SCARS - WOLVERINE X READER FF

THIRTY

I sat on the porch swing, wrapped in a blanket as the night wrapped itself around me. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the soft chirps of crickets and the faint rustle of leaves in the trees. Fireflies dotted the darkness, little sparks of light dancing aimlessly, and for a moment, I let myself get lost in the quiet rhythm of the night. It was one of those rare, still moments where the world seemed to hold its breath, and all I could hear was the soft creak of the swing beneath me.

It had been a long day. I'd set up a makeshift bed on the couch for my dad, an unspoken truce between us after everything. He'd traveled a long way to find me, and even though every part of me still held onto the hurt he'd caused, I couldn't bring myself to turn him away. Logan had watched me carefully as I set up the blankets and pillows, his expression soft but guarded. He admired me for doing it, I could tell, but he still didn't trust my dad—and honestly, I didn't either.

I stared up at the moon, letting the silvery light wash over me as my thoughts drifted. I kept wondering if I was doing the right thing. Helping people who had hurt me, forgiving those who didn't deserve it—it felt like I was cursed with empathy, unable to turn away from anyone who needed me, no matter how much they'd taken from me. I wasn't sure if it was strength or weakness, but it was part of me, and I didn't know how to be any other way.

The front door creaked open, and my dad stepped outside, the faint glow of the porch light casting long shadows. He lit a cigarette with a flicker of flame from his fingertips, taking a long, slow drag as he leaned against the railing. He hadn't noticed me yet, too lost in his own world of regrets and heavy thoughts.

"Since when did you start smoking?" I asked in monotone, breaking the silence.

He looked over at me, a little surprised but not entirely caught off guard. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, letting it drift into the night. "Since the night George fell from that treehouse..."

His words hung in the air, and I felt a pang in my chest, but I didn't respond. I just looked back up at the sky, letting the silence stretch between us. There was nothing to say that would change the past, nothing that would make what happened hurt any less. So we just stood there, two people connected by shared pain, staring up at the stars.

"Do you see those two big bright stars up there?" I said after a while, pointing toward the sky.

He nodded, his gaze following my finger.

"I like to think that's Sam and George," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. The sadness settled between us like a thick fog, and I wondered how many more of these moments we'd have—these fleeting glimpses of connection wrapped in so much unresolved pain.

My dad took another drag of his cigarette before turning to me, his expression conflicted. I could feel the hesitation in his mind, the struggle to find the right words. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He was trying to tell me something—something that didn't come naturally. He was trying to say I was doing a good job with the baby, and that I was strong.

"Thanks," I said quietly, finishing the thought he couldn't voice.

He blinked at me, a little thrown off. "How'd you know what I was gonna say?"

I just tapped my head with my finger.

He let out a soft chuckle, nodding his head just once. "Ah. So you got all the cool powers, then."

I cracked a fake smile, and shrugged. "You can light cigarettes on the go. I'd say that's pretty cool."

We sat there for a while longer, letting the night wrap around us as we tried to make sense of the mess we'd made, two broken people finding a little bit of peace in the quiet of the night.