pairing: Logan Howlett x oblivious fem!reader
summary: He gets fed up over your clueless reactions. You are smart. But you are hopeless at flirting & relationships. Even Alex Summers gave up
word counts: 2.0k
warnings/tags: few levels of fluff, soft Logan, snark, slow-burn tension, Logan mild exasperation, calls reader 'lady', soft undercurrent, Alex Summers try to ask you out, you are slow at flirting- stressing everyone out escpecially Logan.
a/n: i have putting this off after finishing the Between Sight & Silence fic HAHAHA a month ago and been in the draft tumblr for weeks until i decide its a good time to post....anon sorry for the long wait & thank you for this cute hilarious request
Logan masterlist
You weren’t dense.
You were smart. Sharp as hell. Graduated top of your class, handled Danger Room simulations like chess pieces on a board, and could identify three mutant anomalies in a heartbeat from across the mansion lawn.
But God help you—when it came to Logan, and the increasingly obvious ways he was trying to flirt with you, you were the picture of innocent confusion.
And it was killing him.
It started with coffee.
Every morning, without fail, Logan poured two mugs before anyone else was even awake. One black. One exactly how you liked it—two sugars, splash of cream, hotter than hell. He never asked. He just handed it to you with a grunt and a nod, sometimes a grumble that passed for “mornin’.”
You assumed it was just… Logan being decent. Maybe because you always fixed the kitchen cabinet he broke after missions. Maybe because you patched up his shoulder once after he took a Sentinel beam to the ribs and refused Jean’s help.
You never thought much of it. Why would you? You were smart—books-smart, strategy-smart, but as Alex once said while rubbing his temples during Danger Room cooldowns:
"You’ve got the emotional radar of a brick wall."
Alex had tried. He gave up after the fifth time he tries to flirt with you, you asked if his stares were because your face looked weird with training sweat. (He said yes just to mess with you. You thanked him for his honesty.)
Logan? Logan was different. Quieter. He didn’t flirt, didn’t press. But he lingered. Offered to train with you. Walked you back to your room even when it was two halls out of his way. You chalked it up to his weird sense of old-school chivalry. Or boredom.
So when you flopped onto the couch one afternoon after missions, exhausted and bruised, and Logan wordlessly shoved a pillow under your head before sitting beside you with his usual beer, you just muttered, “Thanks, grandpa.”
He side-eyed you. “Seriously?”
“What?” you blinked, genuinely confused.
He shook his head, muttering something under his breath about clueless little gremlins with PhDs in everything but common sense. He stood up and walked away. Straight to the garage. To punch a wall. Maybe using his head to put the hole on the wall.
—--
You’re fixing tea. Logan leans on the counter beside you.
“You know,” he says, voice low, “we’ve been spending a lotta time together.”
You hum. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. I think it’s because we have overlapping assignments. And Jean said I’m the only one who can calm you down when you’re feral. Well. Semi-feral.”
“…Uh-huh.”
He takes a breath.
“You ever think maybe there’s a reason I sit next to you at every meal?”
“Sure. I thought you liked the window seat.”
“Lady. There ain’t a view at night.”
You turn to look at him. Innocent. Eyes bright. “You like the moonlight, then?”
Logan closes his eyes. He actually pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dear God, help me..”
You sip your tea like he didn’t just age ten years.
You thought he was just being nice.
Even when Alex Summers pulled you aside and said, with the drained tone of a man who'd tried and failed, "Look, he brought you a bottle of your favorite hot sauce. He growled at Scott when he made you cry during training. Do you really not get it?"
You just blinked at him and went, “Logan’s nice like that with everyone.”
He stared at you for a good ten seconds before muttering, “I’m out. I’m done. You’re a lost cause.”
----
It came to a head one afternoon in the garage.
You were helping Logan sort out toolkits, perched on the edge of his workbench with smudges of grease on your cheek, chatting aimlessly about coolant systems.
He barely said anything. Just watched you. Jaw tight.
Finally, he muttered, “You ever think about dating?”
You glanced up. “Huh? Oh. Not really. I’m kind of terrible at it.”
He snorted. “Yeah. I noticed.”
You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He turned, tossed the wrench onto the bench with a metallic clatter, and faced you fully. “You’re smart, lady. Real smart. Top of your class, can handle a telepathic tantrum without breaking a sweat. But when it comes to me flirting with you? It’s like talkin’ to a brick wall.”
Your mouth parted. “Wait, you were—?”
“Yes,” he cut in, exasperated. “I was flirtin’. For six goddamn months. What did you think it meant when I gave you my last beer and sat through that three-hour black-and-white movie you made me watch with subtitles?”
“I thought you liked old movies…” you whispered, stunned.
He looked at the ceiling, breathed deep through his nose like he was trying to find divine patience.
“I kissed your knuckles after that dinner with the students,” he said slowly. “You giggled and said it was 'very gentlemanly.' Thought you’d get it that time.”
“…That was flirting?”
He looked at you for a long beat. He scrubbed a hand down his face, growled into his palm, then looked at you. Real hard. Like he was holding back the urge to shake some sense into you. Or kiss you stupid.
Probably both.
“You are hopeless.”
“I—Logan, I’m not used to people liking me like that!” you blurted, ears going hot. “And you’re just so—tough. Grumpy. Muscly. I thought you were just being… weirdly polite.”
He stepped in close, eyes locked to yours, and you could practically feel the frustration rolling off him in waves. But under it, something deeper. Tired affection. Hope. Need.
“You think I act like this with everyone?” he asked, voice low.
“I mean,” you mumbled. “You let Kurt braid your hair once.”
“That’s different.”
“…You let me fall asleep on your shoulder.”
“You snored on me. For two hours. And I didn’t move a muscle.”
“Oh.” You swallowed. “I thought you were asleep too?”
He leaned in, both hands braced on the workbench on either side of your hips now. You felt caged—but safe. So much heat in the small space between you.
“Gonna say this once,” he said, voice quieter now. “And if you still don’t get it, I swear to God I’m draggin’ you to Jean for a brain scan. Or ask Charles to fix your head.”
You didn’t dare breathe.
“I like you,” Logan said. “Not in the friend way. Not in the 'mansion buddy’ way. Not in the 'passing you wrenches and watching your mouth move while you talk about brake fluid’ way. I like you. I want to be with you. And I’m two seconds away from losing my damn mind if I have to watch you flirt with the data down the lab again instead of noticing me.”
You gushed. “I was not flirting! I was encouraging the data to come out great and not failing mid loading.”
He groaned. Actually groaned. “I’m gonna throw something.”
You bit your lip. “Okay. Okay, wait. You like me? Like—like like me?”
“Yes. That’s what I’ve been saying.” He gruffly muttered.
You tugged your sleeve. “I’m not great at this. I never really… dated.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Figured. Alex gave up last week.”
Your eyes widened. “Wait, Alex—”
“Not the point,” he growled.
You gently tapped his arm. “So, like. What do we do now?”
He looked up, face somewhere between exasperation and utter disbelief.
Then, with a sigh, he cupped your cheek and muttered, “First thing we do? We go upstairs. You change outta these oil-stained clothes. I take you out. And at some point tonight, I kiss you. And if you still don’t get it after that, sweetheart, I’m calling in reinforcements.”
You blinked. “Do I need to bring my ID?”
He stared. “You think I’m gonna take you to a club to party? You really are hopeless. Been waitin’ months for you to figure it out, darlin’. Thought maybe you needed flashcards. Or a damn neon sign.”
You swallowed. “You’re gonna have to be very literal with me.”
He chuckled, low and fond. “Yeah. I gathered.”
----
You didn’t even get halfway to your room before Alex Summers appeared from the rec room, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk that said I told you so.
“So,” Alex drawled, arms crossed. “Logan finally cracked?”
You frowned. “Cracked?”
“You know. Lost his cool. Spelled it out for you in small words.” He jerked his chin toward the garage. “He looked like a man who just had to explain fire to a caveman.”
Your cheeks warmed. “He… may have been a little frustrated.”
Alex laughed outright, shaking his head. “I tried to help you, you know. Months ago. But no—every time I pointed out something obvious, you’d go, ‘Oh, Logan’s just being nice.’” He straightened and walked past you, muttering, “The guy practically growled every time someone else got within five feet of you.”
You blinked. “…He did?”
Alex stopped mid-step and turned, deadpan. “Wow. Still catching up.”
Upstairs, you pulled off your oil-streaked shirt and changed into something you figured was “date-ish,” which mostly meant clean jeans, boots without a grease stain, and a top you didn’t mind possibly ruining if Logan decided the date involved lumberjacking or motorcycle repairs.
You hesitated in front of the mirror. This wasn’t nerves about how you looked—it was the dawning realization that Logan, Logan, had just admitted he liked you. Not in the vague, maybe-he’s-just-friendly way you’d been telling yourself, but in the actual way. Your stomach twisted, a mix of thrill and fear.
When you stepped into the hall, he was waiting, leaning against the wall with his hands in his jacket pockets. He glanced you over in one slow sweep that left your skin feeling warmer than the mansion’s heating system.
“Better,” he said gruffly, pushing off the wall. “C’mon.”
–---
You expected a local diner. Maybe a pub.
What you didn’t expect was the quiet little spot tucked behind a row of brownstones in town—low lights, warm wood tables, the smell of grilled steak and something faintly sweet drifting in from the kitchen. It was intimate without being flashy, the kind of place you wouldn’t have found on your own.
Logan pulled your chair out for you, which earned him a raised brow.
“What?” he said as you sat.
“You’re… really leaning into this ‘gentleman’ thing,” you teased.
He smirked. “Trying to make sure there’s no room for misinterpretation this time.”
The conversation started awkward, at least for you. Logan didn’t talk much at first—just listened, sipped his beer, occasionally made a comment that landed with the kind of weight that made you realize he’d been paying attention to everything you’d said over the past year.
Halfway through your meal, the waitress came over, leaning a little too close to Logan as she set down his plate. You caught yourself watching him, curious.
He didn’t so much as glance at her. His eyes stayed on you. “You gonna eat that bread, or am I?”
You pushed it toward him without thinking, but your mind was still replaying the way he hadn’t looked at the waitress. You were used to being the one who faded into the background—him ignoring someone else for you felt… strange. In a good way.
After dinner, you walked outside into the cool night. The street was quiet, lamplight pooling on the sidewalk. Logan slowed his pace until you were side by side, his hand brushing against yours—once, twice—until you finally realized he was doing it on purpose.
You glanced up at him. “So… what now?”
He stopped, turning to face you fully. “Now? I make good on what I said earlier.”
Your pulse jumped. “The part about kissing me?”
“That’s the one.”
And then he did—slow, deliberate, like he wanted to erase any lingering doubt in your head. His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and you felt the rough warmth of him, the steadiness that had always been there under the gruff exterior.
When he pulled back, his voice was low but certain. “Still think I’m just bein’ nice?”
You shook your head quickly, still catching your breath. “No. Definitely not. You will need to do that every day. Kissing me, what i mean.”
Logan grunts happily, and his lips are a bit glossy because of your lipbalm. "Will do, bub. That's a promise."
summary: Logan gets a haircut. You collapse like it's a funeral. Name his lost hair Greg. Mourn for 3 months straight. Refuse to cook him full meals. Threaten the barber. Sighs like a widow. Greg starts growing back. You weep with joy.
word counts: 1.3k
warnings/tags: Domestic chaos, hair-related betrayal, and unholy levels of fluff, soft logan
a/n: Logan is nothing without his floof hair, when he cuts short like in gif he bite the apple, i also mourned the floof. (LIES, he is hotter in that haircut too. GAHH)
Logan masterlist
The cabin was quiet.
It had been for most of the morning. Birds chirped somewhere beyond the trees. The stream gurgled gently a few yards off. A pot of something simmered on the stove behind you. You’d been waiting for him all day. He’d gone into town to pick up supplies, maybe stop by the mechanic, probably take forever as usual.
So when the pickup finally rumbled up the gravel path and crunched to a halt outside. You opened the door expecting the usual — the faint smell of pine, maybe cigar smoke, definitely something like leather and gasoline. The heavy sound of his boots on the porch. A grunt. A kiss on your cheek. Standard Logan-returning-home protocol.
Only, instead of Logan and all his glorious, familiar, slightly-greasy forest-man disarray—
You were met with a war crime.
He stepped out of the truck. Stretched. Tugged a couple of grocery bags from the back.
And you froze.
Solid.
Mid-step.
Mid-breath.
You blinked.
Then blinked again.
He turned casually toward you, unaware that your soul had already begun the process of evacuating your body.
“Hey, sweetheart—”
Your legs gave out.
Fully and dramatically.
You dropped to your knees like a mourning widow in a historical drama. A hand clutched your chest. Your mouth opened soundlessly, like you couldn’t find the words. Like there were no words that could possibly articulate what you were witnessing.
Logan’s brows pulled together. He dropped the bags on the porch and stomped over, crouching next to you, strong hands on your shoulders.
“Hey—hey, what’s wrong? You okay?”
You just… stared.
At the crime scene that was his head.
“…What,” you croaked, pointing slowly. “What is that.”
“What?” He reached up and ran a hand over the buzzed sides and shortened top, like he hadn’t just committed absolute treason. “It’s just a haircut. Got it cleaned up a bit. Too hot for the mop.””
“Just a—?”
You staggered to your feet. Backpedaled like you’d seen a ghost. Then turned dramatically toward the woods, as if needing to scream into the void.
Cleaned up a bit was an understatement.
The glorious floofy mane — that unruly, thick, half-curling mess you spent years defending from clippers and teasing your fingers through every time he laid in your lap — was gone. Now he looked like Calvin Klein live ad. Not Your Lumberjack Logan.
Slain. Sheared. Betrayed.
You made a sound that could only be described as emotional collapse.
“I trusted you,” you said in a shaky voice. “I loved your stupid floofy hair. I named it.”
Logan blinked. “You named it?”
