aki’s alter ego. 🏹

📍 pretty girl ave

[remcouver]

The Flock. | lmk ♡

characters : mark lee x fem reader 🧸

warnings : heavy angst with a hopeful/comfort ending, themes of religious trauma, spiritual deconstruction/doubt, detailed descriptions of a panic attack, discussion/mention of past non-consensual photography (voyeurism by family/family partner), breach of privacy, family betrayal, emotional abuse (no explicit descriptions of the abuse itself, focus is entirely on the emotional aftermath and healing).

a/n : hi angels. just a little heads up before you dive in... this piece is incredibly close to my heart because this is also another story of mine that is based on real events, so it deals with a very personal & specific trauma. it's actually been sitting in my drafts for quite some time now. it was just so hard for me to write that i couldn't finish it on my own, but I'm truly so grateful that my friend motivated me to finally finish it and helped me through the whole process.

because of the heavy themes, it includes sensitive topics that might be triggering or traumatizing to some of you. please protect your peace, look after yourselves & read at your own risk/discretion, angels. I highly suggest listening to sun bleached flies by ethel cain while reading it. love yall sm & always :)

The heavy wooden doors of the church always felt like a barrier, not an entrance. Outside, the Sunday sun beat down on the concrete pavement. Inside, the air smelled faintly of aged paper, floor wax, and the clean, linen scent of Mark’s ironed collar.

Mark stood a few paces ahead in the foyer, his posture naturally upright, hands neatly tucked into the pockets of his slacks. He was speaking with an elderly deacon, nodding with that genuine, wide-eyed attention that made everyone in the congregation adore him. Mark didn't just practice his faith; he lived it with a quiet, unshakeable warmth. He saw the world as a canvas of grace.

You stood near the bulletin board, your fingers tightly interlaced around the strap of your purse. Your fingernails dug into the leather until your tips turned white. You used to fit here. A lifetime ago, before the world fractured, you knew exactly when to sit, when to stand, and how to harmonize during the doxology.

Now, the music sounded like static. The prayers felt like oxygen being sucked from the room.

Mark excused himself from the deacon, his expression softening the moment his eyes landed on you. He walked over, his sneakers making no sound on the carpeted floor. He reached out, his warm palm gently cupping your elbow. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice low enough to stay between the two of you. “You okay? We can leave if it’s getting too loud.”

“I'm fine,” you lied, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Just thinking.”

Mark didn't push. He never pushed. He knew the broad strokes of the shadow that followed you, though the full weight of it was something you only let out in fractured whispers during the darkest hours of the night. He knew that church wasn't sanctuary for you anymore. It was a crime scene.

—

The drive to his parents' house was forty minutes of heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the low hum of the car’s engine and the soft jazz playing from the dashboard. Mark kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting face-up on the center console, an open invitation. You stared out the passenger window, watching the suburban landscape blur into a smear of green and gray.

Your mind, as it often did when you were cornered by silence, drifted back to the afternoon everything changed. It wasn’t a dramatic explosion. It was the soft click of a folder opening on your older sister’s phone. You had been looking for a recipe she promised to text you. Instead, you found a digital graveyard of your own privacy.

Dozens of photos. Angles from the high corner of the bathroom window. Angles from the gap in the closet door. You in the shower, completely vulnerable, completely unaware. And worse than the images themselves were the timestamps, matching the weekends her boyfriend had stayed over. Worst of all was the text thread directly beneath the folder, where your sister had sent the files with captions that made your stomach turn to ash.

You never said a word. You closed the phone. You put it back on the kitchen counter. You walked to your room, locked the door, and waited for God to strike them down, or to comfort you, or to give you a sign that you weren't entirely alone in the dark.

Nothing happened. The sun rose the next morning. Your sister made breakfast. Her boyfriend smiled at you across the table. The silence from heaven was absolute, loud enough to crack your foundations. If God was a father, he was the kind who watched his children get torn apart and chose to look the other way.

“We’re almost there,” Mark’s voice broke through the haze. You blinked, the suburban houses suddenly looking much closer, much grander. Mark’s family home was a beautiful, two-story brick house with a manicured lawn and a small, wooden cross hanging neatly beside the front door.

“My mom made that pot roast you liked last time,” Mark said, turning into the driveway. He looked over at you, his eyes searching your face. “Hey. Look at me.”

