14. That was number of times he'd found her, held her, made her feel whole again. It was also the number of times he'd walked away.


He knew it was a bad idea.

But he was angry. Angry at Jean for leaving, angry at Xavier for understanding and most of all, angry at himself. He let himself fall for flaming red hair, a few kind words and the one person he could never have. And she left him.

He knew it was crazy, but he could still hear her voice in his head. So he did the one thing he could to get it out. Found someone else.

She was young and pure and sweet and he knew this thing, this...whatever it was, meant more to her than to him. But that thought was quickly pushed out of his mind.

With her he could be alone.

He saw the look on her face every time he left with a stiff smile and a nod of his head. It was killing her, and strangely, it was killing him too.


14 times. She's counted every one with a scratch on her doorframe. Childish and naïve, but she loved having a reminder of him. Of them. She knew he was using her. The harsh passion and the wrong name spilling out of his lips made it heartbreakingly clear.

She was alone when they were together, but she couldn't help but love him.

She cried the day Jean returned. She cried from heartbreak and pain and loss, but mostly because she couldn't be who he wanted her to be.


She had come back, and this time she was his.

He kissed her and his mind went blank.

Lust, love, desire.

That's when he realized. It wasn't like what he thought it would be like. Her legs were too long, her breasts too large, too full. Flaming red hair turned to brown and silver in his mind and he finally understood.


He left the mansion that night. Running away from Jean, away from his past, away from her.

She knew he would leave. That's what he always did- ran from those who could hurt him. Not physically, no, no one could do that. But the people who could break his heart. She didn't understand.


He came back. It took months of drinking, smoking and fighting- four to be precise- but he came back.

The door opens.

"You left me."

The accusation hangs in the air which crackles around them. There is a silence that feels like an eternity. Then something snaps between them.

Lips meet lips, clashing tongues and teeth. Fingers run through hair, down shoulders and around waists.

The door slams shut and lips move to neck; kissing, licking, sucking. One tank top hits the ground, followed swiftly by another.

Skin on skin. A gasp, a moan.

Hands, tongues and fingers explore already familiar paths. Large hands grasp a small body as an even smaller hand travels. A gasp, a smirk, a kiss.

Clothes are flung on the floor and there is heat. So much heat.

A back hits a bed, and suddenly they are one.

Hands wander and lips kiss and soon, too soon, the world explodes with colours and waves of pleasure.

She tells him she missed him. He tells her he loves her.

A smile, a laugh and kisses. Many, many kisses.

He knows she can break him. This time he doesn't run.

They argue, they fight and they make up like any couple. But they're not like others. She gives him his space and he gives her hers. They understand.

They aren't alone, they're together.