#Program With Erik | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mcrdvcks · 4 months ago

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i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 2023 - nothing matters but you

chapter summary: The remaining X-Men come up with a plan to change their present; send Logan back in time to change the past.

word count: 17.1k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: oooohhhh boy!! i've been waiting for this chapter for so long and it's finally here! i'll have more to say at the end, but for now, and i truly mean it, enjoy!!! <3

warnings/tags: takes place during 'days of future past', dofp!logan, light miscommunication, angst, light violence, blood, character death, fluff, memory loss, happy ending!

series masterlist - chapter 10

The Blackbird landed on the top of the large mountain in front of a monastery. Ororo walked out first, followed by Logan, who paused at the bottom of the stairs to light his cigar, Charles, whose chair hovered down the stairs, and Erik.

They walked to the front of the monastery as Bobby spoke, “Professor.”

Ororo smiled, “Bobby.”

“Hey, Storm,” he replied, giving the woman a hug.

“Hey, kid.” Logan said.

“Professor,” Kitty called out. “You made it.”

The group made their way inside as Kitty explained how the group had been surviving, “Warpath spots them, and I send Bishop back to warn us of the attack before it happens. Blink scouts the next site, and… well, we leave before they ever know we were there.”

“Because we never were.” Bishop said.

“But what do you mean, you were never there?” Logan asked.

Charles looked over at Logan, “she projects Bishop back in time a few days to warn the others of the coming attack.”

“So she sends Bishop back in time?”

“No, just his consciousness into his younger self, his younger body.” Charles clarified.

“Wow.” Logan muttered.

“This might just work, Charles.” Erik commented.

“What might work?” Kitty questioned.

“The Sentinel program was originally conceived by Dr. Bolivar Trask. In the early ‘70s, he was one of the world’s leading weapons designers, but covertly, he had begun experimenting on mutants, using their gifts to fuel his own research. There was one mutant who had discovered what he was doing.” Charles explained.

“A mutant with the ability to transform herself into anyone.” Erik added.

“Mystique,” Peter said.

“I knew her as Raven. We met when we were children. Grew up together. She was like a sister to me. I tried to help her, but only succeeded in driving her away. She hunted Trask across the world, and at the Paris Peace Accords in 1973, after the Vietnam War, she found Trask. And killed him. It was the first time she killed.”

“It wasn’t her last.” Logan added on.

“But killing Trask did not have the outcome she expected. It only persuaded the government of the need for his program. They captured her that day. Tortured her. Experimented on her. In her DNA, they discovered the secrets to her powers of transformation. It gave them the key they needed to create weapons that could adapt to any mutant power, and in less than 50 years, the machines that have destroyed so many of our kind were created. But it all started that day in 1973, the day she first killed, the day she truly became… Mystique.” Charles finished.

“You want to go back there,” Kitty said.

“If I can get to her, stop the assassination, keep her out of their hands, then we can stop the Sentinels from ever being born.”

“And end this war before it ever begins.” Erik spoke.

“I-I can send someone back a couple weeks. I mean, maybe a month, but you’re talking about going back decades. You have the most powerful brain in the world, Professor, but the mind can only stretch so far before it snaps. It would rip you apart. I’m sorry. No one could survive that trip.” Kitty remarked.

“What if someone’s mind has a way of snapping back?” Logan asked. “What if someone can heal as fast as they’re ripped apart?”

---

Logan stood by the table as Charles, Erik, Kitty, and Bobby stood nearby, the rest outside of the monastery keeping watch.

“So I wake up in my younger body, God knows where. Then what?”

“You’ll need to go to my house and find me. Convince me of all of this.” Charles moved closer to Logan.

“Won’t you be able to just read my mind?”

“I didn’t have my powers in 1973. Logan, you’re going to have to do for me what I once did for you. Lead me, guide me. I was a very different man then. You’ll have to be patient with me.”

Logan scoffed, “patience isn’t my strongest suit.”

“You’ll need me as well,” Erik spoke up.

“What?” Logan turned to face Erik behind him.

“After Mystique left Charles, she came with me, and I set her on a dangerous path. Darker path. It’s going to take the two of us, side by side at a time when we couldn’t be further apart.”

Logan looked at Charles who nodded in affirmation, “great,” he muttered to himself. “So, where do I find you?”

“Well, it’s complicated.” Erik said, as Logan shook his head and stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

Logan got onto the table and lied down, Kitty sitting at the head of the table, “basically, your body will go to sleep while your mind travels back in time. Now, as long as you’re back there, past and present will continue to coexist, but once you wake up… whatever you’ve done will take hold and become history. And for the rest of us it’ll be the only history that we know. It’ll be like the last 50 years never happened. And this world, and this war… the only person who will remember it is you.” Kitty took a breath, “all right, Logan, I need you to clear your head and to stay as calm possible.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“If your mind gets rocky, it’ll be harder for me to hold you, and you could start to slip between past and future.”

“What if I need to get a little rocky?”

Kitty lightly shook her head, “think peaceful thoughts?”

“Peaceful thoughts.” Logan repeated. “You have any good news?”

“Well, I mean, you don’t really age, so you’ll pretty much look the same.”

Bobby spoke up, “you won’t have much time in the past. The Sentinels will find us. They always do.”

“And this time, we won’t be able to run. We’ll have no escape. This is our last chance.” Kitty’s hands hovered near the sides of Logan’s head.

“See you all soon.” Logan said.

“This might sting a little.”

---

Logan blinked, his vision adjusting to the dim, warm glow of the lava lamp. Its lazy, hypnotic bubbles drifted in the liquid, but his mind was racing to catch up. The sharp, immediate transition from the future to… this—the past, his past—had his senses momentarily disoriented.

The pressure against his neck snapped him into focus. An arm was draped over his shoulder from behind, soft, warm, and familiar. He shifted his head just enough to glance at the hand resting on his chest. It was delicate, but the grip was firm, like whoever it belonged to had no intention of letting him go.

“Mornin’,” your voice came from behind him, groggy and soft. Your tone was laced with the remnants of sleep but carried the easy, teasing warmth that always seemed to put him off guard.

His heart clenched. You.

You leaned into him slightly, pressing your cheek against his shoulder as you stretched, entirely unaware of the whirlwind in his head. The past, your face, the other you. The fact that he hadn’t seen this version of you in nearly 50 years.

“Didn’t think I’d need to pry you out of bed first,” you teased lightly, your hand giving his chest a playful pat before you settled again. “Usually, you’re already up before the sun, big guy.”

Logan’s jaw clenched at the nickname. His eyes narrowed at the room—a modest hotel room with vintage floral wallpaper and creaky wooden furniture—and the small pile of clothes at the foot of the bed. His leather jacket. Your dress. The pieces clicked into place far too quickly, but they didn’t make it easier to stomach.

He turned his head enough to catch sight of you, hair slightly messy, lips curled in a lazy grin. You were radiant in a way that didn’t match the world he’d just left behind. The world he’d come back to fix. And you had no idea how much he’d missed that expression.

“What’s with the look?” you asked, tilting your head. “Do I have something on my face, or are you just debating whether or not you’re gonna finish that cigar from yesterday?”

Logan shook his head slightly, clearing the fog. “Nah. Just… thinkin’.”

“You?” you quipped. “That’s dangerous.”

“Cute,” he replied dryly, though a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

You laughed and pulled back, sitting up against the headboard. Your expression softened when you caught a hint of the tension still lingering in his body. “You okay? You seem… off.”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting on the edge to gather himself. “Just didn’t sleep great.”

“You tossed and turned a lot,” you agreed, though your concern didn’t waver. “Another bad dream?”

Logan didn’t answer immediately. The memories of the future, the Sentinels, the war, and your other death pressed heavily on him. Instead, he grunted noncommittally and stood, grabbing his jeans from a chair nearby.

“Y’know,” you said behind him, watching as he pulled on his shirt, “most bodyguards don’t get that much real estate in their boss’s daughter’s bed.”

Logan froze for a beat before throwing you a glance over his shoulder. “Most bodyguards don’t sneak them outta her own wedding either, darlin’.”

You grinned mischievously, leaning your head back against the headboard. “Guess that makes us even.”

He shook his head but couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped. You haven’t changed a bit.

Before either of you could say anything more, there was a sharp knock on the door. Logan’s entire body tensed, his senses sharpening instantly. He sniffed the air, picking up the distinct scents of sweat, leather, and gunpowder.

“Stay here,” he said lowly, grabbing his jacket and stepping toward the door.

“Logan, what—”

“I mean it,” he said, cutting you off with a firm glance. The tone in his voice told you not to argue.

He moved toward the door, his hand hovering over the knob as his other reached behind him for the small knife he kept tucked into his waistband. He opened the door slightly, just enough to peer through the crack.

Two men stood in the hall, dressed in dark suits. Their faces were sharp, unfamiliar, but their eyes carried an unmistakable menace.

“Can I help you?” Logan asked gruffly.

“Yeah,” one of them said. “We’re here for the lady. Her father’s lookin’ for her.”

Logan didn’t hesitate. He slammed the door shut and locked it, spinning back toward you. “Get down,” he barked.

“What’s going on?” you asked, but the urgency in his voice made you scramble off the bed.

The door shuddered as one of the men kicked it. Logan growled low in his throat, adrenaline surging as his hands instinctively balled into fists. Bone claws erupted from his knuckles with a sickening snikt, and he turned toward the door just as it splintered inward.

Your sharp gasp filled the room, but there was no time for questions. Logan launched himself at the first man, driving his claws deep into the guy’s shoulder. Blood sprayed across the room as the second man raised a gun, but Logan was faster. He yanked his claws free and swung, knocking the weapon from the man’s hand before driving his claws into his stomach.

It was over in seconds, but the aftermath left the room in chaos. Logan stood over the bodies, his breathing heavy, his shirt streaked with blood. His claws glistened in the dim light, and as he turned toward you, his expression softened.

“Logan…” you whispered, your voice shaking. Your eyes were wide, fixed on the bone claws still protruding from his hands.

He hesitated, then retracted them with a shudder, the wounds on his knuckles sealing themselves almost instantly. “I can explain,” he said gruffly.

“You—you just…” You couldn’t find the words.

“Y/N,” he said, stepping toward you carefully. “I need you to trust me.”

You stared at him, your mind racing. The man you thought you knew had just turned into something else entirely—but it wasn’t fear that kept you rooted in place. It was the way he was looking at you, desperate, protective, like he’d go through hell just to keep you safe.

“I…” You took a shaky breath. “I trust you.”

Logan’s shoulders sagged in relief, though the tension in the room didn’t dissipate. He grabbed a bag from the corner of the room and tossed it toward you. “We need to move. Now.”

Before you could question him further, he bent down, rummaging through the man’s jacket pocket to snag the keys before heading for the door. You hesitated, your mind still racing to process what you had just seen. The claws, the blood, the sheer force he used to take out armed men—it was like something out of a nightmare. But Logan wasn’t the nightmare. He was the only constant in this whirlwind you called your life.

“Y/N,” Logan’s voice broke through your haze. He was standing by the door, his tone sharp but not unkind. “Let’s go. Now.”

You shoved a few belongings into the bag, still half-dressed from sleep, and moved quickly to his side. “Logan, what the hell is goin’ on?”

“I’ll explain later,” he said, keeping his voice low and his gaze locked on the hallway as he peeked out. “For now, we’ve gotta put some distance between us and whoever else your father’s sent after you.”

Your stomach twisted at the mention of your father, but you followed him out of the room, clutching the strap of the bag tightly. “How did they even find us?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Logan muttered, leading you down the narrow hallway. His shoulders were rigid, his entire body coiled like a spring. “What matters is keeping you outta their hands.”

The two of you reached the stairwell, and Logan paused at the top, scanning the area below. He tilted his head, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. Whatever he smelled didn’t seem to calm him, but he motioned for you to follow anyway.

You descended the stairs as quietly as you could, your bare feet barely making a sound against the worn carpet. “Logan, seriously, you need to tell me what��s going on. Those… claws, or whatever—”

“Not now, sweetheart,” he interrupted, his voice tense but firm. “We’ve gotta focus on getting outta here.”

You bit your lip, frustration bubbling under your skin. This wasn’t the first time Logan had dodged your questions, but after what you’d just seen, you weren’t about to let it slide for long.

The two of you slipped out a side door into the cool morning air. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a few scattered vehicles. Logan made a beeline for a black sedan parked near the edge of the lot. He unlocked the door and ushered you inside without a word.

“Logan—” you started as he slid into the driver’s seat, but he cut you off again.

“Buckle up,” he said, starting the engine.

You shot him a glare but did as he said, snapping the seatbelt into place. Logan peeled out of the lot, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as his eyes flicked between the road and the rearview mirror.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the hum of the engine and the faint thud of your heartbeat in your ears. You watched him closely, noting the way his jaw clenched and his knuckles turned white around the wheel.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on now?” you finally demanded, crossing your arms. “Because I think I deserve an explanation after that little… display back there.”

Logan let out a slow breath through his nose, his eyes still on the road. “It’s complicated.”

“No kidding,” you shot back. “Start with the claws. What the hell are they, Logan? And don’t tell me they’re some kind of freak weapon because I saw them come out of your hands.”

He glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable. “They’re a part of me,” he said simply.

You blinked, taken aback by the matter-of-fact tone in his voice. “What do you mean, ‘a part of you’? Like, you were born with them?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he muttered.

You stared at him, waiting for more, but he didn’t elaborate. Frustration bubbled over, and you leaned forward, grabbing his arm. “Logan, I’m serious. I need answers.”

He sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly as he finally looked over at you. “I’ll tell you everything, sweetheart. Just not right now. Right now, we’ve gotta focus on getting somewhere safe.”

“And where’s that?” you asked, your voice softening slightly.

“A place I know,” he said, turning his attention back to the road. “We’ll head north, get outta the city, and figure it out from there.”

You frowned, unsure whether to trust his vague assurances. But the look in his eyes, the raw determination mixed with something you couldn’t quite place—it was enough to quiet your doubts for now.

“Fine,” you said, leaning back in your seat. “But you owe me the truth. All of it.”

Logan smirked faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve always been a tough one, huh?”

“Damn right,” you muttered, crossing your arms again. But despite your defiant tone, a small part of you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something else—something warm and familiar—when he called you tough.

You didn’t notice the way his grip on the wheel tightened at your response or the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly. To you, this was just another chaotic morning in the whirlwind of your life. But to Logan, it was a painful reminder of how many mornings like this he’d lost with you.

---

You tapped your fingers on your thigh, still waiting for Logan to come out of this mansion, which looked like it had seen better days.

You groaned as you tilted your head back, adjusting yourself in the car seat. It had been a while since Logan left the car and went inside, almost 2 hours. You would know, you’ve been watching the clock.

Finally, Logan stepped outside and briskly walked to the car door, opening it for you. “Jesus, what took so long?” You asked, as he grabbed your bag from the backside and guided you into the house where two other men were, one with glasses, the other with long curly hair. “Logan-?”

“You’re staying here.” He stated.

You stopped dead in your tracks, your eyes narrowing at Logan. “What?” you demanded. “You said we’d figure this out together. You didn’t say anything about leaving me here.”

Logan ran a hand through his hair, already looking stressed. “Plans changed, darlin’,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “Charles and Hank are comin’ with me. We’ve got somethin’ to take care of, and it’s safer if you stay here.”

“Safer? Logan, this place is the size of a damn castle!” You gestured around the massive entry hall, frustration spilling over. “You’re just gonna leave me here by myself? What if they come for me again? What am I supposed to do then?”

“You won’t be alone,” Charles interjected, his tone measured but polite. He glanced briefly at Logan, as if trying to gauge how much to say. “This house has a number of protections. You’ll be secure here.”

“Secure from who?” you fired back, your eyes darting between the two men. “You all keep throwing words around like ‘safe’ and ‘protected,’ but you won’t tell me from what!”

Logan stepped closer, his voice softening. “Y/N, I know you’ve got questions, and I know this ain’t easy, but trust me. If I thought for a second there was a better way to keep you outta harm’s way, I’d do it.”

