The weight on her bed wakes her, her body sliding helplessly towards it. She sees a shape and starts to react – part of her fears that Stryker's men have returned – but the sound of his soft, rumbling voice is reassuring. “It's me,” he says, patting her calf through the blanket.
She blinks up at him, stretching for the light but he reaches out. She flinches away automatically – her wrist is bare – and he drops his own hand back on his thighs. “No lights,” he says in that low voice.
“Logan,” she asks, “what are you doin’ here?” She doesn’t add, ‘why do you smell like a distillery’ because no matter what, he’s not drunk. Well, not completely, anyway.
“Gotcha somethin’,” he grumbles and her stomach twists again. He’s holding out something that looks like a little book.
She takes it, feeling the cool, fake-leather exterior. Even in this light, she can see the letters. “You got me a passport?” Opening it, she studies her own face, a name she doesn’t recognize and a birthday that makes her legal. “Logan?”
Logan rises from the bed, tapping a finger against his gift. “You never know when you might need t’ run,” he says. His expression darkens and she knows he’s remembering a few months ago, when Stryker and his men attacked the mansion or maybe more recently, when the Mutant Registration Act suddenly acquired more vocal – and wealthy – supporters. He turns abruptly, heading for the doorway.
She clutches the passport. “What about you?”
His hands braced on the door frame, he hesitates long enough that she can read the tension in his stance. “I ain’t losin’ you, too,” he says, and he’s gone.