“Greg.”
“You named my hair Greg.”
“You’ve killed Greg, Logan!”
His face twitched.
“Look, it was hot. It kept fallin’ in my eyes—”
“IT WAS SUPPOSED TO FALL IN YOUR EYES. THAT WAS ITS PURPOSE. IT’S LITERALLY WHY I EXIST. TO BRUSH IT OFF FROM YOUR EYESSS!”
“I needed to see, darlin’.”
“Oh, God,” you whispered. “It’s worse than I thought. You sound like a cop. It had bounce. It had shape. It had volume. It looked like a shampoo commercial and now you look like you’re about to enlist.”
“C’mon, sweetheart, don’t be ridiculous—”
You looked over your shoulder, heartbroken. “Do you even know what you took from me?”
He leaned in the doorway, clearly trying not to grin. “You’ll live.”
“I won’t. I won’t live. I’m going to fade into dust like Spider-Man in Infinity War.”
He made a confused face. “What the hell is that?”
“Exactly. You’ve hurt me beyond explanation.”
That made him snort, despite himself.
But you were not laughing. You were fully spiraling. You turned back to him, dramatic as ever, tears nearly welling in your eyes.
“I’m gonna have to learn how to love you again. Like I’m with a stranger.”
He stepped forward, grabbing your waist and pulling you into him, grounding, steady. You smacked at his chest weakly.
“This is betrayal,” you murmured, burying your face in his shirt. “This is emotional terrorism. You should’ve warned me. Sent a text. Let me say goodbye to Greg.”
“You want me to apologize to the hair on my head?”
“No, I want you to apologize to me,” you snapped, pushing him off and storming toward the truck. “And I want the name of the man responsible.”
He jogged after you. “Where are you going now?”
“To town,” you said over your shoulder. “To confront Carl the Butcher and ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing, endangering civilian relationships like this.”
“You’re gonna scare the barber.”
“GOOD. Maybe next time he’ll call me before committing an atrocity.”
He caught your arm gently before you could get in the truck. Turned you around. That damn smirk barely hidden beneath the roughness of his voice.
“You really liked it that much, huh?”
You huffed. Crossed your arms. “You think I date you for your sparkling personality?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he grinned, leaning in. “You do.”
“…Shut up.”
He kissed your forehead anyway. “It’ll grow back.”
“I’m not speaking to you until it does.”
“Bet I can change your mind.”
“You can try, but Greg would’ve done it better.”
He laughed, fully now. “You’re ridiculous.”
You sniffled and stepped back into the cabin, ignoring him for the rest of the day. You only made your plate at dinner. You ate the entire last slice of pie. You refused to look at him except to sigh dramatically.
Still, that night — after he crawled into bed, after your legs found their way to tangle with his on instinct, after you ended up tucked against his chest despite yourself — you mumbled against his collarbone:
“…I miss Greg.”
Logan sighed.
“I’ll grow him back for you, baby.”
You smiled, triumphant and half-asleep.
“Good.”
Three months. No Greg. Only grief.
You’d sighed so much over the past three months that Logan was beginning to suspect you’d forgotten how to breathe any other way.
Not dramatic, over-the-top sighs either. No — these were long, suffering, resigned sighs. The kind that came from somewhere deep in the chest. The kind that sounded like the world had disappointed you so thoroughly that recovery was no longer an option.
They followed him everywhere.
In the kitchen? Sigh.
On the porch? Sigh.
In bed, right before you rolled away from him like a widow in mourning?
Sigh.
At first, he thought you were being a little shit about it on purpose. That it was your weird, emotional revenge for the haircut heard 'round the world. And maybe it was at first.
But by week three, he started to worry.
Because now you weren’t even being vocal about it anymore. You didn’t say anything. Just watched the top of his head like you were waiting for spring to return after a nuclear winter. Some days, you even patted it. Once, he swore he caught you whispering “grow, damn you” under your breath while watering the garden.
“I can literally regrow limbs, sweetheart,” he muttered one night, holding you when you finally allowed it again. “Hair ain’t the problem.”
“Yes it is,” you mumbled into his neck. “Greg’s soul hasn’t come back yet.”
“Baby, I—”
“Shh. Don’t speak. Just suffer with me.”
And he did.
He endured.
He took the way you handed him dinner with a withering look and a soft, distant sigh. He took the way you stroked old photos of him like a grieving widow in a telenovela. He even tolerated the time you made a tiny gravestone out of a rock, planted it in the garden, and labeled it RIP GREG — You Were Lush, You Were Loved.
But the worst part?
The gasp you let out when, finally, after exactly three months and two days, you opened the bathroom door and found him toweling off after a shower — his hair slightly damp and finally long enough to flop back into his eyes again.
You didn’t speak.
Just stood there, one hand braced on the wall, eyes wide and glassy like some long-lost soldier had returned from war.
“…Is it—” you whispered hoarsely, “Is it really you?”
Logan raised an eyebrow.
“It’s back, ain’t it?”
Your knees buckled. Again, hugging his legs with joy. Your floof Greg is back.
pairing: Logan Howlett x mutant fem!reader
summary: Logan teaches you his mother's cooking tricks and the xmen are begging for another bowl.
word counts: 1.3 something
warnings/tags: xmen team, soft logan, bantering, cooking with logan
A/n: oh to be loved and to be fed by Logan, god send me his doppelganger.
Logan masterlist Series masterlist
It started in the east wing.
Rogue was the first to wrinkle her nose, pausing mid-conversation with Kitty. She sniffed again. “Do y’all smell that?”
Kitty blinked. “Smell what?”
“That. Like—like roast or somethin’. Meat. Real food. Not Hank’s protein shakes.”
Kitty paused. Inhaled.
“Oh my God, I do. Is someone cooking?!”
By the time they reached the corridor outside the library, they weren’t alone. Bobby had joined them, his nose twitching like a bloodhound.
“This isn’t just a normal cooking,” he said gravely. “This is... transcendent.”
It didn’t take long for word to spread.
Kurt teleported in with a bamf, looked around wide-eyed, and said, “Is there… stew?”
By the time the smell reached Charles’s study, there was a full-on parade down the hallway, people following their noses with desperate, wide-eyed hunger and mild betrayal.
“Who’s cooking and why haven’t we been invited?” Jubilee whined as they turned the final corner toward the source.
Storm joined in with a regal sniff. “That’s not just stew. That’s been slow-cooked. For hours.”
“Where’s Logan and Lumen?” Scott asked suspiciously.
“Probably smooching in their bed, forget them! Let's go to the kitchen before the food are gone.” Bobby ran to the stairs.
—-----
“I still don’t understand how you make it so good,” you said, arms crossed, hip leaning against the counter, watching Logan chop onions. “Same ingredients. Same steps. Mine tastes like a sad cafeteria lunch. Yours tastes like a holiday.”
Logan didn’t look up. “’Cause you baby it too much.”
“Excuse me?”
“You stir it too often. Pot roast ain’t needy. You let it sit, let the flavors marry. That’s what Ma used to say.”
You gave him a look. “Your mother taught you this?”
A gruff nod.
“She also used to whack me with a wooden spoon if I didn’t clean as I cooked. So if you’re gonna hover, hand me that towel.”
You rolled your eyes and tossed it at him, only for him to snatch it mid-air with mutant reflexes and smug flair. The kitchen smelled heavenly already—sautéed garlic, caramelized onions, beef browning in a heavy cast iron pot. The kind of smell that felt like home and made your stomach growl two hours before it was appropriate.
“No wine, right?” you asked, leaning in to peek at the counter.
“Nope. She never used it,” Logan muttered as he reached for the beef broth. “Didn’t like the taste of it in food. Said it made everything taste woozy afterwards.”
You snorted. “So what’s the secret, then?”
He tilted his head. “Brown sugar. Just a touch. With Worcestershire, tomato paste, and a little mustard powder. Gives it tang. But only if you do it in the right order.”
You squinted at the spice line-up. “This sounds made up.”
“Think I’d lie about roast?”
“Yes.”
He smirked. “That’s fair.”
You moved closer, brushing against his arm as you handed him a the mustard powder. “Teach me, then. Properly.”
So he did. With gruff instructions, calloused hands that were surprisingly gentle when he helped you press the garlic, and quiet little hums as he threw in a bay leaf like it was some kind of sacred ritual. The house began to fill with the low, warm smell of broth bubbling and meat melting into tenderness.
“You know,” he said after a beat, lowering the heat on the stove, “I never used to cook this for anyone.”
You blinked. “Not even for the others?”
“Hell no. You think I’d waste Ma’s roast on Beast who live on Cheetos?”
You laughed too loud at that. “That’s so mean.”
“Not if it’s true,” he muttered.
—----
“Back up—back up,” Logan growled, elbowing Bobby away from the stove. “It’s hot. You touch the lid again and you’re losing a finger.”
“I was just—” Bobby held his hands up like he’d been caught in the middle of a crime scene. “I wasn’t gonna touch it. I was just… appreciating the aroma.”
“You were hovering like a damn vulture.”
“Because you’re hoarding heaven in a pot,” Jubilee said, half-sitting on the counter, her eyes shining as steam curled from the dutch oven.
You sipped your tea in the corner and bit your lip to keep from laughing. “We’ve reached DEFCON 1, Logan. You might need to start dishing it out before they start sharpening forks.”
He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "Should’ve cooked this in the woods."
But he didn’t stop. He ladled the thick roast—beef so tender it barely held together, nestled in rich gravy with potatoes, carrots, and caramelized onions—into bowls like a grumpy bartender pouring drinks after hours.
Jean entered next, holding a book in one hand, nose in the air. “Who lit the smell alarm?”
“My Ma’s roast,” Logan said dryly, handing a bowl to Ororo, who looked at him like he’d handed her a sacred relic.
Jean closed her book slowly. “You cooked?”
“Yes,” you said brightly. “And he didn’t kill anyone.”
“Yet,” Logan added.
Jean smirked and floated over. “Do you take compliments or just grunts and threats?”
“Depends on the day.”
Scott, peeking the stove near the coffee machine, raised an eyebrow. “He’s never cooked for us.”
“You’re not special,” Logan grunted, without missing a beat.
The room howled with laughter.
You stepped around the fridge to grab more napkins, only to turn back and see Logan scooping an extra-large helping into a bowl and sliding it toward you with the most casual, completely-not-a-softie move imaginable.
“For you,” he said.
You blinked. “That’s… that’s a double portion.”
“You helped.”
“I stirred one time.”
“And you didn’t cry when the onions hit.”
“Progress,” you said, smiling. “I’m growing.”
He gave a small grunt. “’Bout time.” But there was warmth in it. That rough-edged fondness he always tried to hide behind sarcasm and grumbling. He didn't look at you directly, just down into his bowl like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. You didn’t call him out on it. You just sat beside him, thigh brushing his, your bowl nestled in your hands.
Everyone had found a seat, either at the island or half-squatting on stools, or even sitting cross-legged on the floor like it was story time at mutant kindergarten. There was a moment of pure silence as they dug in.
Then came the chorus:
“Holy shit,” from Bobby.
“This is better than Thanksgiving,” muttered Kitty, already halfway through her carrots.
“I’d trade my entire comic book collection for this,” said Kurt reverently.
You leaned over to Logan. “You hearing this?”
He didn’t smile.
Not exactly.
But you saw it—barely there, tugging at the corner of his mouth like a well-earned secret.
“It’s just roast,” he said.
“Sure,” you whispered, bumping your shoulder into his. “And you’re just a grumpy janitor.”
He side-eyed you. “Don’t push it.”
You let yourself relax, soaking in the warmth of the food, the laughter, the sounds of your strange little found family gathered around a battered kitchen table. It felt like something carved out of a simpler time. Just… living.
Later, long after the roast was demolished, when most of the crowd had dispersed in food comas, Logan stayed behind, leaning against the counter with arms folded, watching the last curls of steam fade from the pot.
You crossed to him and nudged his hip with yours.
“You fed the entire mansion today,” you said softly.
He grunted. “Didn’t mean to. I was cooking it for us two only.”
“You did it anyway.”
He glanced at you, then down at his hands. “Ma always said food’s how you tell people you give a damn. Didn’t think I’d end up doin’ it for… this many people.”
“You made everyone feel at home.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there. You could feel it—the weight in his chest, heavy and quiet. You didn’t press. You just slid your fingers between his and gave a squeeze.
After a long pause, he murmured, “Next time… I’ll teach you how to make her biscuits.”
You smiled.
“And her chocolate fudge,” he added. “If you’re brave enough.”
“Oh, I’m brave, with my personal chef now.. i think i can make bubble sugar.” you said, grinning as you leaned into him.
Logan as a History Teacher [in public school] AU Oneshot
pairing: Logan Howlett!history teacher x fem!Art teacher reader
summary: Grumpy history teacher Logan and chaotic art teacher you can’t go five minutes without bickering—over coffee, glitter, or who’s ruining whose class. The whole school swears you’re secretly dating.
word counts: 9k hahaha who would read this one shot this long
warnings/tags: enemies to lovers ish, banter, empty threats, secret pining, teachers in public school, DoFP Logan, he kept his mutant a secret.
a/n: this is my first AU since a few of you like the short fic, your wish is granted, here is the one shot of Logan history teacher AU. Not much of teaching sessions in school but most of the plots centers the pair banters.
request open Logan masterlist
The faculty lounge was always a battlefield: stale coffee, stolen lunches, and teachers desperate for five minutes of peace before the next round of chaos. Logan had claimed his spot by the counter, pouring the last of the coffee into his chipped mug like a man at war.
That was when you walked in—bright scarf, messy bun, still dusted in streaks of paint from class. You stopped dead at the sight of the empty pot.
“Oh, come on.” You threw your arms up. “Logan, again? Do you have some kind of sixth sense for when I need caffeine most?”
Logan didn’t even flinch, just took a slow sip. “First come, first served. Maybe if you didn’t spend your mornings finger-paintin’, you’d beat me to it.”
