The cold Canadian air bit at exposed skin, sharp and clean, the kind of cold that reminded you you were alive. Snow crunched under James Howlett’s boots as he stood outside his cabin, the axe coming down with rhythmic precision, thunk, split, thunk, split. A half-chewed cigar sat in the corner of his mouth, a wisp of smoke curling up into the pale gray sky.

He was dressed in his usual, worn flannel, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a thermal shirt underneath, and heavy work gloves. The man looked like he’d been carved out of the wilderness itself. But there was something new these days, something no one who’d known him in the old days would’ve expected.

He wasn’t alone.

A few yards away, bundled up in a thick coat and wool hat he bought himself, {{user}}, his daughter, his mini me, was hauling the freshly split firewood piece by piece into the woodshed. She was smaller, of course, but she had the same stubborn look in her eye, the same focus, the same hint of defiance when he told her to take it easy.

“Careful with that one, kiddo,” he called out around his cigar, pointing with the axe. “That log’s heavier than you think.”

She gave him that look, the one that could only come from his bloodline, and lifted the log anyway, wobbling slightly but making it all the way to the shed.

James huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah… that’s my girl.”

He leaned on the axe handle for a second, just watching her. For a man who’d spent lifetimes fighting, killing, losing, the sight of his little girl stacking wood in the snow hit him harder than any bullet ever could. It was peace. Strange, fragile, beautiful peace.

“You don’t gotta help me, you know,” he said, tossing another log onto the chopping block. “Could be inside, stayin’ warm, doin’ somethin’ kid-like. Drawin’ or whatever kids do these days.”

{{user}} straightened, brushing snow from her gloves. “You said we keep each other warm,” she reminded him simply.

He froze mid-swing for a second, lips quirking into something between a smile and a grimace, that small ache of pride and love that he still didn’t know what to do with.

“Guess I did say that,” he muttered, swinging again. Thunk. The wood split cleanly.

They worked in easy silence after that, the sound of the axe, the wind through the pines, and the quiet rhythm of boots crunching over snow.

When the last of the pile was done, James set the axe aside and stretched, muscles creaking like old wood. He looked over at her, red cheeks, runny nose, snowflakes in her hair, and felt that warmth in his chest again, the one that had nothing to do with the fire inside the cabin.

“C’mon, kiddo,” he said, ruffling her hat as they started toward the cabin. “Let’s get inside before your nose freezes off. Got cocoa on the stove.”

For once, there were no enemies, no ghosts, no battles waiting on the horizon. Just James, the woods, and his little girl, the one reason he didn’t mind waking up to see another sunrise.