You turned your head. Mark’s expression was a mix of profound affection and deep concern. “You don't have to pretend,” he said softly. “My family loves you because I love you. You don't need to say the grace. You don't need to talk about theology. Just be you.”

“They’re going to ask, Mark,” you whispered, your throat tight. “They always ask what parish I’m attending now. They ask what my favorite verses are. Your dad is a minister.”

“And I'm his son, and I told him you’re going through a season of rest,” Mark said, his fingers finally reaching over to squeeze your hand. His skin was warm, a stark contrast to your freezing fingers. “I’ve got your back. Always.”

—

The dinner table was loud, filled with the clinking of silverware and the bright, overlapping chatter of Mark’s parents and his brother. The food was excellent, but every bite tasted like cardboard in your mouth.

“So, dear,” Mark’s mother said, leaning forward with a warm, maternal smile. “Mark tells us you’ve been doing some soul-searching lately. It’s so important for young women to find their own anchor in the Word, especially with how chaotic the world is right now.”

Your fork scraped loudly against the porcelain plate. The room seemed to drop five degrees. “Yes,” you managed to say, your voice sounding thin and distant to your own ears. “It’s... been a process.”

“It’s a beautiful process,” Mark’s father chimed in, his deep voice carrying the natural resonance of a man used to speaking from a pulpit. “The Lord welcomes the wrestling. Look at Jacob. Look at Job. Doubt isn’t the enemy of faith; it’s the crucible. But we must always remember that even when we feel abandoned, His eyes are on the sparrow. He protects His flock from the wolves.”

He protects His flock.

The phrase repeated in your head, turning into a screeching roar. The image of your sister’s phone screen flashed behind your eyelids—the bright blue light of the digital folder, the sound of water running in the shower, the feeling of invisible eyes watching you wash your hair. Where was the protector then? Was the bathroom door outside His jurisdiction?

“I think,” you started, but your breath caught in your throat.

“Actually, Dad,” Mark cut in quickly, noticing the way your posture had gone completely rigid. “She’s been working really long hours at the clinic. Let’s not turn dinner into a seminary lecture, yeah?” He laughed, trying to lighten the mood, but his eyes remained fixed on you, full of sharp worry.

“Of course, of course,” his father smiled, nodding. “We just care. The enemy loves to isolate us when we're tired.”

The enemy.

The room began to spin. The walls, decorated with framed Bible verses in elegant calligraphy, seemed to lean inward. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Fear not, for I am with you.”—The words felt like a mockery, a grand joke you weren’t in on.

Your chest tightened, a vice gripping your ribs until you couldn't expand your lungs. Your heart began to hammer against your breastbone like a trapped bird.

“Excuse me,” you whispered.

You didn’t wait for a response. You pushed your chair back—the legs scraping harshly against the hardwood floor—and stood up. The room tilted. You walked toward the hallway, your vision blurring at the edges, turning into a dark, vignetted tunnel.

You found the downstairs bathroom by memory, stumbling inside and clicking the lock shut. The sound of the lock sliding into place—the very sound that was supposed to mean safety, but never did—triggered it completely. You slid down the back of the wooden door, your knees hitting the bathmat.

You couldn't breathe. Air was entering your mouth, but it wasn't reaching your lungs. Your hands began to shake uncontrollably, pins and needles radiating up your arms. The image of the phone, the feeling of being violated in your own home, the suffocating guilt of keeping the secret to protect a family dynamic that was already dead—it all came rushing up like bile.

“Please,” you gasped into the empty room, your forehead pressing against your knees. You didn’t know who you were asking. God, the universe, anyone. “Please, make it stop.”

A soft, hesitant knock sounded against the door.

“Hey,” Mark’s voice came through the wood, muffled but steady. “It’s just me. It’s Mark. Can I come in?”

You tried to answer, but only a broken, choked sob escaped your lips.

A moment later, the lock clicked from the outside—Mark always knew where the emergency key was kept in his parents' house. The door opened slowly, just enough for him to slip his lean frame through the gap before he closed it behind him.

He didn’t stand over you. He immediately dropped to his knees on the floor, disregarding his nice slacks, and pulled his legs in so he was sitting directly opposite you in the cramped space.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he said, his voice incredibly calm, though his eyes were wide with a fierce, protective focus. “Don’t look at the floor. Look at my eyes.”

You forced your gaze up. His face was right there, familiar and safe.

