mental breakdown in the making…

ben | she/her | french | 21 | sleep deprived film student🪐

[benispunk]

Masterlist

Hey! Welcome! I write from time to time and you can find my stuff right here💘

(ps: Y/N is a female reader and I mostly write fluff and angst, I can’t write smut because i cringe everytime I try to write something close to that)

Marvel

Logan Howlett

Good Company

Lucky Number

Ticklish

All Is Bright

If I Had The Chance

Safety Net

New Perfume

Wade Wilson

The Best Dead Man Alive

Series:

logan howlett x reader

Who's That Girl? Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 (completed!)

Iron Dad & Spiderson

One Special Name

The Concert

---

[unificsation]

so @grumpyahjumma and i were talking and she said something about staying in with logan on a rainy day and i just… 😭😭😭 i want that. so i wrote that. MY FIRST OLD MAN!LOGAN DRABBLE <3

suggestions are always welcome in my ask box <3 i’m not the most productive writer but i promise i’m always thinking about your asks! i’m also writing for bucky now, so please send bucky thoughts!!!! hehe

oasis

oldman!logan x gn!reader, 0.9k

The sky’s crying.

A gift, and a much-needed one. El Paso’s desert blooms rejoice as they drink their helping of water after nearly three weeks of punishing heat in an arid landscape.

The Chrysler is parked. Logan manages to walk in right as the shower bursts into a full-on downpour. The faint petrichor only lasted for two stretched-out minutes.

His footsteps almost echoes in the dim space of the smeltering plant—clouds and rain pelting against the rusted windows mean less light from the outside. A dark grey late afternoon.

Charles is asleep. He stares at the older man for a while, as if pondering the frailty of who was supposed to be—and stillis—the strongest of them all, before making his way back to his quarters.

A cling-wrapped plate of empanadas sit silently on the dining room table. Must be your doing.

He leaves them be. Food is not what he’s craving.

He finds you in bed, legs half tangled in-between the sheets like you can’t decide if it’s too warm or too cool. From the doorway, his ailing eyes catch the steady rise and fall of your chest, casting a shadow of his figure upon the already darkened room. You’re on your side, fast asleep, none the wiser to his presence.

Wearing his shirt and nothing else.

A heavy sigh escapes him. Whether he’s collapsing from the burdens of the day or from something else, he’s not quite sure. He takes off his jacket and drapes it on a chair, then his shirt, until he’s left wearing undershirt and slacks. He slips onto the bed behind you, a soft grunt as he does so, the give of the soft surface almost forcing his joints to relax.

Then your scent hits him. All over the pillows and sheets. All around him.

He shifts, arms wrapping around your waist while his nose finds the crook of your neck like it always does. Inhaling. Exhaling. Letting the different notes of you in his system, as if you’re the thing that sustains him—shampoo, skin, and a hint of spice.

Maybe it’s the weight of his arm that causes you to murmur, slowly stirring. He strokes your hair and kisses your shoulder, trying to placate you back to sleep, but you sigh and yawn, and he knows he’s woken you up.

“‘s just me,” he rumbles. Too late. You’ve turned around, hazy half-lidded eyes peering into his.

“You’re back,” you hum, nuzzling into his chest like a spoiled house cat. His arm tugs you close and the metal in his bones melt into something lighter, not without a twinge of pain in his chest.

This is what he’s craving.

Your breath tickling his collarbone, hands curled around his undershirt, like you’re happy he interrupted your nap. The soft smile on your face says just as much.

“I cooked and put Charles to bed,” you whisper, voice still laden with sleep. “He’s talkative today.”

Logan doesn’t reply, but feels the good news in his body the most, how his tired lungs seem to expand a little more when he breathes in. What would he do without you? You smell like a lifeline, one that he’s tethered himself to, latched on with wolf-like teeth on your neck, which you always seem to freely offer.

A gift. A beautiful one.

He kisses the crown of your hair and inhales.

A strong gust of wind sends rain hurtling down harder, its torrents hitting the glass like a million loud drums, but the room is still, save for the few sacred motions of his body and yours.

His hands slipping under your shirt—his—to skim lightly up your ribs and nestle on your back. Inhale, exhale.

His.

The flutter of your eyelashes against the space between his shoulder and chest, as you blink. Slow. Sleepy.

His.

His chin on the top of your head.

His.

Just the two of you in this bed, and you’re his.

“Nap with me?” you ask, fingers quietly tracing the path of veins on his arm.

“For a while,” he mutters.

A terrible lie.

He’d stay here forever if he could. Denounce the dust of roads traveled if it means ending up where you are. Where he lay next to you like this and count the beat of your heart above the storm.

You lean up and cradle his face before kissing him. He mirrors your motions, keeping a hand on your jaw while his lips part, tongue already searching yours like it’s missed you. And it has—his entire being has.

Once upon a time, he was afraid. Tried to get you to leave before you became precious enough to hurt him. But not anymore. Not when you place desert willows in a mason jar on the dining table to “make the room smile a little”. Not with the way your arms slip around him like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do.

Not with your mark all over the soft corners he didn’t know existed within him.

You let out a quiet sigh, deepening the kiss, fingers carding through his hair. For a moment, he forgets. Every bruise, every bullet hole, every cut on his flesh.

He forgets what hurt means.

Because this is where he can truly breathe. Where his bones find rest—a kind of rest so pure he can’t help but wake up another day and try again. Where century-old dirt gets washed away, as ardent as desert rain. The fount he leashed his fate to. His life-giving pond.

His oasis.

[benispunk]

"You smell like a lifeline, one that he’s tethered himself to, latched on with wolf-like teeth on your neck, which you always seem to freely offer."

Okay Shakespeare???? that was SO SO SO GOOD!!!!!! 🩷🩷🩷🩷

[viviale]

𝐂𝐑𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐋.

do you always trust your first initial feeling?

special knowledge holds true, bears believing

how the faces of love have changed, turning the pages

and i have changed, oh, but you, you remain ageless

i turned around and the water was closing

all around like a glove

like the love that had finally, finally found me.

logan howlett pours his everything into hugs. it’s hard for him to tell you that he loves you, it always has been. he hesistates to put his feelings into words, fearing that as soon as he acknowledges his happiness, it will be taken away. every time he commits to someone, it’s over. so he decides to keep quiet. his hugs however? they speak louder than words.

nothing remains unsaid when he holds you. his arms lock around your shoulders, pulling you in close close close. as if to make sure that if it weren’t for the layers of clothes, skin and flesh, there’d be nothing seperating your hearts. your face is smushed into his chest, and you’re engulfed by a faint scent of leather and wood. completely and utterly surrounded by him. his head rests on yours, and occassionally, you feel his lips brush against your hair.

logan hugs you as though he fears you’ll slip from his grasp. he hugs you like it counts, because it does. even now, the ever present threat of a mission gone wrong is quietly looming over your connected bodies. if it’s not that, fate will find some other way to turn bliss into pain. maybe he’ll outlive you, doomed to watch you die of a natural death while he is cursed to be alive forever. or maybe you’ll finally realize that he’s not good enough for you, that you deserve so much more, and walk away, leaving him to drown in his bitterness. either way, it is bound to happen sooner or later.

but please… not today. he wouldn’t be able to take it. so he shields you, pressing your body against him with all his strenght, knuckles turning white as his fingers cramp. he breathes you in, so he won’t forget what you feel like even if you were to be taken from him in the next second.

it’s so easy with you, he thinks as he listens to your heartbeat. he was lost when you found him. a flash of fear in his eyes, mistrusting everyone that stepped to close. but when he first felt your arms around his waist, your calming presence flowing out of you in quiet smiles and gentle touches, he knew he was a goner.

that feeling never went away. you never went away. no, somehow, you stuck around, glued to his side throughout everything he had to go through. and the way you looked at him never changed. the subtle smile on your lips, the knowing glimmer in your eyes. his center of gravity in the whirl of chaos. a grip, something to hold on to while everything else dissolved like quicksand.

his crystal, glowing with love just like the first time.

and as your light shines upon him, he forgets about his fears for a while. maybe, if you hold onto him as tightly as he holds onto you, the current won’t be able to pull you out of his arms just yet.

[benispunk]

this is a drug and I’m an addict (read this 500 times)

[the-crooked-library]

just saw the new Superman and yknow what I keep thinking about?.. when he’s fighting Luthor’s diversion in Metropolis, Clark is making every effort to isolate it to a relatively open space (the park). damages are at a minimum. but that takes time, it’s not efficient enough, so then the corporate-funded Justice Gang shows up - and oops, suddenly buildings are being swept off their foundations, civilians in direct line of fire, the city core is getting ripped apart. he’s scrambling to save children, squirrels, people caught in the red zone while the others are more interested in punching the big monster. the story makes it absolutely clear that corporations don’t care about life or harm reduction, and in a world in which superheroes are already normalized, this kindness is what sets Superman apart

[depsidase]

[dandelionsresilience]

Just gonna drop these here as a starting point :)

How to identify, and then deal with, your emotions

Emotional regulation skills

Conflict resolution skills

Creating and enforcing boundaries

Dialectical Behavioural Therapy skills

Emotional intelligence ideals to aim for

Axes of self-care/wellbeing

Self-care self-evaluation (find out where you’re starting)

How to make a self-care checklist

How to start a self-care habit

Reparenting resources

Crash Course Psychology

KhanAcademy: Understanding the Self and Society (some units more relevant than others)

Emotional education activities for children and teens

Social-Emotional Learning activities for kids (information can be adapted for adults)

[unificsation]

Logan x reader who gets talked over or interrupted or ignored pretty often by everyone so when she’s talking to Logan and he’s not directly looking at her or nodding or looking actively listening to her she’ll stop talking and say sorry thinking he doesn’t want to listen to her talk

oof, anon this hit close to home 😩 thank you for trusting me with this idea. i hope you don’t mind the liberties i took!

on another note, i rarely get asks that aren’t smut, so this is fun. smut is great but i’d love to get more non-smut suggestions just to flex a different writing muscle. if you have any ideas please send them in <3

all ears

logan x gn!reader (if you squint), 0.9k

WARNINGS: slight angst, reader is a mutant and teaches at the institute, nickname ('doc'), science mumbo-jumbo that i pulled out my ass, the pairing is very slight you can interpret this as platonic!!

You finish the rest of your sentence with the energy levels of a car on a dead-end street. The journey is grammatically complete with nowhere else to go. Something about ion channels and neurotransmitters, a part of the ongoing research Hank asked you about. 

The pantry is unusually occupied today, with nearly all the teachers taking their lunch break, forming a loose circle within their various places in the room rather than sitting at the table like you and Hank are.

You must have babbled on for too long because Hank—the person who initiated the conversation—chose to call Scott out about moving the blue tupperware in the fridge. This devolved into friendly banter, Jean ribbing into his ‘animal senses’ from the corner of the pantry, and you silently wishing you hadn’t spoken so much in the first place.

The stare you pin on a vague spot in front of you feels like a thread cut off from its needle. Untethered by sudden purposelessness. Why are you still here, when the bitter taste in your mouth is killing your appetite?

The truth is, this happens.

Often enough to make you question yourself: did you really become an educator to nurture young minds, or were you so desperate to be listened to, for once in your life? Is this your way of compensating for your lack of command over a room? By choosing one where people have to pay attention?

Not great thoughts, to say the least, but you’ve learned to tolerate them like they’re negligent roommates in your headspace.

The same way you’ve trained yourself to be alright with this. To finish your sentence, to not take the interruption personally, and to move on. 

It’s probably your fault, anyway. Hank was being polite, and it’s tactless to talk about yourself so much. Even if it’s research you are conducting on yourself.

Even if he was the one who asked.  

The room has long shifted into a much more lively conversation involving many more people. The kind that needs you to speak even louder. The kind that’s hard to find your place in, like trying to find a seat in a dark and crowded lecture hall.

Not that you want to, with the way the sting in your chest remains.

It’s a little needle prick that echoes longer than it should. You’ve felt this before, faced this brand of hurt for years and years of your life. You thought you’re used to it.

Guess you’re not. 

“So that makes you stronger or somethin’?”

The rumble comes from your side. Not Hank. 

Logan’s perched at a barstool, nursing a mug of black coffee. Or whisky, you really can’t tell. In his other hand are carelessly folded morning papers, his eyes pinned on a page. He’s stationed there like a weathered landmark, unmoving and silent, as if he has no choice but to be there.  

You didn’t think he, of all people, was listening.  

“Sort of,” you reply, pushing past your surprise. “When receptors are exposed to compounds that excite them, it’s harder for the limbic system to resist, and I can affect the first messenger hormone instead of the ones downstream to—”

You catch yourself. He’s not even looking at you. 

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I’m rambling. Yes, but there are conditions.”

There. A nice summarized response. Was that really so hard? you scold yourself internally.

“So if a fella’s quakin’ in their boots, it’d be easier to influence them?”

You blink, glancing over at him. His figure cuts imposingly against the sunlight that streams in, outlining him like an accidental Renaissance painting. He takes a sip, still not moving from his seat. Still reading.

Still talking to you.

“Yes,” you nod. “Although that’s not the only way synaptic receptors can be sensitized.”

“Fear’s the best way I can sensitize ‘em, doc.”      

You chuckle. The sound surprises you. You don’t realize you feel light enough to laugh.

Hank and Scott are still bickering, now about container labels. Jean placates like a reluctant mother hen, preferring to talk to an engrossed-looking Kitty about something too esoteric and distant to catch up on.

It doesn’t hurt anymore, that tender space in your chest.

“Hear that, furball?” Logan says a little louder.

“What?” Hank turns. 

“Doc here was talkin’ to you,” Logan replies, not looking up from his paper. “Sensitized reception and whatnot.” 

“Receptors,” you correct, holding back a smile.

On another day it’d be funny to point out that Hank voluntarily responded to a nickname he so hates, but for now, there’s an arrhythmic thump in your chest. Not because Logan lassoed the scientist back into the conversation he unwittingly exited. 

But because Logan listened. The entire time you were talking to Hank… he was listening.

Hank blinks, finally settling his gaze on you like a person who just found their glasses.

“Oh, right. Apologies. You were saying?”

You repeat yourself to Hank. Though the words you pick are shorter, more controlled, you feel a sense of ease this time. Gravity’s not the only thing keeping you steady. There’s something else.

Someone else.

A quick glance to your side. 

Logan’s eyes are still on the paper. Your stomach stirs, but not unpleasantly. Like flutters of butterfly wings that tickle your insides when you come to a realization. 

His eyes aren’t moving, aren’t even scanning.

He’s not reading anything. 

You smile. 

Yeah, he’s listening.