“Finger-painting?” You scoffed, dropping your planner onto the table with a thud. “That’s called art education. You know, the thing that teaches your students creativity, empathy, expression—basically everything your history class crushes out of them.”
He turned, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Creativity don’t help when they gotta pass exams. My kids walk out knowin’ who started the Peloponnesian War. Yours walk out knowin’ how to glue macaroni to paper.”
There was a loud snort from the math teacher in the corner. You ignored it, leaning across the table until you were inches from Logan’s scowl.
“At least my students don’t need therapy after I grade their work.”
Logan raised a brow. “Funny. Thought therapy was half the point of art.”
“Oh, please,” you shot back. “Your class is just yelling about dead guys until the bell rings.”
“Better than babysittin’ teenagers playin’ with glitter.” He gestured vaguely at the smear of paint on your scarf. “Or are you the one playin’ with glitter?”
The science teacher coughed into her mug to hide her laugh. Someone else muttered, “God, just kiss already.”
You both froze.
Logan scowled. “Who said that?”
Nobody answered. The lounge was dead silent, except for the sputtering coffee machine trying to brew another pot.
You straightened, grabbed your planner, and shot him one last glare. “One day, Logan, you’re going to choke on that smug attitude of yours.”
He shrugged, heading for the door. “Better than chokin’ on glitter.”
The door slammed behind him, and the room exhaled all at once—half the staff snickering, half pretending they hadn’t been watching like it was prime-time TV.
You snatched up your planner, shoved your chair back with a scrape, and marched after him.
“Logan!”
He was halfway down the hall, mug in hand, walking like a man immune to authority, deadlines, or common decency. He didn’t stop.
“Don’t ‘Logan’ me,” he muttered over his shoulder. “Ain’t my fault you can’t handle a little caffeine shortage.”
You jogged to catch up, your shoes squeaking on the linoleum. “Little? That was the last cup. Do you even know what I deal with before 9 a.m.? Clay exploding in the kiln. Watercolors spilling on essays. Teenagers wielding glue guns like medieval weapons. I need coffee.”
He grunted. “Sounds like your problem, not mine.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet—” he took another sip, “—still here, teachin’ history and drinkin’ coffee like a champ.”
You made a dramatic gasp, clutching your chest. “History champ? Oh, congratulations. Truly inspiring. Did you also win gold in the Grumpy Old Man Olympics?”
That got him to stop. He turned, glaring down at you with that infuriating half-smirk. “Better than winnin’ the Messy Art Teacher Pageant. Congrats on first place, by the way. You got paint on your shirt too. Again.”
You glanced down, cursed under your breath, then glared right back. “Better paint on my shirt than nothing in my soul.”
A group of sophomores walked by, slowing down to watch. One of them whispered, “Oh my God, they’re fighting again.”
Logan caught it. You caught it. And for a split second, both of you turned in perfect unison and barked, “Get to class!”
The kids scattered like pigeons.
You looked back at him, annoyed but also… annoyingly amused. “Truce until the bell?”
He raised his mug in mock salute. “Fine. But I’m not makin’ another pot if its empty later.”
“Good,” you snapped. “I wouldn’t drink your bitter swamp water anyway.”
You walked off before he could reply, but you swore you heard him chuckle—low, rough, and smug as hell.
The hallway outside the faculty lounge was unusually quiet during lunch. No kids yelling, no lockers slamming—just the hum of the vending machine and the faint smell of cafeteria pizza.
You sat on the bench with your lunch Tupperware balanced on your lap. Half a chicken wrap sat inside, tragically abandoned mid-bite. You’d meant to eat, truly, but exhaustion had other plans. Within minutes, your head tilted back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut.
That’s how Logan found you.
He stopped dead in his tracks, coffee mug in hand, staring. The so-called “paint tornado” of the school—the one who could fire back at him with sarcasm sharp enough to cut glass—was… snoring. Softly.
He glanced at the half-eaten wrap, then back at your slack jaw.
“…unbelievable,” he muttered.
Still, he didn’t move on. Instead, he leaned against the opposite wall, watching like you were some kind of wild animal that might spook if approached. One of your students rounded the corner, spotted you, and opened their mouth. Logan shot them a look so sharp the kid froze, nodded frantically, and bolted.
“Sleepin’ in the hallway, huh?” he drawled low enough not to wake you. “Real professional.”
You stirred, mumbling something incoherent. A smear of paint was still on your wrist from class, and the sight tugged something strange and warm in his chest. He shook it off.
When you finally blinked awake, it took a second to process the scene: your cold wrap, your Tupperware askew, Logan standing there with his arms crossed.
You groaned. “Oh, fantastic. My nap had an audience.”
“Not much of a nap,” he said, smirk tugging at his mouth. “You were droolin’.”
Your eyes went wide. “I was not.”
“Could’ve watered a plant with it.”
You shoved the Tupperware into your bag, mortified. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
He took a sip of his coffee, looking smug. “Highlight of my day.”
You squinted at him. “Don’t you have papers to grade? Dates to memorize? Dead people to worship?”
“Don’t you have glue sticks to sniff?” he shot back.
The bell rang before you could retort. Logan tipped his mug toward you like it was a hat brim.
“Try not to nap through class, Picasso.”
You threw him a glare over your shoulder as you walked off, muttering, “Better than teaching like a caveman.”
And damn him—he was still grinning.
Your classroom was chaos in its purest form. Paintbrushes clattered in water jars, paper scraps littered the floor, and at least two students had somehow managed to get more clay on their clothes than on the sculptures in front of them.
You stood in the middle of it all, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back, gesturing dramatically toward the whiteboard where you’d scrawled Expression = Heart + Technique.
“Remember,” you told your students, “art isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing what you feel. If you want perfect, go ask the math department.”
That earned a wave of laughter.
The door creaked open.
Logan leaned against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand like it was permanently glued there. He scanned the chaos with one eyebrow raised.
“Looks like a crime scene in here,” he said. “Did a paint bomb go off, or is this just a normal Tuesday?”
You didn’t even flinch. “Funny, I don’t remember inviting cavemen to my class. Did you get lost on your way to the faculty lounge?”
The kids snickered.
Logan’s eyes flicked to them, then back to you. “Your students always this messy, or you teachin’ ‘em bad habits?”
“Messy means they’re trying,” you shot back. “Unlike in your class, where breathing too loud gets you detention.”
That drew louder laughter from the students. One kid whispered, “She got him.”
Logan gave the kid a look that shut them up immediately, then smirked at you. “Don’t know how you deal with all this glitter and glue.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “One day I’ll sneak some into your classroom. Your beard would sparkle beautifully with a little silver.”
The kids lost it.
Logan muttered something under his breath that definitely wasn’t school-appropriate. He turned to leave, but not before tossing you one last jab.
“Don’t let ‘em eat the paint, Picasso.”
“Don’t let yourself choke on chalk dust, Grinch,” you called after him.
The door shut.
Your students immediately erupted into chatter.
“Miss, are you two, like… married?”
“Why do you always roast him?”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
You held up your hands dramatically. “Children! Focus! The only romance here is between you and your unfinished projects. Now sculpt!”
They groaned, but the sparkle in their eyes told you everything—you’d never hear the end of this.
The end of the school day left you drained. Your classroom looked like the aftermath of a hurricane—paint splatters, abandoned sketches, and a suspicious glitter trail leading straight out the door. You sank into your chair, staring at the email again.
Which, in Principal Drew’s world, meant: Be there, or expect guilt-trips until retirement.
You groaned, kicking off your shoes. The last thing you wanted was to sit at a long table pretending to enjoy lukewarm chicken while fielding small talk about standardized tests.
Worse—Logan would be there.
Just the thought of sitting across from his smug scowl made your skin itch. He’d probably show up in his usual flannel, scaring the new staff into submission. You could practically hear his growl: “What the hell’s a canapé?”
Still… you knew if you skipped, the whispers would follow. “Oh, the art teacher thinks she’s too good for staff functions.” And truthfully, a part of you didn’t want to give Logan the satisfaction of calling you a no-show.
So, after about thirty minutes of dramatic pacing, you pulled yourself together. Hair brushed, shoes swapped for something halfway presentable, scarf swapped for one without paint stains. You caught your reflection in the mirror and muttered:
“God help me if they seat me next to him.”
You arrived, looking around. The cheap restaurant reservation dinner space, tablecloths and little floral centerpieces that looked suspiciously like they’d come from the dollar store. Teachers milled about with plates and glasses of wine, trying to look more civilized than they did during morning coffee brawls. You sighed. Cheap skate Mr. Drew, the school principal and the school funds.
And there he was, the man you like to pick fight with.
Logan, at the far end of the room, sleeves rolled, hair somehow more disheveled than usual, holding a plate like he wanted to throw it out the window. When his eyes met yours across the crowd, that damned smirk appeared.
“Great,” you muttered under your breath. “Just great.”
You straightened your shoulders, grabbed a glass from the passing tray, and stepped in. If you were going to survive this evening, you’d need two things: patience… and wine.
You slid into the crowd, clutching your wine glass like a lifeline, scanning for an empty seat far away from certain plaid flannels and scowls.
Too late.
Logan was already striding over, plate piled high with enough food to shame the buffet line. He stopped in front of you, looking you up and down like he hadn’t expected you to scrub up decently for once.
Then his mouth curled into that infuriating half-smirk.
“I was prayin’ you weren’t comin’ tonight.”
You took a slow sip of wine, savoring the dramatic pause. “Funny. I was praying you wouldn’t either. Guess God doesn’t like either of us.”
A couple of teachers nearby choked on their drinks, pretending not to listen.
Logan grunted, leaning a little closer. “Suppose this means we’re both doomed.”
“Only difference,” you quipped, tilting your glass at him, “is I look good while doomed. You just look… grumpy.”
He glanced down at his flannel, clearly not caring, and stabbed a fork into his potatoes like he was threatening them.
Before you could retreat to a safer table, the principal’s voice rang out:
“Alright, everyone! Please take your seats—yes, assigned seating. You’ll find your names on the cards!”
You froze. Logan’s smirk deepened.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” you muttered, scanning the tables until your stomach sank. There it was. Your name card. Right next to his.
Logan leaned in, voice low and smug. “Looks like we’re dinner dates, Picasso.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through the centerpiece flowers. “This is going to be the worst night of my life.”
He raised his glass of water like a toast. “Cheers to that.”
You hadn’t even touched your food before Logan leaned back in his chair, all smug satisfaction, and muttered just loud enough for you to hear:
“Relax, darlin’. You’re makin’ that vein in your forehead pop.”
Your fork froze mid-air. Slowly, you turned, voice low but venomously sweet.
“Don’t. Call. Me. That. Are you crazy? People will think we’re dating. And that is the last thing I want.”
Logan arched a brow, completely unbothered, and speared a piece of chicken. “Trust me, darlin’, you ain’t the prize I’d be braggin’ about.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh, tossing your napkin onto the table. “Unbelievable. You can’t even eat without being insufferable.”
Across the table, the chemistry teacher leaned over to the science teacher and whispered (not nearly quiet enough), “They bicker like an old married couple.”
Both you and Logan snapped your heads toward them in unison.
“We are NOT a couple!”
Half the table jumped. The principal cleared his throat, smiling just a little too knowingly. “Well, it’s good to see the staff bonding.”
You slouched back into your chair, cheeks burning, stabbing at your salad like it had personally wronged you. Logan was still smirking, of course.
“You know,” he said casually, “keep shoutin’ it like that, and people’ll start thinkin’ you’re overcompensating.”
You glared. “One more word, Logan, and I swear I’ll ‘accidentally’ spill this wine on your shirt.”
He leaned closer, voice low, almost amused. “Wouldn’t be the first stain you’ve given me, Picasso.”
Your jaw dropped. The whole table erupted into muffled laughter.
Worst. Dinner. Ever.
…
You told yourself you wouldn’t actually do it. You told yourself you had self-control, maturity, dignity.
And then Logan made one more comment.
He leaned over, fork tapping against his plate. “Careful with that wine, Picasso. Wouldn’t want you gettin’ clumsy in front of the boss.”
That was it.
Your elbow jerked, glass tipped, and in one horrifying instant—deep red wine cascaded across the tablecloth and straight down Logan’s shirt.
The table gasped in unison.
“Oh my God!” you clapped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide. “I—oh no—Logan, I didn’t—”
“Of course you didn’t,” he growled, rising from his chair as the wine dripped down his flannel. “Whole damn glass, right on me. Real subtle.”
The principal, bless his optimistic heart, tried to smooth it over. “Accidents happen!”
Logan shot you a look that said he was not buying it. At all.
You grabbed a handful of napkins and shoved them at him. “Here, blot, don’t rub!”
“Oh, now you’re an expert?” He snatched the napkins, glaring as he pressed them to his shirt. “This thing’s ruined.”
“Maybe it’s an improvement,” you muttered.
A couple of teachers nearly choked on their breadsticks.
Logan froze, slow-turning toward you. “What’d you just say?”
You pasted on your most innocent smile. “I said, uh… it’s a bold look. Wine red really brings out your… temper.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly fighting a smirk, and shook his head. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re overdramatic,” you shot back, though your face was burning.
The science teacher leaned over to the math teacher and whispered: “They’re definitely dating.”
Both of you snapped in unison: “WE ARE NOT!”
The room erupted in laughter, leaving you and Logan glowering at each other across the mess of spilled wine and napkins.
Logan was still dabbing at his shirt, scowling like he’d just lost a fight with a bottle of Merlot. You sighed, leaning closer so the other teachers wouldn’t overhear.
“I got a spare clean shirt in my car,” you murmured, still holding a wad of useless napkins. “It was my brother’s. He wouldn’t care if it goes missing.”
Logan froze, glancing at you like you’d just offered him your kidney. “What, you keep men’s shirts in your car for emergencies now?”
