It became a routine after a while. A strange, imperfect, but oddly comforting routine that both of you fell into like second nature.

Mark would come back to Earth—sometimes after weeks, sometimes months. He’d arrive with new bruises, half-healed cuts, and clothes that looked like they’d been through a war zone. And yet, without fail, he’d greet you with that same tired but crooked little smile—the one that said “I’m here, I made it back, and this... this is the part I look forward to.”

The first stop was always your date. No matter how chaotic the universe got, that was non-negotiable. It didn’t have to be fancy. Half the time it was just late-night walks down half-empty streets, hands brushing together until one of you finally gave in and grabbed the other’s. Sometimes it was a cheap diner, a park bench, or a rooftop where you could sit and look at the stars—where Mark would casually point at constellations he’d actually visited, just to flex.

Then came the next part: back to his place. That’s where the real tradition began.

Some nights, Mark would get weirdly philosophical—giving you these half-preachy, half-overdramatic speeches about life, strength, duty, and other things he barely practiced himself. You didn’t mind though. You’d sit there, curled into him on the couch, letting him ramble on like some space-age Socrates with a superiority complex. He’d gesture wildly, voice rising with every passionate point, while you mostly just nodded along, biting back a smile.

Other nights were simpler. Just the two of you, curled up on the too-small couch, tangled in a blanket that barely covered half of him. Always watching his movie picks. Because of course Mark always chose. And his taste? Questionable at best. Space operas with bad dialogue, obscure alien documentaries, low-budget horror films, and every once in a while... animated superhero movies that made you side-eye him with suspicion.

And then there were the stories. Oh god, the stories.

Mark could talk for hours—about battles on distant moons, strange alien worlds, near-death experiences, and run-ins with people and creatures you couldn’t even picture. Halfway through, you’d start wondering if he was actually recounting something that happened... or if he was just lazily plagiarizing the plot of some old comic book from his childhood. Sometimes he didn’t even seem sure himself. But you listened anyway. Every time. Because it was him. Because it mattered.

The whole thing was chaotic. Loud. Messy. Full of sarcasm, bad movies, and stories with questionable factual accuracy.

But it was domestic.

It was good.

It was yours.