[benispunk]

kicking my feet in the air

[benispunk]

omg I just saw a tiktok about a guy getting a zero for an essay that he wrote himself but the professor said no it’s AI there’s an « em dash » and because I had no idea what an em dash was so I went to check and it’s just using « — » when you write like — you do this. And the thing is I use this all the time??? like I write all the time using this line and I’m like??? what if people think I use ai???? like please everything is from my crazy mind and sometimes I ask for good translations of things I can’t put in English but like???? thank god I learned about this now, I’m starting my master degree soon and my thesis was about to be em dashed a whole damn lot

[unificsation]

HI IM HERE WITH A NON SMUT ASK !!! it is a bit specific but you can adjust things if you need to 🤍 was wondering if you could do a fic where reader is chronically ill and struggles to ask for help, and logan is his usual attentive self and gives her a hand 🥺 i’m thinking it would be cute if they’re neighbors, or newly dating but reader hasn’t revealed their typical struggles to him yet. i have fibromyalgia and it’s really hard to get through pain flares sometimes, so it’s nice to imagine logan coming to check on me when he hasn’t heard from me and helping me through it by bringing me food/groceries, taking out the trash, making sure i don’t hurt myself on the way to the bathroom, etc. if you’d prefer to not make the reader chronically ill they could just be normal sick!! i just want to be cared for by lo when i’m super unwell basically 😭

ANON!!!! I LOVE YOU I WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU 😭😭😭😭

i wasn't familiar with fibromyalgia and had to do some googling. the first resource i encountered was this one by mayo clinic... and it was all about affirming that it's real and that patients aren't just depressed or imagining it. that really sobered me up. hopefully the stigma around it is not so harsh today, and that research on it is gaining traction.

this fic spiralled into something that might have deviated from your initial request. i ping-ponged about the decision of making this a soulmate!au, specifically the type that shares pain. having logan with a fibro!reader became so interesting to me—he heals, reader has chronic pain.

i hope you don't mind and i'm crossing my fingers that it's still comforting to you.

i worked really hard on this, not just the depictions of illness but also with everything else. a lot of first times for me—first time writing soulmate!au, origins!logan, and depicting an illness 🥹

please let me know if the fibro is not accurate, we can work together to fix it!!! 🫶

move mountains

origins!logan x gn!reader, 7.3k WARNINGS/TAGS: SOULMATE!AU (PAIN-SHARING), descriptions of pain and chronic illness (fibromyalgia, see reader tags below), no smut but implied intimacy, falling in love quickly, blood and minor injury, nicknames ("sweetheart") READER TAGS: reader is gender-neutral (please dm me if you find gendered words in here!), reader has fibromyalgia, reader is able-bodied, mentions of stroking reader's hair

You don’t remember life without it.

Maybe there was a time when it didn’t exist. When you were young, when there wasn’t enough sentience for memory to take root. A time when your youthful limbs were free to skip and run, no heaviness to drag them down. A time when waking up felt like the start of a new opportunity instead of repeating the same old pain.

And then you learned of soulmates.

When children your age sighed, dreaming of finding the one, you were the loneliest you’ve ever been. A solid weight, a rusted chain around a lamppost, tethered to nothing, scraping the ground in solitude.

When other fifth graders poked their palms gently with a pencil, hoping a certain someone in class would feel it too… you wished you didn’t have a soulmate in the first place.

You learned the hard way not to offer this particular opinion so freely. Fifth grade was a lonely mess because of it. 

Years went by, as they are wont to do. There were more and more days when tying your shoelaces was as difficult as a gold medal Olympic sport. It was on those days that your mind often found itself twisting. Confused, just for a moment, at the reality of it. 

Maybe it was never you. Maybe it was them.

Maybe the reason you had to miss Brenda’s birthday party—the one everybody went to—the reason your favorite outfit felt all wrong and scratchy all over you couldn’t even breathe… was them. Your soulmate. Maybe they were the source of your hurt.

Maybe everything, the sensations in this body, the pain, was their fault, not yours. 

You cried so much that day.

Even now, past the larger real-world bricks adulthood threw at you, you can still feel it if you think about it enough. The emotional bruise eclipses the physical.

But you know it isn’t their fault.

The first time you felt your soulmate’s pain, you knew as certain as the blood that ran through your veins: it wasn’t yours.

It felt… different. The sensation was as bright as a primary color. In between your knuckles on both hands was a dull throb, three-pointed and went away as soon as it came. 

As real as it tingled, you recognized that it was far away. A layer of discomfort that’s separate from yours, echoed into your body like a ripple that calmed at the edges. A ghost of the original, painted on your body like a faded counterfeit canvas.

It happens often. The knuckles in particular. Sometimes it’s on your torso, your arms, your legs, lightly punishing parts inside of you that you don’t exactly know. They rarely linger.

That time in fifth grade, when you told your study group you wished you didn’t have a soulmate and turned the entire class against you?

You remember thinking: they must be suffering because of you. 

You wished you didn’t have a soulmate because they’d have to carry your suffering. And you wouldn’t wish this kind of suffering on anyone.

The kind of suffering that leads to dismissive doctor’s orders that cost too much money, marked by clipped tones after trying your best to explain yourself. The kind that invites questions, so many of them. Well-intentioned folks that can’t relate to half of what you’re going through. Skeptics accusing you of passing your soulmate’s pain as your own—or worse, of being lazy.

What would you say to your soulmate, should you ever meet them? “I’m sorry for making you feel like you’ve got full-body bruises every day”? 

You moved the moment you could.

You left your town, taking all your savings, a secondhand car that has nearly ten times the miles of the Pan-American Highway, and whatever stuff you can fit in the trunk and backseat. The pain came with, of course. 

The destination?

Somewhere remote. All the way west and past the border, a Canadian town whose skyline is cradled by majestic ridges. A place where spring’s wildflowers speckle a horizon line, where thick ice melts into crystal clear waters.

You chose a place so far away as if you could shed your ache among the interstate dust.

Because far meant a lot less people, and that meant a lot less noise. A lot easier to pretend soulmates didn’t exist. 

What you didn’t know was that running away led you right to the one person you’d never want to meet.

The first time Logan spots you is at a hardware store.

He isn’t supposed to be there. Some spat between the delivery guy and the boss, and suddenly he’s the one loading and unloading timber across town.

Your soft blue sweater looks like a little lake between aisles of caulk and paint. An out-of-place loveliness that pulls him in, footsteps on tile. He can see the deep crease between your brows as you bring a tub of what looks like putty closer to read the label. You’re muttering.

“Can I help you?” 

You turn. He blinks, taking you in—your eyes, the part of your lips. 

“I just want to understand why there are so many types of spackling paste,” you sigh exasperatedly.

He forces his attention past how pretty he finds you and starts asking questions: if you have experience patching up walls, how big the cracks are, the material of the walls.

From there he finds out that you’ve moved into that little lot up at Saddle Peak, a house that’s only ten minutes from his on a dirt road. A place just as remote, except it’s more woods than mountaintops. He learns that you work at the library, the only one in town.

The small talk gives him time to study your eyes. The shape of them. Something about the way you look at him makes him stop and wonder: what exactly have they seen that made you come here, of all places? Most folks your age yearn for more. Bigger.

Maybe you’re running from something.

Whatever it is, it’s none of his business. A deserter like him should know.  

He picks up a container that has ‘FAST ‘N FINAL’ printed on it in big red letters.

“Use this. Dries faster, sands easier.”

“Well, thank you so much, um…”

“Logan.” 

You smile. “Thank you, Logan.”

Then you offer him your name and a handshake, and there’s an imperceptible lurch under his ribcage. A flicker of a glow, a stirring of gears. He nods at you like the vowels that form your name didn’t slap him awake. A man like him shouldn’t be allowed to taste thrills—and this shouldn’t feel like a thrill in the first place, not in this place with its harsh overhead lights and the smell of lumber he just came to deliver.

Something tells him it’s not just electricity. For one second, the fibers that keep him together flutter. The kind of sensation deep in his bones, a signal for something big. 

He leaves you for the parking lot, but his mind stays in that aisle, picturing you in that blue sweater with a tub of putty, probably wandering the store for more things to fix up the brick house up on Saddle Peak.

You seem like the type to prefer plaid tablecloths over polkadots. Lilies over roses.

He wonders if he gets to know for sure.

The second time is hard to miss when your car is parked next to his outside the grocery store. 

He sees you lean, one hand over the open trunk door, looking wearily at the two brown bags on the ground like you regret buying them. He doesn’t ask any questions, just puts a hand in his pocket, the other resting on the top of his Chevy.

“You alright?”

You blink, a little startled. “Oh. Logan. Hi.”

“Those yours?” 

You nod. 

Before you can protest, he grabs them and places them neatly along with the rest of the bags in the trunk of your car. There’s a sense of giving up on your face, like you’re too tired to fight some kind of unseen enemy.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

“Headin’ home?”

“Yeah. You?”

He nods. “I could help.”

“Hm?”

“Carry those,” he nods at the bags. “Make it one trip instead of two.”

You look like you’re weighing your choices and he finds himself hoping for a certain outcome, as if war hasn’t taught him enough about hope.

“Only if you have nothing better to do,” you finally say. He lets himself smile at that—the slightest of tugs on the corner of his lip. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have. Bringing a man you’ve only met twice to your house by the woods feels like a horror movie plot, even if it’s just to let him help with your groceries. But he can’t help it. Has he not seen a pretty thing like you in that long? The school teachers that flirt with him and his lumberyard buddies are plenty cute, and he just saw them yesterday night. 

But there’s a depth in your eyes like no other, beguiling him to step deeper into the waters. A familiar heaviness, too. Like you’re moving mountains in secret.

He carries all of your stuff in one go, as advertised. You offer him something to drink in thanks. He settles for coffee.

After a few miles of his El Camino trailing two seconds behind your vehicle, the both of you pull up at your house.

Red brick facade and shingled roof, a charming amount of ivy creeping past the windows. Small yet well-maintained. The mahogany front door has stained glass on them, late afternoon sun dappling colors on the floor when you unlock it and tell him to come in.

There are white dots over stucco-covered brick on the far side wall. Putty in cracks.

“You filled them in.” 

“It was easy to sand,” you comment. “Thank you for that, too, by the way.”

He takes in the space. It’s bare. No moving boxes or clutter of sentimental belongings, like you think you might offend the house if you over-decorated. No photo frames or artworks or fridge magnets. It doesn’t look like you moved in a few days ago—it looks like you’re sheltering yourself from a storm. 

But the dining table has a square tablecloth on it. Cream-colored. Plaid. 

The old thing under his breastbone squeezes tight. There’s a string tied around his heart. He didn’t know it existed.

You are a gracious host, showing him around the single floor. Its square-foot size means the dining table is crowded into a corner by the window, and the only bathroom is nestled within your modest bedroom. A hideaway in every sense of the word.

What could you be running from? The oppressive noise of the city, classic pressures of modern living, romantic troubles? That last one can force a man to the other side of the earth.

He watches you smile and sit by the kitchen island, the weariness in your eyes a double meaning in and of itself—like your body is tired, but also your soul.

Soul.

Maybe it’s that. Soulmates. 

He hasn’t thought about it in a long time. On one hand, he finds no time or space for the very concept of it in the type of life he leads. On the other, it’s unjust. 

Whoever his soulmate is must be cursing his existence for jumping into line after line of fire, baring his claws, dancing in perilous heat. They probably aren’t blessed with regenerative healing. It cripples him to think of what they must go through, bearing his pain, so he doesn’t.

Not anymore.

Considering he was born a century ago, there’s a good chance his soulmate is already dead, anyway.

So yes, maybe that’s what you’re running away from. 

Maybe you can’t find it in you to love the one destined for you. Or maybe it’s the other way around. The latter stings to think about—you, aching and alone, crawling into a Canadian corner, finding comfort from an unbreakable bond of pain with someone who no longer wants anything to do with you.

He swallows at the thought.

A tension builds between his shoulders. An infinitesimal fraction of the soreness of muscles stitching themselves back together after a long battle. It’s gone within seconds.

He listens to you talk about the backyard. It’s a mess, but a bountiful one, overgrowth of trailing rosemaries and wild strawberries blanketing rich soil, blending seamlessly into the forest. Thriving a bit too much without even trying to.

“You gonna start gardening?” he asks.

You don’t look at him when you answer. “We’ll see.”

That afternoon, there’s a sense of comfort while the two of you skirt around each other, a repartee so easy it almost feels practiced. He surprises himself by dropping some personal morsels as if responding to yours. His job at the lumberyard, a vague picture of his military past, where he likes to eat lunch. You refill his coffee and tell him about the books that make you feel safe. 

When he leaves, you’re no longer a stranger, but a neighbor.

He has a feeling it’s reciprocated, the way you stand by the doorway and watch as he feeds himself a Cohiba, lighting the end only when he’s seated behind the wheel. The elbow that rests on the car window waves easily at you when he pulls the coupe away.

You wave back, smiling.

The third time you meet him is by accident. 

The diner is crowded, but it’s the closest source of coffee. And you need it sorely. The lunch you had is heavier than you can handle, and the looming pollen season only makes the oncoming drowsiness worse. 

You’re waiting by the counter for your order when a figure approaches from the corner of your eye.

“Logan,” you turn, smiling, “what are you doing here?” 

He looks good as he saddles up next to you. A dark blue western button-down, the collar of his white undershirt peeking underneath, blue jeans on long legs. He leans on the counter and glances behind him, but his frame is blocking the view, almost like he’s trying to shield you from view.

“Late lunch with the lumberyard boys,” that velvety baritone replies. His voice has to be laced with caffeine, because you’re suddenly more awake now. “You?”

“Escaped for a bit to get a cup. I’m so sleepy,” you admit sheepishly.

“Tossed and turned last night?”

“No, no, I slept fine. This is probably a food coma.”

You look over at him. He looks different in this light, though to be fair, you’ve only seen him in two different sun configurations. This time it’s soft white and evenly diffused through picture windows. It blurs the lines on his face, making him look younger, less etched by the past.      

Your fingers twitch. They want to touch his skin. 

“How’ve you been?” you look away at the chalkboard wall menu like you were going to order something else. If you stared at him longer, his gravitational pull might make you do something stupid. 

“Not so good.” 

That captures your attention quick, eyes snapping back to his, worried.

“Why?”

He leans in, looks down for a second like he’s about to tell you a secret. 

“You keep showing up.”

There’s a lump in your throat. Your breath hitches. A look flashes in his eyes, the tiniest hint of roguery in hazel irises.

“The next time I meet you, I don’t want it to be by chance.”

Heat crawls and settles onto your cheeks. You pretend it’s not there.

“Next time?” you ask.

He nods. 

“Dinner on Friday. Caesar’s. How’s that sound?”

When did he get so close? You can smell the richness of trees in his hair. 

“That… sounds great, actually,” you whisper, meeting his gaze. 

“What time do you clock outta the library?” 

“Seven.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay.”

A loud drawl of your name shatters the moment, and you jerk as a waxed paper cup is thrust into your hand, about as hot as your cheeks. You need to get back to work.

“I’ll see you on Friday,” you say, rushing out of the diner like the coffee is burning your hand. You hear a man ask “who’s the cutie, Logan?” followed by some teasing before the heavy doors swing closed.

His smooth voice rings in your ear.

The next time I meet you, I don’t want it to be by chance.

You look down at the paper cup, awake and extremely aware of what just happened.

When was the last time you felt this way?

The last time you felt like you’re wanted without world-shattering follow-up questions like ‘I’m pinching my arm now, does it hurt yours?’ and the barely masked disappointment that chases right after.

The last time life was as simple as asking for what you want in order to get it, and that somehow eases the pain that follows you like a twin.

The last time you felt like a person. 

You feel like you just wasted money on coffee.

On Friday, you wake up to the beginning of a storm. Its center is your body. 

You brave through it. You have to. Today is too important for fog and fatigue. 

Today he’s taking you out to dinner.

You walk yourself through the morning routine. Get to the bathroom in one piece. Put on clothes that make you feel good, but still comfortable enough to last you the entire day. Drive to the library.

Then it’s time to work. 

There’s that reading program you’re planning with the local primary school. A new intern assistant is coming in today and you’re in charge of instructing her on her responsibilities. In the afternoon, a couple of town hall folks will drop by. Funding talk. 

It’s looking to be an unforgiving day. 

If you tell someone “don’t think about an elephant”, they’ll only end up thinking about elephants, or so it goes. So you do your best not to mind the ache in your joints and focus on the task at hand.

For the most part of the morning, you pull through. Even if your typing is slower today. Even when familiar Dewey decimals become foam at the tip of your tongue. The fog. Do not think of it. 

Somewhere in between your best efforts, it all goes wrong. 

