at the door, purring, twining around your legs. You sank down on the floor, shoes still on, head pressed into her fur.

“Guess he thought it was funny,” you whispered.

Your phone buzzed once—just a junk notification. Still no word from him.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like sparring, or joking, or trading jabs. You felt… played. Like the punchline of a joke you hadn’t seen coming.

You switched your phone off, tossed it onto the couch, and muttered into the quiet, “Never again.”

Weekend, no news from him. Your mood worsen.

By Monday morning, his empty chair in the staffroom was impossible to ignore. Tuesday, the whispers started. it was like a game of hot potato—every teacher you passed seemed to ask you first.

“Any word from Logan?”

“You two are always at each other’s throats, don’t you know where he went?”

“Didn’t he tell you anything?”

At first you smiled thinly, deflecting with jokes. Maybe he ran away from grading papers. Maybe he finally lost a battle with the copy machine. Anything to keep your voice steady and your face neutral.

But by lunch on Wednesday, sitting in the lounge with your untouched sandwich, the dam cracked. A younger teacher leaned in, eyes curious, and asked, “So seriously—are you sure he didn’t tell you? You’re closest with him.”

Closest.

Something inside you snapped.

You slammed your Tupperware shut, the sound sharp enough to startle the poor girl. “I don’t know where he is. I don’t care where he is. And for the record, he’s not my responsibility. He’s a grown man who makes his own choices.” Your voice rose louder than you intended, brittle as glass. “So stop asking me like I’m his damn girlfriend.”

Silence swallowed the lounge. A couple of teachers looked down at their lunches; another suddenly found the bulletin board fascinating. Heat burned your face, your pulse hammering in your ears.

You shoved your bag onto your shoulder and stormed out before anyone could say a word. The hallway was blessedly empty, but your chest still ached with the weight of everything you hadn’t said.

He stood me up. He disappeared. And now you the fool who have to answer for him.

Snoofle would get an earful when you got home.

Thursday morning, just as you were pinning up a row of student sketches, you heard it. The gravel of his voice. Low, careless, too familiar.

“Morning, Picasso.”

Every muscle in your back went rigid. You didn’t turn. You didn’t breathe. You clipped the last sketch into place like he wasn’t even there.

He lingered in the doorway. You could feel him watching, could almost picture that infuriating half-smirk. “Nothin’? Not even a jab about my hair?”

You set the stapler down harder than necessary and crossed the room to grab another stack of work. Your silence was louder than shouting.

“Alright…” His voice shifted, softer now, like he wasn’t sure of the ground he was standing on. “I deserved that.”

You stacked the papers neatly, lined up the corners, anything to keep your hands busy and your eyes down.

He moved closer, boots heavy on the linoleum. “Hey—”

You finally looked up, your gaze cutting sharp enough to stop him mid-step. But instead of saying all the things that had been clawing your chest all week—Why didn’t you show? Why didn’t you call? Do you think I’m some joke to you?—you let the iciness in your eyes speak for you.

Then you brushed past him without a word.

The silence you left in your wake stung worse than anything you could’ve said. The last bell rang. You beelined to the door, with your handbag. Not forgetting the thumbprint time at the staff exit door. Screw him your heart screamed. 

You didn’t even hear his truck behind you until you were fumbling for your keys at your front door. Then—his voice, close, gravelly, careful.

“Don’t—don’t shut me out like this.”

You spun, every wound from the past week bursting open. “Don’t you start like that. You vanish for days, stood me up at the damn restaurant, make me look like a fool in front of everyone, and now you follow me home? Are you out of your mind?”

He tried to step closer. You backed up, jabbing your finger at him like it was a blade. “Stay there, Logan. I mean it. You don’t get to just stroll back into school, throw a nickname at me, and pretend nothing happened!”

He exhaled, sharp through his nose, and in two strides he was past your defenses, pushing the door open, guiding you inside with a grip that was all calloused warmth and quiet force.

“Sit,” he growled, pressing you down onto the sofa. His hands bracketed yours, heavy and grounding, rough thumbs brushing over your knuckles like he was afraid you’d bolt.

Your chest heaved, fury bubbling hotter than embarrassment now. He crouched low enough to meet your eyes.

