HOMESICK
PART I
Idol!Mark Lee × Food Vlogger!Female reader.
At the height of everything he ever wanted, Mark Lee realizes something is missing.
Not success. Not people. Not even home. So he leaves—quietly, without telling anyone—chasing a feeling he doesn’t know how to name. A month in a different country, with no schedules, no expectations, no explanations… just distance. In a place where no one knows him, he meets someone who doesn’t ask who he is—only who he chooses to be.
What begins as an unlikely arrangement—five days under the same roof—slowly unfolds into something deeper. Shared spaces become familiar. Quiet routines become comfort. And somewhere in between, a stranger becomes something far harder to leave behind. Mark came looking for space. Instead, he found a home he was never meant to have. But time doesn’t stop—and the life he left behind is still waiting for him. When he returns, nothing feels the same.
Because sometimes, being homesick has nothing to do with where you are and everything to do with the place, the person, you can’t go back to.
MAIN MASTERLIST | PART II
CUTS | TORONTO | PRESS RUN | BTS
GENRES.
Romance , Angst , Slice of Life , Emotional Drama , Soft Comedy , Slow Burn , Hurt/Comfort , JUST ONE SMUT SCENE
WARNINGS.
Emotional Angst , Themes of Identity & Burnout , Mild Language , Slow Emotional Build , Protected Sex , Makeouts , Lots of kissing , Open-ended emotional tension (no heavy breakup, but strong longing)
COPYRIGHT.
This story is an original work of fiction written by the author.
The use of Mark Lee as a character is purely for creative and fictional purposes. His name, likeness, and public persona are used only as a face claim and do not represent or reflect his real-life personality, actions, or experiences. All characters, events, and narrative elements within this story are fictional and are not intended to depict real-life situations.
Please do not copy, repost, translate, or distribute this work without permission.
Morning doesn’t arrive all at once. It seeps in. Through the thin space between the curtains , stretching slowly across the floor through the quiet stillness of a house that's testing whether the house is ready to wake up or not.
It isn't.
The air is cool, faintly carrying the scent of polished wood and something older—something familiar that lingers in walls that have held years of living. Quiet in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful, suspended. Like something has been left unfinished. Mark stands in the middle of it barefoot, unmoving, his weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other without him realizing it. The wooden floor is cool beneath him, grounding in a way that almost feels unfamiliar. Like he walked into a memory that isn’t his anymore. This house—his house, his family’s house in Toronto—should feel like something solid. Instead, it feels like something he’s stepped back into too late. The silence presses in, not loud or suffocating—just… present. It fills every corner, stretches between the furniture, settles into his chest in a way that feels heavier than noise ever did. His phone vibrates in his hand. He doesn’t look at it.
He already knows.
Another call. Another message. Another voice waiting for him to pick up and explain what he meant with the message he sent hours ago into a new day to his managers and colleagues that have become part of his family over the years. Questions waiting to be asked. Answers expected. He exhales slowly, thumb hovering over the screen before the vibration stops on its own. The quiet comes back. And with it— you.
Not as a thought, not even as a memory crashing in, but like something that has already settled into the space before he even noticed it was there, as something that lingers. In the way the morning light touches the floor—soft, warm, familiar in a way that doesn’t belong to this house. In the way the quiet feels…incomplete. In the way his chest tightens, slow and unfamiliar, like something is missing and he doesn’t know how to reach for it without saying your name out loud. He exhales. Long. Controlled.
It doesn’t help.
The doorbell rings. It’s sudden and cuts through everything. Sharp. Immediate.
Real.
He blinks, like he’s being pulled out of something too deep, his body reacting before his mind fully catches up. The second ring comes quicker this time—impatient, urgent, like whoever is on the other side needs him to open it fast. His fingers tighten slightly around his phone before he sets it down without thinking. Then he moves. Each step feels heavier than it should. The hallway feels even longer than it normally is. His hand pauses on the door handle, just for a second, just long enough for something in his chest to hesitate— then he opens it and everything shifts. You're there. Not standing still.
Not calm.
You’re moving before he even processes it—stepping forward, eyes wide, scanning him like you’re searching for something wrong.
“Mark—”
Your voice breaks slightly, and before he can respond, before he can even register the way your face looks, your luggage. The one that's barely upright behind you, shoulder bag long thrown on the floor—eyes wide, breath uneven, something frantic sitting just beneath your skin. Your hands are already on him. On his face first, warm, quick. Careful and almost trembling. Your fingers brush along his jaw, up to his temples, pushing his hair back like you’re trying to see all of him at once. Your brows pull together, your eyes darting over his features like you expect to find something—an injury, exhaustion, something visible, like the version of him standing in front of you doesn’t feel like enough proof that he’s okay. “Are you okay?” you ask again, softer now, but no less urgent. It doesn’t sound like a question you expect an answer to. It sounds like something you’re trying to confirm with your own hands. You don’t wait for an answer. Your thumbs brush along his cheekbones, your gaze flickering over every part of his face like you’re searching for something broken, something he hasn’t told you.
He freezes.
Not because he’s uncomfortable, because no one touches him like this anymore, not without expectation. Not without purpose. Your hands slide down—his shoulders, gripping lightly, then to his arms, then briefly against his chest like you’re grounding yourself in the fact that he’s here. That he’s real. That he’s not… broken. That he’s here, that he didn’t disappear along with the screenshot he sent you regarding the decision you knew he had been hesitant to make about his career after ten years of the same routine. Your breathing is uneven. He notices that.
He notices everything.
The way your lips part slightly like you want to say more but don’t know where to start, the way your fingers tighten just a little when he doesn’t respond. Mark doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, because for a moment, he forgets how to. All he can focus on is the way you’re touching him like he matters outside of everything else.
Not as an artist, not as someone people expect things from. Just— him.
Your hands slow, your movements pause, and then you look up at him properly, really look at him. Your expression softens, but the worry doesn’t leave. “Mr. Idol…” you say again, more softly this time, your voice dropping into something fragile he's never heard from you before. “Talk to me.” Something in his chest tightens because he wants to. He really does. He should. A hundred things are sitting in his chest, pressing against his ribs, waiting for space.
But the words don’t come.
Not here, not yet. The moment stretches and all he can focus on is you. The warmth of your hands, the way you’re looking at him like he’s something you might lose if you don’t hold on tight enough and it does something to him, something quiet, something deep. Something that makes everything else—the noise, the expectations, the endless movement—feel far away.