Out of all the years you’ve used this topical cream, it chooses today to smell wrong. Sharper. Slightly nauseating. It relieves the pain in your neck at the cost of blooming a sensory headache.

Doesn’t help that you start to feel self-conscious about the aroma. You’re supposed to go on a first date with a charming man who looks entirely out of your league, three—no, two and a half hours after this meeting. Reeking analgesic is not going to help your chances for a second date.

At around five in the afternoon, it flares, angry and bright.

You’re not sure how to survive this. 

You keep trailing off mid-sentence whenever you speak, too preoccupied with pain. Pain with a capital P. 

The heat pads don’t help, not when your whole body feels like it’s working against you.

When sitting upright takes just about everything out of you, you feel like crying—not because of the pain, but because you won’t see him tonight.

If you go to dinner, you’ll most likely end up collapsed in a chair, dead weight that can’t even walk itself to your car, much less drive. Then come the questions. The explanation you’ve offered enough times to get sick of it yourself. And maybe, if you allowed yourself to think the worst of him, the “are you sure you’re not just tired”—the same words they keep saying to you. 

You won’t let him see you like this.

So you drag yourself to your colleague’s desk, weakly telling him you’re not feeling well and will be heading home for the day. Begging them to please let the gentleman picking you up at seven know that you won’t be able to make it for dinner. And that you’re really sorry.

That’s about the only thing you can do before you pack up your essentials and make your way to the parking lot, feeling like your ligaments are weighed down by sandbags.

Can you drive? No, it’s not about that, you have to. Just take it slow, you convince yourself. You’ll arrive eventually. The key is reaching home without somehow getting more hurt. That’s the last thing you want in this situation. 

You start counting your breath the minute you drive, one for each inhale and exhale. It’s at seventy-something before your brain begins to scream the most mundane motions in your head just so you don’t mess up—CLUTCH. BRAKE. ACCELERATE.—like you still have L-plates stuck on your windscreen. 

The dirt road leading up to Saddle Peak never looked so good.

You vaguely remember stopping the car. The walk to your front door uses up the dregs of what fuels your limbs. You don’t even make it to your bedroom. Shoes are kicked off and you collapse then and there on the couch. 

As temporary as it is, relief still makes you shudder. The pain doesn’t go away, merely dulled. At least you can breathe better now that you’re home.

You see Logan when you close your eyes.

God, you hope he doesn’t think you stood up on him. Not after that moment in the diner. Not after he stirs something in you, something other than this crushing, endless fatigue.

You hope he doesn’t disappear.

He doesn’t, but you do, faint thoughts of him floating in your mind even as you slip into darkness.

Logan waits for ten minutes. Fifteen. By the twentieth minute, the fur-lined jacket starts to feel like an embarrassing mistake, like he got the wrong idea entirely.

He’s lived and breathed the assess-decide-act cycle. Everything about this smells like a bailout. A whisper of a doubt shakes between his thoughts. Did he imagine the whole thing, or was he a victim of a trick? The ease while you talked about your house, the color on your cheeks that day at the diner… You looked relieved when he asked you out, or so he thought.

Despite all assessments pointing to walking away, he walks into the library building instead.

Hope is a stubborn thing, and it wants him to believe you’re not that kind of person.

Old habits die hard. Military-trained eyes flick through exit points, memorizing name tags and badges like he’s in a grey zone. Jackson Pearce—front desk—directed him to Sasha Ewing-Clark—back office—who calls over one Louis B. Barrett, who promptly tells him that you are out sick and that you can’t make it to dinner.

The young man also apologized for forgetting about the memo. At least he’s still around to pass the message.

Your place is on the way to his. He should drop by, make sure you’re okay, at least. Ignore that whisper of a doubt that remains implacable, stubbornly feeding ideas into his head—that maybe you’ve changed your mind, that you don’t want to be found.

He drives a little over the speed limit. By the time that red brick house comes into view, the sun is setting, an orange ball of fire hanging low between the trees on the west side of the road. He pulls up next to your car—you’re home, it seems.

Walking up to the stained glass door, it’s hard to see inside thanks to the light. But he knocks. A set of three stern raps against wood. 

Silence. He knocks again.

There’s a crash from the inside, like shards of glass on hardwood floors, then a curse. Your voice.

The sound lights up his nerves like a battlefield and his hand is already on the doorknob, twisting it. It’s unlocked. He bursts in.

He calls your name, but sees you there immediately. Standing at the mouth of the hallway, broken remnants of a mug scattered and glinting near your feet. You’re in a worn sweatshirt and a pair of flannel pants, looking like nothing is particularly wrong, except for the surprised look on your face.

“Logan?”

“You okay?” he says, sounding a lot more worried than he thought he could.

“Yeah, just—don’t—there’s a lot of glass, let me get the broom—”

Two things happen at once, and quickly.

The first is you stepping on an unseen shard on the ground near you. You hiss out a low “ow, shit” while hobbling two steps into the hallway, one hand propping you up against the wall while you twist to see the blood on your bare left foot.

The second is a stinging pain on his foot, like a fire ant bit him through his boots. 

The same spot you’ve hurt yourself.

His brain screams, but his body freezes. Assess, decide, act—except his senses takes three, four extra seconds for him to believe. 

There’s no fire ant in his lumberyard-approved boots, but the pain is very much real.

It’s yours.

What snaps him out of it is the sight of you, still trying to walk. There’s a drip of blood on the walnut floor. He bolts after you, footsteps thudding loud on wood and then crunching on glass before he hoists you over without ceremony, carrying you over his shoulder.

You yelp, vision swimming.

A few paces later, you’re draped gently on the couch, seeing the world right side up again. He takes his place on the other end of the couch. Hazel eyes narrow as he gently leads your leg to lift, intently surveying the bare pad of your foot, thumb stroking the skin around the cut. You feel the area throb. It hurts because of unfortunate placement, more than anything.

“Does it look bad?”

He shakes his head. “Still bleeding, though. You got a first-aid kit?”

“Drawer under the kitchen island,” you sigh, head leaning back against the armrest. You feel a little stupid and a lot helpless. “There should be towels there, too.”

He’s there and back in a flash, but the movements he makes when tending to your foot is anything but rushed. He has the piece of what used to be your mug clamped with a pair of tweezers. Firm. Ready.

“This is gonna hurt,” he looks at you.

You nod, gripping the edge of the seat. “Just get it over with—”

The last syllable melts into a groan as a singlemindedly sharp pain flares through your nerve endings. Logan holds up the offending shard, about the size of a button, before placing it on the coffee table next to the couch. It’s stained red.

“You’re lucky it dug in sideways,” he rumbles, already reaching for rubbing alcohol and cotton. “Would hurt a lot more if it punctured. This’ll hurt too. You ready?”     

You force yourself to nod, still breathing heavily from the glass.

He’s right, of course. The burn of the antiseptic solution is more drawn out, lingering around the lacerated part of your skin like a hot purge. You try to inhale deeper while he cleans the wound. His touch is stern but slow. Reminds you of an earned scolding from a good friend—uncomfortable, but sorely needed.

“You’re doing great,” he whispers, not taking his eyes off your foot. There’s a heat that pulses through you at the way he said that, and you wonder if an accelerated heart rate will get in the way of a wound closing.

Reality sets in—he’s here. In your home. He was supposed to pick you up at the library.

“Did Louis tell you to come here?” you ask.

He shakes his head, pressing the cotton pad over the entire wound. You hiss. It feels like punishment for talking about someone else.

“He told me you were sick and you went home.”

Your voice is small when you reply. “You didn’t have to check up on me.”

He looks at you, still holding a soaked cotton pad to your cut. There it is again, the gleam you’ve seen once, yet know all too well. 

“Wanted to see if my date bailed out on me.”

You smile, both teasing and weak. “You don’t seriously think that.”

His tone sobers, looking back down at your wound.

“Minds change.”

The breath is knocked out of your lungs at his words—murmured, a little less sure. Did you keep him waiting? Did he really think you stood him up? What are you supposed to say without sounding like you’re making excuses, or having to provide an executive summary of your personal brand of suffering?

You lean forward, as if your body is asking him to please look here.

He doesn’t, busy plastering a gauze. You speak anyway.

“I’m sorry. I tried to push through it, but I couldn’t,” you offer softly.

“You’re apologizing for being sick?” he looks up at you, eyebrows folded.

You stare back, lips parted. If you can be honest about one thing…

“I… was really looking forward to it. Dinner. With you.”

You feel the plaster stick. He’s done nursing your wound, but his hands linger. 

“That true?”

You nod, trying to school your face into something that doesn’t spell out youthful eagerness. He looks at you like he knows what’s really inside your chest, then stands up to take his jacket off. You’re not sure you’re allowed to look at how his white undershirt hugs his chest like a vise. 

“What do you say we do it now, then?”

“Huh?”

“The date. After I clean this, of course.” He gestures to the broken glass on the ground.

“I don’t understand—” you swing your legs, but he tuts.

“Don’t you even think about moving. Where’s your broom?”

You sigh. “Supply closet. Down the hall, to the left.”

It doesn’t take long until you see what he means. The fortunately large shards on the ground are disposed of safely, and suddenly he’s raiding your fridge and pantry, lining up ingredients on the kitchen island. A bag of pasta. Tomato sauce. Half a lemon. 

“Are you cooking?” you hop over to where he’s standing. The look he gives you is downright disapproving, but you settle yourself on a bar stool before he can stop you. 

“It’s not gonna be anything like Caesar’s,” he runs a hand through his hair. You suddenly have the urge to do the same.

“I can help.”

“Not with that foot, you aren’t, sweetheart.”

You clench your jaw, hoping it passes off as frustration from being asked to sit still rather than a physical response to the nickname. 

“You’ve helped enough, Logan. I can’t possibly let you.” 

“Yeah, well, you can’t do anything about it, can you?”

You hate that he’s right. What are you supposed to do to pin down a man over six feet with your throbbing joints and a fresh cut on your foot?

On another occasion, you’d indulge in fantasies of less appropriate methods, but not today. Not when the hurt defeated your persistence and gave you an actual injury like that was its prize. Not when you were convinced you won’t see him, yet here he is anyway. In your kitchen cooking dinner as if he knows where the spices and the good skillet are.

You’ve put up enough fruitless fights today. Maybe it’s time to stop.

“Fine,” you sigh, “at least take off your boots in the house.” 

Dinner was spaghetti bolognaise with a whole lot of substitutions, but still good. He holds your arm when you move to the couch. The conversation that ensues is easy despite your fatigue—the nap earlier really helped—and the injury is manageable.

You joke that the beer he’s drinking is payment for patching you up. He says you still owe him for cooking dinner. 

“What do I owe you, then?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Eye for an eye. Come over mine and cook for me.”

You laugh. The first time today, and maybe in a long time. 

“How bold.”

“Too much?”

You shake your head, letting your lips melt into a smile. “I heard the view up there’s amazing.”

“See for yourself,” he hides his own smile behind the can of beer. “It’s only ten minutes away.”

“Sure, after my foot is better,” you fold your leg, tapping on the gauze. It doesn’t hurt unless you put your weight on it. Logan told you to change the dressing often and run water on the wound—that should speed up the recovery.         

“I hope you’re not going to work tomorrow,” he places the beer can on the coffee table. Empty.

“Don’t know if I can,” you lament. “I’ll call in sick.” 

The two of you talk like that for the rest of the night, implying future plans like not-so-secret codes. Cooking dinner for him to call things even, finding a time to eventually go to Caesar’s like you were supposed to. Maybe a nightcap after at his favorite bar. 

He’s on the quieter side between the two of you, but that doesn’t make him hard to talk to. In fact it’s the opposite. The topic of jobs tangents into a discussion about lumber and their various smells, and when the conversation makes a U-turn, he asks how you’re supposed to remember where a leaf is in a forest of books. 

Then you talk about logging trees versus logging book requests, and just about everything else under the sun.

Everything except soulmates.

You wonder if he’s as curious as you are. If he knows you’ve abandoned your search. If he has, too, and that’s why it’s so easy for him to be with you, content without confirmation. Maybe he found the one and decided they weren’t right for him—a common enough story. Or maybe he’s still holding out.

You wish you could find out without asking. Throwing the question first means it’ll be thrown back at you. You don’t even know what to say if he asked. “I don’t want to know who my soulmate is because I’m probably causing them so much pain” is so much more confusing than silence, and so you settle for concealed curiosity. 

Let it stay easy between you and him. 

When the two of you realize it’s late, you walk him to the door despite his insisting otherwise.

Despite the tug in your chest that misses him when he’s still in front of you. 

“Thank you. For everything,” you say, hovering by the open doorway. This is the first time you’ve seen him in your porch light.

“You’re welcome,” he digs his hand in his pocket. He lingers too, as if his feet are too heavy to move. 

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

He’s still looking at you. 

You don’t know how, but you gather enough physical and mental strength to lean up. A gentle hand on his jaw. A kiss on the cheek. The song of crickets in tall grass is drowned out by your own heartbeat, thumping in your ear like a wound-up drum.

When you part, it’s not far. You want to search his eyes for disapproval.

He kisses your lips instead.

You almost tip backwards—he’s tall—but he anchors you with an arm around your waist. It guides you closer to him until your chest brushes against his, and it feels like they’re never supposed to be apart in the first place.

He’s warm, large hands on your back and hip lulling you into a sense of security. Then one of them cups the back of your head, tilting you slightly, letting him kiss you deeper.

You sigh. You’re safe here.

Then his tongue meets yours just barely and it ignites a flurry of fireworks behind your ribs, the explosions echoing throughout your limbs. Finally, they sigh, a sensation that’s the opposite of pain.

You cup his jaw for a pause, needing air more than wanting it. If it were up to you, you’d kiss him forever. He groans as if it hurts to stop. 

“Do you want me to go?” he murmurs against your mouth.

“No,” you breathe.

“Good.”

He leans in again.

Time bleeds since that night, painting beautiful rivers that intertwine your life with his. Work is generous enough to give you a week off. You spend it mostly with Logan, like he isn’t just some guy you met by chance in a hardware store.

Like it’s the most natural thing to do.

And it is. Logan in your home, letting you rest your feet on his lap on the couch. Logan in your bedroom, stroking your hair, waiting for the sun to climb higher.  

When you asked if he was needed at work, he said, “I haven’t called sick in years. They can survive a few days without me.” 

And just like that, you’re not simply neighbors anymore. Not since that kiss.

It’s his own fault that he’s trapped here, really. The first time he asked was the night you cut your foot, but he hasn’t stopped. Always “do you want me to go”, in the morning when you wake up warm in his arms, or breathed into your ear when you’re tangled together at night. As if he’s doing everything in his power to make you say no.

As if he’s scared you’d actually want him gone.

But you don’t. Always a shake of your head, and then time and intimacy peels back your life-hardened layers. You find your voice. “No, stay.” “I want you here.” Quiet proclamations of your desire. Soon, your body learns to speak the same language, arms around his torso, face buried in the crook of his neck.

Don’t go.

“If you really want to leave, you shouldn’t ask,” you teased him once.

“I’d be crazy to,” was his response.

He stops asking after that.

In fact, he doesn’t ask at all.

Doesn’t ask about the assortment of pills in the medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror. Doesn’t question what you’re doing when you apply topical cream or place a heatpad on yourself.

But you know it’s not ignorance. It’s anything but.

He watches the exhale you let out, how you lean against the sink after washing the dishes. Notices the days you need a moment to wake up, the way you walk to the bathroom in calculated steps. Sees you take your medicine. 

And more than that, he always helps. He never rushes you for anything, quietly matching his pace with yours. He takes out the trash without being asked to. He buys groceries while you’re out cold, deep in a nap you didn’t know you needed. He doesn’t coddle or fuss, just offers you a hand before you get up from your seat. Never fails to pull you up, no matter how heavy you feel. 

