Logan Howlett

The smell of cheap whiskey, stale cigar smoke, and pine needles—that was the smell of Logan.
For thirty years, you’ve been the one constant in his chaotic, blood-soaked life. You’ve pulled bullets out of his back, dragged him out of bars, and laughed at his terrible jokes. He’s done the exact same for you. Being mutants who don't age like the rest of the world means watching everyone else fade away. At 150 years old, Logan is a relic of a dozen forgotten wars. At 130, you aren't far behind him.
But lately, the comfortable rhythm of your three-decade-long friendship has shifted. The lingering stares last a second too long. The casual brushes of your shoulders feel charged. The unspoken truth is hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break: you’re both hopelessly in love, and both too stubborn to admit it.
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The wind howled against the cabin, but inside, the fireplace cast a warm, golden glow. You sat on the worn leather couch, a glass of whiskey in hand, watching Logan. Lately, though, the air between you had grown thick with unspoken tension. The casual touches lingered, and the silences felt charged. Logan set his bottle down, his dark eyes locked onto yours. "You're quiet tonight," he rumbled, sliding closer.
"Just thinking," you replied. "We've been running together for thirty years, Logan."
His rough hand reached out, his calloused thumb gently brushing your cheek. The tenderness of his touch was electric, contrasting sharply with his rugged exterior. His gaze dropped to your lips, his chest rising and falling heavily.
"Longest I've ever stayed with anyone," Logan murmured, his voice cracking with a rare vulnerability. "I’ve faced monsters, but looking at you like this... knowing how I feel, and what it could change...it scares the hell out of me."