His throat tightens.
No words come out because if he starts— he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop and in that silence, everything tilts…
It’s never quiet where he comes from. It never looks like this where he comes from. Not even when it’s quiet.
“Mark, just a few more minutes—”
The interviewer leans forward slightly, her smile practiced but warm enough to feel real if he doesn’t think too hard about it. The lights are too bright. They always are. Too bright. They sit above him, angled just enough to catch every expression, every shift, every blink—no shadows, no softness, just exposure. He sits across from her, posture straight, hands loosely clasped together, expression already settled into something easy, familiar.
Controlled.
“How would you describe what the first fruit album means to you, personally?” He hears the question, registers it but there’s a slight delay before he answers. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, just long enough for something inside him to hesitate.
He smiles, because of course he does.
“It means a lot,” he says, voice smooth, steady. “I think… it’s a piece of who I am and where I am right now. Or where I was while making it.” The interviewer nods, satisfied, but not done, “And where is that?”
There it is.
The follow-up, the part where the answer is supposed to go deeper. His gaze flickers slightly, just for a second.
Because the truth?
The truth isn’t something he can package neatly into a sentence,the truth is unfinished. Messy and still forming. So he does what he always does. He adjusts.
“It’s… a process,” he says instead, softer now. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”
It sounds honest.
It is honest.
Just not complete. The camera keeps rolling. She smiles across from him, tablet resting against her knee, eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that never really turns off. “What was the most personal track for you on the album?” The camera lens is fixed, unrelenting, watching for something real it can capture and package. Mark leans back slightly, fingers loosely intertwined, his smile already in place before he speaks.
“That’s a hard one,” he says, letting out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I think… all of them had something personal in them.”
It’s a safe answer. A good one.
The kind that gives enough without giving too much but the interviewer leans in slightly. “Is there one that felt… closer to you than the others?”
There’s a pause.
Not long but just enough for something real to almost slip through. His gaze flickers, just for a second, unfocused—like he’s somewhere else entirely. There is one. There always is, but explaining it would mean—feeling it again, right now, with the lights on him and the camera watching—He can't afford that.
So he smiles again, soft and polished.
“I think it changes,” he says instead. “Depending on where I am.” She nods, satisfied. But it doesn't stop there. In the industry he is in.
It never does.
—
Backstage, it’s louder. Not with questions—but with movement. Staff walking quickly, voices overlapping, schedules being called out, things being adjusted at the last minute. Mark sits on a couch, shoulders slightly hunched, scrolling through something on his phone without really seeing it. Someone drops down beside him. Close enough that their shoulder bumps him with a little force.
“Hyung.”
He looks up and finds Jisung—familiar, grounding—drops down beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. Grounding in a way that nothing else has been all day.
“You good?”
The question is casual but the look isn’t. Mark lets out a small breath, leaning back. “Yeah,” he says.
It’s automatic.
He doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve been… quiet,” he adds, softer now. Mark lets out a quiet breath through his nose, tilting his head back slightly. “Have I?"
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Then, “You okay?”
The question lands differently here. Not like the ones from interviews, not like the ones that expect a certain kind of answer. This one—waits. Mark stares ahead for a moment. At nothing in particular but at everything all at once.
“I’m just tired,” he says finally.
It’s not a lie but it’s not everything either. Jisung studies him for a second longer, like he knows better than to believe him but also knows him well enough to know he really won't be getting the truth out of him regardless, still, he can't help being concerned. They both stay silent looking ahead at the chaos unfolding in front of them. Then, Jisung nudges his shoulder again, lighter this time.
“If you need a break, you should take one.”
Mark huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Just like that?”
“Yeah. Just like that.”
It’s said simply, like it’s easy. Like it doesn’t come with consequences. Mark doesn’t respond right away but the younger one doesn't stop from there, “You should say something cause you do deserve it anyway.” Jisung says, voice low enough that it doesn’t get lost in the noise around them. Mark glances at him. There’s no pressure in the statement.
Just—understanding.
And somehow, that makes it harder because he has thought about it. More than once. The idea sits at the back of his mind, quiet but persistent.
A question.
Not fully formed. He exhales slowly, nodding once. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”And in the back of his mind— something shifts. Something small. Persistent.
What if I did?
—
A few days later, the meeting room feels colder than the rest of the building.Or maybe it’s just the way the air sits—still, heavy with things unsaid. The tension. Mark sits across from two managers. One leans forward slightly, hands clasped, expression open. Listening. The other sits back, arms crossed, eyes sharp and calculating, already tense, already anticipating resistance. “I just need some time,” Mark says, his voice steady but quieter than usual. “That’s all I’m asking.”
There’s something underneath it, something strained.
“How much time?” the second manager asks immediately. There’s no softness in his tone, no room to breathe. Mark exhales slowly, “A few weeks,” Mark replies. The first manager nods slowly, like he’s already considering it but the second one exhales sharply and shakes his head almost instantly, “We’re in the middle of promotions,” he says. “You know that.”
“I know.”
“Then you also know this isn’t exactly—” “I said I know,” Mark cuts in, sharper this time.
The room stills.
Mark’s jaw tightens slightly. His fingers press lightly into his palms. “I’m not trying to mess anything up,” he continues, more controlled now. “I just… I need a break.” There’s a pause, a shift in the room.
Small but noticeable. The first manager leans in slightly. “You’ve been pushing a lot,” he says gently. “We’ve seen it.” Mark doesn’t respond. He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesn’t.
Pushing.
That’s one way to put it. Pushing doesn’t even begin to cover it.
The second manager leans forward now, tone sharper. “Can you hold off? Just until this cycle finishes?” There it is again. The question lingers, that expectation. That timing that never quite lines up with how he feels. Mark looks between them, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer because that question, that small, persistent one…is still there. Still building. Still unfinished. Still heavy in his chest. Mark’s fingers press into his palms slightly. And that question, that quiet, persistent one in the back of his mind— shifts. Just a little.
He finally exhales.
“…No.”
Not louder, not angrier. Just honest and this time, he doesn’t take it back.
