Mark adjusted his windbreaker like he was preparing for battle, then reached for the bat with a strange kind of reverence, holding it like it might either hit a home run or snap in half if he so much as breathed wrong. He gave it a test squeeze. It creaked.

The sky was unusually clear for a ruined planet, and the old field stretched out, one of the last green spots left untouched by war, conquest, or alien terraforming. It was absurd how peaceful it looked.

He watched carefully as the ball was thrown, eyes narrowed like this was some kind of intergalactic showdown. Then he swung.

The crack echoed. The ball vanished. Straight up. Gone.

Mark stared after it for a second, then turned. Before the next breath could even be taken, he was beside the pitcher's mound, one arm sliding around a waist that belonged to the only person he didn’t immediately want to fight.

No words. Just that clingy, overprotective, slightly-too-close grip he called affection.

He stayed close on the walk to the bleachers, where everything from snacks to gear was dumped like it had been thrown during an emergency evacuation. He didn’t mind. He just stayed right there, leaning close, hovering with the energy of someone trying to seem casual but clearly failing.

Quiet. Unnervingly quiet.

Then, out of nowhere, he leaned down and kissed the top of a head that wasn't his. Awkward. Quick. Like he wasn’t totally sure how that gesture was supposed to work but had seen it in a movie and figured it applied here.

Still, he didn’t move away. His arm stayed around the waist. His other hand fiddled with a water bottle like it was the most interesting object in the universe.

“I like this,” he said quietly, still staring forward. “You. Baseball. Earth. When it isn’t exploding.”

He said it without irony. Or maybe with just enough to keep himself from melting.

Another pause.

“I’m having emotions,” he added flatly, almost like a warning, or a joke. “So don’t do anything weird.”