She saw me in the cage. Saw me fighting like an animal in the smoke and filth, like a dog to be wagered on. Saw me break men who had no chance against me, crush their bone with my metal for a few dollars.

She saw how I felt about those men. Their weakness made me angry, their stupid willingness to climb into the cage one after another made me despise them. Their very ability to bruise and scar and *snap* infuriated me. They were weak and they were too stupid to be scared, until it was too late.

When I was fighting, the other men became things, not men. Things that I didn’t want to stop hitting. Part of me always wanted to keep going, just keep pounding and pounding a man after he was down, break him down smaller and smaller – like an experiment, see what he would turn into when his bones were powder and his skin was flayed off by my knuckles.

Her big eyes took it all in – all of me. When she looked me in the eyes, she was scared. Deer-in-the-headlights scared. But not weak. Not backing down. Just waiting and watching.

When she looked me in the eyes, I felt more *seen* than I can ever remember. She somehow knew me. She was not judging me, but her gaze made me feel ashamed. “She’s too good for you, Logan,” was my automatic thought as we looked at each other across the bar. Then I had to laugh at myself – “Where’d that come from? It’s not like I’m gonna ask her out.”

From that day forward, those eyes of hers have followed me. They have seen me kill. Seen me rage. Seen me toss in nightmares. Seen me hang helpless and terrified. They have seen me beg.

Her gaze can warm me. It can calm me. Sometimes, it can tease me. Sometimes, it can haunt me.

Her gaze follows me even when I am hundreds of miles away. Before I open my eyes in whatever motel room or cave I may wake up in, I can feel her looking at me. She never turns away.

She never turns away.

Not from blood. Not from anger. Not from pain. Mine or hers.

Sometimes she is scared, but never weak.

Not so the great Wolverine. I am both scared and weak. Scared of being seen with such brutal honesty, understood so completely. Scared of being shown to myself, forced to see what I am. I have always fallen back on my line “I don’t remember who I am.” She doesn’t fall for that. She looks deep, sees who I am – doesn’t need a past to tell her anything. Doesn’t even need a future to count on.

Yes, sometimes I am very weak. I turn away from her, and from the others who have come into my life. I run, claiming that I am looking for my lost past. “I need to find out who I am.”

Yeah, right. If I weren’t such a chickenshit, I’d let her show me who I am.