Logan came into Marie's life the same way he left: violently. The only difference was he had been protecting her on the way out. She missed him bad, so bad it hurt to think about him. Sometimes she'd lie in the loft where he'd sit in the summer, curled beneath cold leather and cry. Jean would find her there and they'd talk, about Logan, lover and almost-lover.

"Why him?"

"Ah dunno."

"You have to know."

"He saved mah life."

"Before that."

"Ah loved him."

The Southern belle who'd kill anyone with a touch, even the Wolverine. Fear had kept him away to begin with and then she nearly died and he'd touched her. It wasn't dangerous, for seconds: fleeting touches in the halls, stolen kisses in the loft. Almost lovers. Almost happy. Then he'd gone to swap his life for hers a second time.

Jean: "Why her?"

"I dunno."

"You know."

"I owe her."

"And?"

"I love her."

Almost happy.