You stared at him, trying to ignore the way his voice—the way he called you by name—seemed to ease some of the tension in your chest. But it wasn’t enough. “You always do this,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “You make decisions for me like I’m some fragile little doll. I’m not helpless, Logan.”

“I know that,” he said quickly, his gaze locking onto yours. “But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna take chances with you.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head. “And where exactly are you going that’s so important you can’t tell me?”

Logan hesitated, his jaw tightening. He glanced at Charles, who gave him a slight nod. “We’ve gotta stop someone,” Logan finally said, his voice low. “Someone who’s about to make a big mistake.”

“That’s it?” you asked, your frustration rising again. “That’s all you’re gonna give me?”

“That’s all you need to know right now,” Logan replied. He reached out, his hand brushing against your arm. “Look, I promise I’ll explain everything when I get back. But for now, I need you to trust me.”

You stared at him, your chest tight with a mix of anger and something softer, something you didn’t want to name. “Fine,” you said at last, pulling away from his touch. “But don’t expect me to be happy about it.”

Logan smirked faintly, though his eyes were serious. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Charles cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Y/N, I understand this is a lot to take in, but I assure you, this is the safest course of action for now. Hank and I will only be gone for a short while.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, glancing at him briefly. “You better be.”

Logan nodded at Charles, then turned back to you. “There’s food in the kitchen, and plenty of space to stretch out. Don’t open the doors for anyone but me or them. Got it?”

You rolled your eyes but nodded. “Got it.”

Logan hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, but then he turned and followed Charles and Hank toward the door. You watched them leave, the sound of the heavy door closing echoing in the empty mansion.

For a long moment, you stood in the middle of the entry hall, clutching your bag and trying to process everything that had just happened. Finally, you let out a heavy sigh and slung the bag over your shoulder.

“Guess I’m on my own,” you muttered, heading deeper into the mansion to figure out how the hell you were supposed to pass the time in this massive, empty house.

---

It didn’t take long for you to get bored, even in a place as massive as this. From what you gathered during your first walkthrough, this mansion had likely been a boarding school at some point. The classrooms, rows of bedrooms, and an enormous kitchen all hinted at its past. But now, it was eerily quiet—like a castle frozen in time.

You wandered aimlessly, peeking into rooms and finding nothing but empty desks, dust-covered books, and a growing sense of restlessness. The longer you roamed, the more your mind churned over Logan’s sudden departure. You didn’t want to admit it, but his absence had left a void—a nagging worry that you couldn’t shake.

You sighed, stopping in front of a wide window overlooking the overgrown courtyard. What am I even doing here? you thought. Your fingers tapped against the windowpane as you chewed the inside of your cheek. Maybe you should’ve pushed harder for answers instead of letting Logan sidestep your questions—again.

The faint hum of a clock ticking in the hallway was the only sound accompanying your thoughts. It wasn’t enough to drown out the memories of Logan’s claws unsheathing back at the hotel or the unspoken tension in his voice when he said, “you won’t be alone.”

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, turning away from the window. “Stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing but cryptic warnings and empty rooms.”

You wandered back to the kitchen, hoping to find something to pass the time. The fridge was surprisingly well-stocked, and you made yourself a quick sandwich. As you ate, your gaze drifted toward the doorway, half expecting Logan to stride through it with that familiar scowl on his face.

But the doorway remained empty.

With a groan, you pushed the plate away and leaned back in the chair. “This sucks,” you muttered.

The silence pressed against your ears as you sat there, tapping your fingers on the table. You couldn’t help but think back to Logan’s expression when he’d left. There was something in his eyes—something heavy, like he was carrying more than just the weight of keeping you safe. He always did that, didn’t he? Took on the burden for everyone else, even if it meant shutting you out.

You stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. No more sitting around like a damsel in distress, you decided. If Logan was off dealing with whatever ‘big mistake’ he’d mentioned, you’d figure out how to occupy yourself in the meantime.

---

A while later, you found yourself back in one of the old classrooms. The chalkboards were dusty, and the desks were in varying states of disrepair, but it was oddly comforting in a way. You sat down at one of the desks and fiddled with a piece of chalk, drawing random lines on the board in front of you.

The quiet of the mansion felt oppressive. Every creak of the old wood or groan of the structure made your heart skip a beat. You weren’t sure if it was just your imagination playing tricks on you or if there was something more sinister lurking in the silence.

You sighed, leaning back in the chair. “Why’d you leave me here, Logan?” you muttered to yourself. The question hung in the air, unanswered, like so many others he’d dodged over the months.

As you stared at the lines you’d absentmindedly drawn, you thought back to your father. His control over your life had been suffocating, but this—running, hiding, fearing what might come next—was a different kind of prison. Logan had promised to protect you, but how could he if he wasn’t here?

A sudden noise in the hallway snapped you out of your thoughts. You froze, the piece of chalk slipping from your fingers and clattering onto the desk.

“Logan?” you called out, your voice trembling slightly. There was no response.

You rose slowly from the desk, your heart pounding in your chest. The sound came again—closer this time. It wasn’t the creak of the old mansion settling. It was deliberate, like footsteps.

You moved toward the door, peeking into the hallway. It was empty, but the faint sound of movement reached your ears from somewhere deeper in the house.

“Logan?” you tried again, your voice firmer.

Still nothing.

Clutching your jacket sleeve tightly, you stepped into the hallway, your bare feet silent against the worn wooden floors. The air felt colder somehow, and the shadows seemed to stretch longer.

You made your way toward the source of the noise, your pulse quickening with every step. Part of you wanted to turn back, to lock yourself in one of the rooms and wait for Logan to return, but you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right.

As you rounded the corner, you saw them. Men in dark suits, their faces obscured by the dim lighting. There were at least four of them, moving methodically through the mansion as if they knew exactly where to look.

Your breath caught in your throat. They weren’t here by accident.

You turned quickly, intending to retreat and find a place to hide, but it was too late. One of the men spotted you, his sharp eyes locking onto yours.

“She’s here!” he barked, and the others turned toward you immediately.

Panic surged through your veins as you broke into a sprint, your bare feet barely making a sound against the floor. You didn’t know where you were running, only that you had to get away.

“Stop her!” one of them shouted, and the sound of heavy footsteps followed you.

You darted into another hallway, your mind racing. You needed a plan, a way out, but the labyrinthine mansion offered no clear escape routes.

A hand suddenly grabbed your arm, yanking you backward. You let out a startled cry, struggling against the grip.

“Let go of me!” you screamed, kicking and clawing at the man holding you.

He grimaced but held firm, dragging you toward the others. “Stop fighting, or this gets messy,” he growled.

“Like hell it does,” you spat, managing to stomp on his foot hard enough to make him loosen his grip.

You broke free, stumbling forward, but another man was already there. He grabbed you by the waist, lifting you off the ground despite your thrashing.

“Let me go!” you shouted, your voice echoing through the empty halls.

“Enough!” a voice barked, and the men froze.

A figure stepped out of the shadows—an older man with a cold, calculating expression. You recognized him immediately. One of your father’s men.

“Miss Y/N,” he said smoothly, his tone dripping with false politeness. “Your father’s been worried sick about you.”

“Bullshit,” you snapped, glaring at him. “He doesn’t care about me.”

The man chuckled, a low, menacing sound. “Whether he cares or not isn’t really the issue, is it? You belong to him. And he’s decided it’s time you came home.”

“Over my dead body,” you shot back, your voice defiant even as fear coiled in your chest.

The man’s smile widened, and there was something cruel in his eyes. “If that’s what it takes.”

You struggled harder, but the men holding you were too strong. They began dragging you toward the exit, your cries for help swallowed by the vast emptiness of the mansion.

In that moment, a horrible realization settled over you. Logan wasn’t here to save you.

And this time, there was no escape.

---

The room was dim, lit by a single, flickering bulb swaying overhead. The scent of mildew clung to the air, mixing with the metallic tang of rust from the pipes along the walls. You blinked groggily, your head pounding as the events leading up to this moment replayed in your mind.

Interrogation, then murder. That’s how these things went. You knew it, had known it since you were a child sitting quietly at the top of the stairs, listening in on conversations you weren’t supposed to hear. The Romano family didn’t forgive betrayal, and neither did your father.

Your wrists ached where the rough ropes dug into them, tying you to the chair. The metal groaned beneath your weight as you tried to shift, testing the bindings. No give. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe.

From the shadows, the men emerged one by one, their faces a mix of familiarity and dread. You recognized some from your father’s estate—men who had once tipped their hats to you out of respect, now staring at you like a wolf pack eyeing its prey. Among them was Clyde Romano, his sharp suit immaculate despite the grim surroundings.

“Well, well,” Clyde drawled, adjusting his cuffs as he stepped closer. His cold eyes gleamed with a mixture of triumph and disdain. “You’ve been a busy little runaway, haven’t you?”

“Fuck you, Clyde,” you spat, your voice steadier than you expected.

He smirked, leaning in until you could feel his breath against your cheek. “Bold words for someone in your position. But that’s always been your problem, hasn’t it? Too much mouth, not enough sense.”

One of the men chuckled darkly, and you shot him a glare sharp enough to cut.

Clyde straightened, motioning for the others to spread out. “See, Y/N, this could’ve all been so simple. You play the good little bride, marry into the family, and keep your mouth shut. But no. You had to run. Had to embarrass your father. And me.”

“Embarrass you?” You barked out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. Were your fragile little feelings hurt because I didn’t want to be your trophy wife?”

Clyde’s smile faltered, his jaw tightening. He nodded toward one of his men, who stepped forward and struck you across the face. Pain exploded along your cheek, sharp and hot.

“Watch your mouth,” Clyde hissed.

You turned your head back slowly, your vision swimming. Blood trickled from the corner of your lip, but you smiled through it, defiant. “That all you’ve got?”

Clyde’s expression darkened, and he stepped closer, gripping your chin roughly. “You’re real brave for someone who doesn’t have a way out.”

Your stomach twisted at the truth of his words, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear in your eyes. “Better to die standing than live on my knees,” you shot back.

“Your boyfriend isn’t here to save you, sweetheart,” he said casually, his tone laced with mockery. “What was his name? Logan?”

Your heart clenched at the sound of his name, but you kept your face blank.

“He left you,” Clyde continued. “Just like everyone else will. Because you’re not worth the trouble.”

“That so?” you bit out. “Then why are you here?”

He stopped, looking over his shoulder with a smirk. “To clean up the mess you made.”

Clyde stepped back, giving a subtle nod to one of the men. The air seemed to thicken as the man pulled a knife from his belt, the blade glinting in the weak light.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t look away. If this was the end, you’d meet it head-on, with your head held high.

“Any last words?” Clyde asked, his tone almost bored.

You swallowed hard, the weight of everything pressing down on you. The memories of Logan’s rough hands holding yours, his gruff voice calling you darlin’ in that way that made your chest ache, his eyes softening in those rare moments when he let his guard down.

You thought of him now—miles away, caught up in something you couldn’t begin to understand. If he were here, he’d fight. He always did. But this time, you were on your own.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “Go to hell.”

Clyde tilted his head, unimpressed. The man with the knife stepped forward, and you clenched your fists, bracing yourself for the inevitable.

The blade gleamed, catching the light one last time before it plunged toward you.

And then, there was only darkness.

---

Logan paced the bedroom; he had known something was off the second they got back. For one, you were nowhere in the mansion and your bag was sitting on the couch in the rec room.

Hank hesitantly stood by the doorframe for a few moments before speaking, “there’s a theory in quantum physics that time is immutable.” Logan paused his pacing as Hank continued, “it’s like a river—you can throw a pebble into it, create a ripple, but the current always corrects itself. No matter what you do, the river just… keeps flowing in the same direction.”

Logan let out a small scoff, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a fleeting smile. “The B-theory of time.”

Hank blinked, his brows furrowing. “You’re familiar with it?”

Logan shrugged, leaning back against the wall, his arms crossed. “Yeah, I’ve heard it before. Someone once tried explaining it to me—something about all moments in time existing simultaneously. Past, present, future, all laid out like pages in a book.” He tilted his head, his gaze hardening. “Didn’t make it sound any less screwed up.”

Hank tilted his head slightly, caught off guard. “That’s a fairly accurate summation, Logan. I’m… surprised you retained that much.”

Logan’s lips twitched again, but his eyes darkened with a tinge of something that looked like regret. “Good teacher,” he muttered, his voice low. His mind flicked back to the quiet hours spent with you in the rec room at the mansion, your voice steady as you explained the theories of time and space with the kind of patience that used to drive him insane. “Good teacher,” he repeated, softer this time.

Hank didn’t press the matter, though curiosity lingered in his expression. Instead, he adjusted his glasses and continued. “Right. Well, the theory suggests that no matter how many changes we attempt to make, the timeline has a way of self-correcting. That ripple you caused? It’ll still flow back into the current, Logan. That’s why it’s imperative you stay focused on the larger mission—on stopping Mystique before—”

Logan cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “I know, McCoy. Believe me, I get it.” His voice was rougher now, frustration creeping into his tone. “But I can’t just stand here and do nothing. She’s out there—alone—because of me.” His jaw clenched, the muscles tightening like a vice. “I should’ve stayed with her.”

“And then what?” Hank countered, his voice measured but firm. “Thrown yourself headfirst into whatever danger awaits her without a plan? Gotten yourself killed before you even had the chance to stop Mystique? Would that have helped her, Logan? Or anyone else?”

Logan exhaled harshly, raking a hand through his hair. He hated when Hank was right—hated it even more because staying put went against every instinct he had. He’d lost you too many times before, and the idea of it happening again, here in this warped timeline, made his chest feel like it was caught in a vice.

“Look,” Hank said after a pause, his tone softening. “You’re not doing her—or yourself—any favors by acting recklessly. We need you tomorrow at the hearing. Mystique’s actions will set off a chain reaction if we don’t intervene, and that means we need all hands on deck.” He gave Logan a pointed look, then hesitated before adding, “Besides, the Y/N I met didn’t strike me as someone who’d go down without a fight.”

Logan’s gaze snapped to Hank, sharp and unyielding. “What’d you say?”

Hank shifted uncomfortably. “I mean… she was a little out of her element, sure, but she seemed resourceful. Strong-willed. Determined. She’s not just going to sit around waiting to be rescued, Logan.”

Logan’s shoulders relaxed slightly at Hank’s words, though his face remained guarded. He knew you—knew that fire inside you, even in this lifetime. You’d been through hell and still managed to crack that crooked smile, to tease him when he was too gruff for his own good. If anyone could find a way out of a bad situation, it was you.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t worried sick.

“She’s got guts,” Logan muttered, almost to himself. “Too much, sometimes.”

Hank adjusted his glasses again, watching Logan closely. “Then trust her to hold her own until we can deal with this together. Running off now would be counterproductive and, frankly, reckless.”

Logan let out a low growl of frustration, but he didn’t argue further. Deep down, he knew Hank was right. If he ran out of here now, he’d jeopardize everything—not just the mission, but the fragile thread of hope that had brought him to this point.

Still, the ache in his chest wouldn’t subside. It never did, not when it came to you.

“She’d better be okay,” he muttered, more to himself than to Hank. “Or I’ll—” His voice caught, and he shook his head. “Never mind.”

Hank didn’t respond immediately. He just watched as Logan sank into the chair by the window, his gaze distant.

For now, all Logan could do was wait.

---

Logan woke up to the sun shining through green curtains as he lay on his side, clutching his pillow. He turned over to look at the holographic clock on the other side of the bed, a stack of books on the table along with a single pen.

“The first time, ever I saw your face.”

He sat up, groggy as he looked at the familiar gold doorknob.

“I thought the sun,” Logan stood up and opened the door as a school bell rang and a kid walked out of their room. “Rose in your eyes.” He saw Bobby standing against a door frame as Rogue walked out and grabbed his hand, the two of them glancing over at Logan before walking away.

Logan walked by a classroom where Kitty was at the head of the room, a hologram in her hands, “Buckminster Fuller is a great example of an architect whose ideas were very similar to those of a utopian future. He would build structures that would work with nature, versus against it.”