“Match my breathing,” he commanded gently, taking a deep, exaggerated breath through his nose and letting it out slowly through his mouth. “In for four. Come on. With me.”

You tried, but your ribs felt locked. You shook your head, tears finally spilling over your eyelashes, hot and fast down your cheeks. “I can’t. Mark, I can’t breathe.”

“You can. I'm right here,” he said. He reached out, carefully placing one of his hands over your heart, feeling the frantic, terrifying rhythm. He took your trembling right hand and pressed it flat against his own chest.

“Feel that? That’s my heart. It’s steady. Borrow my rhythm.” He kept breathing loudly, deeply, holding your gaze with an intensity that anchored you to the present moment. Slowly, the walls stopped spinning. The air began to settle in your chest, thin at first, then deeper.

“There you go,” he whispered, his thumb wiping a tear from your cheek. “You’re doing it. You’re safe. You’re in a bathroom in Toronto, it’s 2026, and I’m right here with you. Nothing can touch you here.”

You leaned forward, your forehead dropping against his shoulder. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, burying his face in your hair. He rocked you slightly, a tiny, repetitive movement that gradually quieted the screaming in your nerves.

“I hate it,” you choked out, your voice raw. “I hate the words. I hate the verses. They feel like a lie. They feel like a trap.”

Mark held you tighter. He didn't defend his faith. He didn’t quote a scripture to correct your perspective. He didn’t tell you that you were sinning by feeling this way.

“I know,” he murmured into your hair. “I know, baby. You don’t have to love them. You don’t have to listen to them.”

“Your parents...”

“Are going to understand that you felt sick and we had to leave,” Mark said firmly. “I’m already calling an Uber. We're going home. Our home.”

He stayed on the floor with you for another ten minutes, until the shaking stopped completely and your hands were warm again. When you finally stood up, he held your waist, ensuring your balance was steady before he opened the door. He walked you straight out the side entrance of the house to the driveway, never letting go of your hand, shielding you from any more questions.

—

Later that night, the apartment was completely quiet. The city lights filtered through the sheer curtains of the bedroom, casting long, blue-gray shadows across the bed.

You were sitting up against the headboard, wrapped in one of Mark’s oversized hoodies. The scent of him—cedarwood and detergent—was the only thing keeping the edges of the panic at bay.

Mark walked into the room carrying two mugs of chamomile tea. He set them on the nightstand, climbed into the bed beside you, and pulled the duvet over both of your laps. He reached out, pulling you into his side until your head was resting on his chest, right over his heartbeat.

“Mark?” you whispered, staring at the ceiling.

“Yeah?”

“How do you do it?” You turned your head slightly to look at his profile.

“How do you look at me, knowing how I feel about everything you believe in? Doesn’t it make you angry? Doesn’t it make you feel like I’m... broken?”

Mark was quiet for a long moment. His fingers ran through your hair, a slow, methodical stroke from your crown to your shoulders.

“When I look at you,” Mark said, his voice cracking slightly with an emotion he usually kept hidden,

“I don’t see someone who’s broken. I see someone who was broken into. Someone took something from you that wasn’t theirs to take. Your trust, your safety, your peace.”

He shifted, turning his body so he was looking down at you, his eyes incredibly serious in the dim light. “My faith isn’t a club to beat people with,” he said softly. “If my religion tells me to judge you because you’re hurting from an evil act done to you, then I’m reading the book wrong. Jesus wept when people were hurting. He didn’t hand them a tract and tell them to get over it.”

A tear slipped from your eye, soaking into the cotton of his shirt.

“I don’t think I can ever go back,” you admitted, the truth finally coming out without the fear of losing him. “I don’t think I can ever sit in a pew and feel like someone is watching out for me up there.”

Mark leaned down, pressing his lips gently to your forehead, holding the kiss there for a long, quiet second. “Then don’t," he whispered against your skin. “You don’t have to look up there for someone to watch out for you. I’m right here on the ground. Let me do it.”

You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, unbothered rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek. For the first time in years, the silence didn't feel like abandonment. It felt like room to breathe.

The weeks following that disastrous dinner passed in a heavy blur, but Mark became your anchor. He didn't ask you to be strong, nor did he ask you to pray. Instead, he sought out spaces where your mind could finally quiet down.

The autumn wind in Toronto carried a sharp, crisp edge, rustling the dry leaves across the pavement as you walked hand-in-hand with him toward the local botanical conservatory.