You rolled your eyes. “Yes, because that’s my hobby—stockpiling laundry in the trunk. Just take the shirt, Logan. You look like a murder suspect.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. He tilted his head, voice dropping low. “Your brother’s shirt, huh? Not some ex’s?”
Heat shot up your neck. “Are you seriously interrogating me right now?”
He leaned in, wine-stained and smirking, like the world’s most irritating outlaw. “Just makin’ sure I ain’t walkin’ into somethin’ I’ll regret.”
“Trust me,” you hissed, standing up and snatching your car keys. “The only regret here is me ever sitting next to you.”
And still—still—he followed you out of the restaurant, grumbling, but not enough to hide the fact that he was actually going to wear the shirt you brought him.
The night air was cooler than you expected, a breeze tugging at your hair as you unlocked the trunk. The overhead streetlamp buzzed faintly, making the whole scene feel more exposed than you liked.
You pulled out the folded plaid shirt and turned, holding it out. “Here. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
Logan didn’t even hesitate. He just grabbed it, set it on the trunk, and started unbuttoning his ruined shirt like he was standing in his own damn bathroom.
Your jaw dropped. “You’re not seriously—Logan!”
“What?” he grunted, stripping off the wine-soaked flannel and shrugging it off his shoulders. “Ain’t like anyone out here cares.”
“I care!” you hissed, spinning halfway around, shielding your eyes with your hand. “This is a school function. People could walk out and—oh my god, you’re actually—”
“Relax,” he drawled, voice dripping smugness as fabric rustled behind you. “Ain’t like I’m givin’ you a show.”
“That’s exactly what it looks like!”
He chuckled low in his throat, pulling the fresh shirt over his head. “Then stop lookin’.”
You peeked—of course you peeked—and instantly regretted it. Broad shoulders. Muscles you had no business noticing. That scar along his collarbone.
You whipped your head back around. “Unbelievable. No sense of shame whatsoever.”
Behind you, the new buttons clicked into place. Then his voice, closer now: “Better?”
You turned slowly. He was grinning, faintly smug, looking far too comfortable in your brother’s old shirt. And—dammit—it did suit him.
You crossed your arms. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, tugging at the collar. “Already planning how I’m gonna ‘accidentally’ spill soup on you next time. Fair’s fair.”
You glared. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He smirked. “Wouldn’t I?”
Logan tilted his head toward the parking lot exit, already halfway thought to leave. “C’mon, let’s ditch.”
You folded your arms. “I can’t ditch. I left my handbag in there.”
He blinked. “...You’re kiddin’ me.”
“No, I am not kidding,” you said firmly. “That bag has my keys, my wallet, and my entire dignity in it. I’m not leaving without it.”
Logan gave a long-suffering groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really think anyone’s gonna steal it in a room full of teachers?”
“Yes,” you shot back instantly. “Teachers are theft professionals. Have you ever seen the staffroom fridge?”
That finally cracked him. His shoulders shook with a laugh he tried to smother, but the smirk slipped through. “You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?”
“Thank you,” you said primly, brushing past him toward the door. “Now come on. I’ve got dessert and a handbag to reclaim.”
Logan muttered something under his breath—sounded suspiciously like “stubborn woman”—but followed anyway, still tugging at the borrowed shirt like it was the most ridiculous thing that had ever happened to him.
Logan leaned one arm on the car roof, giving you that lazy, scheming look that always made your blood pressure rise.
“I could just grab your bag and leave. Say you’re already drunk and I’m driving you home.”
You squinted at him. “Why do you want me to join you in leaving the party early? I literally want a cheesecake. It’s free.”
His mouth twitched, like he was fighting a grin. “Cheesecake? That’s what’s keepin’ you here?”
“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “Do you know how often the principal actually spends money on decent dessert? Once a year, tops. I am not missing it because you’re allergic to socializing.”
Logan huffed, muttering, “Cheesecake. Unreal.” He straightened, giving you a mock-serious look. “Fine, but when everyone starts whisperin’ about us sneakin’ back in together, that’s on you.”
You rolled your eyes, striding toward the doors. “Good. Maybe they’ll think you’re too busy dating me to keep scaring off the cafeteria ladies.”
He smirked, following right on your heels. “Oh, sweetheart, if I was dating you—”
“Don’t,” you cut in, glaring at him over your shoulder. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”
But the grin on his face said he absolutely would—eventually.
You pushed the door open with a little too much force, practically marching back into the dining hall. The chatter dimmed just a fraction—just enough for you to feel it.
Logan strolled in behind you, casual as ever, tugging at the cuff of the plaid shirt like he owned the place.
Mrs. Henderson, the librarian, spotted him first. Her fork froze halfway to her mouth. “Logan… weren’t you wearing blue before?”
Every head at the table swiveled.
You plastered on a smile that screamed nothing to see here. “I stained the shirt. It was a… wardrobe emergency.”
Mr. Patel raised an eyebrow. “And you just happened to have a spare men’s shirt lying around?”
You felt your soul leave your body. “It’s—not what you think—”
Logan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “She insisted I take it,” he drawled. “Said I’d look good in it.”
Your jaw dropped. “I did not!”
The table erupted in laughter, forks clattering, wine glasses raised like they were toasting.
Someone shouted, “Finally!”
Another added, “Knew it was only a matter of time.”
You buried your face in your hands. “I just wanted cheesecake,” you groaned.
Logan leaned down, voice low and smug. “Told ya they’d talk.”
You peeked at him through your fingers. “I hate you.”
“Sure you do,” he said, snagging a plate of cheesecake from a passing tray and setting it in front of you with a wink.
The night had finally coughed up its last awkward toast and polite laughter. Teachers trickled out of the restaurant in clumps, still gossiping about you and Logan. You didn’t care. Your stomach was stretched to its limit, heavy with pasta and cheesecake, and the only thing you wanted now was sleep.
You leaned against your car, arms wrapped around yourself, head tipped back. “I’m too full to drive,” you muttered, groaning softly. “If I move, I’ll explode. They’ll find me in the parking lot, cause of death: tiramisu.”
Logan came strolling up, hands in his borrowed plaid’s pockets, looking irritatingly unbothered despite being the subject of half the night’s rumors. “Told you to ditch.”
You cracked one eye open. “And miss three types of dessert? Over my dead body.”
He smirked. “Thought that’s what you just said happened.”
You let out a laugh, weak and muffled. “Don’t make me laugh. It jiggles the cheesecake.”
Logan shook his head, leaning on the car beside you. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re smug.”
“Maybe. But I ain’t the one leanin’ against my own car like I need to be rolled home.”
You nudged him with your elbow. “Shut up. I’m savoring my victory.”
“Victory?” he echoed.
“I got my cheesecake,” you said proudly, eyes half-closed. “That’s a win.”
For a second, neither of you spoke. The quiet hum of the lot, the buzz of the streetlight above, and the warmth of his shoulder just a little too close—it all pressed in around you.
Then Logan chuckled low, glancing sideways. “Y’know, you’re somethin’ else.”
You smirked, without opening your eyes. “Don’t get poetic on me. I’m too full for compliments.”
He huffed, but stayed right where he was, shoulder brushing yours in the cool night air.
Logan tipped his head toward your keys dangling lazily from your fingers. “I could drive you home. We live in the same neighborhood.”
You cracked one eye open, squinting at him. “No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we do,” he said evenly, like you were the one losing your mind. “I moved. Mid-year. It’s closer to school than my old place. Only fifteen minutes from my new lair.”
You straightened a little, suspicious. “Your lair?”
He smirked. “What else am I supposed to call it?”
“Uh, a house?” you shot back. “An apartment? Literally anything other than lair? People are going to think you’re plotting crimes in there.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I am.”
You rolled your eyes, still stuck on the first part. “Wait. Hold up. You moved? When?”
“Middle of the year.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“Not exactly somethin’ I announce on the morning bulletin,” he muttered, giving you a sidelong look.
You frowned. “How come? It’s nosy neighborhoods everywhere around here. I thought you liked your old place.”
He was quiet for a beat, staring at the ground like the words weren’t his usual type. Finally: “Too far from school. Got tired of the drive. This place is easier. Quieter than it looks.”
That surprised you more than you cared to admit. You studied him for a moment, then smirked to break the tension. “So… what, should I expect to see you lurking around the corner store now? Brooding over cartons of milk?”
Logan snorted, shaking his head. “If I ever catch you in pajamas at the gas station, I’m takin’ a picture.”
You snort. “You wish I get out to get gas in my pyjamas.”
“Everyone does it.” he drawled, sliding you that infuriating grin.
You squinted at him, still leaning against your car. “Wait a second. Where’s your bike?”
Logan’s jaw ticked, eyes narrowing just slightly. “At home.”
“At home?” you echoed, incredulous. “Since when do you not roll up everywhere like you’re auditioning for Sons of Anarchy?”
He gave you a long look, then shrugged. “Can’t exactly park a Harley in a nosy neighborhood without everyone peekin’ out their curtains. Figured I’d drive a truck for once. Less questions.”
You grinned, unable to stop yourself. “So you’re hiding it. Like a secret girlfriend.”
His head snapped toward you, glare sharp. “It’s nothin’ like that.”
“Oh, it is exactly like that,” you teased, enjoying yourself way too much. “Poor bike, abandoned in the garage, wondering why you don’t take her out anymore—”
“Alright, enough,” Logan cut in, rubbing a hand down his face. “You makin’ fun of me, or are you always this dramatic when you’ve had too much cheesecake?”
You smirked. “Both.”
He muttered something under his breath—sounded like “smartass”—but you caught the faint twitch of a smile before he could bury it.
You barely noticed the jingle until your keys were gone. Logan twirled them around his finger like he’d won some kind of prize.
“Hey!” you protested, straightening off your car. “Give those back.”
“Nope,” he said, already unlocking the driver’s side. “You’re too full of cheesecake to drive. Last thing we need is you noddin’ off at a red light.”
You groaned, stomping around to the passenger side. “Unbelievable. I can drive just fine.”
“Sure you can,” he said, settling behind the wheel like he’d done it a hundred times. “You can also spill wine with pinpoint accuracy. Doesn’t mean I trust ya behind the wheel tonight.”
Sliding into your seat, you crossed your arms and huffed. “Thank you, chauffeur.”
He smirked, starting the engine. “Careful. Keep talkin’ like that, I’ll start chargin’ fares.”
You side-eyed him. “What, in sarcasm?”
“Nah,” he said, glancing at you with that irritating grin. “Cheesecake.”
You groaned, slumping back against the seat. “You’re never letting this go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
And with that, Logan pulled smoothly out of the parking lot, looking way too pleased with himself.
The drive didn’t last long. You’d promised yourself you’d stay awake, maybe toss a jab or two at your so-called chauffeur. But the combination of full stomach, soft hum of the truck, and the faint vibration of the road lulled you under before you realized it.
By the time Logan pulled into your street, you were out cold, cheek tipped against the window, breathing even.
He killed the engine, the sudden quiet filling the truck. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at you like he wasn’t sure what to do with the peace.
You, quiet, wasn’t something he was used to.
The streetlight outside washed a faint glow across your face, softening every sharp edge of sarcasm he usually braced himself against. He caught himself thinking—dangerously—that you looked almost… easy to be around like this.
He leaned back in the seat, arms crossed, and let out a long breath. Could’ve shaken you awake right then. Didn’t. Instead, he waited. Gave you that time.
When you finally stirred, blinking groggily, he tilted his head toward your house. “Welcome back to the land of the livin’,” he rumbled.
You rubbed your eyes, catching sight of him. “Did I—? Oh my god. Did I fall asleep?”
“Out like a light,” he said, mouth twitching. “Didn’t even make it past the first stop sign.”
Mortified, you groaned, covering your face. “Fantastic. Real professional. My chauffeur probably thinks I drool in my sleep.”
He smirked. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”
You snapped your head toward him, wide-eyed. “Did I?!”
He only chuckled, low and warm, and nodded toward your door. “Go on. Before I start addin’ late fees.”
You were still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, fumbling for your bag, when Logan’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Come on,” he said, leaning an arm over the steering wheel, “don’t make me carry you inside.”
Your head snapped toward him, scandalized. “Excuse me?”
He gave a lazy shrug, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “You look half-asleep still. Figured I’d save you the trouble of face-plantin’ on your own front steps.”
You scoffed, unbuckling your seatbelt with more force than necessary. “You are not carrying me. This isn’t some cheesy romance novel.”
“Could be,” he muttered, smirking as you froze with your hand on the door handle.
You whipped around. “What did you just say?”
“Nothing,” he drawled innocently, but his eyes glinted with mischief.
Rolling your eyes, you pushed the door open, mumbling, “I heard it,” as you stepped out.
He leaned across the seat, calling after you. “I’m serious—if you trip, I’m pickin’ you up. Won’t even hesitate.”
You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Try it, Logan, and I’ll dump a bucket of paint on your head next time.”
That earned you a low, satisfied chuckle that followed you all the way to your doorstep.
You slid your key into the lock, still muttering under your breath about smug chauffeur and cheesecake threats. The door gave its familiar little click—
And then came the crash.
A sharp, unmistakable thud from inside, followed by the sound of something toppling over.
You froze, hand still on the knob.
Logan was already moving. He straightened in an instant, shoulders squared, every line of him alert like a switch had flipped. “Stay here,” he muttered, low and firm.
You spun toward him. “Excuse me? This is my house.”
He shot you a look, fierce enough to pin you in place. “And if someone’s in there, it’s my problem now.”
Before you could argue, he brushed past you, pushing the door open with a cautious hand. His posture shifted—less school teacher, more predator.
“Logan—” you whispered, but he raised a hand, silencing you.
The air inside felt heavier somehow, every shadow stretched too long. He moved quietly, eyes scanning, muscles taut, like he’d done this a thousand times before.
You hovered at the doorway, heart hammering, torn between fear and the unsettling realization that you’d never seen him like this. Not just smug, not just irritating—deadly serious.
Another faint noise—something skittering deeper inside.
