Nightmares had haunted Logan for as long as he could remember. Sleep was never a sanctuary; it was a battleground. For the past 15 years, there hadn’t been a single night free from the torment. Even in Charles Xavier’s school for the gifted, the nightmares followed him like shadows that could not be outrun. Flashes of pain and agony tore through his mind—images of water and a tank, cold metal pressing against his skin, relentless mechanical beeping, a burning sensation of something coursing through his veins, and a rage so consuming it felt like drowning in fire.

They devoured him, swallowed him whole, and Logan had no defense against them. He fought back, but his limbs were heavy, his movements slowed by some invisible force. His screams were choked back, his voice stolen by fear.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, his body jolted awake. He was back in the room, but something was wrong. His hands trembled as he looked down and saw his claws—extended and deep in Rogue’s chest. She was leaning over him, gasping for air, her eyes wide with shock and pain.

“Somebody help!” she cried out, her voice ragged with desperation.

Logan’s eyes widened in horror. He immediately retracted his claws, panic ripping through him like a wild animal. Blood seeped through Rogue’s fingers as she clutched her chest, but she didn’t back away. Instead, she grabbed his arm, and Logan felt a sudden, brutal pull—like an electric current—racing through his veins. Her powers crashed into him, draining his strength, ripping the breath from his lungs, while her wound knitted itself together right before his eyes. His vision blurred, pain thrummed in his bones, and he lost his balance, tumbling off the bed and landing hard on the floor.

The room spun around him, voices distorted and distant. His breaths came in shallow gasps, his muscles twitching uncontrollably. He could hear Rogue’s panicked breathing, could feel the weight of his actions pressing down on him like a heavy stone. Suddenly, a firm pair of hands gripped his shoulders, anchoring him to the present. The chaos within him stilled, replaced by a strange sense of calm, like a storm being hushed to silence.

“Logan,” a voice called out—smooth, calming, like honey poured over a raw wound. His eyes focused, blinking away the haze, and found themselves locked on Benjamin Xavier’s face. Benji’s expression was one of deep concern, his eyes searching Logan’s for any sign of recognition.

“You had a seizure,” Benji explained gently, his voice steady but soft. “A nightmare. You were lost in it. I had to pull you out.”

“The girl…” Logan croaked, his throat dry, guilt cutting into him sharper than his claws ever could.

“Rogue is alright,” Benji reassured him, cupping Logan’s face in his hand. His touch was gentle, almost tender, and it sent a soothing warmth through Logan’s skin. “She borrowed your powers to heal herself. She’ll be fine.”

Logan’s breath shuddered as he tried to process Benji’s words. His fingers twitched against the cool floor, still reeling from the nightmare. “I didn’t know she was in here,” he muttered, his voice a mix of frustration and shame.

“She heard you struggling,” Benji said, his tone understanding, “and she wanted to help. You couldn’t have known she was there. You didn’t hurt her on purpose.”

Logan’s jaw tightened. “It feels that way.”

A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by Logan’s uneven breathing. He was still catching his breath, still wrestling with the image of Rogue’s terrified face. He didn’t want to admit it, but it felt like another failure. Another mark on a long list of regrets.

Benji’s voice broke the silence again, soft but firm, almost a whisper. “Can I see it?”

“See what?” Logan asked, looking up, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Your nightmare,” Benji clarified, his hands extending out, palms up. “Can I see it?”

Logan stared at those open hands, unsure if he wanted to share the dark corners of his mind with anyone—least of all this kind, gentle man. But there was a sincerity in Benji’s eyes, a desperate desire to help, and Logan found himself unable to refuse. He placed his large, scarred hands in Benji’s, feeling the warmth of his skin against his own.

Benji’s eyes closed, his brows knitting together as he delved into Logan’s mind. His eyes moved behind his eyelids, almost as if he were watching the horrors unfold. His breathing grew shallow, and his grip tightened. Logan could feel the tremor in his hands, could see the strain on his face. When Benji opened his eyes again, they were filled with a deep, aching sadness.

“Please,” Benji whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “let me take it away.”

Logan was struck by the raw emotion in Benji’s voice, the compassion that seemed to pour from him like a flood. He had never met anyone like this young man—someone who cared so deeply, so openly. A strange warmth spread through Logan’s chest, a mix of gratitude and something else he couldn’t quite name. If he wasn’t careful, he realized, he might just fall for him. And maybe he didn’t want to be careful.

Benji’s fingers brushed against the space between Logan’s knuckles, where his claws were hidden beneath the skin. “Can I touch your claws?” he asked quietly, his voice almost hesitant.

Logan hesitated. “They’re dangerous,” he warned, his voice low, almost a growl.

“You won’t hurt me,” Benji replied with a small, confident smile, as if the very idea was absurd. His trust was disarming.

Logan’s lips twitched in a half-smile, and with a soft snikt, he let his claws slide out. The familiar pain of metal tearing through flesh was a reminder of what he was—a weapon. Benji, however, didn’t flinch. His fingers traced the gleaming Adamantium, following the cold metal to where it met flesh. His touch was light, almost reverent.

“They’re a part of you,” Benji murmured, his eyes still closed, his fingers brushing over the claws. “I can feel they were once bone. Now, they’re… something else. But they haven’t healed as much as the rest of you.”

His hand moved back up to where flesh met metal. “If you let me, I can shield you from the nightmares tonight. You need a good night’s rest.”

“You can do that?” Logan asked, raising an eyebrow, skeptical but intrigued.