“Okay. Listen.” His voice softened, the growl thinning to gravel. “I’m sorry I stood you up. That’s on me. That’s a shitty part from me. But I had an emergency back at my family. I didn’t get a choice.”

You scoffed, bitter laughter tearing free before you could stop it. “That’s convenient. No call? No text? Not even a scrap of an excuse? Just gone? What, you expect me to swallow that and—what—pat you on the back for showing up now?”

His jaw clenched. He didn’t flinch at that jab. He let the words hit him like punches and stayed exactly where he was, his hands warm and steady around yours, like he’d decided he wasn’t letting go until you heard him out.

His grip tightened around your hands, steady but insistent. His eyes—harder than usual, darker—held yours like he was anchoring himself.

“I’m a mutant,” he said, the words slow, deliberate, like he was testing how they sounded out loud.

You blinked. Then scoffed, rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. “And I have magic hands that can paint. Very funny. Real original, Logan. You stand me up, disappear for a week, then come back spinning comic book excuses?”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just stared, every line of his face carved in stone.

The silence hit harder than his words.

“…You’re serious.” Your voice dropped, unsure now.

“I ain’t jokin’ about this.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles again, rough but careful. “It’s why I disappear sometimes. Why I screw things up. Why I couldn’t—hell, why I didn’t show that night.”

You pulled your hands back, hugging them to your chest like you’d been burned. “So what, you expect me to believe you’re some kind of… enhanced guy?”

His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Yeah. ‘Cause I am.”

The air thickened between you, your heartbeat loud in your ears, the part of you that wanted to laugh it off fighting the chill that ran down your spine when you realized he hadn’t even blinked.

Your breath caught, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Like the mutant…”

It landed heavy in the space between you. The news, the whispers, the politics—those mutants. The ones parents ranted about at school board meetings. The ones half the staff whispered slurs about in the break room.

Your knees felt weak, and you lurched to your feet, putting distance between you and him. “Oh god.”

Logan’s head tilted, eyes tracking you as you backed away. No smirk now. No smart mouth. Just quiet, bracing himself like he’d seen this scene a hundred times before.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low, gravelly. “Like the mutant.”

You pressed a hand to your forehead, pacing a short line across your living room. “No. No, this is insane. You can’t just—drop that bomb like it’s nothing. You—” Your voice broke, sharper now. “You should’ve told me. From the start. Instead of… this.”

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, his gaze heavy. “Ain’t exactly the kinda thing you drop over coffee, darlin’. Don’t go down easy. Not for people like you.”

“People like me?” You snapped, spinning on him, hurt clawing under your ribs.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, weariness carved deep in the gesture. “Normal people. Teachers with neat little lives who don’t gotta hide half of what they are.”

Your throat tightened, words tangling somewhere between fury and fear.

Your voice cracked sharp, your chest rising and falling like you’d just run uphill.

“People like me? That’s rich. I ain’t like them. The ones that sit around at PTA meetings screaming about mutant kids in schools. Or the board members writing policies to shove you outta sight. You think…”

You swallowed, hard, words catching on the lump in your throat. “You think I hate you? Your kind?”

Logan’s brows knit, that unshakable mask of his slipping for the first time tonight. His mouth opened, then shut again, jaw working like he was chewing glass.

“Don’t matter what I think,” he muttered, gravel in his voice. “History’s taught me people don’t stick around long once they know.”

You stepped forward before you realized it, fists balled tight at your sides. “You arrogant ass. If I hated you, I’d have said it months ago. God knows you’ve given me enough reasons. But I don’t.”

For the first time since you’d met him, Logan looked caught off guard. Like he hadn’t prepared for this response—your anger, your disbelief, and the blunt edge of your honesty all tangled into one.

His jaw flexed, that familiar tight line when he was fighting something in himself. His claws hadn’t come out, but the weight of them sat between you, unspoken. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to yours, amber and raw, like they could cut through your anger if you let them.

“You really think I don’t know the difference?” His voice was gravel, low, edged with something that almost cracked. “I’ve smelled hate. I’ve lived in it. Waded through it ‘til it choked me. That ain’t what’s sittin’ in front of me right now.”