He looked down the hall as Beast walked past him, clad in a brown suit, “morning, Logan. Late start,” he chuckled, as Logan watched him walk by.

Logan then walked down the stairs, seeing students converse with Storm. He continued his way down the stairs and into the open area, seeing familiar red hair leaning against the Professor’s open door.

Jean turned to look at him, “hey, Logan,” she softly called out as he glanced her way and back down the other hallways.

He saw a group of students walking huddled together before splitting apart briefly as you walked past them.

Logan’s breath hitched as you walked past the group of students, your hair catching the light streaming through the mansion’s tall windows. You didn’t notice him immediately, too focused on the stack of papers in your arms and the pen tucked behind your ear. He froze in place, his heart pounding like it hadn’t in years—decades, even.

You glanced up just as you passed him, pausing mid-step when your eyes met his. There was warmth in your gaze, that familiar spark he’d seen so many lifetimes ago, but this time it wasn’t tinged with hesitation or confusion. It was easy. Natural.

“There you are,” you said, a small smile gracing your lips as you adjusted the papers in your arms. “I was about to come looking for you. Late morning?”

Logan stared at you for a beat too long, the sound of your voice wrapping around him like a long-lost melody. He blinked, clearing his throat and trying to push past the lump that had formed there. “Yeah... guess so.”

Your smile widened, though your brow furrowed just slightly. “You okay, Lo?” you asked softly, stepping closer.

He managed a nod, though his throat felt tight. “Yeah, just... uh, still waking up, I guess.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him in that way you always used to when something seemed off. “Well, if you’re awake enough, maybe you could help me wrangle some of the kids for class?” You gestured toward the papers in your arms. “I need to grab a few more things, and Laura’s been trying to skip out on physics again. You didn’t even budge when the alarm went off this morning, but you’re lucky Scott owed you a favor, so he covered your history class—”

You didn’t get to finish your sentence when Logan’s arms wrapped around you, his hold firm but not crushing. His head burrowed into the crook of your neck, and for a moment, everything around you seemed to pause. You blinked, startled, the stack of papers in your arms wobbling precariously before you instinctively steadied them against your chest.

“Logan?” you asked softly, your voice tinged with concern and confusion. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t answer right away. His breathing was heavy, his body tense against yours as though he was clinging to something—or someone—he thought he’d lost. The warmth of his presence, his scent of leather and pine, was familiar, but this intensity was new.

You let the silence hang for a moment, your free hand instinctively lifting to rest on his shoulder. “Lo,” you tried again, your tone softer now, laced with the kind of patience that only years together had nurtured. “Talk to me.”

Logan pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, but his hands remained firm on your waist. His eyes were wild, scanning your face like he was searching for proof that you were real. For a fleeting second, you caught something raw in his expression—something vulnerable.

“You’re here,” he muttered, almost to himself. His voice was hoarse, as though he hadn’t spoken in days. “You’re… really here.”

Your brows knitted together as you tilted your head, trying to piece together what could have possibly spurred this reaction. “Of course I’m here,” you said with a small, hesitant laugh, your hand sliding from his shoulder to his cheek. “Where else would I be?”

Before Logan could respond, the unmistakable sound of small, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. A high-pitched voice followed, cutting through the moment like a pebble skipping across still water.

“Daddy!”

Logan froze. His hands fell away from your waist as a little girl with dark hair barreled toward the two of you, her pigtails bouncing with each step. She clung to Logan’s leg without hesitation, looking up at him with the wide, innocent eyes of someone who knew no fear or doubt.

Gabby.

The name surfaced in Logan’s mind like a fragment from a dream, though it came with no context—no memories to anchor it. He stared down at the child, his breath catching as she grinned up at him.

“Daddy, I found you!” she declared triumphantly, like it was a great accomplishment. “Laura said you were being slow again.”

You chuckled softly, crouching down to ruffle Gabby’s hair. “What did we say about calling your dad slow?” you teased gently, though there was no real reprimand in your tone.

Gabby giggled, leaning into your touch. “Only when it’s funny?”

“Exactly,” you replied with a smirk before standing again and glancing at Logan, who still hadn’t moved or spoken. “Lo, you okay?” you asked again, your concern deepening.

Logan’s gaze flicked between you and Gabby, his chest tightening. The ring on your finger caught the light as you moved, and for the first time, he noticed it—the familiar band of gold he’d carried for over a century.

His heart stuttered. You’re wearing it.

“Logan?” you pressed, stepping closer again. Gabby, still holding onto his leg, tilted her head in confusion.

Logan swallowed hard, forcing himself to push past the whirlwind in his mind. “Yeah,” he rasped, his voice strained but steady enough. “I’m fine.”

You didn’t look convinced, but you didn’t push him. Instead, you nodded toward the stack of papers in your arms. “You sure? Because if you’re about to have an existential crisis, I need you to hold off until after you help me track down Laura. Deal?”

Logan blinked, your teasing tone pulling him out of his daze. He managed a weak chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Deal.”

Gabby tugged at his pant leg, her face scrunched in determination. “Daddy, can we get pancakes after? Laura said she’d eat ten, but I bet I could eat twelve.”

You snorted softly, looking between Gabby and Logan with an amused smile. “You’re not actually gonna let her eat twelve pancakes, are you?”

Logan’s lips twitched, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’ll see,” he said gruffly, his mind still miles away as he tried to make sense of everything.

You gave him another look, your brows furrowing slightly, but you let it go for now. “Come on,” you said, shifting the papers in your arms. “Let’s get this day started.”

As you turned to lead Gabby toward the stairs, Logan lingered for a moment, his eyes fixed on the gold band on your finger. His thoughts churned, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a heavy fog.

He needed answers. And he knew exactly who to talk to.

---

Logan pushed open the door to Charles’s office without knocking, his usual roughness softened just enough by the turmoil bubbling beneath his skin. Charles, sitting calmly at his desk with his hands folded, looked up with a raised brow.

“Logan,” Charles greeted, his tone patient but curious. “I wasn’t expecting you so early. Is everything alright?”

Logan stepped inside, closing the door behind him before glancing over his shoulder. He needed to make sure you hadn’t followed. When he was satisfied, he turned back to Charles, his jaw tightening.

“No,” Logan said simply. “We need to talk. Now.”

Charles’s brow furrowed, and he gestured to the chair in front of him. “Please, sit. Tell me what’s troubling you.”

Logan ignored the chair, pacing instead. “I woke up this morning, and I—” He dragged a hand down his face, struggling to find the words. “Chuck, I ain’t supposed to be here. This… this timeline, it ain’t mine.”

Charles’s expression shifted, his calm demeanor replaced with something more serious. “I see,” he said carefully. “Go on.”

“You remember what Kitty did,” Logan said, stopping to lean on the edge of the desk. “Sending my mind back to ’73, to fix everything. To stop the Sentinels.”

“Yes,” Charles replied, his voice steady. “And you succeeded, Logan. The world you’re in now is a result of that success.”

Logan’s laugh was bitter, shaking his head. “Then why the hell don’t I remember it, huh? Why do I remember… all of it? The Sentinels. The Phoenix. Y/N—” His voice cracked, and he looked away, his fists clenching. “She died, Chuck. In my timeline, she died. Jean, too. All of you.”

Charles regarded him quietly, his hands still folded. “Logan, the mind is a complicated thing. It’s possible that in the process of returning you to this point in time, fragments of your original timeline have remained intact.”

“Fragments?” Logan scoffed, pushing off the desk to pace again. “Chuck, this ain’t fragments. I remember it all. I remember her dying six times, dammit. I remember the look on her face when she—” He stopped himself, his breathing ragged.

Charles’s expression softened. “Logan, this is your life now. Whatever timeline you came from, whatever you remember, it’s in the past. This is your reality now. Y/N is alive. Jean is alive. You have a family, a home.”

Logan’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Yeah, but it ain’t mine. This ring—” He held up his own hand with his own ring, the band of gold catching the light. “I didn’t put it on her finger, Chuck. Some other version of me did. And I don’t know how to be him.”

Charles leaned forward slightly, his voice gentle but firm. “Then perhaps it’s time you learned. For her. For your family.”

Logan stared at him, his chest tight. He wanted to argue, to push back, but the truth of Charles’s words settled heavy in his gut. He’d fought so hard to change the future, to make sure you and everyone else had a chance at a better life. Now that it was here, he didn’t know how to live in it.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling shakily. “What do I do, Chuck?”

Charles smiled faintly. “You take it one day at a time, Logan. And you start by going back to her.”

---

You stood in the Professor’s office, your arms crossed, the faint cherry gloss on your lips catching the sunlight through the large windows. You tilted your head slightly, studying Logan as he leaned against the desk, his expression unreadable but tense.

“So…” you began, your voice soft but steady, “you’re from a different timeline? One where none of this happened?”

Logan exhaled heavily, running a hand through his unruly hair. “Yeah, sweetheart. That’s about the size of it.”

Your gaze flicked between him and Charles, who sat calmly behind his desk, his hands folded in front of him. “And in that timeline…” you hesitated, your voice faltering slightly. “What happened to me?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his eyes briefly darting away from yours before he forced himself to meet your gaze. The weight of his memories hung between you, unspoken but palpable.

“You didn’t make it,” he admitted, his voice low and gravelly.

The room felt colder, the air heavier as his words settled over you. You shifted slightly, gripping your own arms as if to steady yourself.

“But not this time,” Charles interjected gently, his calm voice breaking the silence. “This timeline is different, Y/N. You survived, as did many others who didn’t in Logan’s original timeline.”

You turned to Charles, your brow furrowing. “How? How is that even possible? Timelines aren’t just malleable—”

“They are when someone like Kitty Pryde is involved,” Charles replied, his tone steady but kind. “Logan changed the future, which altered the past. But it seems his mind retained the memories of his original timeline when he was brought back.”

You looked at Logan, your head spinning as you tried to wrap your mind around what they were telling you. “So… you’re saying that everything I remember—all the years we’ve been together, raising Gabby and Laura—they’re real, but to you, they’re…”

“New,” Logan finished for you. He pushed off the desk, his hands going to his hips as he paced the room. “To me, darlin’, this—” he gestured vaguely at the mansion around him, “—this is all brand new. The last thing I remember before waking up this morning was bein’ in 1973, tryin’ to stop Mystique from killin’ Trask.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. The Logan standing before you was so familiar, yet so… not. He was the same man you’d spent decades with, and yet he wasn’t.

“You’re still you,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan stopped pacing, turning to look at you. His gaze softened slightly, the hard edges of his frustration melting away. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Still me.”

“But you don’t remember Gabby or Laura,” you said, a pang of sadness creeping into your voice. “You don’t remember us.”

Logan’s expression twisted with guilt. “No, sweetheart,” he admitted. “Not the way I should. But I’m tryin’. I swear to you, I’m gonna figure this out.”

You stepped closer to him, your glasses sliding slightly down your nose as you looked up into his eyes. “You’re not alone in this, Logan,” you said softly. “We’ll figure it out together.”

He stared at you, his throat tightening at the unwavering trust in your eyes. Slowly, he reached out, his large hand brushing against yours before taking it fully. “Thanks, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice rough but sincere.

Charles cleared his throat gently, drawing your attention. “The bond you two share has persisted across lifetimes,” he said. “It is not surprising that it remains strong, even now.”

You glanced back at Logan, your fingers still entwined with his. “I guess it’s just one more thing we’ve survived together,” you said with a faint smile.

Logan’s lips quirked upward, just barely. “Yeah,” he said. “Guess so.”

But as the three of you stood there, Logan couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of a much bigger challenge. For now, though, he let himself hold onto your hand, grounding himself in the one constant he’d always known: you.

---

Laura stared across the table at Logan, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of his face as if she were trying to find something different, something off. Meanwhile, Gabby’s bright voice filled the dining room.

“And then, they just grow back their limbs! Like, if an axolotl loses a leg or even its tail, it’s all, poof! Fixed!” Gabby made an exaggerated explosion motion with her hands, her fork clattering against her plate. “Isn’t that cool, Daddy?”

Logan blinked, dragging himself out of his thoughts. “Uh, yeah, kid. Real cool.” His voice was gruff but softer than usual as he glanced at her. Gabby beamed, apparently satisfied with his half-hearted response, and took another bite of her pancake.

“Dad doesn’t even know what an axolotl is,” Laura said flatly, her gaze never leaving him.

Gabby gasped, scandalized. “Laura! Of course he does! He’s Daddy! He knows everything!”

Logan scratched the back of his neck, an awkward chuckle slipping out. “Well, I wouldn’t say everything…”

Laura narrowed her eyes slightly, leaning back in her chair. “You’re acting weird.”

“Laura,” you said gently, walking into the room with a cup of coffee in hand. You leaned against the doorway, your glasses slipping down your nose just a touch as you looked at your daughter. “Be nice.”

“She’s not wrong,” Logan muttered under his breath, but you caught it and shot him a warning look.

Laura crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “He didn’t even laugh at Gabby’s joke about Mom’s coffee yesterday. That’s how you know something’s wrong.”

You hid your smile behind your mug. “To be fair, it wasn’t a great joke, Gabby.”

“It was hilarious!” Gabby protested, slapping her hands on the table for emphasis.

“Sure, sweetie,” you said with a chuckle, walking over to Logan. Your hand found his shoulder as you leaned down slightly. “Why don’t you two finish breakfast? We’ll be right back.”

Logan shot you a look but didn’t argue as you guided him out of the room, your hand lingering on his arm for a moment before you let go. You didn’t stop until you were in the hallway, far enough from the dining room that the girls couldn’t hear you.

“You’re gonna have to stop looking like a deer in headlights every time Gabby says something,” you said quietly, your tone soft but firm. “She’s going to figure it out if you keep that up.”

Logan let out a long sigh, leaning against the wall. “I’m tryin’, sweetheart. It’s just…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair.

“Overwhelming?” you finished for him.

“Yeah. That.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes meeting yours. “I don’t know how to do this. Any of this. I don’t remember gettin’ married or havin’ kids. And now, I’ve got a eleven-year-old givin’ me the third degree and a five-year-old who thinks I hung the moon.”

“They’re your daughters, Logan,” you said softly. “And they adore you. Just… be yourself. You’ve always been a good dad to them. That hasn’t changed.”

Logan looked at you, his expression a mixture of uncertainty and determination. “And you?”

“What about me?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

“How do I do right by you?” His voice was low, the vulnerability in it catching you off guard.

You stepped closer, your hand brushing his. “You’re already doin’ it,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll figure this out together. Just like we always do.”

He let out a low huff, leaning his side against the wall, “well, if I have to hear one more word about an axolotl and their gills, I might lose it.”

You leaned into the wall, mimicking Logan’s stance, your lips twitching upward as you adjusted your glasses. “Actually, axolotls have both gills and lungs, so they can breathe underwater and directly from the air. But they rely on their gills more than their lungs because they’re primarily aquatic. Oh, and their gills are those frilly things you see sticking out of their necks—external gills, which are super rare in vertebrates…”

Logan’s eyebrows rose slowly, and a wry grin began to tug at the corner of his mouth as your words spilled out faster than you seemed to realize.

“And did you know,” you continued, your voice picking up slightly as you adjusted your glasses again, “they stay in a juvenile state their whole lives? It’s called neoteny, and—”

Logan finally let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, darlin’, I get it. You’re where Gabby gets it from.”

You paused mid-ramble, your brow furrowing as you looked up at him. “Gets what?”

“The whole talk a mile a minute about stuff that makes the rest of us feel like idiots thing,” he teased, his tone gruff but warm. “She starts goin’ on about somethin’, an’ it’s like watchin’ a little tornado of facts. Now I know where she gets it.”

Your cheeks flushed slightly, a mix of amusement and bashfulness flashing across your face. “I don’t talk that much.”

Logan arched a brow, his grin widening just a touch. “Sure, sweetheart. Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

You huffed, pushing lightly against his chest with the back of your hand, though your lips tugged into a reluctant smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you’re still stuck with me,” he teased, his tone laced with an unexpected softness.

