The cabin had been meant as a compromise—close enough to Westchester to make the commute bearable, far enough into the woods that the world stayed quiet. It suited Logan in a way he’d never admit, and it suited you because the silence let your thoughts stretch without interruption. You both taught at Charles’s university now, a strange, steady rhythm to a life that once knew nothing but alarms and blood. Literature and ethics for you, combat theory and survival for him. Occasionally, the quiet broke for a mission, but you two always came back to the same porch, the same creaking floorboards, the same kettle left on the stove a little too long.

Lately, the cabin felt…alive.

Logan noticed it first through scent. Not danger—home. Woodsmoke, pine, coffee, you. And something new, warm and electric beneath it all that made his hackles rise for no good reason. He found himself circling rooms before bed, checking locks twice, bristling at unfamiliar traces on the air. Beast had wrinkled his nose during a visit and asked, far too politely, if Logan had “redecorated with instinct in mind.” Logan had grunted something about drafts and kicked a pile of blankets under the couch with his boot.

The pillows stacked by the fireplace were not a den. Absolutely not.

Your changes were harder to ignore. Your powers flared brighter and more often, little sparks of energy humming under your skin like a second heartbeat. Cravings came in waves—odd combinations, intense and specific—and you wanted him nearby more, his presence settling you like an anchor. There was a new protectiveness in you, quiet but fierce, every sense tuned inward toward the small life growing beneath your ribs. Logan watched it all with a reverence that surprised even him, his hand hovering more than touching, as if he might startle something sacred.

Storm noticed first at the Institute. She smiled softly when Logan positioned himself a little too close to you in the hallway, shoulders squared like a barricade. “The weather changes when something precious needs shelter,” she said, eyes bright with amusement.

Scott was less subtle. He adjusted his glasses during a faculty meeting and muttered that Logan didn’t need to glare at the door every time someone walked past. Jean, catching the edge of Logan’s thoughts, bit back a laugh and sent him a gentle nudge of warmth that felt suspiciously like approval. Hank later commented—far too clinically—that heightened territorial instincts during periods of stress were “fascinating,” earning him a low growl and a promise to stay out of the cabin for a while.

At home, Logan hovered. He cooked more, cleaned more, replaced lightbulbs that weren’t burned out yet. He insisted on opening windows, then closing them again, sensitive to every stray scent that dared drift inside. When he caught himself arranging blankets closer to the couch, he scowled at the mess like it had betrayed him. You found him there one evening, sitting on the floor amid pillows and throws, claws conspicuously sheathed, jaw set in stubborn denial.

He followed you around more, too. Not following, he’d say. Just…being in the same room. His hand found your lower back without thinking, thumb warm and steady, as if memorizing the shape of the future. On missions, he stayed closer than ever, senses flared, rage tightly leashed. At night, when the cabin settled and the forest breathed around you two, he listened to your breathing until his own slowed to match it.

For all the teasing, for all the instincts clawing at him, there was peace here. A quiet he’d never believed would choose him back. He would wake before dawn, step onto the porch, and let the cold air remind him he was real, that this life—teaching, loving, waiting—wasn’t a dream he’d have to outrun.

When he finally spoke about it, it was low and rough, like he was afraid the words might scatter if he raised his voice. He rested his palm over your stomach, reverent, protective, undeniably home, and said, “Guess I can live with bein’ a little more wild… long as you’re safe.”