You swallowed hard, arms folding like a shield. “Then stop treating me like I’d break the moment you told me. I knew mutants are not all bad.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling rough. “Ain’t runnin’ from you… I was runnin’ from the mess that follows me everywhere.” His gaze softened, almost pleading. “But if you’re sayin’ you ain’t like the people who want to banish my kind… then prove it.”

"I thought mutant would be smarter than human... but you still slow at this, guess you're human with extra gene. That's all."

That earned a low, incredulous laugh from him, rough around the edges. He leaned back just slightly, shaking his head like you’d managed to punch a hole right through the storm brewing in him.

“Smartass,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it—just that rasping affection he never knew how to say straight. He leaned forward again, closer now, eyes narrowing at you. “So, what—you ain’t scared? Not even–..”

Before he could launch into another sarcastic retort—you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his. Just a quick, sharp claim at first… and then a second, longer one when you felt him hesitate.

He froze for a heartbeat, hands twitching like he didn’t know where to put them. Then a low, vibrating hum rumbled in his chest, vibrating right through your own heartbeat.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His amber eyes darkened, dangerous and warm all at once.

“You—” he started, gravelly and rough, but you silenced him with the tiniest brush of your finger against his lips.

“Still a man to me,” you warned, voice low, teasing, but your chest still racing.

He chuckled, a soft, almost feral sound that made your stomach twist in ways words never could. “Mmm… fine,” he murmured, leaning just a fraction closer, as if daring you to test him again.

Snoofle meowed loudly from the armrest, judging both of you. You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away, letting the quiet hum between you linger, dangerous and sweet.

Your defiance melted the moment his lips pressed against yours again—this time slower, deeper, a kiss that demanded attention, that claimed every ounce of tension between you.

You leaned into him without thinking, letting the anger, the frustration, the week of disappointment and fear wash away. His hands framed your face now, rough, warm, grounding. Every brush of his thumb along your jaw, every press of his chest against yours whispered that he wasn’t just sorry—he was here, completely, and this was real.

A low hum vibrated through him, deep and satisfied, vibrating straight into your chest. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, letting the heat of him anchor you.

When he finally pulled back just slightly, his forehead rested against yours, breaths mingling, uneven, intimate. “Better?” he rasped, eyes soft but edged with that signature growl.

You smirked, heart still racing, feeling the warmth of his hands lingering on your skin. “Yeah… better,” you admitted, almost breathless, almost daring him to push further.

After that last, lingering kiss, Logan didn’t pull away completely. Instead, he cradled you against his chest, arms heavy and firm, like he was afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip. Every rough edge of him softened in the way he held you—every muscle taut, yet careful, anchoring you as if you were the only thing keeping him steady too.

You let your head rest against his shoulder, heart hammering, every ounce of anger and tension from the week draining out in the steady beat of his chest beneath your ear. His hands cupped your sides, thumbs tracing absent patterns over your back, holding you like you were fragile, like you were all that mattered in the world right now.

“You… you’re not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice low, gravelly, almost a growl that carried warmth instead of warning. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face a little further into him. “You act like I’m about to dissolve.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to,” he muttered, tightening just slightly, enough to make the point without hurting. “Not ever.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled into his chest, though you didn’t move an inch out of his hold.

“Mm. Been called worse,” he grunted, chin resting on the top of your head. His hand slid up your back, warm and steady. “And you’re stayin’ put, so I’d say I’m winnin’.”

You tilted your head just enough to smirk at him. “Don’t get used to this. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to hating you again.”

His mouth quirked, a half-smile you almost missed. “Sure you will, Picasso. Sure you will.”

“Stop calling me that,” you groaned, smacking his chest lightly.

He chuckled, low and gravelly, squeezing you tighter like he was daring you to wriggle free. “Not a chance. Fits you too damn well.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t fight his hold, not really. “One day, Logan, you’re gonna choke on all that smugness.”

He leaned down, brushing his lips against your temple in a way that was too tender to ignore. “Worth it.”

And just like that, you knew—you’d never live this down ever.