The moment you pushed through the heavy glass doors, the warmth of the greenhouse hit you instantly. The air inside was thick, humid, and smelled deeply of damp earth, rich moss, and blooming jasmine. It was a massive glass dome, filled with towering ferns and vibrant tropical flowers, completely isolated from the noise of the city outside. There were no wooden pews here. There were no altars, no guilt, and no expectations. There was only life, growing quietly in the dirt.

“Look at this one,” Mark whispered, pointing to a large, velvety green leaf of a prayer plant tucked near the edge of the stone pathway. “They fold their leaves up at night, like they’re resting, and then they open back up when the sun comes out. No matter how dark it gets, they just... wait for the light.”

You looked at the plant, then up at Mark. The filtered sunlight caught the soft edges of his jawline, his dark hair slightly messy from the wind.

“Do you think they get tired of waiting?” you asked, your voice barely above a murmur.

Mark shifted his gaze to you, his eyes incredibly soft. He reached up, his thumb gently tracing the line of your cheekbone. “Maybe. But they don’t have to try hard to grow. They just exist, and the earth takes care of them. That’s what we’re doing here. You don’t have to try, love. Just exist.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, inhaling the clean scent of his jacket mixed with the earthy humidity of the greenhouse. For an hour, you walked the stone paths in complete silence, letting the green canopy shield you from the rest of the world. Here, the silence didn't feel like a heavy, judgmental void. It felt like room to breathe.

The next evening, the quiet sanctuary of your apartment was filled with a different kind of warmth. The rain against the glass grew heavier, turning the city lights into long, weeping streaks of amber and blue. Inside, the coffee table was cluttered with empty takeout containers, used tissues, and half-empty mugs of tea.

On the couch, you were flanked by your two closest friends, Maya and Jin. Mark was in the kitchen, quietly brewing another pot of tea, giving you the space he knew you needed with the only people who truly knew the depth of your history.

Maya was holding your hand, her thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles, while Jin sat on the floor, leaning his back against your knees. They were the ones who had held you the night you found the files on your sister's phone. They were the ones who had helped you scrub the invisible dirt off your skin when you felt like you could never be clean again.

“I talked to my therapist about the holiday family dinners,” Maya said softly, breaking the quiet hum of the room. “She said it’s completely okay to set a hard boundary. You don’t owe your sister an audience. You don’t owe her boyfriend your presence. Keeping the secret to protect your parents' peace is a burden you didn’t ask to carry, but choosing not to see them is how you protect your peace.”

“it just feels like I’m the one who ran away,” you whispered, staring down at your lap.

“They get to act like everything is perfect. They go to church together. They have Sunday lunches. And I’m the one hiding in the dark, doubting everything I ever believed.”

Jin leaned his head back against your knee, looking up at you with fierce, protective eyes. “You aren’t hiding, look at where you are. You’re surviving an environment that was toxic to you. They didn’t protect you. The institution didn’t protect you. You walked away because the house was on fire, and you had every right to save yourself.”

From the kitchen threshold, Mark stood silently, holding a tray with fresh mugs. He had heard every word. He didn’t flinch, and he didn’t try to defend the religious structure your family used as a shield. He walked over, carefully setting the tray down, and dropped to his knees next to Jin, his eyes completely locked onto yours.

“They’re right, you know,” Mark said, his voice deep and steady. “A family that builds its peace on your silence isn’t a holy thing. It’s just a cover-up. You didn’t run away from truth. You ran away from cruelty. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Maya looked at Mark, a soft, appreciative smile touching her lips at how fiercely he guarded you, even against the traditions he’d known his whole life. A tear finally slipped down your nose—not from the familiar sting of panic, but from the quiet, overwhelming relief of finally being seen. It felt like the very first breath of a long, slow exhale.

—

Later that night, after Maya and Jin had fallen asleep tangled in blankets on the living room floor, you were curled up on the window seat, wrapped in Mark’s favorite oversized knit sweater.

Mark climbed up onto the wide ledge with you, pulling your legs across his lap. He reached out to the kitchen counter and brought over a small, heavy terracotta pot, setting it between you. Nestled in the dark, rich soil was a small, vibrant cutting of the same velvet-leafed prayer plant you had admired at the conservatory.

