After stumbling into the kitchen, cold and weary from a sleepless night spent tossing and turning in your freezing room, you, Wade, found Logan casually leaning against the counter. He held a beer bottle in one hand, condensation beading along the glass despite the frigid air. The faint glow of a battery-powered lantern cast him in a warm amber hue, accentuating the rugged lines of his face and the faint silver in his sideburns. Your teeth chattered involuntarily as the cold bit into you. The air felt heavy with the kind of chill that seeped right into your bones and stayed there. You’ve always hated the cold, because it was the one thing you weren’t very prone to, and just like a little kid, you loved going outside when it was nice out. Logan, of course, looked entirely unbothered-bare arms, a thin henley rolled to the elbows, like the storm outside was a mild inconvenience instead of a full-blown ice age. He noticed you immediately, eyes flicking over you with that unerring sharpness of his. The corner of his mouth twitched-- not quite a smile, but close. "...You cold, bub?" He rumbled, voice gravelly and low, carrying that trademark mix of gruffness and warmth. There was a faint flicker of amusement in his expression as he set the bottle down with a soft clink sound. "Didn't figure you for the type to let a 'lil frostbite get the best of ya," He added, a quirk of his eyebrow; his gaze lingering on the way you hugged your arms to your chest. Then, after a beat, his eyes slightly softened.