Hope you guys love the ending but i think it a bit cliffhanger, no?? thinking of part 2 where you will meet the mutant students at Xavier's school... ugh.. need to write it tho- can you all just imagine the plots in your head HAHAHAHA

This AU is specifically Poolverine and is mostly inspired by the Deadpool and Wolverine movie, but does have other characters appearing in it. I like taking bits and pieces from other stuff, but it will mostly be these two. Chapter 1 is mostly a prologue/what leads into them meeting. I really really like writing for Logan so most of the fic will be mostly his side, though I do write in the 3rd person, he will be the "main" character. I will also write parts that mostly focus on Wade, but sometimes I feel silly trying to write him 💔

They're so fruity istg ❤💛

From the quarterdeck, in the dim glow of a lantern swinging overhead, Captain Howlett, a tall, broad-shouldered figure with wild, unkempt hair and a thick beard, scanned the horizon with eyes that had seen countless horrors and faced them all unflinching. From between his knuckles, three bone claws glinted ominously, reminders of his lethal prowess. The sight alone was enough to make even veteran pirates think twice before crossing him. No sailor could fully explain the phenomenon of the bones that slid between his fingers before he drove them into an enemy’s chest, nor could they comprehend the speed at which his flesh stitched itself back together in the heat of battle.

Across the Caribbean, Logan’s name grew in infamy. Spanish, English, Dutch, and French privateers alike retreated at the sight of the Sea Wolf’s masts on the horizon, hoping to avoid confrontation with the wild-eyed captain who seemed impossible to wound. Those who attempted to stand their ground seldom returned to confirm the whispers about his uncanny resilience. The man went by many names; The Claw, The Wolf of the Tides, but most commonly, The Dead Captain, they called him, a man who must have been sent by the Devil himself in search of souls to drag down to the burning pits of Hell.

On a stormy night in 1712, the Sea Wolf gave chase to a merchant brig called the Mary-Hope, rumored to be carrying precious silver and exotic spices. To the average crew, the howling wind and towering waves would have signaled caution, if not outright retreat - but for Captain Logan, the storm was merely another advantage. He urged the helmsman to press forward, the ocean spray stinging each crew member’s face like needles.

They caught the Mary-Hope within the hour. Grappling hooks and swinging lines shot across the gap between the ships, and Logan was first across, slashing through the enemy sailors with his bone claws. His roar rose above the storm, a sound that made men drop their swords on the spot. Lightning flashed to reveal the carnage - though outnumbered, the Sea Wolf’s crew pressed on, fueled by the presence of their unbreakable captain.

Despite gunfire and steel at every turn, Logan charged ahead. Several shots tore into his coat, blood appeared on his chest, only to vanish by the time he advanced a few more steps. In less than half an hour, the Mary-Hope’s deck was Captain Howlett’s domain, and its crew surrendered, trembling with fear of the pure animal violence displayed. Wet from both rain and the blood of their fellow seamen, the new prisoners saw firsthand the glare of a man who could not die.

When Logan stood before his own men, surveying the aftermath of battle, they gave him a berth of distance out of both awe and fear. They never voiced open defiance; you didn’t cross a man who survived sabers to the heart and emerged alive minutes later. Yet they admired him just as strongly, for never once had Logan asked of them something he wasn’t prepared to do himself. In the thick of combat, he was first to board an enemy ship, first to wade into the chaos of grapeshot and swords. If anyone fell injured, he was the one to haul them back, bellowing over the roar of cannons.

These loyalties ran deeper than the typical bonds of pirate crews; somewhere between terror and respect lay the secret admiration they held for their captain. They saw him as a force of nature, a phenomenon more than a man, and in their whisperings below deck, they spoke with hushed tones of Logan’s “devilish healing” - some calling it a blessing, others a curse.

By the 1720s, Captain Howlett’s reputation had grown so fierce that rival pirate captains considered joining forces against him. His biggest challenge came off the coast of Tortuga when an unlikely alliance of English frigates and Spanish corvettes lay in wait. The Sea Wolf cut through the blockade like a shark among minnows. Cannons thundered from both sides, smoke cloaking the azure water in a haze of black and gray.

In the midst of it all, Logan roared commands - his voice a razor through the din of cannon fire - and flung himself across one of the enemy ships. His bone claws, raw and dripping, tore down sailors faster than they could muster a counterattack. Musket balls ripped through his coat, and cutlasses slashed across his arms and torso, yet he refused to fall. Instead, he fought harder, red mist swirling where he should have been fatally wounded.

