Mark learned restraint before he learned confidence.

It came with the powers—no, with the fear of them. The constant mental math. The hesitation that crept into everything. How hard was too hard. How close was too close. How easily something ordinary could turn catastrophic if he forgot himself for even a second.

He thought about it every time he touched someone.

A handshake meant loosening his grip at the last moment. A hug meant holding his breath, arms hovering instead of closing. Kissing meant being painfully aware of his own strength, the way his body wanted to move faster, pull closer, feel more.

Even with people he loved, there was always that invisible line he never crossed.

Always careful. Always holding back.

Until you.

It wasn’t something he noticed all at once. There wasn’t a single moment where it clicked, no dramatic realization. It was quieter than that—slipping in between thoughts, settling somewhere deep in his chest.

He noticed it the first time you took his hand without hesitation.

He hadn’t even thought about loosening his grip. He hadn’t flinched. His fingers just curled around yours, natural and easy, like muscle memory he’d never had before.

Nothing broke. You didn’t tense. You didn’t even look at his hand.

You just kept walking.

Mark remembered standing there afterward, heart racing, staring at your joined hands like they were proof of something he hadn’t known was possible.

With you, the calculations stopped.

When he hugged you, he didn’t count the pressure in his arms. He didn’t pull away first or leave space just in case. He let himself hold on, fully, chest to chest, feeling your steady presence like an anchor.

You never commented on it. Never reassured him out loud. Never made a big deal of what it meant.

You simply existed—stronger, solid, unafraid.

And somehow, that made him feel safe.

It was strange, realizing that the person who could probably toss him into orbit with minimal effort was the one he felt most relaxed around. That with you, he didn’t have to shrink himself down or keep parts of him locked behind careful control.

He could be Invincible without being fragile.

Sometimes, when you leaned into him or rested your head against his shoulder, he felt something loosen inside him. A tension he hadn’t realized he carried every second of every day.

I won’t hurt you.

Not because he was careful.

But because you were his equal in a way no one else had ever been.

When he kissed you, there was no fear in it. No hesitation. Just warmth, closeness, the simple comfort of knowing that for once, he didn’t have to pull back.

He could stay.

And in a life where everything felt like walking a tightrope between strength and destruction, that—more than anything—felt like freedom.