It started with late-night patrols, a coincidence at first. You had just started working alongside Mark as a new hero in town—nothing official, just a masked vigilante trying to keep the streets clean while he did his superhero thing. At first, it was a casual thing, running into each other on rooftops, trading quips, and keeping each other from getting killed. It wasn’t supposed to turn into something more.

Then one night, after a particularly brutal fight with some random goon squad, Mark landed next to you on a rooftop, panting, blood on his suit but none of it his. You were both tired, but the adrenaline was still buzzing under your skin. He pulled off his mask halfway, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, and you could tell something was on his mind.

“Hey,” he started, voice hesitant. “Can I ask you something?”

You leaned against the ledge, waiting. “I know he’s wonderin’—” he huffed out a bitter laugh. “What the fuck are you hiding?”

Your stomach twisted at the words. You knew what he meant. The stolen glances. The way things got too close, too heated, too tangled. The way neither of you acknowledged the way your hands lingered too long or the way your lips had met in the shadows between fights. And then, the next day, he was with Amber. Acting like nothing had happened. Like it didn’t mean anything.

“Mark,” you said, voice low.

“I mean it,” he pushed, stepping closer. “One second we’re rapping about Bin Laden—random shit, just talking—and the next second, we’re—” He cut himself off, shaking his head.

“Are we dating?” he asked, voice tight. “Are we fucking? Are we best friends? Are we somewhere in between?” His voice was raw, like he didn’t want the answer but needed it anyway.

You swallowed hard. You wanted to say no. That it didn’t matter. That it was just a mistake. But the truth was heavier than the air between you. “I wish we never fucked,” you admitted, the words burning your throat. “And I mean it.”