Logan’s jaw clenched. “Get your phone. Call police if I say so.”
You stiffened at the second sound, pulse racing… then squinted through the dim entryway. A flick of a tail, a sudden leap from the counter, and the culprit revealed itself.
“…No,” you exhaled, relief loosening your shoulders. “It’s only a cat.”
Logan paused mid-step, head tilting toward the blur of fur now perched smugly on your shelf. His gaze cut back to you, and you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
“Only a cat,” he repeated flatly.
“Don’t say it like that. She’s crafty,” you whispered, crouching to scoop the guilty little beast up before she could knock anything else down.
Logan stood there, arms crossed, watching you cradle the animal like it was a priceless artifact. His brows lifted. “So this is what had you ready to dive into a break-in.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You were ready to break someone’s neck over my cat.”
“Damn right,” he muttered, then looked away, clearing his throat like he’d said too much.
The cat purred in your arms, oblivious to the fact she’d just witnessed her owner’s favorite sparring partner nearly go feral over nothing.
You scratched the little furball’s chin and presented her like she was royalty.
“This is Snoofle. Snoof, for short. Very cuddly.”
Logan blinked at the cat, then at you. “…Snoofle?”
“Yes,” you said with complete seriousness. “She responds to it. Judge her, not me.”
He huffed out a laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “Figures you’d have a cat with a ridiculous name.”
You hugged Snoofle tighter, lips twitching. “Don’t insult her. She has more charm than you.”
The cat, as if on cue, stretched one paw toward Logan like she was extending an olive branch. He eyed it suspiciously, then tentatively scratched behind her ear.
“…Soft,” he admitted reluctantly.
“See? Cuddly.” You smirked. “She likes you. That’s rare.”
Logan glanced at you, gruff but unable to hide the faintest grin. “Guess she’s got bad taste, then.”
You yawned, scratching Snoofle’s chin one last time before setting her down. She immediately circled Logan’s boots like she’d known him all her life.
You folded your arms, leaning on the doorframe. “It’s late. See you tomorrow at school.”
Logan looked down at the cat still purring against him, then back at you. “Your cat’s not lettin’ me leave.”
“She’ll survive.” You waved him off with a tired grin. “Go. Before she climbs your leg and you’re stuck here all night.”
He chuckled low in his chest, finally stepping back. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Goodnight, Logan.”
He gave you one of those crooked half-smiles, already walking away. “Night, Snoof. Night… trouble.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and you found yourself glaring at Snoofle.
“Don’t you dare fall for his act.”
She meowed. Which, unfortunately, sounded suspiciously like agreement.
Few weeks later.
You were shoving books into your bag, balancing your coffee like a pro, when Logan appeared in the doorway of the art room, leaning casually against the frame. His smirk was already in place, like he’d rehearsed it all night.
“Morning, Picasso,” he drawled.
You froze, glaring. “Don’t you dare.”
“Dare what?” He sauntered closer, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room like he owned it. “Callin’ me smug already? Or was that part of your morning ritual?”
“You know exactly what I meant,” you snapped, sliding your coffee onto the counter. “I mean don’t you dare call me that in front of students.”
He raised an eyebrow, grin widening. “Or what? You gonna throw that brushes at me?”
You crossed your arms, leaning against the counter. “Try me, Logan. One wrong move and this brush set becomes a weapon of mass destruction.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “That’d be a shame. I kinda like walkin’ around covered in your artistic disasters.”
“Don’t tempt me,” you warned, stepping closer. “Or I’ll start ‘accidentally’ tripping over your feet in front of everyone. Every day.”
He leaned just a little closer, voice dropping. “And if I start… catching you? What then?”
You smirked, tapping a finger against your temple. “Then you’ll have to deal with a full-scale vengeance campaign. Starting with your coffee tomorrow.”
His smirk didn’t falter. “Sounds… dangerous. I like danger.”
“Good. Then I’ll make sure your entire week is hazardous. Consider this a threat.”
“Noted,” he said, voice low and teasing. “I’ll be watchin’. You better be worth it, Picasso.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, tossing him a pointed glare before striding to your easel.
He lingered just a moment longer, smirk still in place, watching you go like a predator quietly enjoying the chase.
You were halfway across the classroom, arms full of sketchbooks, when his voice cut through like gravel dipped in smugness.
“Dinner with me?” Logan drawled, casual as if he was asking about the weather.
Your brain short-circuited. Feet tangled. And before you knew it—thud—one sketchbook hit the floor as you tripped over your own shoe.
“Smooth,” he muttered, bending down to pick it up before you could recover.
You snatched it back, cheeks heating. “Don’t. Say. Stuff. Like. That.” Each word jabbed the air like a dagger.
“What? ‘Dinner with me’?” He leaned on a desk, arms crossed, grin tugging at his mouth. “You act like I just proposed marriage.”
“You might as well have shouted it through the school intercom!” you hissed, glancing at the door like a paranoid fugitive.
His smirk grew. “Relax. Not like the kids are listenin’.”
As if on cue, two passing students peeked in, whispering before giggling their way down the hall.
You groaned, covering your face. “I hate you.”
“Nah,” he said, voice low, with that infuriating confidence. “You just hate how much you’re thinkin’ about it now.”
You shot him a withering glare. “Threat still stands. Coffee. Tomorrow. Salt and rat poison instead of sugar.”
He chuckled, backing toward the door. “Better make it worth my time, Picasso. Friday night, seven.”
Before you could fire back, he was already gone, leaving you fuming—and dangerously aware your heart hadn’t stopped tripping since you did.
You nearly missed it—one break between classes, the hallway a thin ribbon of chatter and clattering lockers, and then Logan was at your table like he belonged there, two cold cans of soda clutched in his big hand.
He held one in front of you with that infuriating half-smile. “I’m serious, Picasso. Have one dinner with me. If it turns out shit, we won't talk about it ever again.”
You smack his arm before your brain could think better of it, the smack more theatrical than painful, then jabbed a finger into his chest and dragged him—yes, actually dragged him—into the small corner of your classroom that hid behind a stack of drying prints and a tall rolling cart.
The corridor noises muffled; the fluorescent light hummed; the smell of turpentine and wet paper wrapped around you like a familiar, messy blanket. “Shhh,” you hissed, voice low and sharp, because three passing sophomores had just slowed down and were obviously tuned to this exact frequency of drama. “Not out here, you idiot. We’re not a circus.”
He let you pull him until the corkboard hid most of him, and then tipped his head, soda can glinting.
“Fine. Corner of shame it is. But are you gonna say yes, or keep playin’ coy while you stew about dessert choices?” His gaze was ridiculous—serious and teasing all at once—and for a beat you forgot how to sound clever.
You crossed your arms, like armor, and recited terms with the solemnity of a treaty negotiator.
“One dinner. One. No tricks. No 'darlin’. You don’t bring it up at faculty meetings. If it’s awful, we walk away and pretend it never happened, and if it’s good—don’t get smug—then we’ll talk about it like normal idiots.”
You watched his mouth, waiting for the predictable scoff, the grab for leverage, the dramatic refusal.
Instead, he tipped the can toward you like a toast and his expression softened just enough to be dangerous.
“Deal. No ‘darlin’ in public.” He paused, then added in that gravel voice that scraped right across your defenses, “But if it’s good, I reserve the right to be smug in private.”
You rolled your eyes because of course you rolled your eyes, because of course he said that, but the tiny, traitorous part of you that loved the idea of being the cause of his smugness stirred and didn’t bother to hide.
“Fine,” you said, because you always did. “This Friday. We meet at seven, Jim Smoke House. And you’re buying dessert.”
He let out a sound that might have been a laugh, then bumped your shoulder with his in a faux-affectionate shove.
“Seven. Prepare to be underwhelmed.” He shoved the soda back at you as if that made it official and then turned to walk out, already slipping into the corridor.
You stayed in the corner a second longer, watching his broad back disappear between lockers, and somehow the room seemed a little less loud and a lot less lonely.
Friday night, you showed up early. Too early. The little restaurant you’d picked wasn’t fancy, but it had good cheesecake, and you’d convinced yourself it was the perfect middle ground: casual enough to downplay how much your stomach had been somersaulting all week, but nice enough to pass for a real date if anyone asked.
You sat at the corner booth, hair done, outfit picked after an embarrassing three outfit changes, and the soda can he’d handed you during break replayed in your head like a charm you couldn’t shake. This is ridiculous, you told yourself, drumming your nails against the table. It’s just dinner. It’s not even a real date. Just dinner.
The waiter came by once. Then twice. You ordered water just to look occupied.
Half an hour passed. Then an hour.
Your phone stayed stubbornly blank. No calls. No texts. Every minute your excitement soured a little more, like fruit left in the sun. The giddiness that had carried you all week curdled into a heavy, tight knot at the base of your throat.
By the time you finally stood, your legs stiff from sitting, disappointment burned hotter than any of your banter with him ever had. He hadn’t just been late. He hadn’t come at all.
No message. No excuse. Nothing.
You drove home in silence, every streetlight slicing through your windshield like it was exposing you. Like it was laughing at you. Snoofle met you at the door, purring, twining around your legs. You sank down on the floor, shoes still on, head pressed into her fur.
“Guess he thought it was funny,” you whispered.
Your phone buzzed once—just a junk notification. Still no word from him.
And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like sparring, or joking, or trading jabs. You felt… played. Like the punchline of a joke you hadn’t seen coming.
You switched your phone off, tossed it onto the couch, and muttered into the quiet, “Never again.”
Weekend, no news from him. Your mood worsen.
By Monday morning, his empty chair in the staffroom was impossible to ignore. Tuesday, the whispers started. it was like a game of hot potato—every teacher you passed seemed to ask you first.
“Any word from Logan?”
“You two are always at each other’s throats, don’t you know where he went?”
“Didn’t he tell you anything?”
At first you smiled thinly, deflecting with jokes. Maybe he ran away from grading papers. Maybe he finally lost a battle with the copy machine. Anything to keep your voice steady and your face neutral.
But by lunch on Wednesday, sitting in the lounge with your untouched sandwich, the dam cracked. A younger teacher leaned in, eyes curious, and asked, “So seriously—are you sure he didn’t tell you? You’re closest with him.”
Closest.
Something inside you snapped.
You slammed your Tupperware shut, the sound sharp enough to startle the poor girl. “I don’t know where he is. I don’t care where he is. And for the record, he’s not my responsibility. He’s a grown man who makes his own choices.” Your voice rose louder than you intended, brittle as glass. “So stop asking me like I’m his damn girlfriend.”
Silence swallowed the lounge. A couple of teachers looked down at their lunches; another suddenly found the bulletin board fascinating. Heat burned your face, your pulse hammering in your ears.
You shoved your bag onto your shoulder and stormed out before anyone could say a word. The hallway was blessedly empty, but your chest still ached with the weight of everything you hadn’t said.
He stood me up. He disappeared. And now you the fool who have to answer for him.
Snoofle would get an earful when you got home.
Thursday morning, just as you were pinning up a row of student sketches, you heard it. The gravel of his voice. Low, careless, too familiar.
“Morning, Picasso.”
Every muscle in your back went rigid. You didn’t turn. You didn’t breathe. You clipped the last sketch into place like he wasn’t even there.
He lingered in the doorway. You could feel him watching, could almost picture that infuriating half-smirk. “Nothin’? Not even a jab about my hair?”
You set the stapler down harder than necessary and crossed the room to grab another stack of work. Your silence was louder than shouting.
“Alright…” His voice shifted, softer now, like he wasn’t sure of the ground he was standing on. “I deserved that.”
You stacked the papers neatly, lined up the corners, anything to keep your hands busy and your eyes down.
He moved closer, boots heavy on the linoleum. “Hey—”
You finally looked up, your gaze cutting sharp enough to stop him mid-step. But instead of saying all the things that had been clawing your chest all week—Why didn’t you show? Why didn’t you call? Do you think I’m some joke to you?—you let the iciness in your eyes speak for you.
Then you brushed past him without a word.
The silence you left in your wake stung worse than anything you could’ve said. The last bell rang. You beelined to the door, with your handbag. Not forgetting the thumbprint time at the staff exit door. Screw him your heart screamed.
You didn’t even hear his truck behind you until you were fumbling for your keys at your front door. Then—his voice, close, gravelly, careful.
“Don’t—don’t shut me out like this.”
You spun, every wound from the past week bursting open. “Don’t you start like that. You vanish for days, stood me up at the damn restaurant, make me look like a fool in front of everyone, and now you follow me home? Are you out of your mind?”
He tried to step closer. You backed up, jabbing your finger at him like it was a blade. “Stay there, Logan. I mean it. You don’t get to just stroll back into school, throw a nickname at me, and pretend nothing happened!”
He exhaled, sharp through his nose, and in two strides he was past your defenses, pushing the door open, guiding you inside with a grip that was all calloused warmth and quiet force.
“Sit,” he growled, pressing you down onto the sofa. His hands bracketed yours, heavy and grounding, rough thumbs brushing over your knuckles like he was afraid you’d bolt.
Your chest heaved, fury bubbling hotter than embarrassment now. He crouched low enough to meet your eyes.
“Okay. Listen.” His voice softened, the growl thinning to gravel. “I’m sorry I stood you up. That’s on me. That’s a shitty part from me. But I had an emergency back at my family. I didn’t get a choice.”
You scoffed, bitter laughter tearing free before you could stop it. “That’s convenient. No call? No text? Not even a scrap of an excuse? Just gone? What, you expect me to swallow that and—what—pat you on the back for showing up now?”
His jaw clenched. He didn’t flinch at that jab. He let the words hit him like punches and stayed exactly where he was, his hands warm and steady around yours, like he’d decided he wasn’t letting go until you heard him out.
His grip tightened around your hands, steady but insistent. His eyes—harder than usual, darker—held yours like he was anchoring himself.
“I’m a mutant,” he said, the words slow, deliberate, like he was testing how they sounded out loud.