One by one, the allied ships either surrendered or were scuttled, terrified by the unstoppable fury they had attempted to cage. The Sea Wolf rumbled onward, battered but intact, led by a captain who stood upon the quarterdeck, muscles coiled, clothes stained with soot and blood but body miraculously unbroken.

By 1726, the pirate courts whispered that Captain Howlett had amassed enough wealth to buy an entire island, perhaps even a small kingdom. Yet his pursuits never seemed to wane - he chased challenge on the seas, not comfort on land. Wherever the Sea Wolf made anchor, locals stared and retreated from the crew’s path, well aware of the horrors those pirates could unleash at a single word from their invincible leader.

Ask any member of the Sea Wolf’s crew about their captain, and they’ll speak in hushed tones, voices wavering between reverence and fear. They admire his raw strength - evident in his rippling arms and the sinewy muscle that flexed whenever his claws unsheathed—but his true power lies in the fierce loyalty he shows them. Though a whirlwind of fury in battle, Captain Howlett insists on fairness: every bit of loot plundered from captured vessels is split in careful shares. Many a pirate has claimed that the Captain’s very presence on deck could still the harshest storm. He stands at the prow in silence, staring out into the horizon, as though in wordless conversation with the sea herself. To his crew, it is in those moments of calm that they sense something almost gentle beneath his hard exterior - like a beast that has found a pack worth protecting. However, loyalty is a two-way street, and betrayal is a sin not easily forgiven aboard the Sea Wolf.

One ill-fated night, an ambitious crew member, Garrett Finch, let greed overtake him. He pocketed several priceless pearls meant for the communal stash. Captain Howlett discovered the theft when the pearls were found hidden in Finch’s hammock, despite the thief’s desperate denial. The Captain’s claws slid out in one smooth, bone-rattling motion. Finch recoiled, horror etched across his face as the wind howled around them. Though he could have cut the man down in a heartbeat, Logan gave him just enough time to comprehend the depth of his treachery. The next few seconds were a blur of roars and screams, blood stained the deck. By the time the crew dared to move again, Finch was on his knees, eyes wide with terror, three ragged slashes across his face and chest. He wasn’t killed outright - Logan’s brutal lesson was meant not only to punish but also to warn. Stripped of any rank or claim on the spoils, Finch was banished at the next port they reached and left as living evidence of The Dead Captain’s cruel justice.

For the rest of the night, nobody spoke a word. The deck glistened wet beneath the stars. Captain Howlett’s temper had subsided almost as quickly as it had erupted. He turned away without fanfare, returning to his post at the helm. The message was clear: no quarter or mercy would be given to those who wronged their brothers aboard the Sea Wolf.

When the Sea Wolf finally reached a place of respite - the infamous safe-haven port of Nassau known for catering to pirates and rogues - spirits on board lifted. Lantern-lit pubs and winding streets thrummed with music and laughter, the air thick with the scent of rum and roast meat. Locals and dock workers bustled, shouting welcomes and offers of fresh water for the ship.

No arrival caused more of a stir than Captain Howlett’s. Women on the balconies waved embroidered handkerchiefs and fluttered their lashes at the rugged man stepping down the gangplank. Despite his wild exterior and the dangerous edge in his eyes, he tipped his head politely at the ladies, a faint ghost of a smile creasing his lips. Some were bold enough to call out, offering a night of comfort or a chance to banish the loneliness they sensed under all that hardened steel. Logan, ever haunted by the storms in his mind, could scarcely focus on such invitations, however. The toll of countless battles and the pursuit of the next treasure weighed on him. Though he might manage a soft-spoken “ma’am” or a short bow, his thoughts drifted, his gaze slipping past them to the open ocean. Deep in his core, he felt more at home among the crashing waves and howling winds than in the warmth of a woman’s embrace. Still, he did not begrudge the attention - at the end of the day, he was a man, a pirate. Logan accepted their eager affections for a night before he returned to the tasks that only he could shoulder.

And so, the Wolf of the Tides continued on, bound by both duty and the siren call of the sea. His bone claws remained a promise and a threat, as likely to save his crew as to punish them if they turned traitor. Yet beneath that stern surface, a flicker of a wounded soul occasionally shone through - his loyalty a testament that true strength goes hand in hand with a fierce determination to protect his own.