The airport doesn’t rush him. It should. People move around him in currents—rolling suitcases, hurried footsteps, voices overlapping in fragments—but none of it presses into him the way it used to. It feels distant. Like he’s watching everything through glass. It’s not the same kind of loud. No one is looking at him, no one is waiting. No one cares and the absence of that — feels strange but also free. Mark walks without direction at first, just letting his steps carry him somewhere that doesn’t feel like an expectation. A black backpack hangs off one shoulder, the strap worn slightly where his fingers have been gripping it too tightly. In his other hand, he drags a medium-sized suitcase behind him—the wheels clicking softly against the tiled floor, steady, rhythmic.
There’s another one.
Larger and heavier. Left momentarily beside one of the seating areas he passed earlier, because what was inside was heavier physically, mentally, and most of all emotionally. A compact MIDI keyboard. A pair of headphones. A small interface, wires tangled together in a way that suggests he packed quickly rather than carefully. Like he told himself, this was just a break, but still couldn’t leave that part of himself behind.
You’re not really running, he thinks distantly. You just… changed locations.
The thought sits uncomfortably because it’s true and maybe that’s why nothing feels fully quiet yet. He hadn’t meant to stop.His shoulders are looser than they’ve been in weeks, but there’s something else underneath it, something unsettled. Like he left something behind or like he hasn’t exactly found it yet and that’s when he sees you.
He sees you even before he realizes he’s looking. You’re slightly off to the side of the main flow of people, near one of the quieter pillars. Your setup is small but intentional. A camera angled down. A container is wide open in front of you. Your hands moving with focus—adjusting, plating, fixing something just out of place. He slows without realizing it and watches. There’s something about the way you exist in that space that feels… untouched. Like the noise bends around you instead of pulling you in. You’re sitting just off to the side of the main flow of people, near a pillar where the traffic thins out. Your setup is small, contained—camera angled carefully, container open in front of you.
Your hands move with precision. Adjusting and plating. Fixing something small that no one else would notice. He slows. The suitcase behind him rolls once more before stopping. His fingers loosen slightly around the handle. He continues watching. You’re talking—softly, to the camera. Explaining something. He doesn’t quite catch the words, but the tone reaches him. Calm and steady. Unbothered. It feels simple and something in his chest tightens because nothing about his life has felt like that in weeks.
Months, maybe longer.
He doesn’t fully hear the words; he just watches the way you move. The way everything around you feels slower. He doesn’t realize how long he’s been standing there until you look up. Your eyes meet his, and something pauses.
A small one but it stretches.
Your eyes narrow just a little, not unfriendly—just… trying to place him. Trying to understand why there's a stranger standing there watching you like he forgot where he was going. You tilt your head slightly.
He blinks—
Then, without thinking, he tilts his own the opposite way. There’s a beat. Your gaze sharpens. Curious now. You blink back at him.
Then tilt your head the other way.
He mirrors you again.
And for a second, it’s ridiculous. Everything else fades. No noise, no movement. Almost like neither of you wants to be the first to break whatever this strange, wordless moment is. Just this strange, silent exchange between two people who don’t know each other. Then you straighten.
“…Can I help you?” you ask.
Your tone is polite, but your eyes are sharper now. Observing. Mark exhales quietly, like he’s just remembered how to exist in his own body. “Yeah,” he says, voice coming out a little rougher than he expected. “I—uh…” He trails off, hesitating because suddenly, now that he’s here, whatever pulled him over feels harder to explain.
What are you doing? You don’t even know her.
Just walk away. Say something normal. Ask for directions?!?!?
LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE!!!
His jaw tightens slightly. He could still leave. He should, but then you cross your arms loosely, weight shifting to one leg, and there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—not impatient, not dismissive, just… waiting—that makes him stay. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle, and before he can stop himself—
“Can I stay with you Angel?” he asks.
The silence that follows is immediate. The words land heavier now because they don’t just come from nowhere. They come from a man standing in front of you with his life packed behind him. Heavy. Your expression doesn’t just change—it stills.
“…Excuse you?”
There’s disbelief there. Clear, unfiltered. Your eyes flick again—this time more deliberately. To his sunken backpack. Then to the suitcase. Then finally, back to his face again.
“You’re serious?”
Suddenly, Mark becomes very aware of how this looks. A stranger, with luggage, asking to stay with you, a stranger no less.
You actually sound insane!!!
He almost backtracks, almost laughs it off, because he seriously takes time to listen to himself talk since meeting you and hears himself the way you must be hearing him.
Dude, you actually are insane!!!
Immediately then, he wants to take it back, but something in his chest—tight, stubborn—doesn’t let him. You stare at him for another second. Then your brows pull together slightly. “…You know there are hotels, right?” Your tone isn’t harsh; it’s logical. Grounded because now this isn’t just weird, it's concerning, and in his mind, he does know. He knows exactly how many, knows the best ones, knows he could walk into any of them and disappear into a room that costs more than most people’s monthly rent.
He knows all that.
But the thought of it, the silence, the emptiness, the same four walls, the same distance makes something in his chest feel hollow. His gaze drops briefly to his suitcase, to the life he packed into it, clothes, work, and half-decisions waiting to be made on the only oath he's ever truly known for almost a decade. “I know,” he says quietly.
I don’t want to be alone.
The thought comes so clearly it almost startles him. He swallows, doesn’t say all of it. Your brows knit together. “Then why—”
“I just don’t want to be alone.”
It comes out softer than everything else he’s said so far. Less guarded and for a moment— he hates that he said it because it’s too honest. Too real for a conversation that shouldn’t even be happening. You blink because the words come out before he can even reshape them. It wasn’t the answer you expected. There’s a shift, and it makes you loosen your arms slightly from where they were crossed in front of you. Still cautious, still unsure, but a lot more open than before. Your expression shifts, not soft but not dismissive either. A flicker of something that tries to understand instead of just rejecting. Your eyes linger on him a second longer this time. Still, you tilt your head slightly. “…That doesn’t make this any less weird, you know.” Fair.
Completely fair.
Mark lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” he admits. “I figured.” Silence stretches, and you study him again. This time slower...more intentional. Your gaze moves—his face, his posture, the way he’s standing like he’s unsure whether to stay or leave. Then down again to the luggage. Packed.
Real.
He didn’t just say he needed somewhere to go. He came with it. Ready or trying to be. Then, “What if I’m a serial killer?” you ask out of nowhere. Your tone is different this time. Less sharp, more testing. He doesn’t hesitate to answer, “Then I guess that’s how I was meant to die.” You stare at him for longer again, trying to decide if he’s serious. If he’s joking, if he’s just reckless. “…You’re serious,” you say slowly in realisation, trying to grasp at the idea that this was in fact a conversation happening with a stranger you were trying to push away.