You blinked. Then scoffed, rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. “And I have magic hands that can paint. Very funny. Real original, Logan. You stand me up, disappear for a week, then come back spinning comic book excuses?”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just stared, every line of his face carved in stone.
The silence hit harder than his words.
“…You’re serious.” Your voice dropped, unsure now.
“I ain’t jokin’ about this.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles again, rough but careful. “It’s why I disappear sometimes. Why I screw things up. Why I couldn’t—hell, why I didn’t show that night.”
You pulled your hands back, hugging them to your chest like you’d been burned. “So what, you expect me to believe you’re some kind of… enhanced guy?”
His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Yeah. ‘Cause I am.”
The air thickened between you, your heartbeat loud in your ears, the part of you that wanted to laugh it off fighting the chill that ran down your spine when you realized he hadn’t even blinked.
Your breath caught, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Like the mutant…”
It landed heavy in the space between you. The news, the whispers, the politics—those mutants. The ones parents ranted about at school board meetings. The ones half the staff whispered slurs about in the break room.
Your knees felt weak, and you lurched to your feet, putting distance between you and him. “Oh god.”
Logan’s head tilted, eyes tracking you as you backed away. No smirk now. No smart mouth. Just quiet, bracing himself like he’d seen this scene a hundred times before.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low, gravelly. “Like the mutant.”
You pressed a hand to your forehead, pacing a short line across your living room. “No. No, this is insane. You can’t just—drop that bomb like it’s nothing. You—” Your voice broke, sharper now. “You should’ve told me. From the start. Instead of… this.”
He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, his gaze heavy. “Ain’t exactly the kinda thing you drop over coffee, darlin’. Don’t go down easy. Not for people like you.”
“People like me?” You snapped, spinning on him, hurt clawing under your ribs.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, weariness carved deep in the gesture. “Normal people. Teachers with neat little lives who don’t gotta hide half of what they are.”
Your throat tightened, words tangling somewhere between fury and fear.
Your voice cracked sharp, your chest rising and falling like you’d just run uphill.
“People like me? That’s rich. I ain’t like them. The ones that sit around at PTA meetings screaming about mutant kids in schools. Or the board members writing policies to shove you outta sight. You think…”
You swallowed, hard, words catching on the lump in your throat. “You think I hate you? Your kind?”
Logan’s brows knit, that unshakable mask of his slipping for the first time tonight. His mouth opened, then shut again, jaw working like he was chewing glass.
“Don’t matter what I think,” he muttered, gravel in his voice. “History’s taught me people don’t stick around long once they know.”
You stepped forward before you realized it, fists balled tight at your sides. “You arrogant ass. If I hated you, I’d have said it months ago. God knows you’ve given me enough reasons. But I don’t.”
For the first time since you’d met him, Logan looked caught off guard. Like he hadn’t prepared for this response—your anger, your disbelief, and the blunt edge of your honesty all tangled into one.
His jaw flexed, that familiar tight line when he was fighting something in himself. His claws hadn’t come out, but the weight of them sat between you, unspoken. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to yours, amber and raw, like they could cut through your anger if you let them.
“You really think I don’t know the difference?” His voice was gravel, low, edged with something that almost cracked. “I’ve smelled hate. I’ve lived in it. Waded through it ‘til it choked me. That ain’t what’s sittin’ in front of me right now.”
You swallowed hard, arms folding like a shield. “Then stop treating me like I’d break the moment you told me. I knew mutants are not all bad.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling rough. “Ain’t runnin’ from you… I was runnin’ from the mess that follows me everywhere.” His gaze softened, almost pleading. “But if you’re sayin’ you ain’t like the people who want to banish my kind… then prove it.”
"I thought mutant would be smarter than human... but you still slow at this, guess you're human with extra gene. That's all."
That earned a low, incredulous laugh from him, rough around the edges. He leaned back just slightly, shaking his head like you’d managed to punch a hole right through the storm brewing in him.
“Smartass,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it—just that rasping affection he never knew how to say straight. He leaned forward again, closer now, eyes narrowing at you. “So, what—you ain’t scared? Not even–..”
Before he could launch into another sarcastic retort—you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his. Just a quick, sharp claim at first… and then a second, longer one when you felt him hesitate.
He froze for a heartbeat, hands twitching like he didn’t know where to put them. Then a low, vibrating hum rumbled in his chest, vibrating right through your own heartbeat.
When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His amber eyes darkened, dangerous and warm all at once.
“You—” he started, gravelly and rough, but you silenced him with the tiniest brush of your finger against his lips.
“Still a man to me,” you warned, voice low, teasing, but your chest still racing.
He chuckled, a soft, almost feral sound that made your stomach twist in ways words never could. “Mmm… fine,” he murmured, leaning just a fraction closer, as if daring you to test him again.
Snoofle meowed loudly from the armrest, judging both of you. You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away, letting the quiet hum between you linger, dangerous and sweet.
Your defiance melted the moment his lips pressed against yours again—this time slower, deeper, a kiss that demanded attention, that claimed every ounce of tension between you.
You leaned into him without thinking, letting the anger, the frustration, the week of disappointment and fear wash away. His hands framed your face now, rough, warm, grounding. Every brush of his thumb along your jaw, every press of his chest against yours whispered that he wasn’t just sorry—he was here, completely, and this was real.
A low hum vibrated through him, deep and satisfied, vibrating straight into your chest. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, letting the heat of him anchor you.
When he finally pulled back just slightly, his forehead rested against yours, breaths mingling, uneven, intimate. “Better?” he rasped, eyes soft but edged with that signature growl.
You smirked, heart still racing, feeling the warmth of his hands lingering on your skin. “Yeah… better,” you admitted, almost breathless, almost daring him to push further.
After that last, lingering kiss, Logan didn’t pull away completely. Instead, he cradled you against his chest, arms heavy and firm, like he was afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip. Every rough edge of him softened in the way he held you—every muscle taut, yet careful, anchoring you as if you were the only thing keeping him steady too.
You let your head rest against his shoulder, heart hammering, every ounce of anger and tension from the week draining out in the steady beat of his chest beneath your ear. His hands cupped your sides, thumbs tracing absent patterns over your back, holding you like you were fragile, like you were all that mattered in the world right now.
“You… you’re not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice low, gravelly, almost a growl that carried warmth instead of warning. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face a little further into him. “You act like I’m about to dissolve.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to,” he muttered, tightening just slightly, enough to make the point without hurting. “Not ever.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled into his chest, though you didn’t move an inch out of his hold.
“Mm. Been called worse,” he grunted, chin resting on the top of your head. His hand slid up your back, warm and steady. “And you’re stayin’ put, so I’d say I’m winnin’.”
You tilted your head just enough to smirk at him. “Don’t get used to this. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to hating you again.”
His mouth quirked, a half-smile you almost missed. “Sure you will, Picasso. Sure you will.”
“Stop calling me that,” you groaned, smacking his chest lightly.
He chuckled, low and gravelly, squeezing you tighter like he was daring you to wriggle free. “Not a chance. Fits you too damn well.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t fight his hold, not really. “One day, Logan, you’re gonna choke on all that smugness.”
He leaned down, brushing his lips against your temple in a way that was too tender to ignore. “Worth it.”
And just like that, you knew—you’d never live this down ever.
Hope you guys love the ending but i think it a bit cliffhanger, no?? thinking of part 2 where you will meet the mutant students at Xavier's school... ugh.. need to write it tho- can you all just imagine the plots in your head HAHAHAHA
The sun was warm but filtered through tall pines, casting dappled shadows across the clearing. The cabin sat nestled between the trees, worn around the edges, but homey. Lived in. Quiet.
Logan had dragged you out here for some so-called “peace and breathing space.” You’d agreed, albeit suspiciously, because the last time he said that you ended up helping him fixing a leaky roof and chasing off racoons with a broom.
But today?
Today had started nice.
You and Logan had been sitting on the small stream river bank couple yards away from the cabin, feet dunked into the cold, clear stream that babbled lazily past. The water was shockingly cold even in July, but you didn’t mind. Your toes curled against smooth stones, and Logan leaned back on his arm. “Not bad, huh?” he muttered, eyes half-lidded behind dark lashes.
You hummed. “Almost makes up for the mosquito bites.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You brought me into a forest.” You fake a exhausted face.
“You said you liked nature.”
“I like air-conditioning more...”
He chuckled low in his chest, gave your foot a tug that nearly yanked you into the stream. You shrieked, kicked at him half-heartedly, and the sound of your laughter bounced off trees that had stood longer than either of you.
It was perfect.
Well…not really..
Until you tried to help.
Specifically; until you decided, against every single warning Logan had given you over the years, to chop the firewood.
“I’m perfectly capable,” you said, already marching toward the stack of logs and the very large, very sharp axe sitting on the stump.
Logan didn’t even look up from where he was crouched, fixing the water pump valve. “Don’t touch my axe.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“I am when it comes to weapons that could take your foot off.”
“Logan, please,” you rolled your eyes. “It’s just an axe. What’s the worst that could happen?” Raising the axe.
What happened was: you missed the log entirely, hit the edge of the stump, lost control mid-swing, and sent the axe soaring…..straight into the side of the shed.
THUNK!
The birds flew away. Even the stream sound seemed to quieten down. Logan looked up so slowly, turning his whole body like a guy who just heard someone talk shit about his mom.
You smiled sheepishly. “So... funny story.”
He walked over, pulled the axe free with one annoyed tug, and stared at the dented siding.
“I told you not to touch it.”
You crossed your arms. “I was trying to help!”
“You were tryin’ to maim our only damn tool shed.”
“I missed one swing.”
“You yeeted my axe.”
You gasped. “Did you just say ‘yeeted’?”
“I’m serious,” he grumbled. “Go away, go inside, sulk somewhere else. You just gave me an extra hour of work.”
“Oh, I’ll sulk,” you snapped. “And don’t expect me to talk to you until tomorrow.”
“Promise?”
“Logan!”
That was mistake number one. He didn’t take you seriously and think you were just bluffing about sulking.
“That’s why I said to leave it—”
“I know…I heard you loud and clear.”
He raised both hands in surrender, still grinning. “You’re gonna break somethin’ next time, sweetheart. Might be the cabin. Might be yourself.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I am right and you know it. you’re banned from anything sharper than a kitchen knife from now on.”
That was mistake number two. Rubbing the salt to your mishap.
You didn’t say anything else. Just turned on your heel and stormed back into the cabin, where you proceeded to declare emotional war in the most passive-aggressive way possible.
Other words, you can be petty when you want to.
You made lunch.
But only his half was missing salt.
You made your favorite dessert and ate all of it.
You washed your plate and left his in the sink.
You curled up on the couch with a book and very obviously put your feet on his favorite blanket.
When he tried to sit beside you, you scooted over like he smelled bad.
He sighed dramatically. “You mad at me?”
Silence.
“C’mon, I was teasin’.”
More silence.
“Gonna make me beg, huh?”
You didn’t even blink.
By dinner, he’d tried three separate apologies — including offering to let you drive the ATV around the woods (you refused), taking over dishes while silly dancing (you ignored), and bringing you a wildflower crown he made out of sheer desperation.
That one almost cracked you.
Almost.
By the time the sun set and the cabin filled with the smell of woodsmoke and leftover stew, Logan found you curled up on the sofaby the fire, face illuminated by soft fire light. Still pretending he didn’t exist.
He stood behind you for a long minute, just staring. Then, finally…
“You know,” he muttered, voice rough, “I only tease you ‘cause I like the way you look when you get all riled up.”
You didn’t move.
“But I don’t like it when you’re quiet.”
Still, nothing.
“…I miss your mouth.”
A pause. “Not like that—well. Also like that. But mostly the way you never shut up.”
And that… that did crack you.
You turned just enough to glance at him, one brow arched.
Logan perked up slightly. “You smirkin’?”
“No,” you muttered, nose in your book. “Just picturing throwing the axe at you next time.”
He chuckled, moving closer until he take a seat next to you. “You win, alright? I’ll teach you to chop the firewood. Properly. With supervision.”
“And no teasing?”
He hesitated. “Limited teasing.”
You eyed him.
“…Fine. No teasing. Swear.” Logan exhaled.
You set your book aside and climbed into his lap like you hadn’t been ignoring him for eight straight hours.
He welcomed you instantly, arms wrapping around your waist like they belonged there, tucking his face into your neck with a quiet sigh.
“I still hate you,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “But you hate me less when I’m warm and carry heavy things for you. And kissing you in bed.”
“…True.”
“Please add seasoning to my breakfast.” He murmured.
It was quiet now, you breathing slowed down into a calm rhythm. He smooches your temple, slowly stand up, carrying you with him.
Entering the bedroom, lying you down under the soft quilted cover. Brushing your hair after he takes off the hair tie and headband.
You were already sound asleep by the time he whispered, “Love you, honey.”
And he didn’t even mind that you hog all the blanket that night.
pairing: Logan Howlett x mutant fem!reader
summary: After Logan walks out following a painful fight, you wait– but he never comes back. When he finally does, it’s too late.
word counts: 4k (i think i went overboard with this)
warnings/tags: angst, tension, door slamming, walking away, breaking relationship, xmen team, imagines, logan, depression implied.
a/n: Get ready. Yeah… it’s sad. I felt bad writing it. You’ll feel bad when reading it. We suffer together. Hug a pillow. I didn’t mean to ruin your day, but... i did. (This one i wrote based on my series, sort of like a... alternate timeline? Yep.)
Logan masterlist
The door slammed harder than it needed to.
It echoed down the hall like a gunshot, loud and final, a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence neither of you wanted to write. The picture frame beside the door tilted, its glass rattling slightly in the aftermath.
You stood frozen.
You could still feel the warmth of the argument you’d just had, still hear the sharp edge of Logan’s voice, the way it cracked when he raised it—not because he was angry, but because he didn’t know what else to do with the fear he wouldn’t name.