For a moment, you both stood there in the hallway, the din of breakfast chatter echoing faintly behind the door. Logan’s eyes lingered on you, the faint cherry gloss on your lips catching his attention again as sunlight streamed in through the nearby window.

“I really mean it, darlin’,” Logan said after a beat, his voice dipping into something deeper. “You’ve got no idea how much I appreciate you holdin’ this together. All this…” He gestured vaguely, his expression faltering for a second. “It’s a lot to take in.”

Your smile softened, and you reached for his hand instinctively. “We’ve been through worse, Logan. Together. We always find a way.”

Logan’s gaze dropped to your intertwined hands, the touch grounding him. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Always.”

Before the moment could settle further, Scott and Jean walked past the two of you, entering the kitchen. You grabbed Logan’s hand, “c’mon, I want you to see somethin’.”

You pulled Logan to the doorway of the kitchen, motioning for him to stay quiet. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t resist as he leaned slightly into the frame beside you, peeking into the room. Scott was at the counter, pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee, while Jean stood nearby, polishing an apple against her sleeve.

“Why are we standin’ here like—” Logan began, but you held up a finger to shush him.

“Wait for it,” you murmured, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

From behind the island, Gabby and Laura crouched in near-perfect silence. Gabby’s face was alight with glee as Laura whispered instructions, holding a small device that looked suspiciously like something Jones might have helped them cobble together.

Logan squinted. “What the hell are they—”

“Shh!” you hissed, suppressing a grin as Laura pressed a button on the device.

The coffee maker on the counter suddenly sputtered and hissed, steam pouring out in dramatic bursts as it began to shake. Scott froze mid-sip, frowning at the machine.

“What the—” Scott leaned in cautiously, placing his mug down.

With a loud pop, a stream of glitter shot out from the coffee maker, spraying directly onto Scott’s chest and face. His entire upper body sparkled in gold and silver flecks as he stumbled back, coughing in surprise.

Gabby popped up from behind the counter, arms thrown in the air triumphantly. “Success!”

Laura stood beside her, a small, satisfied smirk tugging at her lips. “Glitter bomb: 100% effective.”

Logan stared, wide-eyed, as Scott wiped at his face in a futile attempt to rid himself of the glitter. “Girls,” Scott said, his voice low and measured in a tone that suggested he was summoning all of his patience, “what did I say about tamperin’ with the coffee maker?”

Gabby, undeterred, pointed at him dramatically. “You said don’t do it. But you never said we couldn’t improve it.”

Jean bit into her apple, turning slightly away to hide her laughter behind a hand.

“You let them do this?” Scott asked, glaring at her.

“I let them? Scott, they’re your nieces,” Jean said smoothly, not bothering to hide the amusement in her tone.

“They’re your nieces too!” Scott protested, but Jean just shrugged, taking another bite of her apple.

Logan let out a low chuckle beside you, shaking his head. “They’re somethin’ else.”

You grinned, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “They’re just like you.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, leaning closer. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know exactly what it means,” you teased. “You’re as much of a troublemaker as they are. Don’t think I haven’t seen the pranks you’ve pulled.”

“Pranks? Me?” Logan’s expression feigned innocence, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Sweetheart, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Right,” you drawled, clearly unconvinced. “You’ve just coincidentally passed on all your mischief genes to Laura and Gabby?”

Logan let out a soft laugh, his gaze flicking back to the kitchen where Gabby was now dancing around Scott, singing, “Uncle Scott is the glitter king!” at the top of her lungs.

Laura crossed her arms, clearly pleased with her handiwork. “Don’t worry. It’s biodegradable glitter,” she said in a tone that suggested she didn’t actually care about Scott’s glitter predicament but wanted to seem magnanimous.

Scott groaned, his voice rising in frustration. “You two better clean this up. And my shirt. And my—” He gestured vaguely at his glitter-covered face.

Gabby giggled. “Sure, Uncle Scott. Right after breakfast.”

Scott turned to Jean for backup, but she just shrugged again. “You’ll be fine, Scott. You’ve been through worse.”

“Not worse than this,” Scott muttered darkly, picking at a gold fleck on his visor.

You stifled another laugh as Logan crossed his arms, watching the scene unfold with an almost paternal fondness. “They really only prank Summers?”

You nodded, grinning. “Every time. Jean’s always off-limits, but Scott? Fair game. Laura says it builds his character.”

Logan shook his head, still smiling. “Kid’s got my sense of humor, all right.”

“See?” you said, leaning closer to him. “They’re just like you.”

Logan glanced down at you, his expression softening as his gaze lingered. “Guess I’ve got a lot to live up to, huh?”

“You already do,” you said quietly, your hand brushing against his. “More than you know.”

Before Logan could respond, Gabby’s excited voice interrupted. “Mommy! Daddy! Did you see? Uncle Scott’s a walking disco ball!”

You turned just as Gabby bolted toward you both, her small arms outstretched. Logan instinctively crouched to catch her as she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Did you like it, Daddy?” Gabby asked, her face bright with anticipation.

Logan hesitated, his arms tightening slightly around her as he glanced at you for guidance. You smiled, nodding almost imperceptibly.

“Yeah, kid,” Logan said finally, his voice gruff but warm. “You got him good.”

Gabby beamed, hugging him tighter before pulling back to look at him. “Laura says we should do water balloons next time. But I think paint bombs would be cooler.”

Logan chuckled, standing with her still in his arms. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Gabby.”

Gabby laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder. You watched the two of them, your chest tightening at the sight of Logan holding her so naturally, even if his memories of her weren’t there yet.

Logan caught your eye, his expression unreadable but intense, as if he were trying to piece together the life he couldn’t remember but was already a part of.

For now, you just smiled, stepping closer to place a hand on his arm. “Come on,” you said softly. “Let’s get back in there before Scott recruits you to clean up his glitter.”

Logan let out a low chuckle, his grip on Gabby firm as he followed you back into the kitchen, the warmth of the moment settling around the three of you like a quiet promise.

---

Jean sighed and stepped away, her hands falling from Logan’s temples as she crossed her arms. “I’m sorry, Logan. There’s not much else I can do.”

Logan remained seated, his elbows resting on his knees as his hands clenched together. “So, that’s it? Nothin’? Not even a flicker?”

Jean’s expression softened, but there was a hint of frustration in her voice, more directed at herself than him. “You’ve got a wall in your mind, Logan. One I can’t break through without risking your memories now. If I push too hard, I could do more harm than good.”

He let out a low growl, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Feels like I’m livin’ someone else’s life. Like it ain’t mine.”

“You are living your life,” Jean insisted gently. “This is you. You’re just missing… the journey that got you here.”

Logan ran a hand down his face, leaning back in the chair. His gaze drifted to the floor, but his thoughts were miles away. He could feel the weight of everything—the ring on your hand, the way Gabby called him ‘daddy,’ Laura’s quiet smirk when she saw him, the way you looked at him with such love and familiarity. It wasn’t foreign; it was right. But it was also wrong because he didn’t remember any of it.

Jean knelt beside him, her voice quieter now. “You’ve built something beautiful here, Logan. Something you fought for, even if you can’t remember how. Maybe instead of chasing what’s missing, you should try to live in what’s here.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his mind battling with itself. Before he could respond, a voice broke the heavy silence.

“Logan?” Your voice was soft but steady from the doorway.

His head snapped up, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. “Hey, darlin’.”

Jean rose, excusing herself with a subtle nod toward you. As she passed, she gave your arm a gentle squeeze, her own way of offering support, before disappearing down the hall.

You stepped inside, watching Logan closely as you approached. “How are you feeling?”

“Like my head’s been through the ringer,” he muttered, trying to muster a smirk but failing. “Jean couldn’t find much.”

You perched on the arm of the chair, your hand instinctively reaching for his shoulder. “It’s okay,” you said softly, your thumb tracing small circles over his flannel. “You don’t have to remember everything all at once.”

He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “That’s just it. I don’t remember any of it—marryin’ you, findin’ Laura, havin’ Gabby. None of it’s mine.”

Your heart ached at the rawness in his voice, but you squeezed his shoulder gently. “It is yours. Maybe not in the way you think, but it’s yours, Logan. We’re yours.”

He looked up at you then, his eyes darker, clouded with something you couldn’t quite name. “You’re takin’ this awful well.”

You smiled faintly, brushing a stray curl away from his forehead. “I told you when we got married, remember? That no matter what happens, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t remember that, either,” he admitted gruffly, though there was a flicker of warmth in his voice.

“Well,” you teased lightly, trying to ease the tension, “lucky for you, I do.”

Logan’s hand came up, his fingers brushing against yours where they rested on his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, but the weight of his grip spoke volumes.

You brought him into your side, his head resting below your collarbone on your chest, and a small, bittersweet smile crept onto your lips. “It’s kinda ironic if you think about it.”

Logan’s voice was muffled against you, but there was a familiar gruffness to it. “What is?”

“This,” you said softly, one hand brushing through his hair while the other traced idle circles on his shoulder. “You remember all those lives I don’t, and now we’re here, and I’m the one who remembers… but you don’t.”

Logan let out a humorless chuckle, his arms tightening around your waist. “Yeah, darlin’, real funny.”

“Ironic,” you corrected, the corner of your mouth twitching upward, though the ache in your chest lingered. “Not funny.”

Logan exhaled deeply, his breath warm against your collarbone. “Guess I deserve that, huh? All those times, I remembered you, and now you’re stuck rememberin’ for me.”

You stilled your hand for a moment, then leaned back just enough to make him look at you. His eyes were darker than usual, shadowed with frustration and something deeper you couldn’t name. “You don’t deserve this, Logan,” you said firmly. “Don’t ever think that.”

He searched your face, his jaw tightening as he swallowed hard. “Feels like I do,” he murmured. “Every time I’ve lost you… it’s been my fault somehow. Every damn time. And now—” He cut himself off, shaking his head as though trying to dislodge the thought.

“And now,” you said, finishing for him, “you haven’t lost me.”

Logan’s gaze softened, his thumb brushing unconsciously over the fabric of your shirt where his hand rested on your waist. “Not yet.”

“Not at all,” you said, your voice steady. “You’ve got me, Logan. I’m right here.”

His lips twitched, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “For now.”

You sighed, cupping his cheek and guiding his gaze back to yours when it started to drift. “Logan. Stop. We’ve been married for nearly twenty years. I know this is… a lot. It’s a lot for me, too. But you don’t have to figure it all out today, or tomorrow, or even next week.”

He huffed a small laugh, his hand moving to rest over yours. “You always this patient?”

“Only with you,” you teased gently, though the warmth in your voice was genuine. “So don’t make me regret it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, and for a moment, his smirk was almost real.

You smiled back, letting the silence settle for a few beats before Logan’s arms tightened around you again, pulling you closer. His head rested against your chest, his body warm and solid against yours, and for a moment, you just held him.

---

Footsteps thundered across the broken ground, and then he was there. Logan dropped to his knees beside you, his hands immediately reaching for you, shaking you gently but urgently. “Sweetheart, no, no—open your eyes,” he pleaded, his voice cracking as his hands moved from your face to your shoulders, searching for signs of life.

Your body was limp in his arms, your chest still, your face losing color.

Logan’s breaths came in short, harsh gasps as he pulled you against him, cradling you like you might slip away entirely if he let go. “Y/N,” he whispered, the single word a broken prayer, an unbearable weight of grief choking him. His hands shook as they smoothed over your hair, as though trying to coax you back to him with touch alone.

He didn’t notice Ororo land nearby, didn’t register her sharp intake of breath as she took in the scene. Her hand came up to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror, but she didn’t approach. Behind her, Bobby and Kitty stood frozen, their expressions stricken, but they too stayed back. Even Peter, with his usual strength and calm, had no words.

Logan didn’t care that they were there. Didn’t care about anything except the motionless weight in his arms. He rocked you slightly, his forehead pressing against yours as his ragged breaths turned into choked sobs. “You weren’t supposed to—damn it, you weren’t supposed to do this,” he growled, his voice breaking as he fought against the tears burning in his eyes. “Not this time. Not again.”

Logan pressed his lips to your forehead, his hands shaking as they cupped your face. “Come on, darlin’,” he whispered, his voice soft and cracked. “You’re stronger than this. You’re too stubborn to leave me. Just—just come back.”

The others stood frozen, unable to move, unable to interrupt the devastating scene unfolding before them. Ororo’s hand clutched her chest, tears streaking down her face as she turned away, giving Logan what little privacy she could in this moment of unbearable pain.

But Logan didn’t notice. He couldn’t notice. His world had narrowed to you—the unbearable stillness of your body, the haunting silence that surrounded you now.

He didn’t let go, even as the destruction around them finally began to settle, the last vestiges of Jean’s power fading into nothingness. His arms tightened around you, his forehead pressing to yours again as he whispered brokenly, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t save you. I’m so damn sorry.”

Time seemed to stand still in the worst possible way. For the first time in his long, painful life, Logan felt completely and utterly powerless. The ring he’d carried for over a century burned like a brand against his chest, a cruel reminder of all the promises he’d never been able to keep.

Logan buried his face against your neck, his voice raw as he whispered, “I was gonna tell you. About the ring. About everything. You—you deserved to know.” His thumb brushed over your cheek, as if he could will the life back into you.

He pulled back, his tear-streaked face contorted in anguish as he gazed down at you. “I love you,” he said, his voice breaking on every syllable. “I’ve loved you through every lifetime, and I’ll love you in the next one, too. But please, sweetheart, don’t make me wait again. Not this time. Please.”

His hands trembled as he touched your cheek again, his thumb brushing over your skin like it might bring you back. “I love you,” he repeated, his voice hoarse. “I’ll always love you.”

But you didn’t move. Your chest didn’t rise. You were gone.

Logan’s breath hitched as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead—one last desperate, lingering moment of tenderness. When he pulled back, his gaze swept over your still features, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and devastation.

Behind him, Ororo, Bobby, Kitty, and Peter stood at a distance, their faces drawn with grief. None of them moved to intervene. They knew better than to intrude on this moment, on Logan’s anguish.

The air felt impossibly heavy as Logan shifted, gathering your lifeless form into his arms. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though handling something too precious to break further. He cradled you close, his head bowing as he let out a shuddering breath. The others watched as he rose to his feet, every muscle in his body screaming in protest, though he showed no sign of it.

“Logan…” Ororo began softly, stepping forward.

He didn’t acknowledge her. His eyes were locked on you, his focus unwavering. Without a word, he turned away, carrying you toward the bridge. There was no Blackbird to take them home—Jean’s power had obliterated it along with so much else—but Logan didn’t seem to care about the logistics. His only concern was you.

---

Logan jerked awake, gasping, his body tense and drenched in cold sweat. The dim light of the bedroom barely illuminated his surroundings, but he didn’t need it to know where he was. The warmth beside him, the faint scent of your cherry lip gloss lingering in the air—those were enough to remind him. This was 2023. You were alive.

He turned his head to look at you, his breathing still uneven. You were curled on your side, your glasses resting on the nightstand, your hand loosely clutching the blanket. Peaceful. Alive.

“Logan?” your voice, soft and drowsy, broke the silence. You stirred, sensing his distress even in your half-asleep state. “What’s wrong?”

He swallowed hard, running a hand down his face. “Nothin’, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice rough and unconvincing. “Go back to sleep.”

But you sat up anyway, your hair slightly mussed, your gaze focusing on him even without your glasses. “You had another nightmare, didn’t you?” You reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Was it… bad?”

Logan closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. He wanted to lie, to brush it off and tell you he was fine, but the weight of the memory still clung to him like a shadow he couldn’t shake. “Yeah,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Without hesitation, you slid closer to him, wrapping your arms around his torso. “It’s okay,” you murmured, resting your head against his shoulder. “I’m here.”

His body stiffened at first, the vulnerability of the moment making his instincts scream to pull away, but then he let out a shaky breath and folded you into his arms. The solid warmth of you against him—the weight of your presence—was like a lifeline, anchoring him back to the present.

