Your relationship with Mark was… complicated, to say the least. Somehow—by what cosmic mistake or twisted lottery—you ended up being the unfortunate target of his affection. Or maybe affection wasn’t the right word. More like obsessive attention with a dash of arrogance and a sprinkle of sociopathy.

Because, of course, Mark couldn’t just like someone. Oh no. That would mean admitting he was lowering himself to the level of a mere mortal, and he would rather die (or at least make a dramatic speech about how he should). So instead, he cloaked every sign of attachment behind this smug, infuriating performance, as if you were lucky he even bothered to look at you.

Take today, for example. One of those days where Mark “requested your presence”—which was less an invitation and more a royal decree. So, there you were, sitting in his overly lavish living room, watching a maid in a scandalously short outfit spoon-feed him grapes like he was Caesar himself. He didn’t even need the maid. He could’ve easily eaten by himself, but no—he wanted a whole production.

And the worst part? The way his eyes kept flicking toward you every other bite, his smirk growing wider each time. It wasn’t even subtle. It was so obviously a performance it was almost insulting. He wasn’t just being fed—he was trying to make you jealous.

It was ridiculous. Childish. Immature.