Logan didn't have an answer, and the silence that followed said more than words could. He felt it too… the bone-deep fear, the creeping hopelessness. The thought of his mother's worried face, wondering every day if her son was dead or alive.
"I hate not knowing," Jean said. "I hate that I can't do anything. I hate…" Her voice broke. "I just hate this so much."
Without thinking, Logan reached out and took her hand… rough against rough, worn against worn. "You're not alone," he said, quietly. "You still have me, whether you like it or not."
Jean pull her hand away.
"You say I'm not alone," she muttered, voice low. "But half the time, it feels like you don't even care."
Logan turned toward her, brows furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
"You act like this is just another game, Logan! Like it's just another challenge for you to win!" Her voice rose with every word. "Do you even care if we never get out of here?"
