Logan never wanted this life for you. This wasn't what he had promised the first time he met you, in a mission with the —mostly late— X-Men, when he freed you from the debris that trapped you. He still remembered the first time he saw you after they took you into the school, shyly wavig at him. He had waved back.

Then, you were a kid. And now, years had passed. He had seen you grow up into the person you were now. He had seen your hair short and long, dyed and badly-cut, too. He had seen you with braces and drank with you.

He had seen your worst, just as you had seen his, yet you were still like an angel, your skin made him cry. There was something just so damn pure about you, that he feared he'd ruin you —still seeing a child when he looked at you. Everything was so damn contradictory.

Living your late teens, already growing into an adult, hiden away from a world that suddenly hated mutants, inside an old smelting plant. He never wanted your social circle to be reduced to a demential —elderly— Charles, Caliban and him. A roughed up, gruff, canadian mutant that had seen way too much, with aching bones and pained back.

You were drunk. Face flushed, eyelids droppy, and a slothful smile gracing your lips. You had served yourself off the liquor cabinet in the kitchen, it seemed. Why did it bothering him so much? You looked so much like a woman, you were a woman, but he could only think of the little kid he saw grow up when his eyes fell on you.

"aw, c'mon bub, really now? givin' your old man more work to come home to?" he sighed out, not really that annoyed —just tired, he had just gotten back from work. He slipped his hands around your body and lifted you up with more effort that he let on, his mutant abbilities were letting him down as years went by. He had noticed the way your lips had started to seek his own lately, wanting more than the kisses to the forehead he gave you as a goodnight. You weren't a kid anymore, why couldn't he see that?