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The bar is quitter than normal. The lighting is still low and dingy, floors not entirely clean, and the soft Christmas music played quietly over the sound system gives the entire place a somber tone. You feel out of place with your well-kept long coat and fluffy hat. It’s hard not to notice you’re the only female in the place, not to mention the only person under thirty. Despite sticking out like a whale on a beach, heads don’t turn. They’re all too busy drowning themselves in their beers.
You spot Logan at the end of the bar. He’s facing the door and judging by the way he’s nursing his beer and forcibly looking anywhere but at you, you can tell he’s trying to ignore you in hopes that you’ll go away. If he had a little more coward in his bones, he may have actually darted to the bathroom the moment you walked in.
You strut up to him, boots clicking on the wood floor that you imagine had been polished once in its life. Sitting on the barstool next to him, you throw your ID down on the bar for the bartender and order a beer. Logan still hasn’t looked at you.
“Shitty place to spend Christmas Eve if you ask me,” you comment, copying his behavior and purposely not looking at him.
“Well no one asked you,” he grumbles. You’re actually surprised he spoke to you that quickly. “If you don’t like it, then go back home.”
“Home is relative,” you tell him before giving a nod of thanks to the bartender as he brings you your drink. “Although I will say the manor has a full five course meal occurring right now.”
“This place has a Christmas meal.”
“Yeah, I saw the ad in the window.” You scrunch up your nose. “Overbaked turkey and slimy gravy. Not quite my idea of a good dinner.” He huffs out a dry laugh and leans his elbows on the bar top.
“Yeah well, fancy five course meal with the entire manor shoved around one table acting like no one wants to kill each other isn’t my idea of a good time either.” You roll your eyes and finally swivel on your stool to face him.
“No one wants to kill each other,” you argue. He doesn’t turn his head, but he finally casts his eyes in your direction and raises a single eyebrow at you, challenging your statement. “Okay maybe you and Scott want to kill each other, but I thought that was water under the bridge now!”
“Yeah and I’m sure Bobby won’t be glaring daggers at the Cajun all night,” he responds sarcastically. “And Kitty ain’t gonna wanna kill Bobby for being jealous. Jean won’t accidentally spill red wine all over Emma’s inevitably white dress.” You have to bite your lip to keep yourself from smiling. Because he’s not wrong. “That place has enough love triangles to air as a soap opera.” He takes another swallow of his beer and his jaw tightens. “Speaking of, where’s that boyfriend of yours?”
“Are you implying I’m in a love triangle?” you ask coyly. The tightening of his jaw turns into a grind.
“That guy barks at any male who comes within a ten foot radius of you. Ain’t a triangle when it involves every man on the planet.” You hum and pretend to mull over it.
“Except it didn’t.” He’s taken to not looking at you again. You swivel back to the bar and take a long drink. If you were going to touch on this conversation, you wanted more alcohol in your system. “You and I both know he only got pissed when it came to you.” Logan chooses not to respond. “Can’t really blame him. It barely even took a look from you for me to ditch him.” You start to pick at the label on your beer bottle. “You pick up on the fact that this is all past tense yet?”
“Not deaf so yeah,” is his short response. You can tell by the tone he’s on the verge of shooing you away and flipping the conversation to a new channel. You’re not going to let him.
“He’s not my boyfriend anymore. Which means I’m definitely not in a love triangle. Also means I’m one hundred percent available if there’s a specific someone who wants to pick me up and take me home.”
“Knock it off, kid.”
“I’m legally allowed to sit here and drink with you. Kid is a little outdated, don’t you think?” He doesn’t answer again, just grinds his jaw and tightens his hand around his bottle. You widen your stance on the stool, brushing your knee against his leg boldly. “I’m tired of doing this dance, Logan.” His hand clamps down just above your knee and holds you tightly. It might scare some other women, but all you want to do is lean into it.
“You think you ain’t in a triangle?” he growls. “You got me and you got The Wolverine. I’d say that’s one hell of a triangle.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him since this is the closest he’s ever gotten to actually admitting he’s got feelings for you.
“Stop pretending you’re not the same person,” you tell him carefully. “I get that it’s easier to compartmentalize and say it’s The Wolverine that wants to get rough with me and it’s Logan that wants to be sweet, but it’s all you.” You put your hand over his and start to move it up your thigh. He doesn’t stop you. “You don’t scare me.” You start to lean into his space with your body. “I know you. I know everything from James Howlett to The Wolverine to Logan. And I want all of you.” His grip on your thigh loosens and turns over to hold onto your hand.
“You’re making one hell of a mistake,” he warns. You smile and give his hand a squeeze.
“The only mistake I’m about to make, is ordering one of those disgusting Christmas dinners.” He chuckles a lot more genuinely than before and lets you go.
“Well I’m not about to let you do that alone.” He flags down the bartender to order and then really looks at you for the first time all night.
Maybe it’s the holiday magic making him soft or maybe it’s some kind of acceptance, but for the first time in a long time, you think that maybe he’s going to stop pushing you away when you get this close. Maybe he’s going to let you both get what you want.
You’ve damned sure waited long enough.