“The lady at the greenhouse said this one grew from a cutting of the big one we saw,” Mark said, a gentle, earnest smile touching his lips. “She told me that even when a plant goes through a shock—when it gets cut away from everything it used to know—it doesn’t die. It just spends a little time growing new roots in a safer place. I wanted you to have it. It’s yours. No church, no rules, no family pressure. Just a quiet thing that gets to grow at its own pace. Right here with me.”

Your chest tightened, but for the first time, it wasn’t the suffocating grip of panic. It was a swell of profound safety. You reached out, your fingers brushing the soft, velvety texture of the leaf. “Thank you, Mark,” you whispered. “It’s perfect.”

He tucked your head back under his chin, his hands folding over yours. “You don’t have to carry the weight of the sky anymore, love,” he whispered into the quiet room.

“If you can’t look up and see a father, then look across the room and see me. If you can’t find peace in a prayer, find it right here in my arms. I’m not going anywhere. I am right here on the ground with you, for as long as it takes.”

Two days later, Mark sat at the small wooden dining table in his parents' house. The dinner plates had been cleared, and his mother was folding napkins in the kitchen, but his father remained at the head of the table, an open Bible resting beside his glasses. The air between the two men was thick with an unsaid tension that had been building since you ran out of the house the week before.

“Mark,” his father began, his tone carrying the familiar, heavy weight of pastoral authority. “We’ve been praying for her. But you must understand my concern as your father, and as a minister. A relationship cannot thrive when unequally yoked. She is carrying a deep bitterness against the church, and against God. If she closes her heart to the Lord, she closes her heart to the truth that guides your life.”

Mark sat perfectly still. His hands were flat on the table, his knuckles slightly white, but his expression was entirely calm—the quiet before a storm.

“Dad,” Mark said, his voice low, lacking the usual deferential warmth he always gave his parents. “She isn’t bitter. She’s injured.”

His father sighed, leaning back. “We all experience trials, son. Job lost everything, yet he blessed the name of the Lord. We cannot allow our trauma to justify turning our backs on grace.”

“Do you know what happened to her?” Mark asked, his voice dropping an octave, cold and razor-sharp.

His father blinked, caught off guard by the sudden intensity in Mark’s eyes. “She said she was going through a difficult season—”

“Her sister’s boyfriend took non-consensual, private photos of her in the shower, in her own home, for months,” Mark stated, the brutal, unvarnished truth cutting through the pristine air of the dining room. “And her sister helped him do it. She found the images on her sister’s phone. She had to sit at the dinner table with them every single day, keeping that weight inside her chest because she knew it would destroy her family if she spoke up.”

The room went completely dead silent. In the kitchen, the sound of folding napkins stopped instantly. His father’s mouth opened slightly, his pastoral eloquence completely failing him as the reality of the horror shattered the abstract concept of ‘trials.’

“She prayed, Dad,” Mark continued, his voice trembling slightly with an anger he rarely let anyone see. “She grew up in the pews just like I did. She begged for help, and nothing changed. The boyfriend still smiled at her. The sister still pretended to love her. So when she sits in your church, she doesn’t hear hymns. She hears the silence of a structure that failed to protect her. If your first instinct is to tell her she needs to fix her theology instead of weeping for what was stolen from her, then you don’t know the heart of Christ at all.”

Mark stood up, pushing his chair back. He didn't raise his voice, but the authority in his tone completely eclipsed his father’s.

“I love her,” Mark said, looking down at his parents. “I am going to spend the rest of my life making sure she knows she is safe, clean, and cherished. If you want to be a part of my life, and a part of hers, you will never bring up her faith again. You will only show her grace, or you will not see us at all.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned, grabbed his coat from the hallway rack, and walked out into the cool evening air, leaving the heavy silence of the house behind him.

—

When Mark returned to your apartment, the lights were dimmed, and the low, comforting hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the kitchen. You were curled up deep in the corner of the sofa, a book resting gently against your thighs. Wrapped in your favorite hoodie that Mark gave you on your birthday, your eyes tracked the lines of text in the peaceful silence of the room.

He closed the door softly, kicking off his shoes. You finally blinked, looking up from your book as his silhouette entered the living room. It took only a second to notice the profound emotional exhaustion etched into the lines of his face. Yet, the moment his eyes found yours, that familiar, protective warmth washed over his features. He walked over and melted right into the sofa corner beside you, pulling you directly into his space. He wrapped his long arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck and holding you tightly against his chest until there was no space left between you.

