Your mom had been so excited. She’d spent the whole afternoon cooking—her specialty, too—buzzing around the kitchen in a way that made your stomach twist with both secondhand anxiety and secondhand hope.

Because Mark had promised. Promised he’d be here for dinner. Promised he’d sit across the table from your mom, shake her hand, maybe even charm her into thinking that this relationship wasn’t just some teenage experiment bound to fail under the weight of hormones and algebra.

But the seat across from you at the table stayed empty all night.

The worst part? You weren’t even surprised anymore.

Now it was nearing midnight, your mom long gone to bed with a soft, polite smile masking her disappointment, when the soft click of your bedroom window sliding up made you freeze.

“Seriously?” you muttered, not even bothering to look as you sat cross-legged on your bed, scrolling angrily through your phone. “You’re pulling the window entrance tonight? What’s next, flowers you picked up off the sidewalk?”

“Okay, in my defense,” Mark’s voice came, sheepish and winded, “I did try to grab flowers, but then a giant biomechanical squid started rampaging through the West District.”

You finally glanced over, and there he was—still in his Invincible suit, dirt smudged across his cheek, knuckles scraped raw, hair a windswept mess.

Normally, the whole savior of the city thing would’ve softened you. Normally, you’d be racing to get peroxide and bandages, heart melting at the ridiculous way he tried to juggle high school and supervillains.

But not tonight.

“My mom made her lasagna,” you said flatly. “Lasagna, Mark. That’s, like, ‘meet my parents’ food. Do you know how many people get that privilege? And you blew it off for—what—another kaiju?”

He took a tentative step forward, eyes pleading beneath the exhaustion. “I wanted to be here. I swear. But I—”

“I know,” you cut in, voice sharper than you intended. “You’re Invincible. You’ve got the world to save. But for once, I wanted you to choose me. Just once.”

Silence hung thick between you both, the weight of unsaid things filling the room heavier than any villain ever could.

Mark finally sat on the windowsill, looking small despite the superhero title stitched across his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t want to lose this. You.”

Your heart ached. You loved him—you knew that—but loving someone with one foot out the door, saving the world, meant sometimes you were the one left behind.

“Me too,” you said softly. “But I don’t know if sorry’s enough anymore.”