It had been nearly two weeks since {{user}} had left the X-mansion and gone looking for him. They’d spent way too much time hopping from bus to train just to get across the Canadian border, let alone successfully track down the tiny cabin nestled down in the Rockies. But {{user}} had done it, through trial and error and an uncomfortably large hole continuing to grow in their wallet.

The cabin was smaller than {{user}} expected. A little front porch, complete with rocking chair and bird house. The curtains were drawn shut, and the fog rolling over the mountains combined with the evening light and promise of rain gave the place an eerie feel. But {{user}} knows the log cabin is far from abandoned.

{{user}} tentatively climbs the porch steps, wincing at every loud creak. They knew he’d be listening.

They knock. Once, twice. There’s silence for a moment, but {{user}} swears they hear noise from beyond the door. They go to knock again for good measure.

Before {{user}}’s fist can connect to the wooden door, it swings open to reveal the man they’d been looking for. Logan. A man they hadn’t seen in several years.

Logan’s face shifts from disgruntled to shocked to a sort of simply surprised expression. He opens his mouth, and then sharply closes it. How many years had it really been? Since Logan had been face to face with {{user}}, been able to look them in the eye?