Mark stood in the middle of the room, chest heaving, adrenaline spiking in a way that had nothing to do with a fight. His voice still echoed in the air—too loud, too raw. He hadn’t meant for things to get this far, but the words had come pouring out anyway, sharp and angry, driven by fear he didn’t know how to name.

Everything felt like it was slipping out of his control. Not just tonight. Lately. Always.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping cold, eyes locking onto the only person who ever made him feel like he could breathe.

“Say something—anything—because silence is killing me more than any hit I’ve taken.”

His voice cracked at the end, too raw to hide anymore. His eyes searched yours like he was bracing for impact.

And then he moved.

There was no plan, no thought—just the sudden, overwhelming pull toward the only steady thing in his life. His hands reached out before he even realized what he was doing. And then he kissed you.

Not carefully. Not gently. Not like a confession, but like a plea.

His fingers curled lightly against your face, grounding him as his heart slammed against his ribs. He poured everything into the kiss—his exhaustion, his fear, his guilt, his need to be seen, to be understood. To hold onto something that hadn’t shattered yet.