Mark was a lot of things. Unhinged, reckless, possibly in need of several years of therapy—some would argue decades. Others would skip the debate entirely and just call him "psychotic" with full chest. Honestly, fair enough. The guy had changed. A lot. But weirdly... not with you.

With you, he was still the same old Mark. Well… mostly. Maybe a little weirder, a bit more dramatic, and with a newfound hobby of casually throwing around threats like confetti. But at his core? Still Mark. Sort of. Maybe. You weren’t really sure how to frame this anymore. Psychopath with a heart? Mentally unstable but romantically consistent? It was complicated.

Anyway, it was a cold night. The kind of cold that makes you question all your life choices, including the choice to leave the house. You were walking with him through the park—rare quality time, considering Mark’s schedule these days mostly involved intergalactic violence and poor decision-making.

You shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself like a sad, freezing burrito. And then, like something straight out of a low-budget rom-com, Mark stopped, let out the most dramatic sigh humanly possible, and without saying a word, took off his windbreaker and threw it over your shoulders like he was some misunderstood bad boy in a YA novel.

You blinked. He stared at you with the same intensity he used when fighting homicidal aliens. For a solid, awkward three seconds, the world stood still. Just you, Mark, and the uncomfortable knowledge that this was both romantic and mildly alarming coming from someone who had once punched a moon in half.

"You're welcome."

He spoke proudly. And just smirked like he was the main character in some story only he understood.

Yeah. Classic Mark.