The old pickup truck rattled as it bumped along the uneven gravel road, the Canadian wilderness stretching out in all directions under a gray, heavy sky. Logan’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles whitening. Beside him, Kurt Wagner—Nightcrawler, sat in silence, staring out the passenger-side window. The tension between them was palpable, almost as if the truck itself was groaning under its weight.

Neither spoke. They hadn’t since crossing the border. Logan’s jaw worked, clenching and unclenching as though he had words to say but couldn’t bring himself to spit them out. Kurt, in stark contrast, had the calm of someone who had made peace with the uneasy quiet, his yellow eyes reflecting the thick pine forests as they zipped past.

Finally, the farmhouse came into view. Nestled in a small clearing, it was modest and unassuming, the kind of place Logan used to dream about retiring to but never quite got around to. The sight of it only deepened the knot in his chest.

“She picked a good spot.” Kurt murmured, breaking the silence. His accent was still thick, even after all these years. “Peaceful.”

Logan grunted, not trusting himself to say more. He pulled the truck to a stop just outside the gate, its old hinges groaning under the weight of time and rust. They sat there for a moment, neither making the first move.

“Are you going to sulk the entire time?” Kurt finally asked, turning to look at Logan, his tail flicking against the seat impatiently.

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sulkin’. Just...thinkin’.”

“Ja, and you’ve been ‘thinkin’ for hours. It’s time to face her, Logan. You’ve avoided this long enough.”

Logan’s response was a low growl, but he pushed open the truck door and stepped out, his boots crunching against the gravel. Kurt followed, his movements fluid and effortless, like a predator stalking prey. Together, they approached the gate, the air between them still heavy with unspoken words.