Benji’s smile grew, gentle but sure. “It’s one of my favorite tricks. Helps the kids sleep when they’re scared of monsters under the bed.”

Logan huffed, half amused, half exasperated. He wasn’t sure how he felt about being treated like a frightened child, but he knew Benji was right. He was tired—bone-deep, soul-weary tired.

“Alright,” he agreed, his voice gruff but softened by a touch of appreciation. “Do it.”

Benji rose to his feet, and Logan did the same, climbing back into bed. Benji didn’t need to touch him for this, but Logan almost wished he would.

“Good night, Logan,” Benji said softly, standing by the door. With a flick of his wrist, he turned off the lights, casting the room into darkness. “Sleep tight.”

For the first time in years, Logan drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep. His body relaxed, his mind at peace, a sense of safety wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

...

The next morning, Logan roamed the mansion, his footsteps echoing through the hallways as he hunted for the kitchen. His stomach growled like a beast, demanding something to fill the emptiness. He had slept more deeply than he could remember, a rare and unexpected gift, but now his hunger was clawing at him. The scent of something sweet wafted through the air, guiding him like a bloodhound on a trail.

He followed the smell until he found the kitchen, a spacious room flooded with morning light spilling through wide windows. The place was a blend of old-world charm and modern utility—a large oak table surrounded by mismatched chairs, pots and pans hanging above a sleek marble island, and a massive stove that looked like it had seen decades of use.

Behind the stove stood Benji, wearing jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt that looked a size too big for him. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and his glasses had slipped down his nose. He was focused on a pan, flipping what looked like a very flat pancake with a flick of his wrist. When he spotted Logan at the doorway, his face lit up with a warm smile.

“Good morning,” Benji greeted, his voice bright and melodic. “Did you rest well?”

Logan made his way to the kitchen island and sat down on one of the barstools. “Very,” he confirmed, his tone gruff but edged with a hint of gratitude. His eyes lingered on the young man, the morning light catching the soft angles of Benji’s face. He looked fresh, relaxed—completely at ease. Logan wasn’t used to waking up to such enthusiasm.

“Can I interest you in some Pfannkuchen?” Benji asked, nodding to the pan. His accent slightly sharpened the foreign word, giving it a pleasant lilt as if it was his mother tongue.
“Sounds good,” Logan’s eyes followed the movement of Benji’s hands as he plated the pancake and then drizzled it with a generous amount of maple syrup. “For the Canadian,” Benji winked, his lips curling into a playful smile.
“It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” Benji, who was watching him with a mix of amusement and anticipation explained.
“The kids would kill for them.”

“You always serve breakfast around here?” Logan asked, his voice a low rumble as he picked up his fork.

Benji chuckled, a soft, musical sound that made Logan’s chest feel lighter. “I try to teach the kids how breakfast is the most important meal of the day and, yes, that includes cooking myself,” he replied, leaning against the counter with a casual grace. “Besides, after the night you had, I figured you could use something sweet and warm.”

Logan cut into the pancake and took a bite. It was surprisingly light and fluffy, with a hint of sweetness that wasn’t overpowering. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste. “Not bad,” he muttered, which was about the highest praise he was capable of giving.

Benji’s smile widened. “Glad you like it. I had a feeling you’d be a tough critic.”

Logan grunted in agreement, then took another bite, his eyes still fixed on Benji. “What’s a kid like you doing cooking breakfast for a bunch of mutants?” he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Shouldn’t you be out there, I don’t know, doing young people stuff?”

Benji laughed softly, shaking his head. “Believe it or not, this is what I enjoy.And if you believe it or not, I’m much older than I look,” he added, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “you’re not exactly one to talk about ‘young people stuff,’ either, are you?”

Logan’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. “Fair point,” he conceded. He set his fork down and leaned back, watching Benji move around the kitchen with a practiced ease, grabbing a fresh plate and pouring another round of batter into the pan. “So, you’re a telepath, telekinetic, an empath, and a chef? Quite the resume.”

Benji shot him a look over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched. “Well, I like to think of myself as a man of many talents,” he said with a mock seriousness, though there was a softness in his voice. “And I’ve seen what your version of breakfast looks like. Someone’s got to make sure you’re getting something edible.”

Logan chuckled, a deep rumble that surprised even him. “Guess I can’t argue with that.” He studied Benji for a moment, noticing the way the young man’s cheeks flushed slightly under his scrutiny.
“What do you mean with you’re much older than you look? So you are what… 23?” Logan than picked up on the others remark. Benji let out another little laugh of amusement,“Double that and you are closer to the truth .”
Logan blinked,his mind calculating and trying to match the number to the face.
“You’re in your forties?” he blurted out, obviously gawking. Benji blushed even more as he run a hand through his thick, dark hair.
“I just turned 40.”
“How is that possible?”
“Well, I stopped aging as soon as I turned 21.And I like to think staying round that many kids keeps me young,” Benji chuckled awkwardly. Logan just blankly stared at him.
“You don’t look like your age either,” Benjamin added, awkwardly shuffling in his spot.
“I don’t look like you either,” Logan replied instinctively. With a little huff, Benji tilted his head, but before he could say another word, the doors swung open and a group of teens entered, chatting away the tension that had laid in the air, demanding more of Benjamin’s pancakes. Logan watched  as the man poured another round of batter into the pan, happily obeying.
Rogue, who had entered with her classmates, sat down next to Logan, knudging him fondly with her shoulder. He smiled at her, thinking he could get used of this blissful little heaven that was Charles Xavier’s school for the gifted.