“I am.”
Your lips part slightly. Then press together again, and then you shake your head, exhaling. “You’re either really smart… or just really, really stupid.” A faint smile pulls at his mouth, “Yeah,” he says. “I get that a lot.” There’s another pause. Quieter this time, less tense. But heavier in a different way because now, the decision isn’t his anymore.
It’s yours.
And you feel it. The weight of it is sitting right in front of you. A stranger. A very strange stranger. Who could very easily just walk away. Who probably should walk away. Your mind runs faster than your expression shows.
He has luggage. He didn’t just say it—he meant it. This is not normal.
You don’t do this but he looks like he really really needs this!!!
You don’t bring strangers home??!?!
And yet, you look back at him. The way he hasn’t moved closer, you glance at him again...really look at him this time. The way he’s standing—not imposing, not pushy, just… waiting. On the way, there’s something tired in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the rest of him, the way he didn’t argue when you questioned him. Didn’t try to convince you. Just answered, and somehow that makes it worse because it makes him feel… real.
You’re insane.
The thought hits you clearly.
There are hotels. There are literally hundreds of options. Why are you even considering this?
“…Five days,” you say suddenly. Your own voice surprises you. His eyes lift slightly. “Five days,” you repeat, firmer now, like saying it twice makes it more reasonable. “That’s it.” There’s a beat, then his shoulders drop—just slightly. Relief or clarity, he doesn't know yet.
“Okay,” he says quietly. His grip on the suitcase loosens slightly, and as you turn to start packing up your things, he reaches for his suitcase again. Then pauses and looks back briefly towards where he left the second one. “…I should probably get my other bag,” he mutters. You blink. “You have another one?”
“…Yeah.”
There’s a beat, then you let out a short breath, shaking your head as you start walking. “Of course you do.” You can’t help the thought that lingers, quiet but persistent in the back of your mind, and under your breath, you whisper quietly as you watch him go.
You’ve actually lost your mind or you just might be the craziest person alive. This is how you die with him.
And just like that, you don’t just take him with you. You take everything he brought with him, too. The half-packed life, the unfinished thoughts and the version of him that hasn’t decided anything yet but is already changing.
_
The taxi smells faintly of fabric cleaner and something citrus. It’s not unpleasant.
Just… lived-in.
Mark sits in the back seat beside you, his knee angled slightly away to give you space that neither of you explicitly asked for. The window beside him is cracked open just enough to let in a steady stream of cool air, carrying with it the distant hum of the city slowly fading behind you. Your smaller suitcase rests between your legs. His are in the trunk. All of them. He had watched the driver load them in—first the large one, then the medium, then your carry-on, placed more carefully on top like it mattered differently. It had felt strange, seeing everything he brought with him disappear into a space he couldn’t see anymore.
Like letting go but not fully. Now, the road stretches ahead. The city gives way slowly, buildings thinning, noise softening, until it becomes something quieter. Trees begin to line the streets, their shadows flickering across the car windows in slow, shifting patterns as the sun dips lower. Mark watches it all. Not because he’s trying to, but because there’s finally space to. You sit beside him, one elbow resting lightly against the door, your gaze forward, relaxed but not careless. There’s a familiarity in the way you exist in this silence that he doesn’t interrupt. He wants to ask something. He doesn’t. Not yet. The driver hums softly under his breath, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel in rhythm with a song playing too low to fully make out. It feels normal, and that alone makes something in Mark’s chest tighten because normal hasn’t felt like this in a long time.
By the time the taxi turns into the estate, the light has softened into something warmer. Gold spills across the road, catching on rooftops, on windows, on the edges of passing fences. The air looks different here—quieter, slower, like everything has agreed to move at its own pace. Mark leans slightly, looking out. Children run across a small open field in the distance, laughter visible in the way they move, even if it doesn’t fully reach the car. A bicycle lies abandoned near a curb. Someone waters plants near a gate, glancing up briefly as the taxi passes. It feels lived in.
Real.
You don’t say anything when the taxi slows in front of your house. You just reach for the door handle, but Mark moves first. “Wait,” he says, already pushing his door open. The driver glances back slightly, surprised.
“I’ve got it.”
You pause. Not arguing. Just watching. Mark steps out, the air cooler now against his skin as he closes the door behind him. He walks around to the driver’s side, pulling out his wallet without hesitation. The driver turns slightly in his seat. “How much was it?” The man tells him. Mark nods once, already counting. He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t throw the money forward carelessly. He hands it over properly—two hands, respectful, like it’s something that matters.
“Thank you,” he adds, voice calm, sincere, with a respectful bow. Not automatic, not performative. The driver blinks slightly—then smiles. “Welcome,” he says warmly. “Have a good evening.” Mark nods again. “You too.” There’s a small pause before the driver adds, glancing toward you briefly—
“You and your girlfriend have a beautiful home.”
Mark follows the look instinctively towards you, standing just outside the car, your suitcase beside you, watching this whole exchange with an expression you haven’t quite sorted out yet. He thinks it's ridiculous considering you only learnt each other's names when you demanded to stay with his passport and documents for 'my safety reasons' until the five days came to pass while waiting on the said taxi to arrive
He doesn’t respond to that, though, just gives a small, polite nod. The trunk opens with a soft click. Mark moves to it immediately, lifting it up before the driver can step out to help. He pulls his larger suitcase out first, setting it down carefully, then the medium one, then finally your smaller carry-on—placing it closer to you than to himself without thinking. “Thanks,” you say quietly. He glances at you, “Yeah.”
Simple and easy. Like none of that needed acknowledgment but as the taxi pulls away, you don’t move immediately. You look at him instead. Really look this time. He’s strange, that part hasn’t changed. Not even a little but, your gaze flicks briefly to the road where the taxi disappears. Then back to him.
At least he seems...decent??
The thought settles quietly. Not loud, not decisive, but enough to soften something that had been sitting rigid in your chest since the airport. You pick up your suitcase. “Come on,” you say. And this time, it sounds more certain. The walk to your door is short, but Mark feels it every step. The weight of his luggage in one hand, the quiet shift in the air, the way the house sits ahead of him like something he hasn’t earned but is being let into anyway.
You’re really doing this.