“I dreamed about… losin’ you,” he said after a long moment, his voice low and raw. “It—it was like I could feel it happenin’ all over again.”

Your heart ached at the pain in his tone, but you didn’t pull back. Instead, you tightened your hold on him, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. “You didn’t lose me,” you whispered. “I’m right here, Logan.”

His arms tightened around you as though he needed to remind himself you were real. After a few moments, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching your face like he was memorizing every detail. His hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“I gotta hold you,” he said, his voice gruff but almost pleading. “Just let me—” His words faltered, and he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was desperate yet tender, like he was pouring all the fear and love in his heart into the connection.

You kissed him back without hesitation, your hands resting on his chest. But when he pulled back only to kiss you again—this time slower, deeper—you pulled away slightly, just enough to catch your breath. “Logan,” you murmured, your voice gentle, “are you sure you’re okay?”

His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “Just lemme kiss you, please,” he said softly, his voice almost breaking. “Need to feel you. Need to know you’re here.”

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you nodded, your hands sliding up to cup his face. “I’m here,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his again, reassuring him with every touch that you weren’t going anywhere.

Time seemed to stop as you stayed like that, locked in the quiet intimacy of the moment. His hands moved to your waist, holding you securely, while yours stayed on his face, grounding him. Eventually, you pulled back, your noses brushing, your breaths mingling.

“You wanna talk about it?” you asked softly, your fingers tracing soothing patterns along his jawline.

Logan hesitated, his eyes flickering with something raw and unspoken. “Not yet,” he admitted, his voice thick. “Just… don’t leave me tonight, darlin’.”

You shook your head, offering him a soft smile despite the emotion welling in your chest. “I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, wrapping your arms around him again.

---

The Blackbird hummed steadily, the low vibration underscoring the tense silence among the team. You glanced toward Logan, his expression hard and unreadable as he stared out the small window. He hadn’t said much since takeoff, and you didn’t push him. Instead, you’d focused on Jean, who was reviewing the mission details, and Scott, who’d been unusually quiet.

“I can handle this,” Logan had said when you vouched for him earlier. You hadn’t doubted him then, and you didn’t now. But Scott’s skepticism hung heavy in the cabin, evident in every glance he shot Logan’s way.

You let out a soft breath and shifted in your seat, nudging Logan’s arm with your elbow. “Hey,” you said quietly, leaning in. “You good?”

Logan turned his head, his eyes meeting yours for a moment. He nodded, though his jaw stayed tight. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m fine.”

You didn’t buy it, but you let it go. For now.

Scott’s voice cut through the tension. “We’re approaching the drop zone. Everyone stay sharp. This should be quick, but let’s not get sloppy.”

“Sloppy?” Logan muttered under his breath. “We don’t do sloppy.”

Scott shot him a look from the cockpit but didn’t respond, and you bit back a small smile despite the nerves fluttering in your chest.

---

The mission was supposed to be simple. Extract intel, neutralize threats, and get out. But as usual, things didn’t go as planned.

The team moved as a unit through the labyrinthine corridors of the facility, the dim lighting casting long shadows that danced with every flicker of movement. Logan was at the front, claws out, his senses leading the way. You stayed close, your focus split between him and the others.

“Jean, you got eyes on the server room?” Scott’s voice crackled through the comms.

“About twenty meters ahead,” Jean replied, her voice calm despite the rising tension.

Logan’s claws retracted with a snikt as he held up a hand, signaling everyone to stop. His nose twitched, and his head tilted slightly. “Something’s off,” he murmured, his voice low.

Before anyone could ask what, the ground beneath your feet rumbled, and the corridor ahead exploded in a burst of heat and light. You stumbled back, shielding your face, as alarms blared throughout the facility.

“Damn it!” Scott barked. “It’s a trap!”

Logan was already moving, his claws gleaming as he launched himself toward the first wave of attackers. “Get to the server room!” he shouted over his shoulder. “I’ll clear the way!”

“Logan, wait—” But he was gone, a blur of fury and precision as he tore through the enemy.

You exchanged a quick glance with Jean and Ororo before taking off in the opposite direction with them. The mission had gone sideways, but there was no time to panic. Focus was key.

---

You weren’t sure how long it had been—minutes? Hours? The battle had stretched into chaos, and every step felt like a fight to stay alive. You found yourself separated from the others, the air thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Your powers buzzed beneath your skin, a familiar warning. You’d been careful not to overuse them, knowing the toll it took, but the situation left you little choice. Cornered by a group of heavily armed soldiers, you raised your hands, time itself seeming to shudder as you concentrated.

The soldiers froze mid-step, their weapons hanging suspended in the air. Sweat beaded on your forehead as you pushed harder, distorting the flow of time around you. The strain was immediate, your body protesting as you manipulated the anomaly.

“Y/N!” Logan’s voice cut through the haze, rough and urgent. He appeared out of the smoke, his claws dripping red. His eyes widened when he saw you, the flickering distortion around you making it clear you were at your limit.

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice was strained. “Go help the others.”

“Like hell,” Logan growled, rushing to your side. His hand gripped your arm firmly but gently. “Stop this. You’re gonna tear yourself apart.”

“I can handle it,” you insisted, though your knees buckled slightly under the weight of your own power.

Logan didn’t argue. Instead, he scooped you up with a gentleness that belied his strength, cradling you against his chest. The anomaly wavered, then shattered, the soldiers collapsing as time resumed. But the damage was done.

As the world around you stabilized, you felt a strange, disorienting pull in your mind—like something had snapped and splintered all at once.

Logan froze mid-step, a strangled noise escaping his throat. His grip on you tightened as his body went rigid, his breathing shallow and erratic.

“Logan?” you murmured, your voice weak. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His eyes darted wildly as memories surged through his mind—memories that didn’t belong to the man he’d been moments ago.

A wedding. Your smile, brighter than the sun, as you held his hands. The weight of the gold ring he’d finally placed on your finger after lifetimes of waiting.

Laughter. Laura’s tiny hands clutching his shirt as he carried her on his shoulders, her giggles echoing through the halls of the mansion. Gabby’s wide grin as she showed him a picture she’d drawn of the four of you—her family.

Peace. The quiet nights on the porch, your head resting on his shoulder as the stars twinkled overhead.

Love.

A life.

A family.

Logan stumbled, dropping to his knees as the memories overwhelmed him. They were vivid and unrelenting, a rush of emotion and experience that left him gasping for air.

Your hands trembled as you knelt beside Logan, panic bubbling in your chest. His body shook, his breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps. You reached out, gripping his shoulders. “Logan! Please—what’s wrong? Talk to me!”

He didn’t respond. His eyes were wide and unfocused, darting as though he was watching something invisible and overwhelming. His claws had retracted, his hands pressed flat to the ground like he was trying to anchor himself.

“Logan…” Your voice cracked, tears blurring your vision. “I’m sorry—I don’t know what I did—please, just say something.”

His breath hitched sharply, and he finally looked at you, though his gaze was distant, almost haunted. “I… I can’t—” His voice was rough, fractured, as though he was choking on the words. “It’s… I remember.”

You froze. The blood roaring in your ears was nearly deafening. “What do you mean? Remember what?”

Logan shook his head as if trying to clear it, but his face was pale, his features twisted with a mix of disbelief and something raw—grief? Love? Fear? You couldn’t tell.

“It’s us.” His hands reached for you instinctively, his calloused palms cupping your face. “I see you. I see…” His words faltered, and his gaze flickered like he was staring into a memory you couldn’t reach. “The wedding. Laura. Gabby. God, darlin’, I see all of it. I feel it.”

Your heart clenched, your breath catching in your throat. “You remember this life?” you whispered, your hands resting on his wrists.

Logan’s eyes, normally so sharp and guarded, now brimmed with something far more vulnerable—tears threatening to spill as his gaze bore into yours. “Yeah,” he rasped, his voice rough, choked. “Not just bits and pieces… all of it.”

Tears continued to blur your vision as you searched his face, struggling to process his words. His hands stayed on your face, steady even though they were trembling slightly, and his eyes darted over yours like he was trying to memorize every detail, afraid you might vanish if he looked away for even a second.

“Logan…” Your voice wavered, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest. “You… remember everything?”

He nodded, the movement jerky, uncoordinated. “Yeah. Every damn thing,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. “I remember… us. Our life. Laura. Gabby. The day I put this ring on your finger.” His thumb brushed against the gold band on your left hand, his expression flickering between awe and devastation. “I remember it all, darlin’. And it’s like I’ve been livin’ two lives at once.”

Your heart twisted, torn between relief and worry. Relief that he was remembering the life you’d built together—your family, your home—but worry because you knew what this meant for him. Logan wasn’t just remembering. He was reconciling two lifetimes, one full of loss and pain, and one where he’d finally found peace.

You cupped his face now, your hands trembling against his rough, stubbled cheeks. “Logan,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the distant sounds of the fight still raging in the facility. “You’re here. You’re with me. With us. And that’s all that matters.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, and you could see the storm of emotions swirling behind them—grief, guilt, love, hope. “It’s real,” he said, almost like he needed to hear it to believe it. “This… all of it… it’s real. I didn’t lose you this time.”

“No,” you murmured, tears spilling freely now. “You didn’t lose me. You’ve got me, Logan. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His hands tightened ever so slightly on your face, his forehead lowering until it rested gently against yours. His breath hitched, and you felt the faintest tremor run through him. “I lost you six times, sweetheart. Six times. I held you in my arms while you—” His voice broke, and he sucked in a sharp breath like he was trying to keep himself together. “I can’t… I can’t lose you again. I won’t.”

“You won’t,” you said firmly, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks. “You won’t, Logan. This is our life. Our family. And you’re not gonna lose me. Not now, not ever.”

For a long moment, the two of you just stayed like that, kneeling on the cold floor in the middle of a war zone, holding on to each other like the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Finally, Logan spoke again, his voice quieter now, though no less weighted. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his tone raw. “I remember us, but I don’t… I don’t feel like the man you married. I don’t feel like Laura and Gabby’s dad.”

Your heart ached at his words, but you held his gaze, your own resolve strengthening. “You are the man I married,” you said softly but firmly. “You’re the same Logan who’s been by my side for twenty years, who’s been an amazing father to Laura and Gabby, who’s built this life with me. I know it doesn’t feel that way right now, but it will. You’ll remember not just with your head, but with your heart, too. I promise.”

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling shakily before nodding. “I hope you’re right, darlin’,” he murmured. “Because I don’t wanna screw this up.”

“You won’t,” you assured him. “We’ll figure it out together.”

Another explosion sounded in the distance, and Logan’s head whipped around, his instincts kicking in. “We gotta move,” he said gruffly, helping you to your feet. “You okay to walk?”

“I’m fine,” you said, though your legs wobbled slightly as the adrenaline began to wear off. Logan steadied you with a hand on your waist, his touch firm but careful.

“Let’s find the others,” he said, his voice steadying as he slipped back into mission mode. But before you could take a step, he stopped, turning back to you. His hand cupped your cheek again, his eyes soft but serious. “I love you,” he said, the words rough but filled with conviction. “I just… I needed to say it.”

Your breath caught, but you smiled, leaning into his touch. “I love you, too,” you said, your voice trembling with emotion. “Always.”

He nodded once, then released you, his claws sliding out with a familiar snikt. “Stay close,” he said, his tone low and protective as he led the way down the corridor. And though the chaos of the mission loomed ahead, you felt a flicker of hope—because no matter what, you were facing it together.

---

Once back at the mansion, the first things you saw were Laura and Gabby standing by Rogue, waiting for the others to clear the jet before you and Logan stepped off.

Gabby was the first to make a move, walking at a brisk pace until Logan finished climbing down the stairs and kneeled down, “c’mere princess.”

She let out a happy squeal and ran the rest of the way, launching herself into Logan’s arms. “You haven’t called me that in ages!”

Laura walked over to the three of you, giving you a short hug from the side, “weeks, Gabby, weeks.”

Gabby removed herself from Logan’s chest, turning to face her sister, “that’s ages Laura!”

Laura crossed her arms, her eyebrow arched in exaggerated disbelief. “It’s weeks, Gabby. Don’t be so dramatic.”

Logan chuckled, low and gravelly, still kneeling on the hangar floor. His hands rested lightly on Gabby’s shoulders as she spun back around to look at him, her big, expressive eyes narrowing in mock irritation.

“Well, she’s right about one thing,” Logan said, ruffling Gabby’s hair. “I haven’t been callin’ you ‘princess’ like I should.”

Gabby beamed, throwing her arms around his neck again. “It’s okay, Daddy. I forgive you!”

Behind them, you stood near the ramp, watching the scene with a mix of relief and warmth. Logan caught your eye over Gabby’s shoulder, his gaze softening as it locked on yours. For a moment, it was like the rest of the world disappeared.

Laura’s voice broke the spell. “You’re forgiven this time,” she said with a teasing smirk as she stepped closer. “But Gabby’s gonna milk it for at least a week. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Logan straightened, a hand resting on Gabby’s back as he looked at Laura with that gruff, fatherly affection he’d perfected. “Yeah, well, I reckon I can handle that.”

Gabby grinned triumphantly, glancing between her sister and her dad. “See? Told you I’m his favorite.”

Logan groaned, shaking his head as he rose to his feet, lifting Gabby effortlessly in his arms. “Don’t start that, kiddo. I got room for both of you troublemakers.”

Gabby giggled, but Laura rolled her eyes. “Nice save, Dad.��

You chuckled softly, stepping forward now that the moment felt a little less overwhelming. “Alright, you two,” you said, your voice warm but firm. “Let’s get inside. Everyone’s probably waiting, and your dad looks like he could use a break.”

Logan gave you a small, appreciative smile, one that lingered longer than usual, like he was drinking in every detail of you standing there. He shifted Gabby to his hip and reached out with his free hand, his calloused fingers brushing yours briefly as you both turned toward the mansion.

The walk back was filled with Gabby’s chatter, Laura’s sarcastic commentary, and Logan’s occasional grunt of amusement. But as the four of you crossed the threshold into the warmth of the mansion, you could feel the shift in Logan—a quiet resolve mixed with the raw emotion still simmering beneath the surface.

Once the girls were out of earshot, you tugged gently on Logan’s sleeve, pulling him aside into the quieter hallway. His brows furrowed slightly, but he let you guide him, his hand instinctively finding its way to your waist.

“Logan,” you started softly, looking up at him as the distant echoes of the mansion’s activity faded. “Are you okay?”

Logan’s jaw tensed, his eyes searching yours as though weighing his answer. The soft glow of the mansion’s lights illuminated his face, highlighting the exhaustion and turmoil etched into his features. He let out a low sigh, the sound heavy with emotion, before his hand slid from your waist to cradle the side of your face.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice rough but honest. “It’s like... I’ve been livin’ someone else’s life for weeks. Like it was mine but not mine, ya know? And now…” He paused, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek, his brow furrowing. “Now it’s all there. Every moment. Every damn thing. I remember our girls, our wedding, us. And it’s... it’s real. But it feels like it shouldn’t be. Like it’s a dream I’m gonna wake up from any second.”

Your heart clenched at the raw vulnerability in his voice. You reached up, covering his hand with yours, grounding him. “It’s not a dream, Logan. This is real. We’re real. Laura and Gabby are real. You’re their dad, my husband, and the man who’s been by my side through everythin’. You’ve got us, and we’ve got you.”

His eyes softened, but there was still a shadow of doubt lingering in them. “Feels like I’ve been walkin’ around with a piece missin’, and now it’s slammed back into place all at once. It’s almost too much.”

You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your head against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your ear, fast and unsteady, but his arms came around you like they always had, holding you tightly. “You don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” you murmured. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Together.”

Logan buried his face in your hair, his breath hitching as he clung to you. “I missed this,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it. “Even when I didn’t know what I was missin’, I missed this.”

You smiled against his chest, your tears dampening the fabric of his shirt. “You’re home now,” you whispered. “That’s what matters.”

He nodded against you, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “You’re somethin’ else, ya know that?” he said, his lips twitching into a faint, almost self-conscious smile. “Don’t deserve you.”