The hurt sat heavy in your chest, buzzing under your skin, threatening to spill over in something ugly.
But you weren’t ready to let it go.
Not like this.
You moved—fast, barefoot, your footsteps sharp against the hardwood—and caught up to him halfway down the hall.
“Logan,” you called, breathless. “Don’t walk away.”
He didn’t slow. Didn’t even glance over his shoulder. His fists were clenched, shoulders set like stone, every step purposeful. Like if he just kept moving, he wouldn’t fall apart.
You reached out, your fingers wrapping gently around his arm. He stopped abruptly, and for a second, neither of you said anything.
Then, slowly, he turned.
And the look in his eyes knocked the wind out of you.
He wasn’t just angry.
He was scared.
Tired.
Wounded in a way he didn’t know how to speak.
You dropped your hand from his arm, suddenly unsure if touching him was a kindness or a pressure.
“You’re seriously just going to walk out?” you asked, your voice unsteady. “After everything we just said? After everything?”
He let out a short, humorless breath through his nose. “What’s the point in staying if we’re just gonna say shit we don’t mean?”
“Don’t do that,” you snapped. “Don’t act like this doesn’t matter. Like I don’t matter.”
“Of course you matter,” he bit out. “That’s the goddamn problem.”
You stared at him. “Then talk to me, Logan. Tell me why you keep shutting me out. Why you act like letting me in is going to break you.”
“Because it will,” he shouted.
The silence that followed felt like a dropped knife.
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing two steps back, like he wished he could take it back but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
“You think I don’t want to let you in?” he said, voice low now. Strained. “You think this is easy for me? Waking up every day wondering if today’s the day I come back covered in someone else’s blood—or worse, yours?”
You blinked, stunned.
“Logan…”
“You don’t get it,” he went on, shaking his head. “You see me patch up cuts. Heal fast. Walk away from explosions. But you don’t see what it does to me when it’s you lying on that medical bed. Or when I smell blood before I even find you. I can’t…” His voice cracked then. “I can’t do it. Not again.”
The air between you thickened.
You had never heard him say it like that before. Never seen him tremble on the edge between fury and fear.
“I’m not asking you to stop being scared,” you said quietly. “I’m asking you not to run from me because of it.”
He looked away.
“That’s what you do, Logan,” you said, stepping closer. “You run. Not physically—but emotionally. Every time we get too close. Every time things feel too good. You retreat. You start pushing me away. You pick fights, shut down, act like I’m the one who crossed a line, when all I did was care.”
He didn’t deny it.
Which somehow hurt more.
“I’m not like you,” he finally muttered. “I don’t know how to hold on to the good things. I wasn’t built for this.”
“This,” you echoed. “You mean me.”
His jaw clenched. “I didn’t say that.”
“But it’s what you meant.”
You could feel it—the tearing at the seams. The place where something between you was starting to snap under the weight of everything unsaid.
“Do you know what it feels like?” you asked, voice shaking now. “To wake up next to you, reach out for you, and feel like you’re already halfway gone? Like you’re just waiting for an excuse to disappear before I can ask you to stay?”
His eyes flickered.
“And then you do things like this,” you said, gesturing around you. “You storm off, slam doors, put walls back up that took me months to tear down. You love me like it’s temporary.”
He looked at you then. Really looked at you.
And that was the worst part.
Because he did love you.
You saw it.
Even now.
Especially now.
And yet—he still said the words that broke you.
“Maybe this was a mistake.”
The hallway went still.
Your breath caught in your throat. Your heart sank like it had slipped from a rooftop.
You opened your mouth—but nothing came out.
Logan looked away first. That same look of regret—sharp, fleeting, almost embarrassed, passed over his face like a shadow.
But he didn’t take it back.
He didn’t reach for you.
He didn’t say your name.
He just turned. Walked down the stairs with heavy, echoing steps. Each one further and further away from the person he said he didn’t want to lose.
And he didn’t look back.
You stood there long after he disappeared, frozen in the hallway with your arms wrapped tight around yourself, trying to hold together the parts he’d left shaking.
You weren’t sure how long you stood there, staring at the place he used to be.
But when you finally moved, you didn’t go after him.
Not this time.
Because maybe, just maybe… you were finally starting to believe him.
He didn’t come back.
Not that week.
Not that month.
Not the next.
You didn’t ask where he went.
Didn’t need to.
He was just gone.
And you didn’t fall apart. Not right away.
The first few days, you floated. Said little. Moved through your classes. Smiled when someone greeted you in the halls. Nodded politely when Storm or Hank offered help with paperwork. You even helped Jubilee rewire a lighting rig in the art wing. You were fine. You were fine.
But then the quiet crept in.
It started small—forgotten breakfast, sleeping through your alarm, missing team briefings. You stopped sparking when you were excited. Your light didn’t flicker anymore when someone made you laugh. Mostly because no one did.
The mornings you used to share with him — half-asleep murmurs, coffee on the nightstand, the weight of his hand curled around your ribs — became cold and hollow. The coffee thermos stayed where you left it, untouched. The flannel he used to wear hung unmoved on the back of your chair, collecting dust.
And you…
You began to disappear.
It wasn’t dramatic. Not at first.
You just… stopped trying.
Stopped staying for conversations after meals. Skipped training sessions. Drifted to the edge of group missions and volunteered for recon work that kept you alone. You took comfort in solitude — the old kind. The one that used to keep you safe before anyone ever knew your name.
Before him.
You stopped sitting on the counter in the kitchen.
Stopped passing the couch you used to fall asleep on, legs in his lap.
And eventually, you stopped letting anyone see you at all.
You shut yourself away — sometimes in your room, sometimes not even there.
Sometimes, you vanished inside your forcefield. Curled tight inside the shimmering veil of energy that kept the world out. A flicker of pale light barely visible through closed doors and dormitory walls. Like a heartbeat under ice.
Safe.
Silent.
Untouchable.
People noticed.
Ororo knocked gently the first time. “I made tea,” she offered, voice soft at your door. “Come sit with me for a while?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your light shimmered and dimmed, and you pressed your back harder to the wall, arms wrapped around your knees. You didn’t want comfort. Comfort meant cracking open. Comfort meant remembering.
Jean came later, reaching with her mind instead of her voice.
You blocked her. Softly. Kindly. But you vanished the moment she reached in. Slipped through her grasp like light between fingers.
They all tried. Alex, with his warmth he often to hide. Scott, with awkward attempts at distraction. Even Charles, with his quiet, measured concern. But it was like trying to reach someone underwater. You were already too far down.
And every time they got close…
You blinked out of sight.
Faded like static.
Light dimming more with each attempt.
They didn’t know it, but they were mourning you in real-time.
Not because you were gone.
But because you were still here, just… unreachable.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, you’d sit by the window. The wind would rattle the panes. The mansion’s lights would flicker in the distance. You’d press your fingers to the glass and stare into the dark like maybe, maybe—
He’d be out there.
Coming back.
Coming home.
But the snow just fell.
The nights just stretched.
And your powers curled inward, dull and quiet, barely responding when you tried.
You didn’t cry. Not really.
It was worse than that.
You were fading.
And no one—not even you—knew how to bring yourself back.
He came back.
Rugged. Tired. A mess.
The kind of mess that doesn’t come from a mission gone wrong or a fight he barely walked away from. No, this one ran deeper. His beard was overgrown, eyes sunken with sleepless nights. The leather jacket he always wore was torn at the shoulder, boots scuffed and coated in dust like he hadn’t stopped anywhere long enough to care.
He looked like he’d been outrunning something he never could shake.
And maybe he had.
The bike roared up the long drive like it always did, snarling into the still air of late afternoon. The students heard it first — peeking through the windows, whispering across the halls.
“He’s back,” they murmured.
But you…
You didn’t move.
Didn’t rise from the corner of your window seat.
Didn’t look up.
Didn’t glow.
There was no flinch, no spark of light beneath your fingertips. You didn’t reach for the window, didn’t press your hand to the glass the way you used to every time he left for more than a few days.
Because this time, he didn’t just leave.
This time, he broke something.
And he stayed gone long enough for you to believe maybe that was the point.
Logan stepped through the front doors like a man uncertain of his own welcome.
He saw Ororo first. Her expression was kind, but tired. She offered no embrace, just a small nod. “She’s upstairs,” she said.
He nodded back but didn’t move right away. His eyes flicked down the hallway as students watched him, hushed, too cautious now to tease. Jean leaned against the banister, arms folded tight over her chest. Her gaze was sharp, disapproving. Logan caught it but said nothing.
He looked for you.
Hoped for you.
But your light was nowhere to be found.
He found you hours later.
In the small room off the library — the one with the dusty old skylight and overgrown ivy pressing against the glass. You used to bring tea there, curl up with a book, fall asleep against his chest when the afternoons were too warm to waste.
Now, you sat in the far corner, legs folded beneath you, face turned to the window. Not glowing. Not sparking. Not even blinking when the door creaked open behind you.
He stood in the doorway for a moment. Watching.
Waiting.
You didn’t turn.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t even breathe differently.
“…You knew I was back,” he said, voice rough from disuse.
Still, nothing.
The silence stretched between you, too quiet to be peace.
And he realized then — this wasn’t anger.
This was absence.
You were there. You were whole. You were sitting not ten feet from him.
He stepped in slowly, as if noise might startle something loose. His boots thudded softly against the old wooden floor. When he sat, he chose the spot beside the old armchair. Far enough not to crowd you. Close enough that you could hear the tension in his breath.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said. “What I said. That day.”
You still didn’t move.
He shifted, uncomfortable. “I… I was angry. Scared. That’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth.”
You finally blinked.
And it wasn’t relief that passed over your face. It wasn’t even sorrow.
It was tiredness. Bone-deep. Familiar.
The kind you wore years ago — before he ever came.
Before Rogue dragged him into this strange place and the mansion welcomed them both without hesitation.
Before Charles had quietly asked you to help orient him. Back when you were wary of everyone.
You remembered the moment he saw your forcefield for the first time — how he reached out toward it without flinching. How you warned him it burned, and he just grinned and said, “So do I.”
He earned your trust by not pushing. Just lingering. Letting you have space. Letting you inch closer every time you wanted to. It took time — years, maybe — but one day you looked up and realized you were no longer alone.
You shared everything.
Coffee.
Rooms.
Silence.
Mornings.
Laughs.
Ghosts.
And now…
You didn't even flinch when he walked back into your world.
Because part of you had already learned how to live without him.
And the part that hadn’t? Was too afraid to reach again.
“I missed you,” he said, softer now.
That made your head turn — just slightly. Enough to see the bruised edges under his eyes. The slump of his shoulders. The shake in his hands when he tried not to let them tremble.
“You didn’t come back,” you said.
Three months of absence, after he crushed you with five words.
“I couldn’t.” His voice broke. “I thought if I stayed gone, you’d be better off. I thought I ruined it.”
You nodded once. Almost like you agreed.
“That’s the difference, Logan,” you said, voice hoarse. “You left to stop hurting me. I stayed. And it hurts anyway.”
He closed his eyes.
There it was — the fracture.
The part of him that thought leaving was love. And the part of you that had once believed staying was enough.
He didn’t sleep that night.
Didn’t even try.
The bed felt wrong — like it had been empty too long and no longer remembered him.
Your scent was gone from the pillow.
Your books were gone from the shelves.
Hell, even the photo that used to sit on the nightstand — the one Jubilee took of you both at that god-awful summer picnic — had been flipped face-down. Dust settled on its back, it had been that way for months.
Logan sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
The silence wasn’t peaceful.
It was punishment.
He’d faced death. He’d lost people. He’d endured centuries of pain he could barely remember clearly anymore. But nothing — nothing — sank in quite like this: being back in the mansion, back in the place where everything started with you… and knowing he might have already ended it.
Because you weren’t just angry.
You were gone in a way he’d never seen before.
The next morning, he stood outside the Danger Room watching you from the observation deck.
You were training with Scott. Fast. Sharp. Controlled.
Every move calculated. Not flashy, not showy — just clean. Clean in a way that told Logan you were keeping everything on a tight leash. Your powers flickered across the room like light being cracked in half, forcefields pulsing like a heartbeat just beneath your palms.
He used to be able to read you in those movements.
Used to know when you were letting off steam or testing your limits.
Used to train beside you, shoulder to shoulder, growling sarcastic bets between rounds.
But now?
Now he couldn’t tell where you ended and the armor began.
He didn’t realize Jean had come up beside him until she spoke quietly.
“She waited for you,” she said, without any softness. “Longer than she should’ve.”
He didn’t respond.
“You weren’t the first person to walk away from her,” Jean continued. “But you were the first she let in enough to miss. And then you left. Like the others.”
“She’s strong,” Logan muttered.
“She shouldn’t have to be,” Jean snapped.
Then, more gently, “You didn’t just leave. You disappeared after telling her you didn’t want this anymore. You didn’t call. You didn’t write. You didn’t even check in with Charles.”
He clenched his jaw. “I thought it was better.”
“Then you didn’t know her at all.”
Later that day, he caught you outside — alone, for once — in the courtyard where the ivy grew high up the stone walls and the sun painted dappled shadows across the brick.
You were sitting beneath the big oak tree, a sketchbook in your lap, the charcoal still in your hand but unmoving.
You didn’t look up as he approached. But you didn’t walk away either.
That was something.
He sat across from you, cross-legged, silent for a long time.
Then, finally, he said, “I never told you why I said it.”
You didn’t answer.
He continued anyway.
“I got scared. Of how much I needed this. You. It felt too good. Too... permanent.”
Your fingers paused on the edge of the paper.
“I’ve lost everything I ever cared about. Over and over. Every damn time. You came along and it felt like maybe that curse was finally over. And that scared the hell outta me.”
A breeze passed between you, rustling the pages of your sketchbook.
“I figured if I ended it myself, it’d hurt less than waiting for fate to rip it away.”
You finally met his eyes.