You gently set your book aside, bringing a hand up to slowly run your fingers through his hair. As he let out a heavy, trembling sigh against your skin, you simply leaned into him, offering your silent support. The silence stretched between you for a few moments, peaceful and grounded, until Mark suddenly tightened his grip around your waist, pulling you even closer.

“I talked to them,” he murmured into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “They know. They know they were wrong, and they know they will never cross that line again. I made sure of it.

For a second, the apartment fell completely still as his words sank in. Then, you let out a shaky breath, your hands coming up to tightly grip the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to him as you buried your face right back into his shoulder, “You didn’t have to do that, Mark. You didn’t have to fight them for me.”

At your words, Mark exhaled a soft breath and gently pulled back. His hands moved from your waist up to your face, his large thumbs framing your jawline and lifting your chin slightly so your eyes met his. The protective warmth in his gaze was overwhelming as he looked down at you, his head shaking slightly in disagreement.

“Shh, I will always fight for you,” he said softly, yet there wasn't a single shred of doubt in his eyes as he looked down at you. “Against the world, against my family, against anything that tries to make you feel like you aren’t enough just as you are.”

Your chest tightened with a mixture of awe and profound relief. Unable to hold his intense gaze any longer, you let your body go heavy and relaxed, melting completely back into his embrace as he rested his chin on the top of your head.You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, unbothered rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek. The memories of the phone, the bathroom lock, and the suffocating guilt were still there—shadows that would take time to fully recede into the past. But as Mark tightened his grip, holding you firmly against the earth, you realized you didn’t need a golden heaven or a perfect sermon to feel saved.

You had the damp earth of the conservatory, the fierce loyalty of your friends, and the steady, living grace of the man holding you in the dark. For the first time in a very long time, you knew you were completely safe.

[remcouver]

journey mercies. | lmk ⭑.𖥔 ݁ ˖

♡ tw / cw: mentions of death, heavy themes of grief + loss, hurt/comfort, soft angst, fluff, markie being the sweetest boy ever :( please take care of yourself while reading... :,,)

a/n : hi angels ! just wanted to leave a quick note saying this story is actually super close to my heart bc it's based on my real life ((tho i changed some things slightly for the plot). after my mom passed, mark was honestly one of my biggest comfort... his music & just the way he is helped me heal so. much. he's my ultimate safe space and i wanted to write him that way for u too. i hope you guys can feel the love in this one. sending so much love, hugs & kisses to anyone missing someone today. ♡ 🌫️ :)

p.s. divider cr to @uzmacchiato !!!! ☕

The second Sunday of May always felt like a heavy, grey cloud had settled directly onto your chest, refusing to move until the sun went down.

It had been years since you were fourteen—the age when your world fractured and the word “Mom” became a hollow ache in your throat—but the anniversary never got lighter. It just became a different kind of heavy. A familiar weight you learned to carry, like an old, tattered coat that didn’t fit anymore but you couldn't bring yourself to throw away.

The morning had been the hardest. You’d woken up to a barrage of “Happy Mother’s Day!” notifications in group chats you’d forgotten to mute. You’d scrolled past endless photos of friends holding bouquets and smiling beside women who looked just like them. Eventually, the noise of the world became too loud, and you did the only thing you knew how to do: you retreated.

By 3:00 PM, you were buried in the sanctuary of your bedroom. The curtains were drawn tight to block out the mocking brightness of the spring sun, and you were tucked under three layers of blankets, wearing an oversized hoodie that smelled faintly of laundry detergent. You were trying very hard to simply not exist for a few hours.

The sound of the front door opening didn’t startle you. Only one person had a key, and only one person knew exactly where you’d be today.

You heard the soft thud of a bag being set on the kitchen counter, the familiar click of the kettle, and the muffled sound of footsteps moving with practiced quiet down the hallway. Your bedroom door creaked open, admitting a sliver of warm light from the hall.

“Hey,” Mark whispered.

He didn't turn on the overhead light. He didn't ask if you were okay—he already knew the answer. He just walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, his weight causing the mattress to dip in a way that felt grounding. He looked like he’d come straight from a long day out—hair slightly tousled from the wind, a comfortable knit sweater hugging his frame—but his focus was entirely on the small, shivering lump you made under the covers.

“I brought the good tea,” he said, his voice a low, soothing rasp. “The chamomile one from that little shop you like. And I got those honey biscuits.”

You poked your nose out from under the duvet, your eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “You didn’t have to come over, Mark. I know you had a long day.”