“You’re wrong,” you said firmly, your hand coming up to rest against his cheek. “We deserve each other. And we deserve this life we’ve built. It hasn’t been perfect, Logan, but it’s ours. And it’s worth every fight.”

Logan’s hand slid to the small of your back, his thumb tracing lazy circles there. His gaze held yours for a long moment before he dipped his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Thanks, darlin’,” he murmured. “For not givin’ up on me.”

“Never,” you said softly, a smile tugging at your lips. “Now, let’s get back to the girls. They’ll probably think we’re plotting something if we’re gone too long.”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, the sound easing some of the tension in his expression. “Yeah, don’t need Gabby comin’ up with some wild theory about why we’re takin’ our time.”

You chuckled, threading your fingers through his as you began walking back toward the living area. “She’d have us starring in some kind of superhero soap opera.”

“Kid’s got a hell of an imagination,” Logan muttered, though there was unmistakable fondness in his tone.

As the two of you reached the living room, Laura and Gabby looked up from the couch where they were sprawled out with popcorn and a movie on the screen. Gabby’s face lit up when she saw you, and she patted the spot next to her enthusiastically. “C’mon, Daddy! We saved you a seat!”

Logan glanced at you, his lips quirking in a small, grateful smile. “Think I better take her up on that,” he murmured.

“You better,” you teased, giving him a nudge. “I’ll grab some drinks and join you.”

He squeezed your hand once before letting go, striding over to settle between his daughters. Gabby immediately curled up against him, and Laura leaned over to steal a piece of his popcorn, earning a mock growl from him.

As you watched the three of them together, laughter bubbling up from the couch, you felt a deep sense of peace settle over you. Logan might still be navigating the storm in his mind, but he was here. And with time, you knew he’d come to fully embrace the life he’d found again.

and it's a happy ever after!!

this was meant to be much shorter. actually, i originally wasn't going to include logan getting his memories back and just make that into a bonus chapter but i couldn't stand it. if it's gonna be a happy ever after i had to go all the way.

and i have i have an idea of how they found laura that does not involve the logan movie. cause, no, no, no, they are getting their happy ending.

with that in mind, again, if anyone is interested in reading about how reader and logan got married, found laura, had gabby, let me know! or, if you have any ideas of stories you want me to tell with reader and logan don't be afraid to ask! (i might have already started writing for the alternate timeline...)

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #i love you in every time

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writerofautumnnights · 29 days ago

Text

𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑵𝑻 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 — 𝐉𝐎𝐁𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐀𝐌

✧༚ ˎˊ ˗ pairing: jobe bellingham x fem!oc

✧༚ ˎˊ ˗ sumary: Jobe Bellingham has always kept his guard up—until Sarah comes along. Unbothered by his fame, she makes him question everything he thought he knew about love. Can he take the risk of opening up?

✧༚ ˎˊ ˗ warnings: english is not my first language ANDDDDD this is the third chapter of the series.

# tags: @lonely-world3 @barcagirly @formulafortyfour @kennaskorner @anifffff @jessnotwiththemess @irishmanwhore @oceanfanatic06 @haartemis @eriks-girl @peyiswriting @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @sucredreamer @virgilsgurl @everlyjay @kj77 @muglermami @sailurmewn @goldenngt @cranberryjulce @darkskinchristiandiorpostergirl

keara’s imessage: I just want to say a huge thank you for all the love and feedback on the previous chapters! I'm so grateful for every comment, compliment, and all the support. You guys are amazing! 🥹 I'm really excited to hear what you think of this new chapter, and I can't wait to share more of this journey with you. Keep sharing your thoughts with me, I love hearing from you! 💗

masterlist

The soft music filled the air of the small studio where Jobe spent part of his free days. It wasn't anything special — a pool table, a sofa, a video game, and the two only friends he shared more than just game tactics with: Eliezer and Chris. The smell of pizza saturated the air, blending with the subtle aroma of craft beer Eliezer had brought. His friends were laughing, immersed in some inside joke about the last game of the season. But Jobe heard nothing but his own pulse in his ears.

The phone was still in his hands, the screen lit up with Instagram open to his personal account — the one only his closest friends knew existed. The account he used to be just Jobe, not the player who made headlines and appeared in TV commercials.

He had promised Sarah he would stop following her. On the official account, he kept his word. On the account that a considerable number of people monitored, where each new follower became a topic in forums and themes on Instagram pages created just for that, he obeyed without hesitation.

But here... Here he still followed her.

He swiped his finger across the screen, feeling a lump in his throat when her face appeared among the unseen stories. He took a deep breath before tapping on the gray circle.

It was the fourth time that night he watched the same story. Sarah at a club he didn't recognize, laughing and dancing with friends she made during the exchange program, holding a cup of some drink. She danced to the rhythm of the music, making everything more complex. Her hair flowing around her face, the makeup light, almost imperceptible, and that carefree sparkle in her eyes she always carried.

And still, it hurt as if someone had shoved something between his ribs.

Because she was fine. Beautiful. Light. And completely without him.

Jobe slammed the phone shut, squeezing it in his palm as if he could crush that image along with the device. He stared at the emptiness of the room, as if he could erase that scene from his memory.

But it was too late. Her voice, with that accent that made each word sound like music, seemed to echo in his ears even after the video ended. It was the only sound that remained from weeks without a real conversation.

Chris noticed his silence. It wasn't the usual silence of Jobe, the focused silence of someone thinking about the next move. It was a heavy silence, filled with something he rarely saw in his friend.

"You're acting weird, bro," Eliezer commented, adjusting the cue stick and lining up the next shot. "Since that game against Leeds."

Jobe slowly spun a water bottle between his fingers, his gaze lost on the carpet. He hated this kind of conversation — being called "weird," as if emotions were anomalies. But he also knew that with these two, he didn't need to pretend.

"Just... thinking," he murmured.

Chris let out a laugh. "He's been like this since he stopped talking to that girl. What's her name again?"

"Sarah," Eliezer added. "The Brazilian."

Jobe lifted his gaze, briefly. He didn't respond. But they both already knew.

"How long has it been?" Chris prodded, tossing the video game controller onto the sofa. "A week? Two?"

"Almost eight."

Eliezer whistled. "Wow. That's like... a really long time for you."

Jobe furrowed his brow. "It's not even that."

"So what is it then?" Eliezer insisted, potting the seven ball. "You said she wasn't going to last. That she was just another one who'd disappear. And now look at you."

"She didn’t disappear," Jobe replied calmly. "I pulled away."

"And now you keep looking at everything she posts. Were you checking her profile again?" Chris asked, lowering the music volume with the remote.

Jobe didn’t answer right away. He twirled his phone between his fingers, a nervous gesture he’d developed since he was a teenager.

"It’s not like I’m stalking her," he murmured finally, more to himself than to Chris. "I just... liked a story. Like I’ve been doing for the past few weeks."

"And did she respond?" Eliezer asked, his voice not accusatory, just stating a fact.

"Sometimes. An emoji here. A comment there." Jobe ran his hand over his face, feeling the weight of fatigue that wasn’t physical. "We didn’t go beyond that."

"She asked you to stop following her on your official account," Chris reminded him, reaching for another slice of pizza.

"Yeah." Jobe let out a deep sigh, the kind that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul. "But only because I already have her number. So I respected it, of course. But... I kept following her on the personal account. I couldn’t... just disappear completely."

Eliezer exchanged a quick look with Chris before raising an eyebrow toward his friend. Silence fell for a moment. Chris and Eliezer exchanged glances, surprised by the honesty.

"You’re not the type of guy to dwell on things, man. This is new," Eliezer sat up straighter on the couch, genuinely intrigued. "Since I’ve known you, you’ve always been the guy who doesn’t get attached easily. Who keeps everyone at a safe distance."

Jobe ran his hand over the back of his neck, a gesture that betrayed his discomfort. He wasn’t used to feeling vulnerable, much less admitting it aloud. On the field, he always knew exactly what to do. In his personal life, he had built walls so high no one could climb them.

"Ah," Chris murmured. "That thing again."

Jobe leaned back against the couch. He took a deep breath. "I’m... distrustful. Of everyone. Most people... they don’t come close with good intentions."

"You talk like you're fifty," Eliezer joked, but with no judgment.

"Have you seen how many people try to get close to me and Jude just to get something?" Jobe asked. "Models, influencers, even his damn ex pops up talking to me. Like I’m the beta version."

"But you’re not," Eliezer countered. "You’re Jobe. And this girl, Sarah... she doesn’t seem like any of those."

Jobe lowered his gaze. "Exactly. She doesn’t seem like any of them. And maybe that’s why I pulled away."

"But you can’t just pull away because of that."

"You know how it is," he finally said. "I can’t trust anyone who gets close. Most just want something. A photo for Instagram, a video for TikTok, to be announced as my new fling."

"But she was different," Chris added, realizing where Jobe was going.

"Completely different." An involuntary smile appeared on Jobe’s lips as he remembered. "In the two dates we had... she knew who I was, of course. But it seemed like that was just a detail, you know? It was never the most important thing."

"Did the language barrier help?" Eliezer asked, curious.

Jobe nodded, spinning the bottle between his fingers.

"In a strange way, yes. When she talked to me, with that accent and messing up words, it was like... like she was more focused on understanding me than impressing me. She laughed at her own English, wasn’t ashamed of making mistakes. She was authentic."

He stared out the window, watching the city lights stretch as far as the eye could see. It was the kind of view most people would kill for. To him, in that moment, it seemed empty.

"I tried to understand why," he confessed, looking back at his friends. "It was just two dates. And then, only online interactions. Likes. Short comments. It wasn’t supposed to... mean this much."

"But it did," Chris said simply, without mockery.

The silence that followed was filled only by the low sound of the music. Jobe picked up his phone again, scrolling through the older photos on her profile, stopping at one she had posted right after they had met.

"They marked smaller things," he finally spoke, his voice taking on a tone of Jobe that his friends rarely heard. "The way she looked at things. The way she laughed at my last name like it was some private joke only she understood." An involuntary smile appeared on his lips. "The way she spoke with an accent, messing up expressions and laughing at herself without caring."

Jobe locked his phone, but didn’t let go of it. He just held it, as if the object were a portal to memories he couldn’t let go of.

“Yeah...” Eliezer pondered, watching his friend.

"She never tried to impress, you know? Even in the messages we exchanged later. She never asked for anything. Never tried to use our connection to gain followers or get attention. And maybe that’s why it felt so... real." He looked at the two friends, searching for some kind of support—or perhaps an easy way out of the conversation he had started. "She talked to me like I wasn’t anybody." He let out a short laugh, devoid of humor. "And for the first time in my life, that was good. It was... freeing."

Eliezer let out a knowing laugh, getting up to grab another beer from the fridge. He opened the door and lingered there for a moment, as if organizing his thoughts before returning.

“That’s what you want and can’t admit,” he said, coming back and handing a bottle to Jobe, who declined with a silent shake of his head. "Someone who likes you without the weight of the name, the club, the last name. Someone who sees you beyond the image everyone knows."

"Maybe." Jobe narrowed his eyes, thoughtful. The still cold bottle in his hand contrasted with the warmth he felt in his chest. "But that’s also what scares me. Because I’ve spent years protecting myself from people who get close because of interest. I don’t know how it works when someone gets close... just for me."

Chris, who had been watching attentively, crossed his arms and leaned forward.

"You’re afraid to let your guard down," he stated, not as a question.

Jobe took a sip of water before responding, letting the cold liquid slide down his throat as he organized his thoughts. It was strange how some truths seemed so simple when said by someone else.

"Not just that." He hesitated, his fingers drumming on the bottle. "I’m afraid of showing her who I really am, without the protections I’ve built... and that not being enough."

The words hung in the air, heavy and sincere. The kind of sincerity that only comes between close friends, in the late hours of the night when defenses are low.

"You’ve always thought it wasn’t enough," Eliezer observed calmly. "Since the first call-up. Since the first title. You’ve always felt like you needed to prove something. But I think with her, it’s different, right? It’s not about proving you’re good enough on the field."

Jobe nodded slowly, surprised by the accuracy of his friend’s words.

"It’s about being good enough as a person," he added, almost whispering. "Without the jersey, without the spotlight. Just me."

They sat in silence for a few moments. Only the soft sound of the music and the distant hum of the air conditioner filled the room. Chris adjusted himself on the couch, tilting his head to the side as he did when he was about to say something he knew Jobe needed to hear, but didn’t necessarily want to.

"She’s already in your head," Chris finally said. "It’s gone beyond just attraction. You know that, right?"

Jobe unlocked his phone again, almost reflexively. Her story had disappeared, the 24 hours already gone. But in his mind, every frame was still vividly present.

The laughter that started in her eyes before reaching her lips. The accent in her voice that turned his name into something special. The awkward way she tried to explain something in English when she got too excited. The way she said "Jobe" like he was a character from a book only she knew — with affection. With presence.

"I got used to it, you know?" he said, breaking the silence. "Keeping everyone at a distance. Being cautious about who I let into my life. It’s easier that way." He shook his head, as if surprised by his own conclusion. "After so many people approaching because of interest, you develop a radar. A natural distrust."

"And even so, with her, it was different," Chris commented.

"She went straight through my filters," Jobe smiled sadly. "Like the barriers didn’t even exist for her. Even knowing who I was, she seemed more interested in who I really am than the player who shows up on TV."

"You’re afraid of liking her," Chris said, blunt as always.

Jobe didn’t respond. That was exactly it.

"But you like her," Eliezer added. "It’s obvious, man. When you talk about her, your face changes. You even become less grumpy."

Jobe laughed softly, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He looked back at his phone, thinking of all the times he’d written messages he never sent.

"She’s different. Really," Jobe finally said. "She has this... lightness. But she makes me think a lot. She makes me feel a lot."

"And since when is that a bad thing?" Chris teased, poking his arm.

"Since always," Jobe replied with a tired half-smile. "It’s easier when no one matters. What if she doesn’t feel the same?" he asked, his voice betraying a vulnerability he rarely showed. "What if, for her, it was just curiosity to meet someone from another country, with another culture?"

"Then you move on, like you always do," Chris shrugged. "But at least you’ll know."

Eliezer leaned in, grabbing a slice of cold pizza.

"You’ve faced entire crowds booing you, man. You can send a message to a girl."

Jobe smiled at the comparison. It was easier to face a packed stadium than his own feelings, especially when they challenged years of carefully built caution.

"It’s easier when no one matters," Jobe repeated, almost to himself.

"But she matters. And maybe that’s answer enough," Chris concluded for his friend.

And he was right.

"Maybe tomorrow," Jobe said, slipping his phone into his pocket, as if doing so could push away the thoughts that kept chasing him.

But even as the conversation shifted to the next game, even as they laughed about other stories and recalled moments from the past, Sarah’s image remained there, like a song you can’t get out of your head.

And that night, when he finally laid down, her face was the last thing on his mind before sleep came.

Sarah, with her spontaneous smile and unfiltered words. Sarah, who never tried to impress or take advantage of who he was. Sarah, who, without meaning to, had found a way through all of his carefully constructed defenses.

And no matter how much he tried to deny it, he knew that tomorrow, the first thing he’d do when he woke up would be to check if she had posted anything new. A small connection, a thread that was getting thinner and thinner, one he couldn’t force himself to cut completely.

***

It had a month since they’d last had a real conversation. Since Sarah had returned to Manchester, their interaction had been limited to small gestures on Instagram: a fire emoji on one of her selfies, a discreet laugh at one of his jokes, a “???” when she posted a video of a player missing an open goal. Tiny provocations, just enough to maintain a fragile thread of connection that seemed thinner with each passing day.

Sarah had thrown herself into the exchange program — intensive English classes that left her exhausted, new city strolls to explore every corner of Manchester. At first, she thought about Jobe with every new discovery, imagining what it would be like to show him the places she visited. But gradually, those thoughts faded, buried under the frenzy of her new routine and all the unfamiliar experiences.

