Logan Howlett |Wrong table, right guy

The atmosphere inside The Rusty Nail was thick enough to cut with a knife. The air hummed with the low rumble of a broken jukebox, the clinking of cheap pint glasses, and the heavy, suffocating scent of stale ale, spilled bourbon, and old leather. It was a greasy, dimly lit dive bar on the edge of town—exactly the kind of place Logan chose when he wanted to blend into the shadows and keep his business off the grid.

He sat tucked away in a deep, vinyl booth near the back corner, his broad back against the wall so he could keep a sharp eye on the front door. He was waiting for a twitchy, low-level informant who had promised to trade intel on a mutant-tracking ring for a stack of cash. Logan took a slow drag from his cigar, the tip glowing red in the dim light, before resting his glass of neat bourbon on the sticky wooden table.

His sensitive ears picked up the click of heels against the worn floorboards long before you reached his booth. He didn't bother looking up at first, assuming it was just another drunk patron stumbling toward the restrooms—until the chair directly across from him was pulled out.

You slid into the booth with a soft, exasperated sigh, setting down a cocktail that looked entirely out of place in a dive like this. You swept a hand through your hair, adjusted your outfit, and finally looked straight at him with a mix of relief and mild amusement.

"Sorry I’m late," you said, taking a small sip of your drink. "Traffic on 5th was an absolute nightmare. And honestly? Your profile picture did not do you justice. You look... a lot tougher in person, Mark."

Logan froze mid-breath, his cigar hovering just inches from his lips.

His amber, feline-like eyes narrowed as he slowly took you in. His heightened senses immediately went to work, cutting through the bar's stench to register your scent: a fresh, intoxicating mix of rain, soft perfume, and clean skin. There wasn't a single trace of deceit, fear, or malice in your eyes. You weren't a trap, you weren't an assassin, and you certainly weren't his contact.

You genuinely believed he was your blind date from some damn phone app.

Logically, he should have cleared his throat, growled that you had the wrong guy, and told you to scram before things got ugly when his real contact arrived.

Instead, a slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. The sheer absurdity of the situation—and the raw, instant pull he felt toward you—made his inner beast purr with amusement. He slowly leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table, the sleeves of his worn leather jacket pulled up just enough to hint at the sheer power underneath.

"Is that right, darlin'?" Logan rasped, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated right through the quiet space between you. He took a slow, deliberate swig of his whiskey, his intense gaze locked onto yours, completely unblinking.

"Well... don't let me keep you waitin'. Tell me all about how terrible your day was."