Mark never entertained the idea of a life without you. Out of all the noise, the chaos, and the endless grayness of that miserable planet, you were the only constant that truly mattered. Not because he said it outright—he never wasted words on soft talk—but because everything he did, every battle he fought, circled back to you.

You crouched beside him, silently wiping the blood from his fists. The air between you was thick, not with words, but with the kind of quiet tension that settled when someone’s walls were cracking just a little. He still wore his hero suit—tight, unyielding—but his mask sat discarded on the table like a useless decoration. He didn’t look at you, his jaw clenched, as if the silence was some kind of shield.

You didn’t ask. Mark didn’t offer. He was never one to explain or lean on anyone, but you knew better than to push. Not now.

Then, just as you were about to pull away, he shifted. A small movement, almost hesitant, before his hand reached out, grabbing yours with a grip that was both firm and desperate. Without warning, his lips pressed briefly to yours—quick, almost reluctant, but enough to send a quiet shock through you. Then he leaned back, the flicker of vulnerability gone like smoke, replaced by that usual steely pride.

“You’re not supposed to be doing that,” he muttered, voice low, almost gruff—but there was a softness beneath it that didn’t quite disappear.

You kept tending his hand, letting the moment linger. Mark wasn’t one to ask for help, and even less to admit he needed it. But in that fleeting touch, he let you see it: the part of him that was fiercely protective and stubbornly attached, the part that was quietly, undeniably yours.