So when her phone buzzed and his name lit up the screen, Sarah hesitated. She was sitting on her bed, an earring in hand and freshly glossed lips. The video call request glowed across her screen, and for a moment, she considered ignoring it. Pretending she hadn’t seen it. Her heart raced for no good reason, anxiety creeping in — her English had improved, but there was still that lingering insecurity when talking to him, that fear of missing something important. But her fingers had already swiped across the screen before she could reconsider.

Jobe’s face appeared. He was leaning against the headboard, game controller resting on his chest, headphones hanging loose around his neck. The TV light bathed his face in blueish tones. But he wasn’t focused on the game. He was looking straight into the camera. At her. There was something different in his eyes — a mix of relief that she’d picked up and a shadow of resentment for the distance that had settled between them.

Sarah blinked a few times, adjusting herself on the bed, still slightly surprised. “Hi...?”

Jobe stared for a moment. His dark eyes scanned her image on the screen. Her bare shoulders, the tight black bodysuit, earrings swaying gently as she moved. He tried to hide the impact she still had on him — he’d convinced himself over the past few weeks that what he felt was just a fleeting crush, but seeing her now made it painfully clear he’d only been lying to himself.

“You going out?” he asked, his accent thick, voice lazy — like he already knew the answer but couldn’t help the slight twinge of jealousy he’d never admit to.

She frowned, not understanding right away. Her English had improved, but his Birmingham accent was still tricky. “Going... what?”

Jobe smiled faintly, patient. He was used to that tiny delay between him speaking and her understanding. Secretly, he loved it — it reminded him of how it all started between them, the early conversations full of misunderstandings and laughter.

“Out,” he repeated slowly, still with that distinct Birmingham accent that sometimes made certain words unrecognizable to her. “Are you going out?”

Sarah blinked, then let out a quiet laugh once she got it. A mix of pride and embarrassment flushed through her — proud of understanding faster this time, embarrassed she still needed the extra second. “Ah! Yes. I am. With... friends.”

She said the last word carefully, watching his reaction. Part of her wanted him to show some jealousy, some sign he still cared.

Jobe nodded slowly, his eyes still locked on her. “Hmm.” The sound came out more loaded than he meant. In his head, Sarah was living an entire new life without him — making new friends, discovering new interests — while he was still stuck in the same place, waiting.

Sarah frowned. “What?”

He shrugged, trying to appear indifferent, when in reality, he felt a tangled mess of frustration and longing. The past few weeks had been strange — for the first time in years, he caught himself checking his phone constantly, waiting for messages that rarely came.

“Nothing. I just didn’t know you still remembered how to go out.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes. The words hit her like a small accusation, and she felt heat rising up her neck. “I... always go out.” The sentence came out smoother now, a reflection of all those endless hours practicing with new friends and teachers.

“Not with me,” he replied, a small side smile forming — the kind that always made her stomach twist a little. Behind that smile was a month of nights he almost called, almost texted, asking her to come back to Sunderland. But pride always won.

She stayed quiet for a moment, mentally organizing her sentence. Translating before speaking. Her process was faster now, more fluid, thanks to weeks immersed in the language. But with Jobe, there was still that extra pressure — the desire not to mess up.

“I thought... you were busy.” It was only partly true. She’d seen his photos from training, with friends, always smiling, always seeming fine. She’d watched his matches too. That stung, somewhere deep down, as if her absence didn’t make a difference. Should it? She didn’t know.

Jobe raised an eyebrow. “So you thought about calling me.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement wrapped in disguised hope. He wanted to know if, at any moment over the past weeks, she’d missed him the way he missed her.

Sarah felt her face flush. The heat spread from her neck to her ears, that familiar feeling of being caught off guard that always seemed to happen with him. She looked away, fiddling with her earring like she was adjusting it — but it was just nerves. Her fingers trembled slightly against her skin, betraying her calm.

“No,” she said quickly, almost like a defensive reflex, the words out before she could think. Then she sighed, recognizing the obvious lie. “May...be.”

He chuckled, that low, husky laugh that always felt more intimate than it should, like he was sharing a secret only they knew. The sound traveled through the call and made Sarah grip her phone a little tighter.

“It’s cute how you take so long to answer.” There was something almost tender in the way he imitated her hesitant speech — not mocking, more like celebrating the thing that made her unique to him.

Sarah looked up at the screen, pretending to be offended, but feeling a different kind of warmth now — not embarrassment, but something deeper she wasn’t quite ready to name. “I... take long because I think.” The words came out clearer this time, a result of her growing confidence from conversation classes.

“Hmm.” Jobe tilted his head, like he was analyzing her. There was something new in the way she spoke — more confidence, less hesitation. He felt a mix of pride and a strange sense of loss, like she was slowly slipping away from him as she adapted to this new world. “But thinking too much is dangerous.”

“Better than... saying dumb things,” she replied with a small smile that reached her eyes, teasing him in a way she rarely did before. A new version of Sarah was emerging — one who was starting to find her place in this foreign language — and Jobe laughed, shaking his head, fascinated by the change.

As Sarah leaned back in bed, she shifted a little. And that’s when the red-and-white shirt bunched up on her pillow came into view. The same one he gave her on match day — the one with his name and number on the back. She only realized it when Jobe’s gaze locked onto it, unmoving, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

He narrowed his eyes. Tilted his chin. Something changed in his face — a rare vulnerability, like he’d just stumbled upon something precious he hadn’t expected to find.

“Is that... my shirt?”

Sarah’s eyes widened, panic rising like a wave. Nervousness overtook her body, spreading through every fiber. It was like being caught in an intimate secret, something she did on lonely nights when the longing for Brazil – and maybe for him – was stronger. She tried to cover it quickly, pulling the duvet over her with awkward movements. But it was too late.

“No!” she responded automatically, with an expression that gave away everything but conviction. Her eyes fled from his on the screen, while her fingers nervously gripped the edge of the duvet.

“Yes, it is,” he said, laughing, a genuine smile lighting up his whole face. There was no teasing in his voice now, only pure and simple satisfaction. “I recognize it. I wear this shirt almost every game.”

Sarah huffed, turning her face to hide how much the discovery affected her. Her heart was beating too fast, and she needed a few seconds to find the right words. “It’s com-fy.” The excuse sounded weak even to her own ears.

Jobe raised an eyebrow, chuckling softly. Inside, he felt an inexplicable warmth spread through his chest. During those weeks of silence, he had wondered many times if she had moved on, if maybe he was nothing more than a distant memory. Seeing his shirt there, in her room, was like an unspoken confession.

“So now my shirt sleeps there with you?”

She crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes, trying to regain some dignity. “D-do you want... it back?” The words came out challengingly, but her chest tightened at the thought of him saying yes. The idea of returning that shirt, her small comfort on lonely nights, was almost painful. There was a challenge in her voice, a newfound confidence he didn’t recognize.

He stared at her for a few seconds. The silence between them was laden with unspoken words. And then he responded in a softer, almost intimate tone: “No. It’s better there.”

His voice, in that deeper and softer tone, ran down Sarah’s spine like a physical touch. She felt a warmth spread up her neck, down to her chest, as her fingers involuntarily gripped the duvet. For a moment, the distance between Manchester and Sunderland seemed to completely evaporate.

Sarah’s chest tightened. A wave of emotion flooded her, a mix of longing, confusion, and something more intense that she wasn’t ready to acknowledge. She hated it when he said things like that, out of nowhere. When he dropped his guard, even for just a second. It was as if he was saying so much more than the words. As if, despite the physical distance and the month of separation, he was still completely connected to her.

She cleared her throat, trying to change the subject before her emotions became too obvious. Her fingers gripped the edge of the phone as she organized her thoughts. “Did you just... call me to... tease me?”

“Maybe.” He gave a little laugh and glanced to the side, as if distracted, a rehearsed gesture to hide how much that call meant to him. The truth was, he had spent hours deciding whether to call or not, fearing she wouldn’t answer, or worse, that she would answer and seem indifferent. But the truth was, he couldn’t take his eyes off her for a second, studying every reaction, every nuance of expression. “But I also wanted to know if you want to go to the game. We’re playing near Manchester in a couple of weeks, and I thought you might want to come.”

Sarah hesitated. Her heart sped up again, but for a different reason now. The idea of seeing him in person after so much time made her stomach flip. The possibility hung in the air between them – it wouldn’t just be a game, it would be a reunion. It would be real again.

“Me? At the game?” Her voice came out softer than she intended, almost vulnerable. She wondered if he could tell how much the idea affected her.

“Yes.” He bit his lower lip, a nervous gesture that betrayed the confidence in his voice. His dark eyes shone with a mix of anxiety and barely concealed hope. “Or do you have something better to do than watching me play?”

She smiled, teasing, as her heart raced in her chest. The simple act of flirting with him through the screen made her hands tremble slightly under the covers, where he couldn’t see. “Maybe I do... I don’t know. Maybe with an invitation... the right way.”

Jobe let out a short laugh, but the image of someone shy didn’t go unnoticed. He straightened up, trying to regain the control he felt slipping through his fingers whenever she smiled like that.

“Full of demands, huh.”

“You like it,” she said before thinking, the words escaping like a secret that had been kept for too long.

He blinked more slowly, his pupils subtly dilating. And he smiled. Softer this time, with a vulnerability she rarely saw. The smile he kept, not for friends or teammates, but only for moments like this.

“I do,” he admitted, his voice dropping a few tones, hoarse and sincere. His hands instinctively ran through his dark hair, a gesture Sarah had already noticed he did when he was nervous or emotional.

The silence stretched for a moment. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was one of those silences that makes your skin tingle, even at a distance, filled with unspoken possibilities. The electric tension of words trapped in both of their throats. Jobe’s gaze cut through the screen, intense and questioning, making Sarah look away to any other place. Her stomach tightened with a mix of fear and desire, while she pretended to fiddle with something on her bed, her restless fingers betraying the casual appearance.

Sarah looked at the clock on the screen, noticing some photos from her friends arriving in the group. She quickly focused on understanding the message, nibbling her lower lip unconsciously, a small crease of concentration forming between her brows. Jobe captured the best of her in that distracted moment. The part he liked and she didn’t know – the authenticity of her gestures, the vulnerability she tried to hide.

“You look beautiful like this,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, as if sharing a precious secret. His eyes were fixed on her, with an intensity that crossed the miles between them. “But I don’t think you even realize it.”

Sarah felt her stomach knot, a warmth rising up her neck, coloring her cheeks. But she smiled, almost shyly, as her heart pounded against her chest so hard that she feared he could hear it through the microphone. She shifted on the bed again, ready to say goodbye, even though every cell of her body protested against the idea of ending the call. The conversation lingered in a moment when she needed to leave, and now the nervousness was different: she didn’t know how to stop looking at him. The magnetism of those dark eyes that seemed to see beyond her facade. Nor how to hide the smile that stubbornly returned every time Jobe averted his gaze and then returned as if he didn’t want to, as if he too were fighting the same inevitability as she.

But before she could say anything, he moved, the sudden movement breaking the tension of the moment.

The image on the phone trembled as he got up from the bed, revealing for a moment a piece of his slim torso under the cotton t-shirt. The camera now showed part of the dark, tidy room, with trophies on a shelf and a Sunderland hoodie hanging on the chair. Sarah absorbed every detail, mentally cataloging them as little treasures.

“I’m gonna get some water,” he said casually, already leaving the room, but his voice carried a tension that revealed he also needed a moment to compose himself.

“Uh... okay,” Sarah replied, not quite sure if she should stay on the call. Her finger hovered over the hang-up button, but curiosity won. She saw the image shift, the phone being carried in his hand as he walked down the hall, the movement shaking the camera in sync with his steps.

The sound of soft footsteps and the light turning on in the kitchen appeared on the screen. He set the phone on the counter, at a slightly crooked angle that showed part of the counter and him opening the fridge. The cold light illuminated his profile for a moment, highlighting the defined line of his jaw that fascinated her so much.

Sarah leaned in, trying to see better, her body instinctively tilting as if she could cross the screen. She felt a strange sense of intimacy that took her breath away, as if she were entering a private and privileged space of his life that few had access to. A piece of intimacy she hadn’t expected.

Until a voice came from the background, startling her.

“Hi, son. What are you having?”

It was a deep male voice, with the same accent as Jobe, maybe even more pronounced, with the roughness that comes from years lived.

Sarah’s eyes widened and she straightened up in bed, her spine suddenly rigid. She felt her heart race, the blood pulsing in her ears. It was his father. She recognized the word “son” with difficulty, but the rest... she wasn’t sure. Panic began to form in her chest, the idea of being introduced, even virtually, to his father without any preparation.

“Dad, I’m on the phone,” Jobe replied, giving a discreet laugh that carried a touch of embarrassment. He opened the bottle and took a sip, his throat moving as he swallowed, then looked at the phone, his eyes meeting hers with a mix of amusement and apprehension. “With Sarah.”

"Sarah?" Jobe's father's voice sounded closer, curiosity evident in his tone. "The girl in the shirt?"

"Yes," Jobe confirmed, a shy smile forming on his lips, as though sharing an inside joke with his father that Sarah didn’t fully understand. The thought that they had talked about her before made her stomach flip again.

"The Brazilian!" His father's voice carried a note of recognition and approval, which only intensified Sarah’s embarrassment.

Sarah stood frozen, her hands gripping the blanket tightly enough to turn her knuckles white. The shame was palpable in her expression, the embarrassment obvious in her lowered eyes, which could no longer meet the screen. The idea that she was a topic of conversation in his house, that his father knew about her, brought a wave of intense heat to her face.

"Oh meu Deus," she muttered in Portuguese, almost laughing nervously, the sound strangled from her dry throat.

"Hi," Jobe said, turning his face toward the screen, his eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and tenderness as he saw her obvious discomfort. The corner of his lips curved into a gentle, almost protective smile. "Do you want to say hi to my dad?"

"N-no, no need, I-I’ll hang up… really," she said quickly, the English coming out jumbled with anxiety, the words tripping over one another. Her eyes searched frantically for any excuse to escape the situation, her heart seeming to want to leap out of her chest.

"Sarah," Jobe called again, softer now, his voice wrapping around her name like a caress, with a gentleness that made her body instinctively relax. His eyes met hers through the screen, steady and reassuring. "It's okay. He's cool."

Before she could argue, Mark appeared in front of the camera. A man with stubble, an easy smile, and a curious look. He leaned against the counter with a cup in hand. It was clear they shared the same facial structure – the same expressive eyes, the same jawline, even the way they slightly furrowed their brows when focused.

Sarah watched, fascinated, as the hand gestures while speaking were identical, the slight head tilt to the right when interested in something. Mark seemed like an older version of Jobe, as if someone had given a glimpse of what Jobe would look like in a few years. There was something comforting about that continuity, something that made Sarah smile involuntarily.

Jobe noticed Sarah's analytical gaze, how her eyes moved from his face to his father’s and back. He knew she was connecting the dots, noticing the similarities. The heat spread through her neck, rising to her ears when she realized she had been caught in her detailed analysis. She quickly lowered her gaze, biting her lower lip in a gesture Jobe had already noticed as characteristic of her when she felt exposed.

He almost confessed right there that after the shirt incident at the game, he had spent hours talking to his father, asking for advice on how to approach her again. Mark had been straightforward: "If you really like her, you need to do more than just smile." Jobe would never admit it, but every message, every calculated gesture in the past few days had been carefully discussed during long nighttime calls with his father. Seeing them interact now, even through a screen, created a strange sense of completeness he hadn’t expected to feel.

"Hi, Sarah. Jobe talks a lot about you."

Sarah felt like time froze for a moment. The words "talks a lot about you" echoed in her mind, sending a wave of heat through her body. He talked about her to his family? How often? What exactly did he say? A mix of panic and a strange satisfaction settled in her chest. She widened her eyes, trying to process not just the English but also the meaning behind those words. Some phrases went straight over her head, but others she caught.

She laughed nervously and waved her hand, trying to hide the whirlwind of emotions that simple sentence had triggered.

"Hi, Mr… B-Bellin..gham?" The surname she had learned so proudly, now a complicated word with her Brazilian accent.

