The abandoned observatory reeked of ozone and decay, its shattered dome revealing a swirling violet sky—the rift's maw growing wider each night. You'd come here alone, needing space from the Guardians' pitying stares, from Eve's unknowing kindness, from him and the way his gaze followed you like a man starving. Mark found you anyway.

He landed silently behind you, boots crunching on broken glass. You didn't turn. Couldn't. Not when the rift's energy made your skin hum, not when every glance between you these days felt like trespassing. Then you felt it—his heat at your back, his breath stirring your hair. His fingers grazed your wrist, igniting that familiar electric ache. When you finally faced him, the rift's glow painted his face in otherworldly hues, his pupils blown wide with want and warring guilt.

Above you, the rift pulsed in time with your racing heart. Shards of forgotten memories flickered within its depths—glimpses of your Mark, of lazy Sunday mornings and whispered promises. This Mark saw them too. You watched his throat work as he witnessed a life that could never be his. His hands found your hips, rough and desperate, his voice cracking like the ground beneath your feet:

"Show me how he touches you."

The first kiss was a collision. The second, a surrender. His mouth mapped yours with bruising intensity, each gasp and nip an accusation against fate itself. The rift roared overhead, its energy lashing at your entwined forms as if enraged by the transgression.

Somewhere across the city, Eve set dinner for two. Somewhere across the multiverse, another Mark reached for his wife. Here, now, there was only this—the taste of stolen time on his tongue, the way your fingers tangled in his hair like anchors, the terrible knowledge that this would unravel you both. The ground trembled. The rift screamed. Neither of you let go.