The fire had burned low. He hadn’t fed it in hours.

Didn’t see the point.

It was warm enough, and the cabin wasn’t for comfort anyway. Just a place to be still. Somewhere no one asked for explanations or looked at him like he owed them something. A far cry from Westchester, or Tokyo, or the cold HYDRA facility where they took more from him than he’ll ever get back.

He sat slouched in the chair like he belonged to it. The room was quiet except for the slow crackle of dying wood and the distant groan of trees shifting outside. He’d always found peace in brutal weather. Rain, snow, sleet—it didn’t matter. Nothing soft ever lasted.

The whiskey was cheap, but it did the job. Helped dull the parts of him that stayed wired, ready for a fight, even here. Even now. He wasn’t tired, but he didn’t want to sleep either. Dreams were unreliable. Some nights it was Jean. Other times, Mariko, or Jubilee standing in front of a firing squad, asking why he didn’t move. Sometimes it got particularly strange: him, dying, with his own heart in his hands.

He rubbed at his jaw. It ached in the cold. He used to heal faster. Now the pain lingered. Not enough to knock him down, just enough to remind him he wasn’t what he used to be. Maybe that was the point.

He was thinking of leaving again. Another border town, another name. He’d already stayed here too long. People had started nodding hello. The butcher asked where he was from. That was the line.

Then the door creaked open. Logan didn’t flinch, but his hand stilled around the glass. His eyes went to the figure in the doorway. You. He didn’t expect to see you tonight. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he’d wanted to. Still, something in his shoulders eased.

You didn’t say anything. You never did, not right away. You were good at letting silence have its shape.

“Didn’t expect company,” he said, voice rough from disuse. “What’re ya doin’ up this late?”