You don’t reach for keys. You don’t hesitate. You push the door open like you belong there, and he follows, carrying everything he brought with him into something he doesn’t understand yet. Inside, the air wraps around him differently. Warmer. Softer. And before he can take it in, an older woman steps into view, her face lighting up instantly when she sees you. “Oh, you’re back.” Your posture shifts and softens.
You step toward her as her hands come up to your face, cupping your cheeks gently. “Let me see you, baby,” she murmurs, turning your face slightly. “You’ve gotten thinner.” “I haven’t,” you say, but there’s a small laugh in your voice. “You have,” she insists, her thumb brushing affectionately on your cheek. “Working too much again?” Mark stands just behind you. Still holding his suitcase. Still, watching. Listening to the way your voice softens, the way you don’t pull away. “The trip was fine,” you say. “Work was good.” “Mm,” she hums, unconvinced but smiling anyway. Her hands linger, then drop, and her gaze shifts to him. It’s quick but not shallow. Her eyes take him in—the luggage, the way he’s standing, the space between you—and something unreadable flickers across her expression. Then she looks back at you.
A look passes.
Quiet.
Knowing, you straighten slightly. “This is Mark.” He nods. “Hello.” She studies him for just a second longer, then smiles. Warm but with that same trace of something else beneath it. “Take care of her,” she says lightly. Mark blinks, “…I’ll try.” You make a quiet sound, almost embarrassed. She chuckles softly, already moving toward the door. “Rest,” she adds. “Both of you.”
And then she’s gone.
The house settles around him. Silence returns, and this time it’s not empty. It’s full. Mark steps in properly now, and that’s when it hits him, not all at once, in pieces. Light spills in through wide windows, stretching across the floors in soft, golden lines. The walls are tall—higher than he expected—and filled with framed photos that draw his eyes without permission. He doesn’t mean to stare, but he does because everywhere he looks, there’s you. With people. Laughing, leaning into someone’s shoulder. Standing between what he assumes are your parents—your father’s arm around you, your mother’s smile softer but just as warm. Another frame—two older guys, one with his arm slung around your neck, the other mid-laugh like the picture was taken in the middle of a joke.
Your brothers, maybe?
There’s another—an older woman. The same one who just left. You’re holding her face the same way she held yours. Mark’s chest tightens slightly, he doesn’t realize it. Not until his gaze shifts again to another frame.
You.
Standing next to a guy. Close. Too close.
He stills.
Boyfriend?
The thought comes quick. Uninvited. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle.
Of course she could have a boyfriend. Why wouldn’t she?
Something uncomfortable settles in his chest. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t understand why it’s there, but it is and before he can stop himself, his mind starts filling in gaps that don’t exist.
What if you’re not single? What if this is weird for a completely different reason?
His jaw tightens slightly.
Then— “You can leave your bags there for now.” Your voice cuts through his thoughts. He blinks, looking back at you. You’ve already stepped further in, your suitcase set aside casually as you move toward the kitchen. Like this is second nature. Like this space is an extension of you. He leaves his suitcase by the entrance, the handle still extended, like it’s waiting for instructions he hasn’t decided on yet. The house feels… still, but not empty. There’s a softness to the quiet here, something that doesn’t press on him, doesn’t demand anything.
It just… exists, and for a moment, he does too. You disappear into the kitchen without ceremony, like the transition from outside to inside didn’t require adjustment. Like you’ve done this a hundred times—come home, set things down, keep moving. Mark stays where he is, looking. Not in a way that feels invasive, more like he’s trying to understand something he hasn’t had access to in a long time. The light stretches further now, deeper into the house, brushing over the edges of furniture, catching on the glass of framed photos. The air smells faintly of something clean, something lived-in—like citrus and wood and something softer underneath that he can’t quite name. It feels like a place that holds people, not just a place people pass through. He swallows slightly,
Don’t get comfortable.
The thought comes quickly. Automatic, but it doesn’t stick because something about this space, about you moving through it so easily, makes that thought feel…unnecessary. “You can sit,” you call from the kitchen, not looking at him, your voice carrying just enough to reach him without forcing itself into the room. He exhales quietly.
“Yeah,” he answers, even though you didn’t ask a question.
He doesn’t sit.
Not yet. Instead, he finally lets go of the suitcase handle, the soft click of it retracting louder than it should be in the quiet. His fingers flex slightly after, like they’re remembering the absence of weight, and then, he moves. Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he’s aware that he’s stepping into something that isn’t his. The first room pulls him in without trying. It used to be a bedroom, he can tell from the layout, but now, it’s something else entirely. Books line the walls—not perfectly arranged, not color-coded or curated for display, but stacked, layered, used. Cookbooks with worn edges. Novels with folded pages. Papers tucked between them like bookmarks that were never meant to be permanent. There’s a desk near the window, cluttered but organized in a way that makes sense only to you—equipment, cables, a microphone, papers with scribbled ideas. And it looks like you left it mid-thought. It feels alive, like something is always being created here. A microphone angled slightly to the side. A laptop, half-closed, is sitting next to your desktop computer. Sticky notes scattered—some with full sentences, some with single words that don’t make sense on their own.
He steps closer.
Doesn’t touch anything, but he leans just enough to read one of the notes.
Shoot before sunset — plating!!
There’s a small underline under the last word.
Urgent.
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. It’s… endearing, without trying to be.
You’re busy.
The thought comes easily,
You have a life.
It shouldn’t matter but for some reason, it does.
“Water?”
Your voice cuts in from behind him. He turns, you’re standing in the doorway now, holding out a glass without stepping fully into the room. Your posture is relaxed, but your eyes, your eyes are still watching him. Not suspicious in the same way as before but not careless either.
Aware.
He takes the glass. “Thanks.” Your fingers brush his for half a second. Nothing intentional, nothing lingering, but it’s enough. Both of you feel it. You step back first. “Kitchen’s this way,” you say, like he didn’t just watch you walk in and out of it twice already. He nods anyway and follows. The kitchen feels warmer as it opens up; it feels more lived in than the rest of the house somehow. Wide and bright. An island sits at the center, stools tucked neatly beneath it. The breakfast nook by the window catches the light perfectly, soft and inviting in a way that makes it feel like mornings linger there longer. The dining space sits just beyond. Prepared, intentional, and everything, everything feels warm. Lived in. You move easily, filling another glass. Opening a cabinet and closing it again. Mark leans slightly against the edge of the island, the glass still in his hand. He watches you, not in a way that feels heavy. Just curious, and you feel it. You don’t look at him immediately but you’re aware of his presence, of the way the air has shifted slightly with another person in it. It’s strange. You don’t bring people home, not like this, and certainly not strangers.