And god — the ache in them nearly knocked him over.
“But it still hurt,” you whispered. “Didn’t it.”
He nodded, voice gravel. “More than anything.”
A beat.
“But I think I hurt you more.” He adds.
You swallowed. “You did.”
Another silence.
Then he did something rare — something raw.
He bowed his head.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said. “But I want to try. Even if it takes the rest of my life.”
And this time…
You looked at him.
Really looked.
There was no forgiveness in your eyes.
Not yet.
But there wasn’t hate either.
And for Logan — the man who had ruined everything good in his life more times than he could count — that sliver of hope was more than he deserved.
But he’d take it.
And earn the rest.
Day by day. Step by step.
If you'd let him.
You stayed.
Longer than anyone expected you to. Even after he came back.
Even after the night you passed him in the hall and didn’t speak.
Even after the way his eyes followed you, quiet and aching, every time you left a room.
You stayed — because for a while, it felt like the right thing to do.
You had students. A role. People who counted on you.
Charles gave you space, never pushed. He always had a way of watching without judgment, of letting your silence say more than words ever could.
But grief… grief didn’t come fast this time.
It came slow. Quiet. A drip of ache that never stopped.
It hollowed you out little by little, until one morning, you looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize what stared back.
Your glow — the soft energy that had once pulsed around your skin like starlight — barely flickered now.
You hardly used your powers anymore unless it was required. No more floating lights through the corridors, no more laughing sparks through the kitchen late at night. No more shimmering shields pulsing to music in your room.
You faded.
Not all at once.
But over time.
Even Jean stopped knocking on your door. Jubilee left notes instead of dropping by. Kurt gave you soft looks but never forced a hug.
Logan was always nearby.
But never close enough to matter.
You held it together for as long as you could.
Nearly a year.
Long enough for the others to stop watching you so closely. Long enough for Logan to assume the storm had passed. Long enough to learn how to smile again, even if it never quite reached your eyes.
But you felt it every day.
The weight of staying.
The echo of him in every hallway.
Your powers didn’t flicker anymore — they pulsed constantly, like your body no longer knew how to rest. The forcefield lingered under your skin, always on, like you were ready to vanish at any second.
You weren’t healing.
You were enduring.
And it was killing you.
The decision came quietly. There was no single moment. Just a slow accumulation of grief and silence and things that never got said.
One night, when the house was still and the moonlight lit the bookshelves in silver, you walked into Charles’s study.
You knocked.
He looked up immediately, saw the way your hands trembled slightly at your sides.
He knew.
Of course he did.
You sat across from him in the old velvet chair, legs curled up beneath you like you used to as a student. And for the first time in months, you let yourself speak — slow, steady, deliberate. An hour passed. Maybe more.
You talked about exhaustion.
About feeling everything and nothing all at once.
About how it was no one’s fault, not even Logan’s anymore.
About how staying felt like sleeping in a memory.
And waking up hurt too much.
The hour you spent in his study felt like closing a chapter with a lifelong friend. There were no arguments. No desperate pleas to stay.
Just sorrow.
And understanding.
Charles didn’t interrupt.
He only listened.
“I can’t breathe here anymore,” you admitted, voice steady. “I thought I could wait it out. Thought I could outlast the ache. But it’s not going anywhere.”
Charles didn’t interrupt. He didn’t offer advice. Just listened the way he always had — calm, kind, clear-eyed.
You looked down at your hands.
“I used to love this place. Not just because it gave me a home. But because it gave me people. Him.”
And when you finally said, “I think I need to leave,” he simply nodded.
He nodded, eyes damp but warm. “Then go where you can. You’ve given enough.”
Charles sighed softly, and for the first time in years, you saw the weight in his expression.
“I’m not leaving angry,” you added. “I’m just… done trying to survive in a space where I’m not living anymore.”
“You don’t owe anyone an explanation, my dear,” he said. “But thank you for giving me one.”
“Will you say goodbye?” he asked softly.
You swallowed. “Not to him.”
“To the others?”
You nodded, eyes burning. “Yes. They deserve that.”
The morning you left was quiet.
Just like you.
You didn’t tell Logan.
Not directly.
By the time he heard about it, the room was already packed. Your few belongings neatly folded, sketchbooks boxed, no trace of him in your keepsakes. You’d left the photo Jubilee had taken — the one you once flipped down — right where he could see it.
Face up. Like a gravestone.
The others gathered to say goodbye. Jean hugged you a little too tightly. Ororo didn’t let go for a long time. Kurt offered to portal you anywhere you wanted — but you told him you needed the drive. Needed the time. The quiet in between.
You didn’t cry.
Not when Rogue asked if you’d ever come back.
Not even when Charles watched you walk down the steps of the mansion like he had the day he first welcomed you in.
And when the car started, when the gates opened, and the mansion began to fade in the rearview mirror… There he was, standing at the front door.
Only then did your hand shake.
Just once.
Before you reached up to turn up the radio, eyes on the road ahead.
You left nothing behind except what no longer belonged to you.
Not your hope.
Not your heart.
Not the part of you that used to wait by the window every time you heard the sound of a bike.
Because that version of you didn’t survive the words he didn’t meant to say.
(extra drabble/ fluff) Between Sight and Silence 💎Alternate timeline
pairing: Logan Howlett x mutant fem!reader
summary: Domestic morning with Logan, waking up and he made you breakfast.
word counts: 1141
warnings/tags: no warnings, just domestic morning husband Logan grumpy in the bed
a/n: HEHEHEHHE i love domestic LOGANNN. posting this early because I'll be busy next week until weekend for my graduation trip and interview coming up
request is open Series masterlist Logan Masterlist
The morning light creeps across the windows in soft golden streaks, slanting over the hardwood floors and the faded blue quilt tangled at the foot of the bed. You stir only slightly at first — one arm tucked under the pillow, the other loosely draped over the broad chest beside you.
Logan hasn’t moved.
He’s already awake. Has been for a while, judging by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the familiar way his thumb absently strokes your arm. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. That’s the quiet you’ve learned to love most — the kind that doesn’t demand anything from either of you.
You hum lightly and stretch, half on top of him, eyes still closed. Your voice is raspy with sleep.
“You’re still here.”
His chest rumbles beneath you, half amusement, half gravity. “Where the hell else would I be?”
You don’t answer. You just shift up and press your lips to his collarbone. He smells like cedar and flannel and the warmth of something constant.
Eventually, the moment breaks when Logan speaks again, voice low and unhurried.
“You snore, y’know.”
You lift your head slowly, squinting at him. “I do not.”
“Liar.”
You thump his chest and roll away dramatically, yanking the pillow with you.
“I liked you better when you were brooding silently.”
“You liked me best when I was makin’ pancakes yesterday morning and let you lick syrup off my thumb.”
You narrow your eyes and throw the pillow at his face. “That’s because you always ‘forget’ to put a shirt on when you cook.”
He shrugs, entirely unbothered, catching the pillow with ease and tugging you right back under his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Heat from the stove. Can’t risk overheating.”
“Mhm. Right. That must be why Rogue nearly choked on her coffee.”
“Kid should learn to keep her eyes in her damn head.”
You laugh against his shoulder, the sound unguarded. And God, it still feels so new sometimes — this version of you who laughs easily. Who sleeps beside someone without one foot half-out the metaphorical door.
Logan’s fingers trail lazily along your spine, drawing nonsense shapes. “You got plans today?”
“Not if I stay like this.”
“You’re not gonna help Ororo in the greenhouse?”
“Nope....hmmm.”
“Not gonna assist Kurt with the meditation class?”
You lift your head again, serious this time. “Not unless you want me to accidentally trap a bunch of teenage mutants inside a forcefield when I fall asleep upright.”
Logan huffs another quiet laugh. “Fair point.”
He doesn’t argue when you settle back into his arms. Doesn’t make jokes when you sigh and close your eyes again like it’s the safest place you’ve ever known.
Because it is.
The mansion might still bustle. There might still be Danger Room drills and emergency meetings and young students knocking at the door needing help, guidance, hope.
But right now, in this moment?
There’s just you and Logan.
And the sun, and the stillness, and the quiet kind of love that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud to be felt.
You must’ve drifted off again.
Because when you open your eyes, the light is higher on the wall, and Logan’s no longer beside you. His warmth lingers in the sheets, and there’s the faint sound of something clattering down the hallway — the telltale weight of his boots pacing the kitchen, slow and steady.
You stretch with a low groan, drag yourself up, and shuffle to the doorway still wrapped in the quilt like a makeshift cape. It trails behind you, softening your steps. You blink blearily toward the kitchen, and sure enough — there he is.
Logan’s shirtless, of course. Plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips, one hand gripping a pan handle, the other expertly flipping eggs like he’s been doing it for a hundred years. Because he has. His hair’s still wild from sleep, sticking up in a way that says he’s too stubborn to run a comb through it. And the best part?
He’s muttering under his breath.
You hover by the door, arms crossed, smirking as you listen.
“Damn thing keeps stickin’... should’ve used butter. No, Lumen insisted on olive oil ‘cause it’s ‘healthier’—and now look at this mess—”
“I heard that,” you call sweetly.
Logan startles only slightly — enough to glare over his shoulder. “You were snorin’. Thought I had at least ten more minutes before the sass kicked in.”
You glide into the kitchen, barefoot and smug, snagging a piece of toast from the plate beside him. “You keep saying I snore. I don’t. You hallucinate in the mornings.”
“You keep sayin’ that like it makes it true.”
He eyes the toast in your hand but doesn’t stop you. Instead, he slides eggs onto a second plate and grabs a fork. You settle at the small table, pulling your knees up into the chair while still swaddled in your blanket cocoon.
“I dreamt about you,” you mumble between bites.
That gets his attention.
Logan pauses, brows lifting slightly as he leans against the counter. “Yeah?”
You shrug, suddenly shy. “It was dumb. You were yelling at a raccoon. Said it looked at me the wrong way.”
“…Was it?”
“Was it what?”
“Was it lookin’ at you funny?”
You roll your eyes. “It was a dream.”
He makes a vague grumbling sound, sits beside you, and steals half your toast like he owns it. You let him. It’s a silent agreement by now — you steal his hoodies; he steals your breakfast.
You finish eating in easy silence. A few sleepy students shuffle past the kitchen doorway, one of them waving. Logan grunts something that might be “morning,” and you raise your coffee mug in salute.
The quiet returns. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just... calm.
Then Logan leans back, arms crossed behind his head, eyes on you.
“You know,” he murmurs, “I used to think I’d never have this.”
“This?” you echo.
He nods toward the messy counter, the shared plate, the way your feet are curled under the chair but pressed lightly against his leg. “This. Mornings. Blankets. Breakfast with my own wife, God. I can't still believe this.”
You smile slowly. “You’re getting soft.”
“No,” he deadpans. “I’m gettin’ comfortable. There’s a difference.”
You reach across the table and trace a lazy line down the back of his hand. “I like you comfortable.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just threads his fingers through yours and holds on — firm and steady. Like the world isn’t on fire outside these walls. Like, for once, you both get to be normal.
Maybe this isn’t the kind of life either of you thought you’d have — not with the pasts you carry. But it’s real. It’s earned. And it’s yours.
Even on mornings like this, when he’s grumpy and your hair’s a mess and the toast are slightly burned.
pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader
summary: Domestic life with Logan, in all its quiet, unexpected tenderness.
word counts: 485
warnings/tags: butterflies, fluff, implied relationship, xmen team, imagines, soft logan
a/n: Yes i finally finished this out of my draft. Here’s a domestic slice-of-life look at a year with Logan,a full cycle of soft, lived-in love. I'm biting my pillows feral for soft Logan AAAHHHHH (✿◡‿◡)
Logan masterlist
Spring
He starts leaving things at your place. Not on purpose—Logan doesn’t think like that. It begins with his flannel draped over your chair, then a set of spare boots near the door, then a cigar tucked behind your coffee mugs like it belongs there.
He doesn’t say anything about it. But every time he comes over, his shoulders loosen more. He sleeps longer. Eats more.
You start planting little herbs on the windowsill. Basil, mint, something that smells like summer. He rolls his eyes at first, but he waters them when you’re not looking.
One night, you catch him brushing dirt from the edge of a new pot.
You didn’t buy it.
He did.
Summer
He complains about the heat. Constantly. Grumbles about the fans, swears off any shirt with sleeves, and sulks like a cat when you drag him to the farmer’s market.
But he still carries all the bags. Still buys the fruit you like. Still buy a peach on the walk home and wipes the juice from your chin with his thumb, soft and slow like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
You start sleeping in on Sundays. He never used to stay still for long but now, you wake up with his arm slung across your waist, heavy and warm, face buried in your neck.
Sometimes he whispers things while you pretend to be asleep.
“Can’t believe I get this.”
“You make it easy to stay.”
Autumn
The leaves change. So does he.
There’s a stillness to him now...calmer mornings, less pacing. He starts reading next to you on the couch. Holding your hand under the blanket like it’s second nature. He drinks tea now. Tea. Black, unsweetened, and grumbled about—but tea.
You knit him a scarf. He says it’s “too damn long” but wears it every day anyway. Doesn’t take it off, even inside. You swear it’s a point of pride now.
One evening, when the wind howls and the power flickers out, he lights candles and sits close beside you.
Doesn’t say much. Just holds you like he knows how easily the world could fall apart and is determined not to let it.
Winter
Snow piles against the windows. He shovels it every morning before you wake up.
You cook more. So does he. You discover he makes an incredible stew. He pretends not to care what you think, but his ear always twitches when you take a second helping.
The two of you bicker over blankets, fall asleep tangled up, argue about whether or not the dog you found in December is staying. (It is. Of course it is. You named it Maycee. He rolled his eyes but feeds her scraps when he thinks you’re not looking.)
There’s peace now. Not loud or dramatic—just… peace.
He folds your laundry without asking. You kiss his temple without thinking.
You don’t count the months anymore. You just live them.