It’s almost like he’s waiting for you to tell him.

So you resolve to.

You’re at his place this time, finally fulfilling that promise of cooking for him, and it’s beautiful. Almost unjustly so. The panoramic view of the Rockies are uninhibited, filling you with a rare sense of wild freedom in contrast to the cozy sanctuary that is his log cabin. 

He likes your food, thank goodness. Lucky for you, he seems to like you more, always eager to have you in his arms.

He wakes you up today to see the sun rise. It blazes a pinkish red, flooding the sky, making snow-white peaks blush. You’re on his chest between the sheets, satisfied with the scenery of the great outdoors and turning your focus to the man that tore down your walls with nothing but gentleness and comfort.

Your voice is low and husky. “Remember when we were supposed to go to Caesar’s?” 

He hums. 

The memory is near in time, but distant in everything else. It feels like you’ve known him for so much longer. How is it possible to fall into place so easily with someone you just met?

“I was sick. You came over and helped me with the cut.”

“Mm-hmm.”

You take a deep breath. Your mind isn’t polluted by the usual fear that fogs you when you’re forced to explain what’s wrong. Maybe it’s the cloudless sky and the mountains in the morning light. Maybe it’s Logan, strong and steady underneath you. 

“I have this… thing,” you begin, still choosing your words. Saying them out loud hardly gets easier.

He looks at you, still stroking your hair. Slow. Take your time.

“I haven’t really told you about it. It’s… kind of hard to explain.”

But you tell him anyway, in short but sober sentences and thoughtful pauses. You tell him about the pain and tiredness, how you got to know those feelings better than anything else you’ve ever felt. You tell him about the days: bearable most of the time, except for the days when you feel like you’re a shell of who you are, the essence of you gone, like the energy you don’t have. 

There it is, out in the open. The reason why you don’t even want to think about cultivating your overgrown backyard.

You tell him your plan. To be alone. To not face the unthinkable, to not give the unthinkable a face. How your soulmate must hate you for making their bones feel like lead. 

He smiles at that. Then his expression shifts.

“Do you feel it? Your soulmate’s pain.”

That’s his first question. He’s worried you’re hurting more than you should. It makes your heart ache even more. 

You nod, voice quiet. “It’s different from what I have, though.”

“What do you feel?”

“I haven’t felt it. Not for a while. But it used to be here a lot,” you stroke across your knuckles. “Dull. Goes away within seconds. I can ignore it.”

He hums. “Maybe they’re a boxer.”

You smile. “I thought so too.” 

Once you’ve run out of words, you look at him, a stare that wonders if that was alright. If that was too much. 

“Do you want me to go?” you whisper, even if your soul breaks a little at the thought.

He shakes his head. Drags you up so he can kiss you instead.

You melt, hands on his shoulders as your lips meet and part and meet and part like waves on a shore.

He answers in your ear. 

“Never.”

That night, Logan doesn’t sleep when you do. He watches.

You look like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. Your arm is draped lightly across his midriff. The way your chest rises and falls smoothly in the moonlight, the lines on your face a little softer. 

He thinks of your body and how it must feel. 

Not just the aches you told him about, but the pain he’s brought to you. 

Could you feel the bullets, the gashes, the stabs? Did you feel the itch when his cells would stitch themselves back together? He replays the way you touched the back of your hand, thinks about how your skin stings each time he takes out his claws. 

How your body fights his battles as if you don’t have your own.

He’ll tell you one day. About who he is and what he used to cut before trees. The weapon he wields before axes. How he’s cursed to know pain over and over again.

He’ll tell you about the day you cut your foot on glass. The way he felt it on his body, the exact same spot, the exact same time. The way it stung for a while before disappearing completely. 

He’ll tell you how, other than the cut, you’ve never hurt him.

He’ll tell you he’ll be happy to shoulder everything for you, even if you weren’t soulmates. Except as luck would have it, you are. 

But whether you’re brought together by fate or free will, it doesn’t matter to him anymore. 

Maybe he can’t move your mountains for you. But at least, with him, you’re not doing it in secret. He wants to be the one that sees you, that tells you how strong you are, especially when you rely on him.

He’ll kiss you and ask if you want him to go, just like that night.

He hopes you’ll say no once again.

logan masterlist

[benispunk]

screaming crying throwing up🥹 this is so beautiful

[mcrdvcks]

bergamot

chapter summary: You haven’t seen Bucky in almost two months because you’ve been away on a mission for the UN. Bucky is miserable—the team has only known him for two weeks, but they can already tell that something on his phone is making him smile. word count: 8.2k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: here is the request that inspired this! i had a lot of fun writing this. i just wanna curl up with bucky (and hold onto his arms like a koala) and run my fingers through his hair, and— warnings/tags: reader works for the UN, mention of reader having wet hair, soft!bucky, clingy!bucky, loverboy!bucky, fluff, thunderbolts, yelena is suspicious, light violence, mention of injury, references to tfatws, post-thunderbolts

Alexei leaned back in the couch, gesturing broadly with a half-eaten pretzel. “So there I was, hanging from the side of the Khrunichev rocket, no harness, only my teeth and a stubborn cable—”

“Again with the rocket story?” Ava muttered, phasing a hand through the coffee table on instinct. Bob perked up, wide-eyed, as though picturing the whole scene.

Bucky barely looked up from his phone. A grin tugged at the edge of his mouth as his thumbs flew over the screen. Yelena caught it immediately. She nudged Ava’s ankle and jerked her chin at Bucky. “Did the Winter Soldier just smile?”

Ava arched a brow. “Maybe Alexei’s comedic timing has finally evolved.”

John, propped against the doorway, snorted. “Pretty sure that’d require the universe bending its own rules.”

Alexei glowered. “You Americans have no appreciation for true heroism.” When no one rose to defend him, he sighed and continued anyway. “Point is, the launch director screams, ‘you will die, Red Guardian!’ and I—”

Bucky’s phone chimed again. He angled the screen away, shoulders hitching in a short laugh before catching himself. Yelena’s eyes narrowed like a laser sight. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Barnes, who’s making you look like a Golden Retriever with a new squeaky toy?”

“No one.” He tapped the screen off, expression settling into its usual guarded set. Too late—the damage was done.

Ava kicked her feet up on the table. “Is ‘no one’ some kind of new social app?”

“Or a codename?” Bob asked, genuinely curious.

John cleared his throat. “Leave him alone.”

Yelena’s gaze snapped to him. “Why so defensive, Walker? Do you know something?”

“Don’t drag me into it,” John said, folding his arms. “Some of us respect privacy.”

“Some of us are lying,” Yelena shot back. She rose and sauntered toward Bucky’s armchair. “Come on, Barnes. Two weeks living in the Watchtower, we’ve seen you brood, we’ve seen you pace, we’ve seen you out-bench the gym equipment. But a genuine smile? That’s new content. Share with the class.”

Bucky pocketed the phone and stood. “Getting coffee.” He pushed past her, metal fingers clinking softly against the mug rack as he filled one.

Ava phased through the counter to peer at him from the other side. “Is the coffee machine texting you too?”

He exhaled through a tight grin. “It’s just... a friend.”

“What kind of friend?” Yelena pressed.

“The kind who doesn’t need to be part of story time.”

Bob’s voice drifted from the couch. “Do you think they like rockets?”

“Bob,” Yelena said, “focus.”

Bob nodded, solemn. “Focusing.”

John pushed off the doorway, intercepting Yelena. “Seriously. Drop it. We’ve got enough on our plates without interrogating Bucky’s social life.”

“His social life is our plate now,” Yelena argued. “Trust is key to team cohesion.”

Bucky set his mug down with a soft clink. “I trust you, Yelena.”

She perked up. “Then tell me.”

He hesitated, thumb brushing the rim of the cup. The phone buzzed again. The grin resurfaced—small, private, and impossible to hide.

Yelena’s eyes widened. “You’re impossible.” She pointed two fingers at her own eyes, then at him. “I’m watching you, Barnes. One day, I will know.”

“Good luck,” he said, taking his coffee and heading for the exit. “Alexei, finish the rocket story without me.”

Alexei puffed out his chest. “As I was saying—”

The automatic door slid shut behind Bucky, muffling Alexei’s booming voice. In the quiet hallway, he pulled the phone back out.

You: Flight got moved again. Landing tonight after all. Can’t wait to see you.

Bucky’s shoulders softened. He leaned against the wall, thumb hovering for a beat before he typed.

Bucky: Counting the hours, doll. I’ll be there.

He stared at the message until the screen dimmed, that rare smile lingering. Then he slipped the phone away, squared his shoulders, and headed back toward the lounge—mask firmly in place, ready to fend off Yelena’s next round of questions.

---

Of course, his luck was having a meeting with Valentina he couldn’t get out of at the exact time you were landing.

You promised him it was okay, that you were going to go to the apartment and take a nice shower after spending three and a half weeks in Guinea-Bissau with only four bucket showers.

The apartment smelled faintly of bergamot and fresh paint when you stepped out of the bathroom, damp hair shoved into a towel‑turban. Your suitcase still yawned half‑open in the bedroom, shoes sticking out like protest signs after the forty‑hour trip home. You tugged one of Bucky’s sweatshirts—soft navy cotton you’d stolen months ago—over your head and padded toward the kitchen.

Keys scraped the front lock.

You froze, toothbrush still in hand, the door cracked open just wide enough for a familiar metal fingertip to tap against the frame.

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, almost cautious.

“Bathroom’s on the left, Sergeant,” you called, grinning. “But fair warning—hot water’s depleted.”

The door swung wider. Bucky stepped inside wearing a charcoal henley rolled to his forearms and a pilled cardigan that made his shoulders look unfairly broad. The cardigan hit the floor the second he saw you.

He crossed the room in three strides, pulling you straight against his chest. His nose tucked into the damp bend of your neck. A low, shaky breath escaped him. “You’re here,” he mumbled. “You’re actually here.”

“Last time I checked.” You squeezed his waist, feeling muscle tremble under the fabric. “Thought you had a debrief.”

“I threatened to walk out if Val kept talking.” He nuzzled closer, the words muffled. “She got the hint.”

You laughed. “That might be a new record for shortest Barnes‑Fontaine meeting.”

“She shouldn’t schedule anything on your landing day.” His flesh hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing water droplets from your jaw as though they offended him. “You good? Flight okay? Anyone sneeze on you?”

“Only everyone in coach.” You tapped his chest. “I lived.”

He lifted your left hand in both of his, studying the calluses on your fingertips like they were precious intel. Then he laced your fingers with his human ones and didn’t let get, even when he tried to flip the kettle on with his metal hand without releasing yours. He misjudged the angle, and bumped the counter.

“Bucky,” you laughed, tugging gently, “two hands are useful for tea.”

“Fine.” He let you go… for half a second. Then his palm found the small of your back, guiding you nowhere in particular, just touching. “Missed you.”

“Month and a half,” you reminded. “I kept count.”

“Thirty‑nine days,” he corrected softly.

Your heart stuttered. “You counted hours too, didn’t you?”

“Two thousand. Give or take.” He swallowed, shoulders hitching as though the admission cost him. “When you were in the field and comms went dark that first week… I—”

You reached up and brushed hair from his forehead. “I’m here now. And I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

He nodded, but the tension didn’t ease. He bent suddenly, hooking an arm behind your knees and lifting you. You yelped, toothbrush clattering onto the countertop.

“James Buchanan—”

“Shush.” He settled onto the couch with you cradled sideways, both hands banded around your ribs. “Grounding exercises, remember?”

Your brows lifted. “Thought that was when you were having nightmares.”

“They’re preventative tonight.” His metal thumb tapped a light rhythm against your spine. “Body heat. Your heartbeat. Works better than any breathing drill.”

You exhaled, letting muscles uncoil. His chest expanded under your cheek with each slow inhale. After a minute his pulse evened out, but he still didn’t loosen his hold.

“I should order food,” you murmured.

“Later.”

“Brush my teeth?”

He pressed a kiss to your hair. “Mint’s overrated.”

You tilted your head back to look at him. “What about bathroom breaks?”

“I’ll escort you.” The deadpan delivery cracked you up, and the faintest smile curved his mouth—one that actually reached his eyes. “Not letting go yet, doll. I need another minute.”

“Take five. Or fifty.”

He sighed, forehead dropping gently to yours. “Gonna need more than fifty.”

“Take all night.”

A soft noise—half laugh, half relief—escaped him. The kettle clicked off behind you, steam curling upward, ignored. Outside, city traffic whooshed three stories below, but inside the apartment everything had narrowed to the weight of his arms and the solid, steady drum of two heartbeats syncing after far too many hours apart.

Bucky brushed his lips across your knuckles. “Welcome home.”

---

The bedroom was gray with winter light when your alarm buzzed. Before you could reach for the phone, Bucky’s arm tightened, hauling you the last inch across the mattress so your back fit the curve of his chest.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, voice sanded rough from sleep.

“You’re due at the Watchtower at nine,” you reminded, twisting enough to see him. His hair was everywhere, soft and ridiculous. “And I’ve got a briefing at the UN.”

“Virtual.” He kissed the top of your shoulder. “Can do it from here.”

You laughed. “Pretty sure Val expects you in person.”

“That’s her problem.” His grip didn’t loosen. “Could stay like this forever.”

“Barnes.” You nudged his metal fingertips where they were splayed over your stomach. “Breakfast.”

“She can brief John first.”

“John will murder you.”

“Let him try.” He pressed his face into your hair. “Smell better than flapjacks anyway.”

“Flattery isn’t protein.” You jabbed an elbow—gently—into his ribs. “Up.”

He groaned but finally released you. Sort of. He followed you down the hall like a very large, slightly sleepy puppy, his hand sliding back into yours before you’d even crossed the doorway.

---

You cracked eggs into a bowl while Bucky stood behind you, both arms caging you in against the counter while still managing to breathe down your neck.

“Need a whisk,” you said. He fetched it—without letting go—so your joined hands performed an awkward baton pass to the utensil drawer. “Buck, I need two hands.”

“Negative.” He kissed the side of your temple. “One hand’s enough. I’ll be your sous‑chef.”

“My sous‑chef usually chops, not holds hands.”

“Multitasking.” He reached around you, grabbed a spatula with his metal hand, and flipped a pancake. Terribly.

You bit a smile. “That’s the cutting board, champ.”

“Details.”

---

Laptop open on the coffee table, your UN briefing countdown read T‑23:04. You tried to review bullet points while Bucky tried to fuse himself to your side. His sweater sleeve pooled over your fingers where they stayed laced.

You nudged the trackpad with your free hand. “Can’t scroll like this.”

He scooted nearer, draped his arm across your lap. “Dictate. I’ll scroll.”

“You don’t know the acronyms.”

“Then you’ll have to brief me first.” His thumb stroked the veins at your wrist like he could memorize your pulse.

You went for stern. “James. I have to appear competent in twenty‑three minutes.”

“You’re always competent.” He lifted your hand, kissed the back of it. “I just need contact.”

“You were literally on top of me twenty minutes ago.”

“And it was great.” He kissed your knuckles again. “Just… humor me, okay?”

The quiet plea in his eyes melted whatever resolve you’d been pretending to hold. You exhaled. “Okay. But if I bomb this call—”

“I’ll hack their email and delete the recording.” The grin he flashed was boyish mischief carved onto a war‑worn face. “Relax, doll. I’ve got you.”

---

The ring lights were on, and you had a blazer shrugged over Bucky’s sweatshirt that you had borrowed. You were live with six UN security advisers, none of whom could see the six‑foot supersoldier crouched just out of frame, one hand wrapped around your ankle like a magnetic cuff.