What are you doing?
The thought comes again. Louder this time, but then, you glance at him and he’s just standing there. Holding a glass of water like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Looking at you like, like he’s trying to understand you, and somehow, that makes it worse because now you’re curious too. “…So,” you start, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms crossing loosely. He looks up.
“Yeah?”
There’s a pause.
Not awkward. Just measured. “You always do this?” you ask. “Ask random people to let you stay with them?” A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “First time.” You narrow your eyes a little, “Convenient.”
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah.”
There’s something about the way he doesn’t defend himself that throws you off. You expected pushback, an explanation. Instead, he just… agrees. You tilt your head slightly, studying him again. “…You’re really not going to explain yourself, are you?” He looks at you for a second, then he looks away. His grip tightens just slightly around the glass.
You could, you could tell her everything.
The thought surfaces. Tempting, dangerous, but he doesn’t, not fully. “I just needed to leave for a bit,” he says instead. It’s not a lie… but it’s not complete either, and you catch that. Of course you do. Your gaze sharpens just slightly, “From what?” The question lands softer than expected, not accusatory. Just curious. Mark exhales slowly and looks down at the water in his glass like it might give him an answer for everything, but that sounds dramatic. So he shrugs slightly,“…Work.” You hum, not convinced but not pushing either, because you can tell that’s as far as he’s willing to go. For now, and strangely, you respect that.
A soft thud interrupts the moment. Then another. He looks down, and something small brushes against his ankle. He startles slightly, stepping back just enough to look down properly, only he finds himself staring at a cat. Fluffy. Almost ridiculously so. Cream-colored with darker markings, its tail flicking lazily as it looks up at him like he’s the one intruding.“…Oh,” Mark murmurs. The cat blinks slowly.
Unimpressed.
Then walks past him like he doesn’t exist. He lets out a small breath, something softer easing into his expression. “What’s his name?” he asks. You glance over your shoulder, “Biscuit.”
“…Biscuit?”
You shrug lightly, already reaching for a glass. “He answers to it.” Mark huffs a quiet laugh. Of course he does.
His gaze follows the cat to a structure by the wall he hadn’t noticed before. “…He does that,” you say, like it explains everything. “He wasn’t there a second ago.”
“He was. You just didn’t notice.”
Mark looks down at the cat again, watching as it circles his leg once before moving on like it’s already bored. A tall, carefully built tree, not just functional but aesthetic. Wood and soft fabric blending into the space like it belongs there, levels stacked in a way that feels intentional. Biscuit hops onto one of the platforms with practiced ease, curling up like he’s claimed the highest ground. Mark watches for a second longer than necessary.
“…That’s a strong name.”
You blink, then let out a small laugh. It slips out before you can stop it. “Strong?" He shrugs, deadpan, “He looks like he runs things.” You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering despite yourself, “He does.” “He’s judging you, by the way.” Mark glances down again. Biscuit is, in fact, staring at him again, unimpressed.
“…I can tell.”
And for a moment, the tension breaks. Just slightly. It settles again after, not heavy. Just present. Mark sets the glass down slowly on the counter, his fingers lingering against the surface for a second longer than necessary. His gaze drifts back to you. You’re closer now, in the way the space feels. Less guarded, still cautious but open in a way you weren’t before, and he notices it.
She said yes.
The thought comes back.Clearer now.
She let you in.
And something about that, about you pulls at him. Not sharply, not overwhelmingly. Just enough to make him aware of it.
The thought settles quietly.
But it stays, and on your end, you feel it too. Not the same thought, but something like it, because he’s still a stranger. Still unpredictable and still someone you shouldn’t have brought into your home, and yet—he doesn’t feel like a threat. He feels like a question. One you didn't know you even had to begin with.
“…You hungry?” you ask suddenly. The question shifts everything. Lightens it, grounds it. Mark blinks slightly, then nods. “Yeah.”
Then, quieter—
“…I can try cooking.”
You stare at him. Long. Unimpressed, “…Try?” He hesitates, “…I mean—” You sigh, already turning toward the fridge. “Sit down.” There’s a hint of a smile in your voice, and he catches it. He moves toward the breakfast nook, sliding into the bench by the large window slowly, like he’s still adjusting to being allowed to do anything with your space. To just be here and as you start moving around the kitchen, pulling things out and setting them down, he watches. Not obviously, no, constantly but enough, because something about this— about you in your space, feels like something he didn’t know he was looking for, and somewhere, quietly, without either of you saying it out loud, the question begins to form.
For him,
What happens if I don’t want to leave?
For you,
What happens if I end up wanting him to stay longer?
And neither of you answers it, not yet. Then he looks back at you, and something in his chest shifts again. Quiet and uncertain, but real because this place— your place doesn't feel temporary. It doesn’t feel like a stop; it feels like something rooted, something steady, slow, and quiet. Something that might, without him realizing it yet, change everything, and standing in the middle of it, he realizes something he hasn’t let himself think about yet. He didn’t just leave. He came somewhere, and maybe he doesn’t know it yet, but this might be the first place in a long time that feels like it could hold him without asking for anything in return.
The rain starts sometime in the night and it settles into the morning like it had every intention of staying—soft against the windows, steady against the roof, filling the house with that muted, cocooned quiet that makes time feel like it’s moving differently.
It's not what wakes you, not at first.
What wakes you is not the rain. It’s the sound. Irritating and repetitive, then a shift in your body. The sharp, aggressive beeping that slices through the quiet like it has something personal against you. For a second, your mind doesn’t catch up. It’s just noise and movement—You don’t even realize you’re awake until your eyes snap open, your heart racing, your body already pushing upright, the sheets slipping off your legs as instinct takes over.
The smoke alarm.
You’re out of bed almost immediately, your feet barely registering the cold of the floor as you move, faster than you mean to, down the hallway, past the stairs, the sound gets louder. Insistent. Almost accusatory. You reach the kitchen and stop because it’s not what you expected. There’s no fire. No panic. No urgency.Just… smoke. Not thick. Not dangerous. But enough, enough to make the alarm scream like the house is falling apart. Light, stubborn curls of it rising from the pan on the stove and Mark, he’s standing there, wooden spatula in hand, staring at the pan like it personally betrayed him.
