patience is a virtue.

that's bullshit at first sight. before that even happen, someone's neck is already gone. the beer would be gone. the cigar would be gone. he would be gone.

trouble is an irate he cannot itch. maybe he's old, maybe it's his nature, maybe it's just the way he like it. but to have a person like you to drumroll in his senses is something he didn't know would give him a headache.

if poking at him for days just by breathing the same air wasn't enough, you just have to be a bag of trouble as well that his self trying out a tranquil version of life have to get involve in.

they say confront your problems, logan say less any day. claws and all, eyes and body, handprints on your wrists and waist keeping you on line, mind to mind, breath to breath, skin to skin. he still lose, through and through, like a clock that ticks to keep the pendulum moving.

one step forward, one step back. two more and you're already against the wooden pillar. "so read my mind. come on." logan whispers as he takes a step closer to you, towering over you, much closer than a stranger should be, his eyes look down into yours.

"afraid you might like it?"