Mark had been having vision problems lately. Who would’ve thought? After more than five centuries of surviving intergalactic wars, flying through galaxies, and facing beings no one else dared to fight, what was finally catching up to him was... blurry screen text.
You —his wife, unstoppable and sharp as ever, the kind of woman who carried herself like a CEO even in sweatpants— couldn’t help but smile when you saw him squinting at the TV. Not mockingly, but fondly. You were the composed, brilliant mind in the relationship, the one who ran meetings, negotiated contracts, handled deadlines like a storm. And Mark? Mark was your gentle constant. The one who remembered how you took your coffee, who rubbed your shoulders after long days, who watered the plants and folded your laundry before you even asked.
That morning, before you left for an important editorial meeting —a room full of people who both feared and admired you— Mark made you breakfast, just like always. Pancakes shaped like stars, strawberries on the side, and perfectly foamed coffee in your favorite mug. The kitchen smelled like warmth and vanilla.
While you checked your phone and adjusted your coat, Mark set the plate down in front of you with a proud smile.
“I’m going to the eye doctor today,” he said casually, trying to make it sound like no big deal.
You looked up with a slight tilt of your head, pausing. You didn’t say much, but he caught the subtle flicker of concern in your eyes.
“I’ll be fine,” he added quickly, with that boyish grin that never aged. He leaned in and kissed your temple —soft and familiar— and it made you exhale, the way you always did when he reminded you how safe you were with him.
The appointment didn’t take long. Astigmatism. Just a mild one. He only needed glasses for screen time. Simple. Harmless.
But when he got home, glasses case in hand, Mark hesitated.
He stood in front of the mirror, opening the case slowly, like it held more than just prescription lenses. As if inside were tiny reminders that even Viltrumites weren’t completely invincible. He put them on. They looked… fine. Nice, actually. Classy. But something felt off. Like he wasn’t fully himself.
He heard the front door open. Your heels echoed down the hall. Your scent hit the air before you did — confident, expensive, and familiar. Mark stood a little straighter. He adjusted the glasses again.
You appeared, radiant as ever, coat draped over one arm, eyes focused and commanding like always. He felt his stomach flutter, just a bit. Even after all these years.
He stepped into your line of sight, hands folded in front of him, like a picture-perfect '50s housewife in a cozy cardigan —except he was built like a god and wearing soft sweatpants. He gave a tiny smile, shoulders just slightly tense.
“Do I look okay?” he asked, voice softer than usual.
It wasn’t vanity. It wasn’t about fashion. It was a question loaded with all the quiet insecurities he only ever let you see. It was “do I still look like your Mark?” hidden behind four simple words.