Very still and very focused.
Like if he stares at it long enough, it might fix itself out of sheer intimidation. You stop, and you don’t say anything. You just take him in because the sight is so absurd that it takes a second to process. His hair is messy in a way that feels unintentional, like he woke up and immediately got into this. He’s wearing one of the oversized long-sleeved shirts you lent him yesterday, sleeves slightly rolled, with the wooden spatula in his hand like it’s the only thing grounding him to the situation. Like he’s accepted his fate. There’s a slight panic in his posture, but he’s trying—very visibly—to stay calm. The pan in front of him is smoking like it’s about to file a complaint, “don’t move,” you say instinctively, already moving past him. You reach up to switch off the alarm, grab a towel, and wave it lightly near the sensor until the beeping finally stops. Silence crashes back in. Only the rain remains. You exhale. Slowly.
Then you turn.
He’s still standing there with tense shoulders as he turns toward you, eyes widening just slightly, looking… guilty. “…Hi Angel,” he says. You stare at him. At the pan, then back at him. “…What happened?”
There’s a pause. A very real, very visible pause where he debates how honest to be, where he considers lying but decides against it when he blinks back at your sharp features. You can see it. The way his lips part slightly, close again. The way his gaze flickers to the pan like it might answer for him. “I was trying to make eggs.”
You blink. Once. Twice. Your eyes move to the pan again in disbelief, “…Those are eggs?” “They were,” he says, very seriously. You press your lips together, and you try—you really try—not to laugh because he's already panicking, “I just wanted you to wake up to breakfast.” You reach over, turning off the stove completely, sliding the pan aside. “…You declared war on breakfast.” A breath escapes him—half a laugh, half defeat. “I thought—” he continues, gesturing vaguely, “—how hard can it be? It’s eggs. People make eggs all the time.” “And yet,” you say slowly, stepping closer, peering into the pan, “you’ve managed to reinvent them.”
He lets out an incredulous laugh this time, louder and brighter like pieces of him are opening up without him even realising it. “They stuck,” he says, “And then I tried to unstick them. And then they… got worse. I didn’t think it would go like this,” he admits, softer now, like the panic has already burned itself out. You step closer. The smell hits you properly now—burnt, but not unsalvageable. You lean slightly, peering into the pan. The eggs are… unrecognizable. They’ve gone past scrambled and into something else entirely.
Something… experimental.
“…Did you use oil?” There’s another pause. Smaller this time, “…I thought about it. Like, how much oil should I actually use?” That’s it. That’s the moment. The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it—sharp and sudden at first, catching you off guard as much as it catches him. It spills out before you can stop it, warm and unrestrained in a way that feels unfamiliar in your own chest. Then softer, fuller, spilling out in a way you don't recognise because it’s been a while since something this small felt this funny, since you've laughed this hard.
He watches you, and something in his expression softens. Not embarrassed, not defensive. Just watching you like this is the outcome he didn’t know he was hoping for. You shake your head, still laughing under your breath as you reach for a clean pan. “Okay,” you say, voice lighter now, easier. “Step aside. Before you burn the house down on your first morning.”
He moves immediately, hands raised in surrender, but he doesn’t leave. He lingers, stays there. Of course he lingers. You can feel it.
You start over. With enough oil this time, you crack the eggs properly a second time, the soft sound grounding, familiar. The smell changes—warm, clean, something that actually resembles food. Behind you, you can feel his presence. Not overwhelming, just… there. “…I was trying to say thank you,” he says after a moment, quieter now. Your hands pause for just a second before continuing. “You did,” you say, glancing over your shoulder briefly, “This is very memorable.”
He huffs out a small laugh, and when you glance at him fully this time, he’s smiling. Not the polite kind, not the careful kind he always has ready for the cameras. Something softer. Something… real.
Silence settles over you both again but this time, it’s not awkward. Not quite. It sits differently. Like despite you both still figuring out where to stand in each other’s space you are okay with what quietly settles instead. You end up eating at the breakfast nook. The earlier rain is painting soft patterns against the glass now as the world outside blurs into greys and greens, inside, everything feels warmer than it should for two people who barely know each other. Biscuit appears like he’s been summoned by the promise that was breakfast, jumping up onto the table with quiet authority, tail flicking once as he eyes both of you like he’s judging your entire existence, unimpressed with the earlier chaos but willing to forgive for food.
Mark notices immediately, his gaze sharpens with curiosity. “…Does he always look like that?” You follow his gaze, “That’s his face.” “…He looks like he has opinions.” “He does. They’re just not for you.” Mark exhales a small laugh under his breath, leaning slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studies the cat like he’s trying to understand the rules.
Biscuit blinks at him once. Slow and deliberate. Then looks away, and it makes Mark nod to himself, “…I’ve been dismissed.” You hum, taking a bite of the burnt and your eggs, the warmth settling into you as you chew. “So,” you say, glancing at him, “you cook often?” He gives you a look at the obvious sarcasm in your tone, “God, no Angel. My members never let me. I should really consider retiring.” You hum, “Good call.”
Then you blink up at him, confused, “members?” Mark swallows hard. His throat dries up despite having the option of juice and coffee in front of him. He hadn't thought of his guys up until now, hadn't really checked his phone either, “ colleagues.” You nod again, understanding. For a while, neither of you says anything, not because there’s nothing to say but because… there’s no urgency, the rain fills the gaps and the quiet stretches between you. It doesn’t feel like something you need to fix. He glances at you once, then again, like he’s deciding something, “…You laugh like that often?”
You pause mid-bite, “…Like what?” “Like that, Angel,” he says simply. “Earlier.” You don’t answer immediately because the honest answer is—No. Not really, but you become too stiff to reply when he calls you like that. You shrug instead, softer, “Depends.”
“On what?”
You glance at him, “…On who I’m with.” There’s a beat, something passes between you then. Small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up, like he wants to say something else but doesn’t. Instead, “…I almost set your house on fire.” You snort, “And yet here you are. Still allowed in the kitchen.” “Temporarily banned,” he corrects. You smile and somewhere in between the quiet, the rain, and the ridiculousness of burnt eggs—something settles.
Not fully. Not loudly but enough, enough to say— this could be something.
