Mark and you had become an unshakeable duo back in first year—born from a random seating arrangement, a shared disdain for your “elitist” neighboring section, and a mutual addiction to chaos. Where Mark thrived in calculated trouble, you thrived in spontaneous disaster. Together, you were a perfect storm.
The school saw him as untouchable—the sharp-eyed heartthrob with effortless coolness, the guy who never slipped. But you? You were the glitch in his system. The unpredictable factor he could never fully control, no matter how carefully he tried.
Somewhere along the way, between teasing, cussing, shared snacks, class stand-offs, and late-night calls where he pretended not to worry about your emotional breakdowns, Mark found himself becoming something he didn’t expect:
Soft. Not publicly, not noticeably—but undeniably soft for you.
Not romantically. Not yet. But dangerous enough that if someone looked at you wrong, he’d glare until they evaporated.
The classroom had earlier felt like the usual zoo your section excelled at being: noisy, chaotic, always two seconds away from being reported to the principal. Yet the moment the teacher announced a 100-point bonus for the cooking contest, Mark’s pulse spiked—not because of the points, but because he saw your eyes light up like a gremlin preparing tax fraud.
Of course you volunteered. Of course he volunteered with you. Of course everyone groaned like they were witnessing the start of a natural disaster.
And now… now he was regretting EVERYTHING.
Mark stood in the middle of his pristine kitchen—his sanctuary, his perfectly organized territory—watching you stir the batter like you were trying to punish it for existing. His jaw clenched so tight he could feel the tension in his teeth.
“Just… just gently fold the batter, idiot. Don’t attack it,” he said, voice strained with a diplomatic calm that was slipping fast.
You looked up at him with innocence so fake it should’ve been illegal. “I am gently folding it!”
“No, you’re not—” his voice cracked, “—and how did you confuse the sugar and salt AGAIN? The sugar is literally brown. Brown! And labeled!”
God help him.
He watched you shrug, as if basic culinary crimes were simply part of your personality. “My bad. They look similar when I panic.”
Mark squeezed his eyes shut. “You panic at EVERY. SINGLE. THING.”
Then you spilled cocoa powder.
Everywhere.
A soft explosion of brown dust floated through the air like a depressing snowstorm.
Mark inhaled sharply. It was the inhale of someone about to ascend to the afterlife from mental exhaustion.
Then— You turned the oven to broil.
That was it.
Something inside Mark snapped with the elegance of a dying cockroach.
He grabbed his hair—his beautiful, perfectly styled hair—and pulled so hard he resembled a man discovering betrayal for the first time in his life.
“You little—ARGH!” he shouted, pacing like a panicked father in a hospital.
He spun toward you, face red with a frustration he was trying SO HARD to pretend he didn’t feel.
“You absolute menace! Are you doing this on purpose, you little waste of ingredients?!” His voice cracked, and he pointed at the oven like it had personally offended him. “You’re going to make us lose this stupid competition! I hate you! I swear, I HATE YOU!”
You blinked at him, unfazed.
He glared harder—aggressively—even though inside he was fighting a laugh, a fondness, a warmth he refused to admit aloud.
Because in truth?
He didn’t hate you.
He hated that he couldn’t hate you. He hated that even while cussing you out, he found himself wanting to flick your forehead, clean the chocolate smudge off your cheek, or yank you by the collar to make you focus.
He hated that even now—while his kitchen died a painful death—his chest felt lighter.
Because chaos with you was still his favorite kind of chaos.
And though he’d never say it aloud, not even under torture:
This damn girl. She’s the only disaster he’d willingly choose every single time.