Mark just shook his head, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. He reached out, his hand finding your shoulder through the thick fabric of your hoodie. “I’m exactly where I want to be. I’m not letting you do this day alone. Not a chance.”

He stayed there for a long time, just rubbing your shoulder in slow, rhythmic circles while you stared at the wall. Mark was never one for grand, empty speeches. He knew that when you were grieving a decade-old loss, “It’ll be okay” was the last thing you wanted to hear. Instead, he offered the things he was best at: his time, his silence, and his unwavering presence.

Eventually, the silence of the bedroom started to feel a bit too heavy. Mark noticed the shift in your breathing before you even spoke.

“How about we move to the living room?”he suggested softly. “I’ve got the tea waiting. I think it’s time we watch Modern Family again. Start from the pilot? We could use a little Phil Dunphy wisdom today.”

It was your “safety” show. It stayed in the background of your best days and cushioned your worst ones. You didn’t have to think when it was on; you just had to let the familiar chaos of the families wash over you.

“The pilot?” you croaked, your voice thick from crying.

“The pilot,” he confirmed, offering a hand to help you up.

He helped you untangle yourself from the blankets, and when you stood up and felt that sudden wave of vertigo—the kind of soul-deep exhaustion that only grief brings—he caught you. He tucked your head under his chin, wrapping his arms around you in a hug that felt like a fortress.

Mark was solid. He smelled like clean cotton and the faint, citrusy scent of his cologne. Standing there in the dim light, you finally let yourself lean into him. You gripped the back of his shirt, your fingers trembling, and let out a long, shaky breath against his chest.

“I miss her so much today, Mark,” you whispered. “It’s been so long, but I still feel like that fourteen-year-old girl standing in the hallway. It doesn’t go away.”

“I know,” he murmured, his hand cradling the back of your head, fingers weaving through your hair. “I know it doesn’t. And you don’t have to pretend it does for me. You can be that fourteen-year-old girl for as long as you need today. I’ve got you.”

He guided you to the living room, where he’d already set the mood. The lamp in the corner was dimmed to a soft amber, and the tea was steaming on the coffee table. He settled onto the sofa, pulling you into the space between his arm and his chest, and grabbed the remote.

As the familiar theme song filled the room, the tension in your jaw finally began to loosen. It was the comfort of the routine—the way Mark knew exactly which episodes made you laugh and which ones to skip if they were too "parent-heavy" for today.

“Tell me something about her?” he asked after a few minutes, his voice barely audible over the TV. It was his tradition. Every year, he’d ask for one story. One memory to keep her spirit in the room with you.

You took a sip of the tea, the warmth spreading through your chest. “She used to sing to me when I had nightmares,” you said softly. “But she was a terrible singer. Like, genuinely off-key. I used to tell her to stop because she was making it worse, and she’d just laugh and sing louder until I started laughing, too. Sometimes I worry I'm forgetting the exact pitch of her voice, Mark. That's what scares me the most.”

Mark reached for your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours and squeezing tightly. “You won’t. And even if the sound fades a little, the way she made you feel... that’s written in your DNA. You carry her in the way you take care of people, and the way you have so much music in you. She’s not gone as long as you’re here.”

He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. For the next few hours, you drifted in and out of the show. Mark didn't move, even when his arm probably went numb. He just kept his thumb moving in small circles against your hand, a constant, tethering reminder that you were grounded in the present.

When Phil did something characteristically ridiculous on screen, you let out a tiny, genuine huff of a laugh. Mark’s hold on you tightened almost imperceptibly, his own quiet chuckle vibrating against your side.

By the time the sun had fully set, the sharp, jagged edges of the day had been sanded down. Mark made you a simple dinner, coached you into eating a few bites, and eventually, when your eyes started to flutter shut against your will, he guided you back to bed.

He tucked the blankets around you with quiet, focused care. As he went to step away to clear the tea mugs, you caught his wrist.

“Stay?” you asked, your voice small.

He didn’t even hesitate. He slid into the bed beside you, still in his soft t-shirt and sweats. He pulled you back against his chest—his front to your back—and draped his arm protectively over your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“Always,” he whispered into the nape of your neck. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up. Tomorrow is a new day, and we’ll get through that one, too.”

In the quiet of the room, listening to the steady, calm beat of Mark’s heart, the heavy grey cloud finally started to lift, replaced by the soft, warm light of being truly known.