“Current intel indicates the smuggling corridor shifted west,” you said, clicking to the next slide. Bucky’s thumb traced slow circles above your sock line. “We’ll need to re‑route surveillance assets accordingly.”

A message pinged at the top corner of your screen.

Bucky: Proud of you.

You pressed your heel lightly into his palm in reply. He squeezed once, grounding himself—and you—in the silence between your words.

---

After the call ended, you ditched your blazer and grabbed your backpack. You reached for the door handle but Bucky’s fingers hooked your belt loop.

“Walk me downstairs?” you asked.

“Farther.” He shrugged into a heavy coat, still holding you. “All the way to First Avenue.”

“That’s two blocks past the subway.”

“Exactly.” He laced your fingers again, gaze skimming your face like he expected you to disappear in a puff of smoke. “Need every extra minute.”

You brushed his sweater collar flat. “Meet me for lunch? Midtown. One o’clock.”

“Done.” He kissed you quick, chased it with another slower one like a punctuation mark he didn’t trust. “Text me when you get through security.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

He groaned. “Why’s that hot?”

“Because you’re impossible.” You opened the door. He tightened his grip anyway, escorting you down the hall as though the space between heartbeats was hostile territory.

Halfway to the elevator, his phone buzzed.

Yelena: Barnes. Where are you? Walker’s making Bob recreate a latte art swan and it’s getting weird.

Bucky typed back with one hand.

Bucky: Running late. Focus on team cohesion exercises.

“Team cohesion,” you echoed, trying not to laugh.

He kissed your hand one last time before the elevator doors slid open. “You’re my cohesion.”

“See you at one.”

The doors closed. Through the sliver of glass, you watched him press his palm to the metal until the cab whisked you out of sight. In the cab, your phone buzzed.

Bucky: Counting minutes already.

You shook your head, smiling like an idiot all the way to work.

---

Alexei was still mid‑swan demonstration when Bucky slipped through the sliding doors. Espresso foam mottled Bob’s chin, while Yelena perched on the counter like an irritated gargoyle, phone in one hand, and an evidence board of possibilities in the other.

“There he is,” John called from the coffee machine. “Barnes, you’re officially twenty‑one minutes late.”

“Traffic,” Bucky muttered, heading straight for the fridge.

“Traffic of what?” Ava asked, phasing a spoon through her cereal. “You’re the only person I know who can hop rooftops to work.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “I tracked five separate rooftop cameras. None caught your signature.”

Bucky’s neck stiffened. “You’re tracking my—”

“Team cohesion,” she sing‑songed. “We covered this.”

Bob looked up. “I thought cohesion was about lattes.”

“Everything is about lattes if you do it right,” Alexei said, still sculpting foam. “Observe the curvature—”

John rolled his eyes. “Enough. Barnes, you got Val waiting.”

“Already briefed her by phone,” Bucky replied, retrieving bottled water. The collar of his cardigan smelled faintly of your shampoo and he tugged it closer. “Any actual emergencies?”

“Just boredom,” Ava said.

“And speculation,” Yelena added. “You smell like bergamot.”

Bucky froze. “I switched laundry detergent. That illegal now?”

Yelena hopped off the counter, blocking his path. “Who was the text from this morning?”

“Not your business.”

She grinned. “So it was someone.” She opened her mouth to press further, but John cut in.

“Leave it, Belova. Val wants us in the gym in ten.”

Yelena’s eyes flicked between them. “Fine. But mystery texts will be solved.”

Bucky brushed past her, metal hand flexing. “Good luck.”

---

You chose a corner booth facing the door, laptop bag tucked beneath your feet. The place smelled of rosemary focaccia and printer ink from the little receipts machine. At 12:59 exactly, the bell jingled and Bucky ducked inside wearing a black baseball cap and a gray wool sweater that might have belonged to a Norwegian fisherman in a past life.

He spotted you, exhaled relief, and crossed the room so fast the waitress startled. The cap hit the seat first, followed by Bucky, who slid in beside you instead of across. His arm settled behind your shoulders, and his fingers immediately laced with yours on the table.

“Made it with a minute to spare,” you said.

“Fifty‑four seconds,” he corrected, gaze already soft. “Missed you.”

You tilted your head. “We parted three hours ago.”

“Still counts.” He kissed your temple. “How was the briefing?”

“Half of them think increased drones will solve everything. The other half wants a task force.”

“Let me guess—the drone faction has no ground intel.”

“Bingo.”

He squeezed your hand, thumb stroking the base of your thumb. “Tell me what you really need.”

“More eyes in Dakar. And you.” You nudged his knee. “But Val would weaponize that.”

He huffed a laugh. “She already is.”

The waiter approached and Bucky ordered two grilled‑chicken salads without looking at the menu, eyes locked on you. After the waiter left, Bucky’s flesh hand rose to brush your forehead gently—a habit. You watched the knit lines of tension between his brows ease as he touched you.

“Sleep okay?” you asked.

“Better than the last thirty‑nine nights,” he said softly. “Woke up every hour just to make sure you were still there.”

“And?”

He ducked his head, almost shy. “You were. Every single time.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Planning to disappear at lunch?”

“Try it,” he murmured. “I dare you.”

The salads arrived and Bucky lifted your fork first, twirling lettuce like pasta before offering it to your mouth. You laughed, cheeks heating.

“This is not ergonomically sound,” you said around the bite.

“Fine.” He set the fork down—only to pick up your hand again. “Needed the tactile confirmation.”

“Bucky, eat.”

He kept hold of your fingers with his metal hand and maneuvered his fork with the other, awkward but determined. You shook your head, amused, and chewed.

Across the room a teenager whispered, eyes widening at Bucky’s metal arm. Bucky clocked it, then shrugged out of the sweater sleeve to cover the vibranium. You slid closer, pressing thigh to thigh.

“Hey,” you whispered, “they’re staring at the arm, not us.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He squeezed your knee. “This is my safe zone.”

You smiled into your water glass. “Safe zone has croutons.”

“And bergamot,” he added, nose brushing your cheek. “Missed that smell in the tower. Everything there reeks of disinfectant and Alexei’s cologne.”

“He probably bathes in that stuff.”

“Trust me, he does.” Bucky took another bite, chewed, and tried to drink without relinquishing you. “I ever tell you what happened when he sprayed Ava by accident?”

“No. But it sounds riveting.”

He chuckled and told you the story. You ate, laughed, and wiped a stray breadcrumb from his beard. All the while, his grip never faltered, as though letting go would trigger another world‑ending void.

---

The elevator doors slid open with a chime. Bucky stepped out, cap tucked under his arm, expression so relaxed it looked out of place against the glass-and-steel interior. His phone vibrated before he thumb‑typed a quick reply, shoulders shaking with a silent laugh.

Ava phased through the adjacent wall, bowl of grapes in hand. “Look who’s finally smiling again.”

Bucky pocketed the phone, deadpan back in place. “Afternoon, Ava.”

“Don’t do that,” she said, falling into step beside him. “The neutral face after the happy one—it’s creepy.”

“Take it up with my face.”

They rounded the corner into the lounge. Alexei, sprawled on the sectional, tossed a foam stress ball toward the ceiling like a bored teenager. Yelena hunched over the coffee table, assembling what looked suspiciously like a color‑coded conspiracy web. John perched on a barstool, drinking black coffee straight from the pot. And Bob sat cross‑legged on the floor, building an elaborate domino maze out of coasters.

Alexei noticed Bucky first. “Hello, little comrade! Good lunch?”

“Fine.” Bucky headed for the fridge.

“Define ‘fine,’” Yelena said without looking up.

He grabbed a water bottle, cracked the seal. “Edible. Quiet.”

John’s brows rose. “That why you’re thirty minutes late?”

“Traffic,” Bucky answered. He took a long drink, then caught himself smiling again. He turned away too late—but Yelena saw.

“Aha,” she declared, pointing a red string at him like an accusation. “Mystery texter strikes again.”

Bucky capped the water. “String theory usually requires facts.”

“I have facts.” She tapped a sticky note. “Fact one: you left this morning smelling like bergamot. Fact two: you returned smelling like rosemary.”

Alexei sniffed the air theatrically. “I smell none of this.”

“Your cologne killed your nose in 1984,” she snapped. Yelena turned back to Bucky, “who serves rosemary at lunch?”

“A lot of cafés, Belova.”

“Which café?”

“Downtown.”

“Name.” She flicked the string.

“Not relevant,” he said. “What is relevant is that Val wants us in the gym at fifteen‑hundred.”

Bob accidentally toppled a coaster, setting off half the maze. “Fifteen‑hundred is three o’clock, right?”

“Yes,” Bucky answered automatically, still staring at his phone. The screen lit with a new message—the grin came back, small but unmistakable. He swiped it away and pocketed the device before Yelena could pounce.

John set the coffeepot down. “Let it go, Yelena.”

“Never,” she muttered. “Cooperation is built on transparency.”

“Trust works both ways,” John shot back, folding his arms.

Bucky ignored them, rolling his shoulders as he moved toward the corridor. “I’m hitting the range before sparring. Anyone joining?”

Ava shrugged. “Sure, I’ll watch you obliterate paper bad guys.”

Bob raised a hand. “Can I finish my dominos first?”

“Ten minutes,” Bucky said. He started down the hall. Halfway there he paused, pulled the his phone out again, and typed.

Bucky: Made it back. They’re insufferable. Text when you’re done at the embassy.

A second bubble appeared before he could lock the screen.

You: Speech in 20 min. Survive your teammates.

He smirked, slid the phone into his back pocket, and continued, metal fingers flexing like they still held yours. Life at the Watchtower suddenly felt a lot less claustrophobic.

Behind him Yelena’s voice carried down the corridor: “We’ll figure it out, Barnes!”

“Good luck,” he called over his shoulder, tone almost playful.

In the armory he set out fresh magazines, checked the sights on his pistol, and let the rhythmic clack of loading rounds drown out the team’s chatter. Every third breath he felt the phantom press of your palm against his—clean, steady, grounding. The clingy ache eased, replaced by a quiet anticipation. Fifty‑one minutes until the embassy reception ended. Fifty‑one minutes until another message, another small confirmation that you were still on the map.

He’d counted less forgiving seconds.

Bucky clicked the last magazine home and holstered the weapon. “All right,” he muttered under his breath, allowing himself one quick smile at the thought of you before the mask slid back into place. “Let’s get this over with.”

---

When he got back to the apartment, the first thing he noticed was a vinyl playing old jazz music—a record you got him for his birthday last year. The second thing was the smoke detector going off.

Bucky dropped the grocery bag and sprinted for the kitchen. You were fanning a dish towel under the screeching smoke alarm, half‑laughing, half‑coughing.

“Surprise,” you said, waving at the haze. “Dinner’s… toasty.”

He tapped the detector with his metal hand; the shriek cut off. Jazz filled the silence, soft trumpet and scratchy vinyl. Bucky’s gaze flicked from the charred skillet to the table set for two—candles, fresh flowers, a folded letter.

“You okay?” he asked, stalking closer, hands already mapping your arms for burns.

“Minor smoke inhalation, major embarrassment.” You tugged his cardigan sleeve. “Come here.”

He stepped into your space, you hooked fingers in his belt loops, and pulled him closer until his chest hit yours. His arms wrapped tight—one flesh, one vibranium—locking you in place.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your hair.

“I saw you five hours ago.”

“Too long.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “What’s all this?”

You slipped a slim envelope from your back pocket and held it between you. “Official UN notice. Two‑month leave, effective immediately.”

His eyes lit, quicksilver joy. “You’re kidding.”

“Figured we could use a stay‑cation. Or, you know, any‑where‑cation.”

He didn’t take the paper. Instead, he clasped your hand around it, sealing both of your palms between his. “Best news this apartment’s heard in years.”

“You mean besides the ‘no more bucket showers’ update?”

He chuckled, but the sound wobbled. “I thought you’d be gone again by next week.”

“Not leaving.” You squeezed once. “Val’ll have to fight me for you.”

“She can try.” He pressed a lingering kiss to your knuckles, then another to your wrist, working his way up like a man starved of contact. “What’s for dinner—besides charcoal?”

“Option A: order Thai. Option B: salvageable garlic bread if you scrape the tops.”

“Option C.” He turned off the stove, slid the skillet aside, and laced your fingers together once again. “We forget dinner, dance to Duke Ellington, and order Thai after.”

“Music first?” You arched a brow. “You, Sergeant Barnes, requesting a dance?”

He tugged you toward the living room where the record spun. “Can’t lose track of you in take‑out chaos.”

You laughed, letting him guide your hands to his shoulders. His palms found your waist, thumbs drawing slow circles through the thin cotton of your shirt. Trumpet crooned as he swayed, small steps, no real technique—just motion. You settled into the rhythm, noses brushing.

He exhaled. “Grounded.”

“Yeah?” You rested your cheek against his sweater. “How’s the altitude?”

“Perfect.” He closed his eyes, holding you a little tighter. “Don’t plan to land anytime soon.” The song faded into soft vinyl crackle, but he didn’t let go. He brushed your lips with his, slow and certain as your fingers threaded through his hair, and he melted, knees bending just enough to press you deeper into the sway. “Two months together,” he whispered. “I’m not wasting a second.”

“You’re the clingiest supersoldier on record,” you teased.

“File the report.” He captured your hand again, spinning you once before pulling you flush. “Now, about option C…”

A fresh jazz track crackled to life. Bucky smiled—the soft, private one nobody else got to see—then set his cheek against yours, heartbeat steady, grounding both of you as the city hummed beyond your windows and the smoke curled harmlessly toward the vent.

---

The blinds still cast gray stripes across the bed when you heard the closet door whisper open. Bucky moved on bare feet, trying to sneak a shirt over his head without jostling the mattress. Fail. The hem got stuck around his shoulders and he muttered something about faulty cotton.

“Morning,” you croaked, rolling toward him.

He froze halfway through the maneuver. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You did.” You sat up, tugging his bunched henley down for him. “Tower day?”

“Val wants drills at eight.” He glanced at the clock like it might bargain on his behalf. “I can call in ‘emotional support leave.’”

“Pretty sure that’s not a thing.”

“Could be.” He dropped onto the edge of the bed, palm automatically finding your thigh. “Two months of you and nine‑to‑five superheroing don’t mix.”

“You’ll survive.” You stroked his jaw. “I’ll hold down the fort. Maybe fix last night’s skillet.”

His lips twitched. He leaned in, kissed you slow—until the alarm on his phone trilled. 06:45. He cursed softly against your mouth.

“You’re gonna be late,” you warned.

“Worth it.” Another kiss, then he stood, finally threading the henley right‑side‑out. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

---

The moka pot hissed. You buttered toast while Bucky hovered, hand at the small of your back even while reaching for mugs. “Barnes, I need elbow room.”

“Compromise.” He slid closer but kept his palm resting lightly against your hip. “Still counts.”

You set two travel cups on the counter. He filled them, then laced his fingers with yours while the coffee settled. “You’ll text?” he asked.

“Every hour on the hour,” you teased.

“Every half if you’re bored.” He took a breath like he might say more, but his phone buzzed again—07:05, Depart. His shoulders slumped.

You cap‑handed him his coffee. “Go save the world. I’ve got laundry.”

“Call if the detergent fights back.”

You walked him to the door. He kissed you once, stepped into the hall, then pivoted, and came back for another. And a third. Finally he groaned, resting his forehead to yours. “This separation thing is crap.”

“Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re actually going to be late.”

He huffed, gave a final squeeze, and forced himself down the corridor. You watched until the elevator doors shut, then exhaled, heart doing tiny gymnastics.