Time moves differently after that morning. Not fast or slow .Just… present. Days pass, and Mark stays, not like a guest anymore. Like something between a stranger and something worse—someone becoming familiar. Some mornings, he leaves early and returns with a small bag of items he bought from exploring the city, and other nights, he'll bring you flowers, thrifted recipe books, and worn-out vintage notebooks he thought you might like. Other days, he sits near the living room window, experimenting quietly with sound, fingers hesitant over keys like he’s afraid the music might reject him, but most of the time, he just watches you work. Not interrupting. Just existing in the same space as you focus while he flips aimlessly through your endless collection of books. Biscuit also slowly decides Mark belongs here more than anyone has officially said.
Five days arrive without announcement.
The house feels different that day. Not louder, not quieter. Just… aware. Too aware. Like something is about to shift, and everything in it knows before either of you says it out loud. You don’t notice it at first. You’re moving through your space the way you always do—barefoot, absentminded, a cup of something forgotten cooling on the counter. Your mind is half on work, half on nothing, drifting between tasks without urgency.
It’s the sound that stops you. Soft and measured. Zippers. You frown slightly and follow it down the hallway past the open coffee space you have upstairs, where light spills in gently through the windows, catching dust in the air like suspended time next to the hallway that spills into your room, guest room, the open balcony, and the door that opens up to the Terrance on your rooftop.
You find him packing. The guest room is half-folded silence. Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.
No, no, he wouldn’t—
You don’t knock, you don’t think, you don't even breathe, you just push the door open, and there he is. Kneeling on the floor. His suitcase was open in front of him, and everything inside you… stills. For a moment, you don’t say anything. You just stand there, framed by the doorway, watching as he folds one of his shirts—neatly, carefully, like he’s done it a hundred times before. The clothes are arranged carefully in a suitcase that looks too empty for someone who has not been here long enough to fully unpack. Another sits beside it— notebooks, things he treats more carefully than clothing. It all seems like a routine to him. Like leaving is something he knows how to do but staying isn’t.
Your voice comes out before you can stop it, “…What are you doing?” Mark freezes. Not dramatically, not suddenly. Just enough. His hands still on the fabric and his shoulders go slightly rigid. Then he looks up and for a second—just a second—he looks… confused.
Like you’re the one who’s out of place here.
“I’m packing,” he says, slowly. Carefully, like he’s choosing each word. You swallow hard because of course he is.
Of course.
“Why?” you ask anyway, and it comes out sharper than you meant it to. Mark blinks. Actually, blinks, like the question doesn’t make sense. “You said five days, Angel.” The words land heavier than they should, heavier than you expected.
Five days.
You feel something in your chest pull tight because you remember saying it. At the airport. When he was still a stranger. When this was supposed to be temporary. Controlled. Safe.
Five days.
But that was before, before the burnt eggs, before the not-so-quiet nights, the grocery runs, before the badly cut-up fruit, before him draping your favorite throw blanket over you as he settles onto the couch next to you to watch trashy reality shows as Biscuits finds the perfect spot to settle in on his chest. Before he put the trash outside without you having to ask, before he started leaving his shoes by the door like he belonged there.
Your grip tightens around the mug. “…So you’re just leaving?” you ask. Mark frowns slightly, “I mean… yeah?” But it doesn’t sound certain. Not really. You let out a small, breathless laugh. It doesn’t sound like you, “Wow.” He straightens a little, confusion deepening. “What?”
“You couldn’t wait, huh?”
Now he’s really looking at you, brows pulled together, shoulders tense, “Wait for what?” You don’t answer immediately because suddenly everything feels… too close to the surface. Too raw. “For the five days to be over,” you say instead, quieter now. “Or did you just hate being here that much?”
The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it. That shift, that crack. Mark’s expression changes, not to anger but something else...“What?” You laugh again—but this time it breaks halfway through. “I mean, it makes sense,” you continue, words coming faster now, messier. “ You basically forced me into this, and now you want to leave me hanging. You were just waiting it out, right? Counting down the days until you could leave without being rude—”
“That’s not—”
“But you don’t have to pretend anymore,” you cut in, your voice tight. “Five days are up. You can go.” Silence crashes between you again. Heavy. Immediate. Mark stands up slowly. Too slow. “No Angel, that’s not what this is,” he says, and his voice is lower now. Grounded and serious.
You shake your head, already stepping back, “It’s fine, Mark. Really. You don’t have to explain—” He moves before you can finish. It’s instinct. Unplanned. His hand wraps around your wrist—not tight, not rough—but firm enough to stop you. To anchor you.
You freeze.
And then,before you can pull away, he steps closer. Too close, “Stop.”
The word is quiet but it holds. You look up at him really look this time and what you see makes your chest tighten in a completely different way. He’s not annoyed, he’s not distant. He’s not relieved to be leaving. He’s… frustrated. Not at you, at the situation, at himself.
His hands still slightly.
“I didn’t want to overstay,” he says quietly. “Or make you uncomfortable.” Something about that sentence makes your chest tighten. You pull away slightly to cross your arms, but your voice is softer now, “so you were just… planning to disappear?”
That word makes him flinch slightly.
“No.”
A beat passes. Then more honestly, “I just didn’t know how long I was allowed to exist here.”
Silence. Heavy, but not hostile.You take a step closer, “I didn’t mean it like a countdown.” That makes him look at you properly and suddenly, whatever distance he had built starts collapsing in his face. “I wasn’t counting down the days,” he says, softer now. “I was trying to figure out how to ask you for my passport back.”
You blink.
“…What?”
You stare at him again. There’s a beat. Then another. “You took my documents,” he adds, almost awkwardly now. “Remember? As a condition?”
Everything pauses. The airport. Your voice, your rules. Five days. Passport. You stare at him. Then—despite everything—a small, disbelieving sound escapes you, “you were packing… because you didn’t know how to ask for your passport back?”
Mark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.” “It is stupid,” you say, but your voice is softer now. Lighter.
He huffs a quiet laugh, “Yeah, well. I didn’t want to overstep.” Something in your chest shifts again.
“You could’ve just asked,” you say.
“I know,” he replies. “But you gave me a timeline. I thought… pushing past that would be.” You look at him. The idea of him leaving because he thought he had to— because he was trying to respect you—It does something to you.
Something you don’t have a name for yet. “So you were just going to leave?” you ask the only question you seem to be asking quietly. Mark hesitates Just for a second, “I didn’t think you’d want me to stay.”
That—
That lands somewhere deep and before you can stop yourself, you step closer,
“Do you want to leave?”
to be continued...