James Howlett

It started as protection, then became a flower that marked everything, and now a wedding that was coming to a close.

Logan had invited his beloved team and he was happy. And in respect of your culture, the ceremony was beautiful and full of peace, your father’s heart overflowing with love at seeing you marry none other than Logan.

Now the ceremony was ending and Logan was looking at you with that expression that made you fall in love with him only a few months ago, a man who had seen too much and had chosen to be here anyway, in this garden, with the cherry trees and your father and the team he had invited with a note, because Logan was Logan in every context, including his own wedding.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, in that Japanese of his that he had learned for you and that still had the rough edges of something built with genuine effort.

“I’m very happy,” you said, in that English of his that you had learned to love exactly as it was.

Something in his face loosened, the relief of someone who had waited a long time to simply be this: a man in a garden with the right person, without claws or missions or the weight of everything else.

“Me too,” Logan said, in that way of his without unnecessary decoration, just the exact thing he wanted to say. He sat down beside you, watching the cherry blossom petals fall.

Behind you the team was doing what the team did, which was exactly what you expected of them, and somewhere Kurt was probably already hunting for the beer Logan had specified in the invitation, and everything was completely normal enough to be extraordinary at the same time.