---

Yelena circled Bucky like a shark as he wrapped his fists. “You’re smiling again.”

“Drop it,” he warned.

She flicked a glance at Alexei on the treadmill. “He hasn’t seen daylight since 1987 but you, Barnes, look freshly sun‑kissed. Explain.”

“No.”

Ava leaned over the railing from the mezzanine. “He came back smelling like toast.”

John’s eyebrow shot up from the bench‑press station. “Toast?”

“Bergamot two days ago, rosemary yesterday, now toast,” Yelena listed, ticking fingers. “Either he’s dating an aromatherapist or he’s turned into a bakery.”

Bob piped up from the corner, arranging kettlebells by color. “I like bakeries.”

Bucky slid his phone into the locker, screen still lit with your recent text—Made pancakes. Missing ingredient: supersoldier. He shut the door, spinning the code. “Focus, team. Val wants sparring pairs.”

John clapped once. “Barnes with me. Maybe I can punch the perfume right out of you.”

“Bring it,” Bucky said, rolling his shoulders. He felt lighter even as he stepped onto the mat. The cling was a steady itch at his palms, but your hourly update already hovered on the horizon.

The first bell rang before John lunged. Bucky blocked, pivoted, mind half on the bout, half on the image of you in his sweatshirt icing a ruined cake you’d probably claim was “rustic.” A grin slipped and John nearly caught his chin.

“Head in the game, Barnes,” John barked.

“Working on it.” Bucky deflected another strike. “Just… motivated.”

“Must be some motivation,” Ava called.

Yelena’s conspiratorial smile widened. “Operation Mystery Texter continues.”

Bucky threw a roundhouse that sent John skidding, then shook out his wrist. “You’ll never figure it out.”

“I will.” She shot back.

“Good luck,” he said, and meant it. Because for once every secret, every code, every hidden life led to something good—someone good—waiting in a sun‑lit apartment with jazz spinning and pancakes cooling. He’d count the hours, the minutes, the seconds, until he could fold himself back into that warmth.

The bell rang again. He reset his stance, vibranium palm open, already anticipating the next contact—on the mat now, but later, when it really counted, wrapped around your fingers where it belonged.

---

Rain slicked the rusted cargo containers. Bucky crouched behind a forklift with John and Yelena while Ava scouted through the walls up ahead. Bob hovered by the jet, humming nervously.

“Target bunker’s twenty meters,” Ava’s voice crackled through comms. “Three armed. Thermal says two more in back.”

“Copy.” Bucky flexed his metal fingers round the grip of his sidearm. “Yelena, flank left. John—”

“On your six,” Walker answered.

They moved. Two steps from cover, a pipe‑bomb arced out of nowhere. Bucky shoved Yelena aside, but the homemade charge hit the forklift mast near his shoulder. The blast rippled hard—enough to rattle vibranium. The shockwave threw him into a crate; pain spider‑webbed through his right side.

“Barnes!” Yelena slid beside him, checking for holes. “You bleeding?”

“Just ringing.” He pushed upright, but his flesh shoulder protested with a nauseating crunch. He kept his voice steady. “Got it.”

John’s shield clanged as he slammed an assailant to the deck. “Cover secured. Yelena, status?”

“Barnes is hit,” she reported.

“I’m fine,” Bucky snarled, standing too fast as the world tilted. “Finish sweep.”

Ava phased through the last container and waved. “All clear. Perps zip‑tied.”

Valentina’s voice sliced in over comms. “Asset report.”

“Minor soft‑tissue injury,” Bucky answered, grinding words through clenched teeth. “Nothing med‑bay can’t patch.”

“Negative, Sergeant,” Val said. “Your vitals say otherwise. Stand down—Walker takes command. Barnes, return to base for eval.”

Bucky rolled his shoulder, white sparks burst behind his eyes. “Copy,” he bit out. “Walker, bag evidence. Yelena, back him up.”

John approached, expression tight with worry. “You’re riding home with Bob.”

“I can fly.”

“Not with that shoulder.” John kept his voice low. “Look, just… let someone take care of you for once, okay?”

Bucky glared but didn’t argue. Pain radiated in hot pulses, every beat reminded him of you waiting two boroughs away.

---

Bob settled Bucky into a jump seat, buckling him with exaggerated care. “Does it hurt like nine out of ten, or six out of ten? I need scale.”

“Seven.” Bucky hissed as the strap brushed bone. “Thanks, Bob.”

Bob nodded solemnly. “Pain is temporary, but cookies are forever. I will bake later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Bucky tapped his earpiece off, then thumb‑typed one‑handed.

Bucky: Took a hit. Shoulder’s out. Coming home.

Three dots appeared almost instantly. You: I’ve got ice packs and soup. ETA?

He exhaled and the ache loosened. Bucky: Wheels up now. 20 min.

Another bubble. You: Door’ll be open. No heroics on the stairs.

He allowed himself the smallest smile, then slid the phone into his pocket and let the hum of take‑off blur everything but that waiting warmth.

---

Dr. Adler snapped Bucky’s shoulder back into place with a wet pop. He didn’t flinch—much. “Ligament strain,” Adler pronounced. “Sling, ice, thirty‑six‑hour rest. No combat.”

“Copy.” Bucky tugged his jacket over the brace. “I’ll recover off‑site.”

Yelena leaned in the doorway, arms folded. “Off‑site meaning… mystery apartment?”

“None of your business.” He brushed past.

“You know secrecy only fuels my curiosity,” she called.

“Happy hunting.” He headed for the exit, clutching his slinged arm to his ribs.

---

John intercepted him at the bike rack. “Need escort?”

“Got one.” Bucky swung a leg over his old Ducati, wincing. “Thanks, though.”

John studied him. “They must be something special.”

“More than you know.” Bucky kicked the engine alive, visor down. “See you tomorrow—if Val lets me out of bed.”

“Take two days. I’ll cover.”

Bucky nodded once, throttled, and sped into the falling dusk—toward vinyl crackle, soup steam, and the only pair of hands that could make the throbbing ease faster than any med‑patch.

---

The front door was propped with a slipper just like your text promised. Bucky eased the Ducati’s helmet off with one hand, nudging the door open with his boot. Steam from soup met him in the hallway, mingling with the faint hiss of the jazz record you’d forgotten to stop.

You appeared from the kitchen in socked feet and one of his Henleys that hit mid‑thigh. “Right arm’s grounded, Sergeant.” You pointed at the sling. “No sudden heroics.”

“Was planning none.” He leaned down; you met him halfway, bracing the back of his neck as he kissed you, slow and a little shaky. The scent of rosemary shampoo—yours, not his—settled the knot in his stomach. “Missed you.”

“You’re a mess.” You thumbed a smudge of oil off his cheek. “Come sit before you keel over.”

He let you steer him to the couch. The minute he sat, his good hand found yours, fingers linking tight. You brought a heavy bowl of chicken noodle, a spoon already plunged into the broth. Bucky attempted to angle it with his left hand and winced.

“Gimme.” You settled beside him, shoulders pressed. “Open.”

He grumbled, but opened. You fed him a spoonful; he chewed, then ducked his head in embarrassment. “Feel ridiculous.”

“Rule one of dating a UN liaison on leave,” you said, scooping another bite. “We weaponize bedside manners.”

“Didn’t realize that was classified.”

“Level seven.” You smirked and offered the spoon again. “Swallow, soldier.”

He did, then tipped his forehead to yours. “Thank you.”

The phone in his pocket buzzed. He ignored it as you raised a brow. “Work?”

“Yelena tracking my GPS again, probably.” He pulled it out, and glanced at the notification: Unknown Location Request. “I’ll disable it later.”

You set the bowl down and unfolded a blanket over his lap. “Think they’ll break down the door?”

“They can try.” He pulled you closer, even with one arm out of commission. “Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhaled through his nose, the tension melting as you tucked into his side. His vibranium thumb stroked your knuckles in a steady pattern. The record skipped once, then slid into softer brass.

“How bad’s the pain?” you asked.

“Manageable.” He kissed your temple. “This helps.”

“Clinginess as analgesic?”

“Doctor‑approved.” He squeezed your fingers. “Don’t let go.”

“Wasn’t planning.” You hooked your ankle over his shin, completing the pretzel of limbs. “Movie?”

“Anything.” He closed his eyes, letting your heartbeat set cadence. “Pick something with zero explosions.”

“Musicals?”

He groaned but didn’t argue. You queued Singin’ in the Rain. As the opening credits rolled, his breathing evened. Ten minutes in, he drifted, forehead pressed to your hair, spoon forgotten, and soup cooling on the table.

You answered the buzzing phone once more—Yelena, again—and texted back without waking him. Bucky: Barnes is asleep. Shoulder fine. No house calls tonight.

Three dots popped, then: Yelena: Who dis?

You smirked, locked the screen, and nestled deeper under his arm. On the TV, Gene Kelly twirled an umbrella. On the couch, Bucky held your hand like the world might tilt if he loosened grip. You listened to the sync of his breaths with the horn section and decided the universe could wait until morning.

---

Valentina’s hologram flickered over the conference table. “Barnes forgot to pull last night’s telemetry. The secure drive needs courier delivery—signature required. Who’s closest?”

Ava raised a brow. “Could overnight it.”

“Not fast enough,” Valentina snapped. “Barnes has forty-eight hours downtime. He can review while he’s iron-slinging his shoulder.”

Bob’s hand went halfway up, then Yelena slapped it back down. “I’ll drop it,” she said, voice too casual. “Fresh air, chance to stretch my legs.”

John shot her a wary look. “Stretching your interrogation muscles, you mean.”

Yelena blinked innocence. “He might need soup.”

“Pretty sure he’s covered,” John muttered.

Valentina didn’t care. “Fine. You have two hours. Use the gray SUV—tracking only, no comm chatter. Out.” The projection blinked off.

Alexei clapped. “Field trip! Want company?”

“No,” Yelena answered too quickly, already pocketing the encrypted drive. She headed for the elevator. “Be back soon.”

---

Yelena adjusted her leather jacket, eyeing the apartment numbers until she found 3C. Rain pattered on the stairwell windows, muffling her footsteps. She knocked twice then leaned back, notebook ready for mental observations.

The door opened a crack. You peeked out, barefoot, drowning in an oversized navy sweater that clearly belonged to someone built like a fridge. Your hair was a post-shower tangle; steam curled past your shoulder.

“Uh… can I help you?” you asked.

Yelena’s assessment gears spun. Not a neighbor—tone was too guarded. Not a delivery driver—no handheld scanner. Definitely not a random roommate given the Rolex peeking from your sleeve, likely a gift. She smiled, just a shade predatory. “Package for Sergeant Barnes. He in?”

“He’s resting.” You tightened your grip on the door edge to stop it drifting wider. “What kind of package?”

“Classified intel.” Yelena held up the drive. “Signature required. I can come in, or you can sign for him.”

You hesitated. From the living room Bucky’s voice drifted—rough with sleep. “Everything okay, doll?”

Yelena’s eyebrows nearly left her forehead. Doll? Her grin widened. “Sounds like he’s alive.”

You cleared your throat. “James, it’s just a delivery.”

Thudding footsteps, then Bucky appeared behind you wearing gray sweats and a sling. His hair stuck up on one side. A flush climbed his neck the instant he saw Yelena. “Belova. What are you doing here?”

“Bringing homework, obviously.” She dangled the drive. “Val says you forgot to download.”

He shot a look at the sling, then at you, silently apologizing for the ambush. You squeezed his good hand in reassurance—tiny gesture, not tiny at all to Yelena’s sharp eyes. “I’ll sign,” he said curtly.

“Actually,” Yelena drawled, “protocol says the courier gets visual confirmation of the recipient’s workspace. Prevents data mishandling.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Since when do you follow protocol?”

“Since this morning.” She swept past before he could object, gaze flicking over the apartment: jazz vinyl spinning, soup bowls drying on the rack, and an ice pack abandoned on the couch. She whistled. “Cozy.”

You shut the door, hugging the sweater tighter. Yelena offered the tablet for Bucky’s signature. As he signed it, she pivoted to you. “I’m Yelena. Teammate. And you must be…?”

“Y/N,” you supplied, calm but firm. “James’s partner.”

Bucky’s ears went pink. Yelena’s grin reached Cheshire levels. “Pleasure. Always nice to finally meet the classified files Val forgot to mention.” Mission satisfied, she backed toward the door. “I’ll tell the others you’re alive, Barnes. Expect… questions.”

“Tell them nothing,” he warned.

“Of course,” she teased, slipping into the hall. “My lips are sealed—mostly.”

Door closed, Bucky exhaled like he’d run ten blocks. You tapped his chest. “That went well.”

He groaned. “They’re never letting me live this down.”

You rose on your tiptoes, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Guess you’ll need extra grounding tonight.”

His hand tightened over yours. “Not letting go, doll.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

---

Ava clicked through drone footage on the holo-wall while Bob built a domino maze on the coffee table. Alexei bench-pressed the couch again—because apparently it counted as “functional training.” And John stood at the espresso machine, timing a perfect shot.

The elevator pinged. Yelena strode out, swinging her leather jacket like a trophy.

“Mission accomplished,” she announced, dangling her empty courier bag. “Also—news flash. Bucky Barnes is not single.”

The room froze.

Alexei dropped the couch mid-rep. It thudded. “Impossible. He is brooding, therefore single.”

Bob’s eyes widened and a domino toppled. “Is she a double agent? Maybe he’s undercover dating.”

Ava leaned one shoulder against the whiteboard, marker poised. “Name.”

“Y/N,” Yelena said, savoring each syllable. “Lives with him. Wears his sweater. Very pretty. Nice toenail polish.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Hold up—Y/N? As in Y/N L/N? That name rings a bell.”

Ava uncapped the marker. “Spell it.”

John set his espresso down. “I met someone with that exact name during the Flag-Smashers operation. Helped Sam and Bucky chase Karli. Intel liaison—sharp as hell. But there’s no way it’s the same person. Barnes was hitting on her the whole time, she rolled her eyes like he was a mosquito.”

Yelena smirked. “She is now a mosquito whisperer, apparently.”

Bob tilted his head. “Maybe rolling eyes was spy code for ‘call me later.’”

Alexei pointed at Yelena. “Describe her.”

“Wet hair, smelled like shampoo, zero visible weapons. But the way she sized me up? Definitely trained.” Yelena tugged a sticky note off the conspiracy board and slapped it dead-center. “New subject: Mrs. Mystery Barnes.”

Ava scrawled Y/N? in bold letters. Underneath she drew two columns—Civilian? and Spy?—adding tally marks beneath each as Bob rattled off theories.

John folded his arms. “Look, even if it is her, there’s no guarantee they’re dating. Maybe she’s the roommate.”

“Wearing his sweater,” Yelena reminded.

“Laundry day,” John tried.

“Called him James,” she added.

Alexei let out a low whistle. “That is intimacy level eight.”

Bob flicked another domino. “So… not a spy?”

Ava tapped the marker against her chin. “Could be deep cover. We need data. John, pull the State Department file on Y/N L/N.”

John’s expression tightened. “If she is who I think, that file is classified past my clearance.”

“Then we hack it,” Yelena said, already flipping open her tablet.

“No,” John shot back. “We respect privacy until Barnes tells us otherwise.”

Yelena’s eyes glinted. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Where’s the trust?” John countered.

Bob cleared his throat. “Could bake them welcome muffins.”

Alexei perked. “Muffins and interrogation—classic Soviet hospitality.”

Ava started a flow chart branching from your name: Possible Covers: Analyst / Assassin / Accountant. She glanced at John. “Come on, Walker. You’ve got at least level four clearance.”

John sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fine. I’ll request a redacted summary. But if Val finds out—”

Yelena snapped her fingers. “She won’t. Because we are stealthy.” She pointed at Ava. “Build the suspect board. Bob, muffins. Alexei, locate champagne. We’ll need it when Barnes admits defeat.”

John grabbed his espresso. “I’m telling you, he flirted with her and got nowhere. It cannot be the same woman.”

Yelena grinned, unsettlingly pleased. “Yet it is. And our Winter Soldier is currently cuddled on a couch with her somewhere in Brooklyn.”

Bob clapped, sending dominoes scattering. “Love mission!”

Alexei cracked his knuckles. “We assemble care package. Thunderbolts style.”

Ava scribbled a final line: Objective: Confirm Relationship Status. She capped the marker with a snap. “Operation Bergamot is a go.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need a better codename.”

“Fine,” Yelena said, eyes sparkling. “Operation Golden Retriever.”

Ava laughed, Bob cheered, and Alexei bellowed approval. John just prayed Bucky’s shoulder healed fast—he was going to need both arms to fend off this circus.

---

The jazz record had looped for the third time when the intercom buzzed. Bucky groaned, tightening his arm around your waist. “Ignore it.”

You shifted under the blanket. “Could be takeout.”

“Didn’t order any.”

Buzz. Buzz.

Bucky sighed, pushed to his feet—still slinged. He tapped the screen. “Yeah?”

Bob’s cheerful face filled the tiny monitor. “Delivery for Sergeant Barnes!”

Behind him, Yelena waved a bakery box. Alexei squeezed in, holding champagne like a trophy. Ava lurked at the edge, phone out. John stood dead-center, arms crossed, glaring at the camera as if to apologize in advance.

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course.”

You bit a smile. “Invite them up. Better than them camping in the hall.”

“If they scare the neighbors, it’s on them.” He buzzed the door, then turned, shoulders tense.

“Relax.” You straightened his sweater collar. “We knew this was coming.”

“Didn’t think it’d be today.” He grabbed your hand, lacing fingers. “Ground me.”

“Always.”

A rapid knock. He opened the door and five Thunderbolts piled in like an ill-timed clown car. Bob thrust the muffin box forward. “Carrot walnut, low sugar!”

Alexei brandished champagne. “For pain management!”

Yelena beamed. “Recon mission complete. Hi again, Y/N.”

John blinked twice, disbelief morphing into exasperation. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You lifted a hand in greeting. “Hi, Walker. Shoulder doing better?”

He ignored the question, pointing at you like a prosecution exhibit. “She shot me, you know.”

Bucky didn’t let go of your hand. “You deserved it.”

John scoffed. “It was a bean-bag round—point-blank—right after I wrestled a Flag-Smasher off a truck.”

You tilted your head. “You were about to tase Sam.”

“Semantics,” John muttered, then jabbed a thumb at his ribs. “She also stabbed me in Riga. Still got the scar.”

Bucky’s smile was unapologetic. “She was being generous. Could’ve been a kidney.”

Yelena clapped like it was a reality-show twist. “So the tough UN liaison and the grouchy supersoldier are a thing. Adorable.”

Ava rolled her eyes, snagging a muffin. “I give it three days before Val adds this to our security clearance forms.”

Bob balanced a tray of paper cups. “Cranberry kombucha for everyone. Celebratory probiotics.”

Alexei tried to pop the champagne with his hands but you plucked it away. “Cork, first. Sofa, second. No glass shards.” He pouted but relented.

John shook his head. “Two years and no one noticed?”

“Three in November,” Bucky corrected, thumb stroking your knuckles.

Yelena whistled. “Barnes keeping secrets—what else is new?”

You squeezed his hand. “We kept it quiet for work reasons. Global politics, covert ops, the usual.”

Ava leaned against the fridge. “So how clingy is he, exactly?”

Bucky answered by sliding his arm around your waist, tugging you closer until your back met his chest. “Define ‘clingy.’”

Alexei laughed. “You look like octopus. Very muscled octopus.”

Bob offered a muffin. Bucky grasped it—still one-handed—then fed you the first bite while holding eye contact with the team like a dare. Crumbs dusted your lip; he wiped them with his thumb, and kissed the same spot before stepping back half an inch—no farther.

John exhaled. “Unbelievable.”

You smiled at him. “Want coffee?”

He opened his mouth, thought better, then nodded. “Please. And maybe an explanation for the knife thing.”

“Later.” Bucky guided you toward the kitchen, fingers still locked with yours. Over his shoulder he tossed, “no interrogations until I’m off medical.”

Yelena lifted her phone. “We’ll settle for pictures.”

He shot her a look that promised retaliation. She grinned wider.

In the small kitchen you filled mugs, Bucky hovering so close his sling brushed your side. Under the counter’s edge, his vibranium fingers traced calming circles on your palm—tiny grounding sparks only you could feel.

“Doing okay?” you murmured.

“Now that you’re here,” he answered, eyes soft. Then louder, to the team: “Nobody break anything. Deposit shoes by the door. Alexei, that includes boots.”

Alexei sighed but complied, unlacing loudly.

Ava sniffed the air. “Anyone else smell bergamot and smoke?”

Yelena grinned. “The scent of romance—and burnt skillet.”

John raised his mug in mock salute. “To the happy couple.”

Bucky squeezed your hand once more, holding on like the room, the day, and the world could spin as it pleased—as long as this point of contact stayed fixed.

[runby2]

Remember if you’re out at a store and someone says “This is a robbery” you can say “no it’s not” and then the robber will leave because theyre a robber and this is no longer a robbery .

[runby2]

You can not just say this without dropping the whole story

[alonelybeemakingart]

Ok so,

My dads coworker is at the front and this man comes Up and hands him a document.

The coworker took a Look at the document and while he couldn't read the things written by Hand, because he wasn't wearing his glases, he did notice the Logo of a different Bank so he's like:

"Oh, sorry sir you can't do that here! You have to go to the other Bank for this :)"

The man, visibly confused leaves, but dosen't take the document with him.

The coworker, now just as confused as the Guy actually Takes Out his glases and reads the hand written part:

This is a robbery

[gay-jesus-probably]

Can you imagine trying to rob a god damn bank and the teller just cheerfully tells you to go rob the competition instead

[theprofessional-amateur-deactiv]

I worked as a bank teller for several years and a few things you should know, bank robberies happen far more frequently than you might think and they come in waves. When a bank gets robbed a notification with photos goes to all banks in the area to be on the lookout. And there are two kinds of robbery, the pass the note and the takeover (what you see in movies).

So our branch had had a big takeover robbery as well as a note one. We also had a teller that had transferred to our branch after having been through a robbery. She was sweet as apple pie, hair up to the ceiling, southern lady who had just been through multiple robberies.

A guy comes in and hands her a folded note. Her immediate thought was “this guy needs to learn you don’t hand bank tellers notes. I am just not going to read that.” So how the conversation goes:

Her: how can I help you today?

Him: I’m here to get money

Her: great *hands him a withdrawal slip*

Him: all the information is on the paper

Her: to process the transaction I need you to put it on my piece of paper

SO HE FILLS OUT A WITHDRAWAL SLIP. Meanwhile another coworker is looking at her latest robbery notification email thinking the guy at the window looks a lot like him but the teller is calm and seems to be following standard transaction.

Back at the window the teller notices his name on the withdrawal slip doesn’t match the name on the account so she asks for his ID. He once again tells her all the relevant info is on the folded note but also gives her his ID and says it is his dad’s account. She tells him he will need a check from his dad to get cash. He grabs the note and leaves.

ONE HOUR LATER

Two new robbery notifications hit our emails, both branches within a mile. It is our guy. Teller goes over to the manager and sheepishly informs them he was here and the time. Security department is notified as are local police and the FBI. The FBI comes over believing that these poor tellers had been robbed for the 3rd time in a month and take her statement. She is completely embarrassed telling them how everything went down and he kept signaling to the note and telling her to read it but she was just done.

To which this FBI agent of 40 years who has been to the scene of many bank robberies (several at this branch in recent weeks) says: Ok. Let me see if I got this right, he came in fully intending to rob you. He gave you the note and you just…refused to read it? So he left and went to the bank literally across the street, handed them the exact same note, and they just handed him five grand? Do I have that correct?”

Her: I am so embarrassed

FBI: this is best thing I have ever heard. He even handed you his ID! Holy-

Her: I feel so dumb!

FBI: don’t! This is the best thing I have ever heard. This is going to be in training courses. (He sat there giddy for at least 5 more minutes)

[bippysaurus-rex]

I have a similar story from my friend Fred, who is a great human and I like him lots.

He was working at a 7-11 that got robbed a lot, working nights. And he was bored and read though his entire contract and learned if you're shot at work you get $200,000. Also, he hated his boss and the job.

So when a guy came in to rob him at gunpoint he got excited and was able to hatch the plan he had been pondering while dealing with a Shitty Boring Job.

"Dude. Shoot me in the leg. Right here- it'll go through and not hit anything vital and I'll be able to quit this fucking job. I'll give you fifty fucking grand to shoot me in the leg then you can take everything in the register."

This ended with him chasing the weeping attempted burglar out of his store screaming "SHOOT ME YOU FUCKING COWARD I WANT THE MONEY".

[cheesepoon-deactivated20231010]

@rmilkies

[byrdsfly]

One of my uncles was a branch manager at a local bank when I was a kid. His branch had the dubious honor of being one of- if not the- most robbed bank in the area. There was a bullet hole in the wall behind his desk where he'd been shot at once.

One day, this guy came in and announced he was there to rob the place. This man was smoking a cigar with one hand and had a gun in the other.

My uncle pointed at the "No Smoking" sign and told him in no uncertain terms, "Put that cigar out, or finish it outside first."

This guy, bless his heart, went back outside to finish his cigar.

My uncle locked the door behind him and waited for the cops to show up.

[astraltrickster]

This is what I like to call the Bugs Bunny Deescalation Strategy

[rosenclaws]

Worst Logan would be the boyfriend who says he hates love island and then subtly watches it while you’re watching it and get unreasonably angry at the things those ppl do

[benispunk]

worst logan is just in a constant state of denial

[rosenclaws]

camp counselor Logan au

okay so after mentioning it to @princessanglophile briefly. I came up with some ideas for this!! Its loosely based on my own memories or summer camp/science camp. Man i miss that it was sooo fun lol

It’s Xavier's Summer Camp for gifted children where Charles is the camp director, Jean is the assistant director and is married to Scott who runs most of the camp. Like he’s the guy who talks to the kids and helps Jean organize stuff and makes the announcements.

The summer camp is a mix of fun summer stuff and also STEM. They’re focus is letting kids explore their interests and have fun and make friends. It’s geared more towards kids who are lower income and have a harder time fitting in to society.

Beast is the camp medic and also the creative director for the science part of the camp.

Storm is the creative director for everything else. She plans the itinerary for the more fun things and has the final call on what makes it in and what doesn’t.

Jubilee is the games master for sure. She knows how to have fun. Her favorite day is color wars. Laura runs the games with her but she’s more hardcore. She loves rock climbing and beating kids to the top bc they asked to race her.

Rogue, Gambit, Kitty, Bobby, and most of the other younger kids are the camp counselors.

Logan is physical activities guy. He likes it because he can make children run. Also he works with Jubilee and Laura a lot and he likes them more than most. He is also the guy who conducts the swimming tests, leads the hikes. He’s got a whistle and loves to use it. He is very grumpy but the kids love him because they’re drawn to his oddly paternal instincts.

You (the reader) are a brand new edition to the camp. There was a head counselor position open and you applied and fell in love with the camp. You have your own cabin of kids but also help with the others when they require it.

So the actual plot of the story is you arrive at the camp and everyone is very nice but Logan is standoffish. That’s just Logan though but you still wonder why he almost seems wary of you.

Camp starts and its so much fun. Meeting all these kids and helping them find their place and making friends and experiencing a core memory.

Logan is the only thorn in your side. You do think he’s crazy hot but he’s a jerk so his hotness does down.

You two bicker because you think he’s too harsh on the kids and he thinks you don’t understand them like he does. He is harsh but not just to be a dick.

I think things change after you see Logan helping a kid through some homesickness or an injury.

He doesn’t turn into some super empathetic soft spoken man, but he does comfort them in a way that works. He doesn’t get mad or call them weak for being hurt. He understands and gets them to stop crying.

You tell him that maybe he’s not a massive asshole and he just shrugs and says don’t tell the others because they won’t believe you. (They already know)

Its literally just the cutest summer romance. You two get flirty and everyone notices. The campers and the other staff. I mean Logan even patches up your knee when you fall on a day hike. When Scott fell last year he just laughed.

Its stolen looks and quiet moments and realizing that the two of you are basically meant for each other. There is absolutely a campfire moment where you make smores and he drapes his flannel over you.

Also a moment where he takes his shirt off and you’re just gawking like crazy.

[benispunk]

okay and when are you writing it💅💅💅💅💅💅💅

[wolverinescheeks]

31 Day Challenge - Wolvie 18

I've decided that instead of posting all 31 Wolvies I'm just gonna post my favorite ones cuz I want to🤤

With this I really tried to convey the emotion that (I think) he's feeling through the dramatic shading and highlights‼️

[benispunk]

WOWWWWWWW

[mcrdvcks]

Congratulations on 2k girl 🥳🥂

Can I request for a Drabble or headcanons (whatever easy for you) about being married to Logan for 20+ years with kids. Still madly in love. Like full on domestic and Logan is pretty much retired, lives in his own house. (I know it’s sounds messy but idk how else to explain it)

Luv your writing so much <3

LOGAN LIVES IN A CABIN!!!! sorry, uh... i mean, it's my own headcanon that logan, when happy and retired, would live in a cabin. i'll never change that. anyways, i got carried away a bit, i hope i didn't repeat myself either, lol

send an ask for my 2,000 followers celebration!

warnings/tags: you and logan have 3 kids (and a dog), married life, domestic life, soft!logan, 20+ years of marriage, uhhh fluff, so much fluff

I’m going to say that you and Logan met at the X-Mansion. You were a teacher when he came arrived with Rogue. Now it’s been a little over 20 years and you and him live in a cabin in upstate New York, close to the Canadian border.

You have three kids: Laura, Elizabeth, and Kate. At first, you were going to stop at Elizabeth, but you agreed to try for another one when Elizabeth was 2 and Laura was 5. Logan made a joke that he was 2 for 2 with girls, and no boys. You told him that if the third baby was girl, you’d get a dog.

Low and behold, Pesto (Elizabeth chose the name, which Logan hated at first). A stocky, big-pawed German Shepherd pup with ears too big for his head and eyes that immediately adored your girls.

Elizabeth named him because “he’s the color of pesto” (he wasn’t), and Logan muttered “damn dog’s gonna be stuck with a salad name” for a week. But he’s the one who lets Pesto curl up on the porch swing with him every evening now.

Laura (now 17) is the calmest. Sharp as hell, emotionally steady, gets that from Logan.

She’s fiercely protective of her sisters, and never says much—but if someone even breathes wrong in Kate’s direction, she’s at their side in seconds.

Logan’s the only one who can get her to smile just by raising a brow and grunting “You’re taller’n me now, kid.”

She calls him “Dad” in public, “Old man” in private.

They train together in the mornings, still. Sometimes in silence, sometimes with quiet talks that never reach the house.

Elizabeth (14) is sunshine and absolute chaos. She talks with her hands and wears mismatched socks on purpose.

She's Logan's weakness. Absolutely the one who can convince him to do just about anything with a bat of her eyes.

She's the reason there's a glitter glue ban in the house.

She’s also the reason Logan has a pink beaded bracelet he still wears on his left wrist—it says “DAD (hearts) E,” and no, he’s never taking it off.