Stories still circulate about Captain Logan Howlett of the Sea Wolf. Some sailors say they’ve encountered him in hidden coves, alive and as brash as ever, despite the century that has passed. The only physical difference in the seafarer’s appearance being the thickness and length of his unruly beard and hair, as if he had not aged a day out in the harsh sun on the seas. Others dismiss him as a myth, a cautionary tale invented by superstitious mariners. But if you ask those who felt the dread of his bone claws and saw bullets bounce off his hide, they’ll swear that The Dead Captain was - and perhaps still is - real as the ocean itself, forever roaming the waves in search of the next unstoppable storm.

🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Him and Han don’t get along very well, again, they’re practically the same person. Han taunts and teases Leia, Logan you.

Luke gets tired of the arguing during meal time, hearing Han arguing with Leia, and Logan arguing with you makes him want to willingly spend time with Threepio.

Missions are the worst—the 5 of you stuck in a ship with Artoo and Threepio is always a disaster.

The worst part? There are only 4 seats in the cockpit, and Han and Chewie are always in the pilot and co-pilot’s seats. That means you, Luke, Leia, and Logan have to argue about who gets the two seats.

You and Leia argue you both should get the seats since you’re the only women. Luke usually shrinks and offers to stand. Logan? Crosses his arms, grunts, and refuses to budge. “You got legs, sweetheart. Use ‘em.”

You threaten to shove him out the airlock at least once a day. He starts bringing random crap into the cockpit just to take up space—like his boots, a cigar, or his coat—claiming “this seat’s taken.” Leia rolls her eyes. You plot his slow, dramatic death.

But then on longer flights, when you fall asleep in the back, you always wake up with his coat draped over you. He grunts and claims “Chewie did it.”

He says he’s only in it for the money, but he’s always volunteering for the dangerous missions.

Han tries to call him out: “You’re worse than me, old man.” Logan replies, “Least I don’t run when things get messy.”

Logan has zero patience for droids. Artoo shocks him at least twice.

He teaches you how to fight dirty. “No such thing as a fair fight in a war, darlin’.”

When someone questions Leia’s leadership, Logan is the first one to growl, “you got a problem with a woman in charge?”

He never salutes, never calls anyone “sir,” and never follows protocol—Luke finds it endlessly stressful.

The only person he half-respects is Chewbacca. They grunt at each other across the ship like war veterans.

You’re the only one who can get him to actually do anything without arguing first—but only if you call him out in front of everyone.

He has his own sleeping bunk but is rarely in it—he falls asleep in cargo holds, under tables, or sitting upright in the cockpit.

Hates flying. Claims he likes his feet on solid ground. Will gripe the entire time during takeoff.

Has a scar across his knuckles from punching a stormtrooper helmet clean off—didn’t even flinch.

Calls the Force “hocus pocus” and Jedi “laser stick weirdos”—until he sees Luke nearly die and then helps carry him back, muttering “kid’s got guts.”

Has killed at least three bounty hunters who came looking for him—on the same day.

Refuses to wear a Rebel uniform. Only ever wears his beat-up leather jacket, black shirt, and whatever boots he didn’t lose in the last skirmish.

You’re the only one allowed to patch him up. If anyone else even tries, he growls and walks off still bleeding.

One time a rookie pilot asked if he was your bodyguard. He cracked his neck and said, “Nah. She’s mine to protect.”

When you’re cold on outer rim nights, he doesn’t offer his jacket. He just mutters, “Get over here,” and opens his arms. You roll your eyes. But you always go.

If a mission goes wrong and you’re separated, Logan always finds you. “How?” you ask once. “I can smell you. You use too much soap.”

Hates being thanked. “Don’t get soft on me, sweetheart. Makes me itchy.”

The first time you kissed, it was after an explosion. You were yelling at him for being reckless. He grabbed your face and kissed you mid-rant. “Shut up before I start liking your voice too much,” he growled.

Refuses to use comms unless absolutely necessary. When he does use them, it’s to say something like, “I’m out. Five bodies. You good, sweetheart?”

Keeps a holopicture of you—one Han took while you were laughing and flipping Logan off. He pretends it’s not in his locker, but Chewie saw.

You once caught him fixing something on your blaster in secret. He denied it. “Must’ve been the maintenance droids.” “It was set to stun, Logan.” “Yeah. Can’t have that.”