Mark had gotten into another one of those fights with his foster mother—the kind that left doors slamming and his voice raw. But instead of staying behind to endure another round of forced apologies and fake civility, he walked all the way to your house, shoulders hunched against the cold, frustration simmering under his skin.

And as usual, he didn’t bother with the front door.

He climbed through your bedroom window like it was his god-given right, hitting the floor with a thud and zero explanation. The moment he caught his breath, he started ranting—loud, fast, words tumbling over each other like he couldn’t get them out fast enough.

“She said I have an attitude problem. Like—who the hell does she think she is?” His hands flew around as he paced your room, sneakers scuffing your rug. “I do not have an attitude problem. I’m the most level-headed, relaxed person I know!”

He turned sharply, gesturing like he was building a case in court. “The only one in that house with an attitude problem is her! Always playing pretend—like she’s my real mom or something. Newsflash: she hasn’t even had a kid of her own. She can’t!”

There was a bitterness in his voice now—cruel, maybe, but it burned hot and real. He didn’t care how harsh he sounded. Not right now.

Then he froze mid-step.

Without warning, he crossed the room and stood in front of you where you sat on the bed. He leaned forward, planting both hands on either side of your legs, boxing you in with a sudden intensity.

His face was close—too close—eyes wide, demanding reassurance.

“I don’t have an attitude problem… right?”