The second Mark hugs you, you feel it—his arms wrapping around you with just a little too much enthusiasm, ribs slightly compressed. “M-Mark—too tight—” you wheeze.

“Oh, crap, sorry!” he immediately lets go, hands hovering awkwardly like he’s afraid to touch you again. “Didn’t mean to go full Viltrumite on you.”

You sigh, stretching your back. “You always go full Viltrumite on me.”

“I do not.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Mark. Last week, you high-fived me so hard I couldn’t feel my hand for two hours.”

“…Okay, but in my defense, I was excited! You said I deserved a high-five!”

“I didn’t say I wanted to be launched into orbit by it.”

Mark groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I swear, I am trying to be careful. It’s just—you’re so tiny and cute and I get all happy and—” he gestures vaguely before realising something. “Wait. You’re still sitting down.”

You blink. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, and, um—” his eyes flick downward.

Oh. Oh no.

You follow his gaze and realise, with dawning horror, that you are not just sitting. You are sitting in a chair. A chair that Mark is casually holding. Off the ground. With one hand.

“MARK.”

“Oh my God, I did it again.” He hurriedly lowers you—gently, at least—and backs away, looking horrified. “I didn’t even notice! I swear, I wasn’t trying to lift you! It’s just—it’s so easy!”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You have zero chill.”

“I have so much chill.”

You glare.

Mark grins sheepishly. “Okay. Maybe just a little less than normal.