"Call me Mark," he said with a smile, a bit proud. "I'm the father of that guy there. And… I love Brazil, by the way."

She smiled, still a bit shy. "R-really?"

"My favorite player. Ronaldo. The Phenomenon."

Mark made a gesture as if he were hitting an imaginary ball toward the goal, and Sarah finally relaxed a little. She laughed.

"Ah, yes! Ronaldo is... very good."

She looked at Jobe, still trying to organize her words.

"Your... dad likes... Brazilian football?" she asked, the words coming out slower than usual. Sarah hated how nervousness made her forget everything she had learned.

Mark understood despite the hesitations and answered before Jobe could.

"He used to watch a lot a few years ago. Even before this guy here," Mark pointed to Jobe with his thumb. And Sarah wanted to run at that moment. The thought that... Jobe and she were facing a big age difference made her want to get as far away as possible. "The way you guys played... it was like dancing."

Sarah smiled, feeling her blood rush to her head with the effort to keep up with the conversation. Her fingers tapped discreetly against her bare leg, as if mentally typing out the words to process them.

"My dad... he also loves football," she managed to say, pride shining in her eyes despite the pauses. "He... took me... to... a lot of games."

Mark gave her a genuine smile.

"So, you know your stuff! Which team do you support?"

Sarah furrowed her brow, processing the question. Jobe started to speak more slowly, but she raised her hand with determination, wanting to try on her own. This made a smile bloom on the boy’s face.

"Flamengo," she said with a confident smile, one of the few words that didn’t require effort. "Always Flamengo."

Mark clapped his hands enthusiastically.

"Zico! Zico was great!"

Sarah’s face lit up at hearing a familiar name, and she visibly relaxed. It was as if, suddenly, she had found common ground where words didn’t matter so much.

"Zico is a legend to me," she said, making a nearly theatrical gesture of reverence that made Mark laugh. Her eyes sparkled with genuine admiration, that kind of passion that only appears when we talk about our childhood idols. "Just like Ronaldo... is to you."

"But you watched Ronaldo play?" Mark’s question came with curiosity, his dark brown eyes – so much like his son’s – studying her with renewed interest.

"Yes." Sarah's voice faltered, a lump forming in her throat.

How could she say this without revealing her age? A momentary panic overtook her, her mind racing to calculate dates and seasons. The expression on her face – a mix of terror and desperate mental calculations – made Jobe laugh, the deep, genuine sound echoing through the kitchen.

He watched the scene with a growing sense of relief in his chest, the tension in his shoulders finally relaxing. Up until this point, everything had been flowing better than he had dared to expect. He couldn’t hold back the laughter, his body shaking slightly with the effort. Sarah bit her lip, a gesture Jobe had already noticed was characteristic when she felt exposed.

He never imagined that his dad, with his limited knowledge of Brazilian football – he knew Ronaldo only because he was a casual fan of the big names – could create such a quick connection with Sarah. There was a warmth spreading in his chest as he watched the two interact, as if worlds were colliding in an unexpectedly harmonious way.

Mark said goodbye with a warm smile and a wave to the camera, leaving the two of them alone. His eyes met his son’s for a brief moment before leaving, a look full of silent approval that made Jobe’s heart skip.

"Never, never do that again," Sarah said quickly as soon as the door closed, her words tumbling out in an urgent whisper, her body overtaken by embarrassment, and her wide eyes like those of a cornered animal, making Jobe laugh. The sound of his laughter eased something inside her, even as she pretended to be indignant.

"It was fine. He liked you," he replied, his eyes still dancing with amusement, one hand raised in a soothing gesture that only served to irritate her more, in a way she secretly liked.

"Your dad’s English... is... a bit faster?" she asked, her brows furrowing in genuine confusion that Jobe found adorable.

Her fingers drummed nervously against her cheek, a quick rhythm betraying her apparent calm.

Jobe laughed, picking the phone back up from the counter, feeling a wave of affection as he saw her confused expression.

"I know. He has a very thick accent. Even I sometimes pretend I understood."

Sarah let out a muffled laugh, the sound escaping like champagne bubbles, covering her face with her hand for a second. She looked away, feeling her face and neck heat up, as if embarrassment had its own color.

"My brain... freezes... when I get nervous. It takes time."

"It’s cute," he said, walking back to the bedroom. His steps were light, almost bouncy, reflecting the mood expanding in his chest like a balloon. "The look you make when you're trying to understand..."

Sarah made a face, her eyes half-closed in false indignation, but the stubborn smile at the corners of her lips gave her away.

"It’s not cute. It’s... desperation." The words came out almost in a dramatic groan that made Jobe’s stomach flip.

Jobe flopped back onto the bed, still smiling, the mattress creaking softly under his weight. The light from the bedside lamp cast golden shadows on his face, highlighting the curve of his jaw.

"You’re doing great, Sarah. Really. Better than I would if I had to speak Portuguese." There was sincerity in his voice, mixed with an admiration he didn’t try to hide.

She looked at him with a semi-serious, semi-amused expression, her head slightly tilted as if evaluating him. A loose strand of hair fell over her eyes, and she brushed it away with a distracted gesture that Jobe followed with his gaze. "I doubt it."

"I swear," he said, laying the phone on its side, showing only his face now, too close to the camera. His eyes looked darker in this light, almost black, with an intensity that made Sarah hold her breath. "But... I can help you with the accents. Whenever you want." The offer came laden with deeper meaning, promises of other conversations, other moments like this.

Sarah felt her heart slow down, a rhythm almost hypnotic. The tension easing slowly, replaced by a warm calm that spread through her limbs like honey.

"Thank you," she said, her voice softer, almost a secret shared between them. "You're... kind." The words carried the weight of a confession, as though admitting it revealed more than she intended.

Jobe raised an eyebrow, a crooked smile spreading across his face, the kind of smile that only appeared in moments like this, when defenses were down. A smile she was starting to think was just for her.

"I try." There was vulnerability in his voice, an openness he didn’t show to just anyone.

She glanced at the time again, the movement almost reluctant. The group of friends had already sent a dozen messages saying they were waiting at the pub. Reality was calling, demanding her attention, pulling her away from this small world they’d created between screens.

Sarah slid her finger across the phone screen, about to end the call, when Jobe's voice came before she could touch the screen. There was an urgency in it that made her finger hover in the air, as if captured by a spell.

"You're leaving already?"

His tone was casual. Almost distracted. But the way his chin rested in his hand, his eyes fixed on the screen, and the half-second pause before he asked… made it clear he wanted her to stay.

Sarah hesitated.

The silence between them lingered, warm. But not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that, just weeks ago, would’ve seemed impossible between them. Since she’d returned to Manchester, this had been the longest time they’d spoken. Likes, brief responses, funny reactions to stories—all of that had become the new standard. Small remnants of contact that never quite broke, but never moved forward either. A thin line between what was and what could’ve been.

Now, they were here. Together. But separated by miles and the phone screen.

Jobe, lying on the bed with a pillow against the headboard, watched every detail of the woman before him. The yellow light in the room softened her features, but his eyes were sharp. He stared at her like someone watching a sunset—silent but completely present.

Sarah, sitting with her legs crossed on the hostel bed, still held the second earring she was about to put in when the call started. Forgotten between her fingers. Her curls cascaded around her face like a golden frame, and she only realized she hadn't finished getting ready when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

If she had to pick a moment to end the conversation, this would be it.

But, for some reason, she didn’t want to.

"Yes."

Jobe nodded slowly, as if absorbing her answer. The movement was subtle, but Sarah noticed. He briefly glanced at the TV, muted, as if looking for something to distract his thoughts.

"Did you watch the last Sunderland and Norwich game?"

The question came so naturally that Sarah took a second to fully process it. She pieced together the words—game, Sunderland, Norwich—and understood the meaning.

"Game?"

Jobe raised his eyebrows, confused and clearly surprised that she didn’t get it right away.

"Sunderland vs. Norwich."

He spoke slowly, his accent filling each syllable, as if testing whether the problem was his pronunciation or if she truly hadn’t watched.

Sarah laughed, shaking her head.

"Of course I watched. I’m almost becoming your number one fan."

Jobe let out a slow smile—the kind that seemed to start in his eyes and only then reached his lips. Sarah realized too late what she had just said.

"I didn’t know you were a fan of mine."

She pursed her lips, unsure how to get out of this one.

"Neither did I," she murmured. But then she took a deep breath, straightened her posture, and recovered. "But… when I saw you play… I felt proud."

Jobe’s reaction didn’t come immediately.

He simply stopped fiddling with the TV remote, as if her words had disarmed something. Sarah didn’t immediately realize the impact of that, but Jobe did.

His chest tightened a little. As if an invisible string that always pulled him away—away from people, away from feelings—had loosened for a second.

The silence lasted a little longer than necessary.

He shifted on the bed, adjusting the pillow as if needing an excuse to change position. Then he looked away at the TV before turning his gaze back to her.

"Good to know."

Sarah realized he didn’t know how to respond. And, in a way, she liked that. It was rare to unsettle Jobe. Maybe she had that effect on him too.

But before she could say anything, he continued:

"I’m proud of you too."

Sarah furrowed her brow.

"Why?"

"Your English."

She laughed, and the sound came light—a laugh that slipped out before being contained. Her face warmed. The heat spread across her cheeks and neck, even though no one could see it. Still, she felt it.

"I still… make a lot of mistakes."

"But it’s much better."

Sarah sighed, crossing her arms.

"I don’t know. I still struggle. This… accent…"

Jobe grinned, as if he already knew where this was going.

"This accent… what?"

She made a vague gesture with her hands.

"Hard. Very hard."

"I thought you liked challenges."

Sarah opened her mouth to reply, but he quickly threw out a phrase in the middle of their conversation. Something she didn’t understand. Again. The tone was clearly teasing, and she knew she hadn’t caught the double meaning. She just didn’t know what it was yet.

"What?"

Jobe rested his chin in his hand, his eyes sparkling.

"You didn’t get it?"

She frowned, trying to remember exactly what he’d said.

"I… don’t know. What does it mean?"

He flashed a slow grin.

"Want me to explain?"

She nodded, hesitant.

When he translated, Sarah’s eyes widened, and a mix of embarrassment and laughter surged through her like a shock.

"Jobe!"

He burst out laughing.

"What? You asked for it!"

Sarah covered her face with her hand, shaking her head.

"I hate when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Say things with… double meanings!"

Jobe raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence.

"Me? I would never do that."

"You only do it because you know I won’t get it right away."

"I do it because I like your confused face."

Sarah let out an exasperated sigh, but there was a smile hiding on her lips.

"Humiliated… on international TV."

Jobe smiled, leaning a little closer to the camera.

"So, you’re my fan."

She tried to retort, but was caught off guard again.

"No."

"But you just said so."

"Maybe. I’m still deciding."

He squinted, suspicious.

"You’re trying to change the subject."

Sarah bit her lower lip, hesitated, and then murmured:

"You know, there are days when I find all of this really strange."

"What?"

She looked down.

"You. Me. This thing. You’re… nineteen. I’m twenty-seven. If I had a kid your age… and a woman my age came around… I wouldn’t let her near."

Jobe gave a crooked smile.

"Eight years is how long it takes for wine to become perfect."

Sarah stared at the screen, surprised.

"You… you just made that up."

"Or not. Who knows?"

He shrugged, teasing.

"You’re like my favorite wine. Complicated, intense, and with a taste that leaves you wanting more."

Sarah laughed, but her heart was beating faster than she’d like to admit.

There they were. From such different worlds, with such opposite lives. But more tangled with each passing moment. In the midst of word games, teasing, and silences that said everything, something was growing without a name.

Something only they could understand.

"But you’re still so much younger."

Jobe’s eyes widened, his tone playful, but his ego clearly touched.

"Wait. Are you calling me a kid?"

“No-no. I just said that… there’s a big difference.” She raised her hands, nervously laughing. She tried to appear calm, but the half-choked laugh and the fleeting look gave everything away. Jobe crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly, as if studying her. “Eight years isn’t a lot. My parents have a seven-year difference.” Sarah let out a laugh, shaking her head as if she didn’t believe it. “Your parents, Jobe. Eight years is enough time for…” she paused, thinking quickly, “for a kid to learn how to write. And read. And maybe even write... a little book.” He let out a deep laugh, the kind that vibrates in your chest. “And enough time for you to learn English and not use the translator with me anymore, so I think it’s fair.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, laughing despite herself. “You’re impossible.” “And you’re trying to get out of this conversation.” He didn’t force the tone, but there was something more there. A lingering look. A way of holding her in the conversation with just his eyes. Sarah tried to look away, quickly checking her phone – but it didn’t go unnoticed. Notifications popped up on the screen: hurried emojis, “let’s go” in all caps, videos being sent. She sighed. “I really have to go now. Before my friends… come pick me up.” Jobe nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. As if every second of silence was an attempt to make her change her mind. “Good luck,” he said softly.

Sarah raised an eyebrow, confused, but with a teasing smile on her lips. “With what?” Jobe grinned crookedly. The kind of smile that knew exactly the effect it had. “With… not thinking about me the whole night.”

Sarah let out a short laugh, more out of nervousness than anything else. She shook her head, trying to maintain control of her expression.

“You have an answer for everything, huh?”

He just looked at her. Smiling, yes, but less than before. As if he were a step away from saying something he shouldn’t.

One second of silence.

Two.

He wanted to say more. He wanted to ask her to stay. To call again later. To not leave him alone with that unfinished conversation.

But he didn’t say it.

He just nodded slowly. As if he understood that some desires don’t fit at the wrong time.

“Good night, Sarah.”

She paused for a moment. His saying her name seemed slower. More intentional.

Maybe she was imagining it, but… it hurt more than it should to say goodbye like this.

“Good night, Jobe.”

The call ended.

But Sarah stayed there.

With the phone still in her hand, the black screen reflecting the soft glow of the bedside lamp. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just let the weight of the silence fall over her like a blanket that, instead of warming, pressed on her chest.

The laughter still danced on her lips, but it was already an echo. Her heart was beating too fast for someone who had only had a conversation.

Or at least, that’s what she tried to repeat in her mind – “It was just a conversation.”

But it wasn’t.

Not when he said things like “good luck not thinking about me” with that look.

Not when every pause carried more than the words.

Not when the time between the messages turned into a whole call. And she, even with her friends waiting, didn’t want to leave.

There was something there.

Something between discomfort and desire.

Between doubt and the urge to stay.

She ran her hand over her face, laughing at herself for being ridiculous.

Why did this feel more intense than it should?

He was younger. Famous. Beautiful.

And yet, he seemed so close. So… accessible when he spoke to her that way.

But what if he was just being kind? Or joking?

She had fooled herself before. She had mistaken attention for intent. And she didn’t want to do that again. But the way he said “good night”...

As if he wanted to say “stay.” Or “come back.”

In Sunderland, Jobe was the same. Sitting on the bed, his eyes fixed on nothing. The phone still in his hand, but already without purpose. The room was dark, but he didn’t move to turn off the TV or arrange the pillows. He didn’t know how to explain it. He only knew he missed her even when she was still there. As if every second further away was wasted time.

It was stupid.

They barely knew each other.

But there was something familiar about Sarah that unsettled him. As if he already knew who she was without ever really knowing her.

Her laugh, her eyes trying to keep up with his too-fast English, the way she struggled to keep the conversation going but still teased him — all of it was like a background song he couldn’t get out of his head.

Jobe closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head against the wall.

Maybe it was just loneliness. Or the fact that she didn’t treat him like everyone else. Maybe it was the way she looked at him, as if she were seeing inside and not just the outside. But whatever it was…

He didn’t want it to be over.

Not yet.

And on the other side, in a room miles away, Sarah felt the same. With the phone trapped between her hands, as if it might ring again at any second.

And maybe, if one of them had had the courage… It would have.

But for now, all that was left was the silence.

And the longing for more.

Because, even separated by miles, some part of them stayed there.

Trapped in that call, that laugh, that look.

Trapped in the moment.

dividers by @cafekitsune

pictures from pinterest and ig

If you want to join the tag, let me know. Until next time 💋

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