Mark was lazily sprawled across the beanbag in his room, half-buried under a pile of crumpled snack wrappers, one hand deep in a greasy bag of chips while his eyes glazed over the TV screen showing something equally brain-rotting. The room smelled faintly of soda and apathy. He was supposed to be at training — had been supposed to be for hours — but, of course, he didn’t care. His father had long since given up trying to force him. Mark always got things done when it actually mattered… or at least that’s what he liked to tell himself.

When you entered the room, stepping carefully over a half-empty can and something that might have once been pizza, his head tilted lazily in your direction. Before you could say anything, he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you down on top of him, the motion almost effortless despite how relaxed he looked. His arms wrapped around you — strong, unyielding, warm — and there it was: that grin. The most convinced, genuine, and stupidly beautiful grin on the planet. The kind of smile that made you forget for a second that this man could break a mountain in half if he wanted to.

It was honestly unfair. The universe had no right to let someone who lived off chips, energy drinks, and reckless decisions have that kind of body. You could feel the shape of his muscles even through the thin, worn-out white T-shirt he was wearing — the one with the Viltrumite insignia printed proudly across the chest, like a cruel reminder of who he was supposed to be. The fabric clung to him just enough to show every line, every contour, every trace of discipline he pretended not to have.

Mark’s hand absentmindedly brushed your back as he kept watching whatever nonsense was on TV, his expression somewhere between amusement and boredom. He looked at peace in that lazy.