Kate (11) is all heart. Soft-voiced, bookish, with a deep curiosity about everything.

She loves animals and has somehow convinced Logan to build a tiny wooden shelter out back for “forest friends.”

She sometimes wakes up from nightmares, and Logan’s the first one there—scooping her up and carrying her back to bed without a word.

“You don’t have to be brave all the time, y’know,” he tells her, thumb stroking her hair. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Kate got Logan to buy an annual pass to the nearby Nature and Science Museum for the family. Every month all 5 of you go.

Logan grumbles about the long drives and overpriced snacks every single time—but you always catch him quietly staring at the girls with that full, soft look he tries to hide.

Laura always wanders off to the interactive exhibits on genetics. Elizabeth sneaks photos of skeletons making peace signs with their phalanges. Kate holds your hand the entire time, asking ten questions per minute.

Logan calls it “nerd day” but always makes sure the truck has gas and snacks packed the night before. He also never lets go of your hand in the planetarium. Not once.

He chops wood in the mornings, drinks black coffee out on the porch with Pesto at his feet, and swears he's "finally got the quiet he earned.”

You’ve caught him more than once watching you through the kitchen window with this soft, stunned kind of awe—like after 20+ years, he still can’t quite believe you’re his.

You and Logan still slow dance sometimes in the kitchen. Music playing from that old radio that cuts out every few minutes. You in a sweatshirt. Him in flannel and socked feet.

He always mutters, “Y’still got it, darlin’,” and nuzzles his face into your neck.

Logan is fully, shamelessly obsessed with you. He still calls you “sweetheart,” “darlin’,” “my girl”—and will growl if anyone talks over you or makes you feel small.

Any mention of you being “just a mom” or “past your prime,” and Logan is suddenly not retired for about 20 seconds.

He swears a little louder around you now, just to make you roll your eyes. He lives for your exasperated affection.

He kisses you like it’s still the first time. Hand at the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw. Always slow, always sure. If the kids yell “eww,” he’ll smirk and pull you in even closer. “Let ‘em learn what love looks like.”

The bedroom walls are lined with framed photos, paintings, and kid drawings. Laura drew the family in crayon when she was six—Logan still calls it “her masterpiece.” Elizabeth once made a clay version of the cabin. It’s lumpy and crooked and lives on the mantle like it’s sacred. Kate writes you little notes and folds them into hearts. Logan keeps his in his sock drawer. Doesn’t say a word about them—but he’s read every single one.

He still gets nightmares. You still wake up for every single one. Some nights he sits out on the porch with a blanket over his shoulders. You come out, sit beside him, wrap your arm around his back, and say nothing.

“Don’t know what I’d do without you,” he murmurs into your hair. You kiss his jaw and whisper, “You’ll never have to find out.”

You’ll tease him about his gray hairs or how he needs glasses now for small print. He’ll grumble, but that dimple still shows.

“Ain’t old,” he insists, squinting at the back of the cereal box. You just hum and pass him the glasses he insists he doesn’t need. He only wears them around the house, never in public. “They’re reading glasses, not a damn fashion statement,” he mutters, even though you told him he looks handsome in them (because he does).

The girls all tease him, too—Elizabeth once bought him a “#1 Grumpy Grandpa” mug. He drinks from it every morning now.

On weekends, the five of you make pancakes. Logan pretends he hates the chaos—flour on the floor, Kate dancing to the radio, Pesto begging under the table—but he always flips the pancakes just the way each kid likes them.

“No chocolate chips for Laura,” he says, handing her the first plate. “Extra for Lizzie. Kate—you still like ‘em with peanut butter?” You don’t know how he remembers all their preferences, but he does.

Every once in a while, he gets restless. Not bored—just twitchy. You’ll catch him staring at the treeline, like muscle memory’s itching. You rest your head on his shoulder and say, “We’re safe. You’re safe.” And he exhales like he believes it a little more each time.

He takes the girls fishing every spring. Refuses to call it “a tradition,” but still cleans the poles weeks ahead and checks the tackle box twice. He lets them bring books and snacks and nonsense. Elizabeth usually ends up half in the water. Logan never even gets mad.

“Better a wet kid than a bored one,” he shrugs, handing her a towel.

You still kiss him every time he comes back in from chopping wood. Even if he’s sweaty. Especially if he’s sweaty. He’ll pretend to wipe his forehead on your shirt just to hear you squeal.

He never forgets your anniversary. Won’t let you forget either. “Twenty-three years this year, sweetheart,” he says one morning. “Still the best damn thing I ever did.”

The kids planned a surprise dinner once—Laura handled the schedule, Elizabeth did decorations, Kate made cards. Logan teared up. Logan. He swiped at his eyes, muttering, “Allergies. Damn pine trees.” (You hadn’t even gone outside yet.)

You still slow dance on the porch sometimes. Pesto at your feet. Stars overhead. The hum of crickets and Logan’s breath steady against your temple.

[benispunk]

cried. hard.

[cyberneticnightmares]

saw an elderly woman walking around with a tote bag whose design were the four AO3 fic category squares and she very excitedly asked if i was a reader or a writer bcs nobody else at the con had recognized it, and after telling her that i've been writing fic since fanfic.net, she solemnly nodded and explained that she'd been reading fic since "the days of personal websites" but that she only started writing fanfic when she was 47 and oh my god when i tell you that i genuinely teared up on the spot!!!!! like!!! HELL YEAH???? LITERALLY NEVER TOO OLD TO START WRITING. NEVER TOO OLD TO WRITE AND SHARE YOUR FIC.

her enthusiastic "i'm a very nice and bubbly person, i swear! but i love writing angst and major character death :)" nearly took me the fuck out.

icon. legend. diva. i wish her nothing but a kajillion million comments and kudos. i hope her fic updates crash AO3. i hope she knows i'm promoting her to my personal patron saint of AO3.

[rosenclaws]

Not Fair || Worst Logan x Reader

summary: Worst Logan is trying to start his second chance but you seem to hate him and he has no idea why.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, talking about og logan :(

a/n: I had this super angsty idea and idc if its over done I wanted to write it so bam here it is. Plus I miss writing for worst wolvie

Logan was used to dirty look. In fact that was pretty much all he got for the last 20 years or so. But for some reason the look of absolute hatred on your face stung more than usual. He didn't expect a warm welcome when Wade dragged him into this new world. The last Wolverine may have been a hero but probably wasn't always the nicest guy. But so far everyone has been pretty nice.

Yukio was sweet but didn't say much. He likes Negasonic a lot, she's got the same no bullshit attitude that he does. Peter is uh, interesting but not terrible and having Laura here was a new but fun feeling.

The only problem was you. You seemed to hate him. He doesn't know why but the way you look at him really stings. Your eyes are full of hatred it makes him feel so small. Maybe it hurts more because the two of you were something back in his world.

Calling it a relationship would be overstating it but you and Logan had something special. Maybe if he had gotten his head out of his ass and done something about it things would have turned out differently. That seemed to be a common factor with all the Wolverines. Too stubborn for their own good and refusing to let themselves be happy.

Seeing you again was like a slap in the face but maybe he could change something about his timeline. Fix his cowardice and make you feel loved and cared for like he should have. But perhaps he was too late. The other Logan might have already done the damage and he was here to suffer the aftermath.

He sees you across the room. You're uncomfortable. It's Laura's birthday and she had invited both of you. It was weird. The last time you saw Laura she was just a kid. She told you she was okay to go off with her friends and so you let her. You of course offered to help those kids but they declined. Instead you'd send them care packages whenever you could. You didn't know Laura was zapped to the void.

Now she's here and all grown up and just. So perfect. Logan was invited too. Laura knows that he's not the one who saved her but she wants to know him. She's a version of Logan and honestly, he's grown very fond of the kid too.

He can see Laura trying to balance it all. Mingle with her friends while spending time with you and with him. The least he can do is try and reach a hand out. Try and apologize for whatever the other him had done.

He slowly makes his way over to your side of the room. The large group of people and small apartment was not in his favor. As fate would have it Logan does not smoothly appear at your side asking if you want to talk.

Instead he trips over Mary Puppins and sends your drink right onto your chest. Spilling all over your clothes. Fuck. Logan stumbles to his feet. Everyone is staring and he has the overwhelming urge to tell them to fuck off.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Your voice so sharp he nearly flinches. He reaches out to try and wipe away some of the wine. Of course his dumbass would go and make you hate him even more.

"I'm really sorry I didn't mean to-"

"I said I was fine!" Logan shrinks back at your harsh tone. His hands fall limply to his side. You storm away from him into the bathroom.

“Fucked it up again.” He groans.

"It's not you. Well not really." He looks to his side to see Laura offering him a towel. He grabs it and lays it on the floor, cleaning up any mess.

"Logan, my Logan was very important to them and I think seeing you is just a lot is all." She says.

Logan nods, he knows it's weird for him to have shown up here but he's trying to make things right. He's trying to make this second chance worth it. He can't help that his heart seems to be drawn to you. You want nothing to do with him but for some reason he still cares how you feel and how you feel about him.

"Thanks kid, sorry about the mess on your birthday." He ruffles her hair and she shoves him off.

"Don't worry about it old man." He smiles as she's pulled away by a few of her new friends.

He spots you slinking your way back to the party. Moving through the crowd to the door and out of the apartment before anyone could notice. His feet move before he can think. He just wants to apologize and see if you're okay.

He's pushing it but he can't stop. He follows you all the way to the roof. He almost laughs. Of course you'd be here. That's where he'd always find you back in his world. The roof of the mansion was your safe spot.

"Why are you following me?" You turn to look at him. A tired but pissed off look on your face.

"I...I just wanted to say sorry for spilling your drink and to see if you're okay." Logan says gently. He approaches you slowly, like a wounded animal.

"Well I'm fine so you can go." Logan sighs, just walk away Logan he tells himself.

You clearly don't want him there. But something in him won't let him. He walked away from you before and you ended up dead. He just can't do that again.

"I'm sorry, for whatever I've done to you. I get that this whole thing is weird but I just want to make things right with you." Your jaw clenches as Logan continues to stay. Stubborn. Always so damn stubborn. You get to your feet and walk right up to him.

"Can't you take a fucking hint? I said to leave me alone!" You shout and Logan just stands there. That stupid caring look on his face.

"I'm not gonna leave you when you're hurting." He says firmly and it makes your heart hurt even more.

"Still the same stubborn stupid man, you could never listen to what I wanted. It was always what you thought was best." You snap.

Logan always swore he knew best. When he tried to leave you when he got old, he tried to force you away because he thought he was saving you and he never seemed to listen when you told him otherwise.

And this, this Logan seemed to be just like him. That same face, the same voice, the same sharp tongue, the same kindness with Laura, the same laugh.

It was driving you insane.

“You know what Logan? I can’t stand you." His eyes flash with hurt but he doesn't fight back.

"I can't stand even being in the same room as you because you look at me with these sad eyes and I hate it.” Those sad eyes were so familiar that it's just another slap in the face when you realize it's a different man.

“And I can’t stand you because you're messy and you drink too much and because…because-“ You struggle to speak as you try and piece the words together. Everything is building up and the flood comes before you can stop it.

“Because it’s not fair! It’s not fucking fair that you’re alive and he’s not!” You shout. The whole street could probably hear you but you don’t care.

“You are the worst wolverine. You let your friends die!” You shove his chest hard and he lets you.

Staying silent as you fall apart in front of him. Whatever was festering deep inside of you was finally coming out. You needed this. So Logan just stays quiet.

“He wasn’t perfect but dammit he tried. He was a teacher and he protected his friends and he had finally found peace.” You let out a frustrated yell as you kick a rock into the street.

“We were happy. He had fixed everything and we were so fucking happy. Then everything went wrong. Like the world looked at him and decided that some sins couldn’t be forgiven. It killed our friends, our family. It poisoned him. Slowly changed the man I loved into a shell of himself. But fuck I still loved him with everything I had.” You cry as you mourn the man you knew.

The Logan you met that day in the mansion who was so handsome and so cocky. Even as his hair turned gray and his powers weakened you still saw the man you loved. You loved him so much.

“And he died. He wasn’t supposed to die! We were supposed to be happy.” You fall back onto the cold concrete of the roof.

Staring up at the stars as you laid exhausted. The anger had fled your body and now you’re just tired. Tears still falling down your face as you cry and cry. Logan slowly sits down next to you. He isn’t sure if you even want him here. But something compels him to stay.

He’s not the man you knew but he is a variant and every variant of him is destined to love you. He can’t walk away while you’re in pain. Even if you hate him. He can live with that.

"Sweetheart." Logan places a hand on your shoulder.

You look up at him and before you can stop yourself you throw your arms around him. Hugging him tight as you cry into his shirt. He wraps his arms around you tightly. Letting you find comfort in him for as long as you need.

He smells different. That's the first thing you notice. It's a nice smell but it's still different. It pulls you out of your spiral. You pull away to look at him, really look at him. He was Logan. But there were small differences that almost made you cry again. Why? You don't really know. His eyes had more green than blue and he had more wrinkles. He was still just as handsome though.

"Thank you. For not walking away." You say quietly and he nods in reply.

“If I could, I’d trade places with him in a heartbeat.” Logan says. You look at him, tilting your head at his words.

“Why?” You ask.

“If it would make you happy. I’d do anything.” He says like it was nothing. Like he wasn't offering to give up his own life to make you happy.

“You don’t even know me Logan.”

“No, I don’t. But I knew a version of you and I know how much he must have loved you too.” He says as he cups your cheek in his hand.

He knows what that Logan must have felt because he feels it too. Not as strong because he doesn't know you as well but it's there. Maybe it's always meant to be there. That love between you two.

“He was the luckiest one out of all of us you know.” He says.

“How can dying be lucky?” There must be Logan's out there who are still alive. Surely there's no way your Logan had the happy ending.

“He was lucky to be loved by you." Logan whispers.

He's a hard man to love and he's sure that carries on through every timeline. But you still did and you stuck by him through it all. How lucky was that man to have you. Your lip wobbles as you take in his words. The sincerity of it all. Is that really how he felt?

“I’m sorry for everything. I was punishing you for something you didn’t even do.” You say, offering him an awkward but apologetic smile.

“It’s alright sweetheart. Sometimes we just need to let it out. Even if it hurts.” Logan takes your hand and you let him. He squeezes it softly and you squeeze back. You two sit on the roof for a little bit. Watching the stars. You used to do this back at the mansion.

“I’m not trying to replace him, I’m not him and we both know that.” Logan starts.

“But if you’d give me a chance, I’d like to get to know you.” There's no expectations, just a need to be close to you. How ever you'll take him he'd accept it. He just, he really missed you.

“I’d like that.” You whisper quietly.

The love you have for Logan will never go away. His new variant could never replace him. But maybe…just maybe your heart could be big enough to love them both.

“We’ll take it slow. Here, What’s your favorite color?”

“Okay slow down there, thats very private information.” You say with a soft smile. Logan chuckles and raises his hands up.

“Mine is blue." He says.

"Blue like the blue of your suit or a different blue?" You ask and he shrugs.

"I don't know, just blue."

"Logan there's more than one shade of blue."

"Okay well then I like all of them."

You talk for hours. About anything and everything. Some small things and some big ones. But it's nice to have someone to talk to again. You truly missed this. You missed him.

The man beside you is not the man you loved but he is someone you could learn to love. You both each other before, you don't want to lose him again.

[benispunk]

I read this past midnight without realising @rosenclaws wrote it and I guess it stands as a TW for me now because you again took my heart, stepped on it, then fixed it and placed it back where it belongs. So, thank you? I guess?

(loved it so so much, cried so many tears)

[itsallgoodmann]

not a day of peace in this man’s life he is always going through something