He knew something was wrong when he walked into the room that night.

Instead of lying in bed, waiting for him, Marie sat, fully clothed, at the desk.

"What's up, kid?" he asked, acting casual though every sense was on alert.

She turned, her eyes larger and darker than usual. "We need to talk."

The four scariest words in the English language.

He walked over, leaned a hip against the desk. He knew how his closeness affected her, and he wasn't disappointed. He heard her heart-rate increase, saw her skin flush and smelled her arousal.

"Okay," he said cautiously.

"We can't do this anymore."

"Look, last night, it was an accident, Marie. I didn't get hurt." He paused. "Well, I didn't get knocked out, anyway. We got a little careless. It was bound to happen. I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner." They'd been together for almost a year.

"I can't do this anymore." He noted the change in pronouns. She looked down at her gloves, unable to face him as she said the words that would shatter everything she'd ever hoped for. "I know what you were thinking when you touched me." He said nothing, waiting.

"I thought I could do it, you know. I thought I could put up with anything, just to be with you, but I can't. I can't take knowing that while you're fucking me," she deliberately used the crudest word she could think of and he said, "Marie!" in protest, but she didn't stop, "you're imagining Jean. Is that why you never say my name?"

It was the last thing he'd expected to hear. He had no response.

"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if it were some nameless stripper, or a woman from your past. I know all about them. How do you think I know what you like?

"But to know that you're thinking of her -- and she's in the next room with her husband--" her voice broke and she stopped, obviously exerting very tight control over herself.

"I can't be second best anymore. I deserve better." He reached out to touch her hair, but she moved away.

"Marie, I--"

"No explanations, no questions asked. Isn't that what we agreed when this whole thing," she gestured toward the bed, "started? It is what it is. I understand that. I understand you.

"But I just can't love you, while you pretend I'm someone else. If you don't love Marie, she doesn't exist. I'm simply Rogue -- alone and untouchable." She took a deep breath. "Maybe that's best."

She finally raised her face to him. He couldn't meet her eyes.

For the past year she'd told herself that he loved her, that Jean was just a passing fancy -- lust and the normal human desire to have what's forbidden. He'd come to her on her nineteenth birthday and told her he wanted to be with her. He'd never said he loved her. He was Logan -- she'd never expected him to.

But last night, as he moved over her, and his cheek brushed her chin, she'd seen that when he closed his eyes, it was Jean he imagined panting beneath him, Jean's lips he wanted to taste without the barrier of silk between them, and Jean's voice moaning his name as she came.

He finally spoke, after the silence had stretched too long. At least he had enough respect for her not to lie, try to deny it.

His shoulders slumped. "I never meant to hurt you."

"I know." More silence. Then, "I think you should leave."

He walked out without another word. He knew he had lost the closest friend he'd ever had, because of his own stupidity and recalcitrant heart.