SUMMARY: when two chronically online ncu students accidentally spark a campus wide dating rumor after a misunderstood post goes viral. starting off in the wrong foot, they eventually join forces for the following reasons: one to get an ex off their back and the other to impress their crush.
fake dating au! mark x fem reader, university au, humorous (attempted), slight bickering, fashion major yn!, music major mark!
NOTES: this is my very first smau, pls be kind >_<, i hope you guys enjoy and let me know if there is any requests (ｏ ^-^)ｏ
STATUS: COMPLETED!!
(◞‸◟；)
profiles: yn group / mark groups
chapter 1: gooning jail escapees victim
chapter 2: is this about a girl i see…
chapter 3: who even is mark?
chapter 4: nvm he dont want me
chapter 5: okay hello hard launch
chapter 6: yk if ur cool with that…
chapter 7: my bf has a bf
chapter 8: neozone (mostly written)
chapter 9: am i where i think i am
chapter 10: and they kept spawning???
chapter 11: one at a time ladies
chapter 12: oh Im a freak alright
chapter 13: #freakalert
chapter 14: Man Tf Up!
chapter 15: oh gimme a break
chapter 16: guess who cried (hard edition)
chapter 17: i also goon to ur mom
chapter 18: yo lemme hit pls (half written + half smau)
summary: mark, a devout pastor’s son finally claims the girl he’s loved—and obsessed over—in secret. their wedding night marks the fall from grace, as desire, sin, and holy vows intertwine. what begins with a sacred union becomes a descent into lust-fueled obsession, as he vows not just to have her—but to breed her.
pairing: mark lee x fem!reader
genre: smut, religious corruption, marriage.
warnings: loss of virginity, blood mention, unprotected sex, religious guilt, sacrilege, breeding kink, possessive behavior, cumplay, dirty talk, creampie, backshot position, rough sex, manipulation, pregnancy kink, overstimulation, mention of church/mass, power imbalance, non-explicit dubcon undertones.
MDNI 🔞
part i - part ii
you always thought that when you finally gave yourself to your husband, it would be under god’s blessing—pure, sacred, a union meant only to bring life and honor to the church. you believed that marriage was a sacred covenant, free from the selfish desires and sinful urges that often clouded men’s hearts. your whole world was built around that faith, the unwavering hope that your union would be a testament to god’s grace.
but everything changed the moment you met mark.
just a few days ago, mark had approached his father with a serious look, speaking quietly but confidently. he told him it was time to settle down—that he wanted to ask for your hand in marriage. he knew his father adored you, saw you as the perfect traditional wife, the embodiment of devotion and purity. mark said he wanted your father’s blessing before taking the next step.
you heard the conversation from across the room, heart pounding. part of you was terrified—what if this meant everything you had tried to protect would unravel? but another part of you felt a strange warmth, a hope that maybe, with mark, the future could be different. maybe love and desire could coexist under god’s watchful eyes.
as you look at mark now, your secret and your sin, you wonder how much you’re willing to give, how much faith you can carry, and whether the path ahead will be one of light… or shadows.
the flames of the church’s bonfire crackle softly as night settles over the woods, the congregation still humming hymns behind you, far enough that their voices sound like ghosts.
but you're not listening. your eyes are locked on him.
mark stands with his hands tucked into his coat, the firelight soft against his face. he's not smiling—not yet—but his expression is peaceful, like he's found something holy in the silence between you.
“they think we’re praying,” he says finally, voice low. “but i’ve already made my decision.”
you blink at him, heart lurching. “decision?”
he takes a step closer, so close the scent of pine and smoke clings to your clothes between you. he doesn’t reach for you yet—he never touches you where someone might see—but his eyes are warm, fierce. unwavering.
“i told my father i want to marry you.”
you feel the wind leave your lungs. mark doesn’t look away, not even when you stagger a little under the weight of his words.
“he approved,” he continues. “said he’d known all along.”
your eyes begin to sting.
“he told me to pray on it. to make sure it wasn’t temptation.” mark’s jaw clenches, almost like he’s ashamed. “but i already knew. i’ve always known it was you. not temptation. not sin.”
he finally reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a tiny box.
“this was my mother’s,” he says softly, flipping it open. the gold ring inside glints, thin and elegant, inset with a modest sapphire. “she said it was meant to be passed to the woman god made for me.”
tears spill before you can stop them.
you nod, and it’s all you can do. just nod with a choked little yes and let him hold your hands between the glow of the fire, his eyes shining like he might cry too.
“i’ll ask your father tomorrow,” he whispers. “we’ll be wed by the end of the month.”
mark wore his cleanest shirt and bowed his head as he asked for your father’s blessing. he held your hand the whole time, fingers trembling, even when he spoke like a man of god.
your father gave his blessing. your mother wept. the entire church rejoiced.
it was all so fast, so pure, so... correct.
you’re dressed in ivory silk, modest and high-necked, with lace gloves hiding the trembling of your fingers. a veil covers your face, and yet mark cannot stop looking at you like he sees everything through it.
the ceremony is traditional. biblical. sacred.
a choir sings as you walk the aisle. everyone watches as the pastor—his father—blesses your union under the eye of god.
“do you, mark lee, take her as your lawfully wedded wife, to honor and keep, in sickness and in health—”
“i do.”
“and do you—”
“i do,” you whisper, not even letting him finish. your voice cracks, but your hand doesn’t shake in his.
he kisses you once. brief. gentle. reverent. as though he’s still afraid of wanting more.
but then—
then the night comes.
the cottage is quiet. candlelit. your gown lies folded over a wooden chair, your gloves tucked beside it like offerings left at the foot of an altar.
you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, bare under the weight of your new title—wife.
mark locks the door behind him, chest rising and falling a little faster now. his tie’s already undone. his white shirt unbuttoned just enough to see the cross around his neck.
he looks at you like a man starved.
“stand up,” he says softly, voice deeper than usual.
you do.
he walks over, slow and reverent, but when his hands reach your waist, there’s nothing holy about the way he grabs you.
“mine,” he whispers. “you’re mine now.”
you nod, lips trembling. “i am.”
his mouth crashes onto yours, not gentle this time. his hands run down your back, bare skin burning beneath his touch. when he pulls away, his eyes are wild, dark with a hunger that’s no longer restrained.
“you know what’s going to happen tonight, right?” he murmurs against your lips. “you know i’m gonna ruin this sweet little body for anyone else?”
your breath hitches. “m-mark...”
his hand slips between your legs, cupping your heat. he groans, head falling to your shoulder.
“still untouched,” he whispers. “fuck—i can feel how tight you are already. haven’t even put my cock near you yet and you’re throbbing.”
you gasp, your hips shifting unconsciously against his palm.
“you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” his voice is almost mocking, but it’s full of adoration. “so patient. so obedient. but tonight... tonight i get to teach you what your body’s really for.”
he presses you down onto the bed, crawling over you like a man possessed. his shirt comes off. you stare, wide-eyed, at the lean strength in his body, the small golden cross swinging between his collarbones.
“are you scared?” he asks, crawling between your thighs.
you hesitate. “a little.”
he smiles, soft but sinful. “good. makes it sweeter.”
you expect him to rush, to push in and take, but he doesn’t. not yet. his hands part your legs, thumbs brushing your inner thighs, gaze locked on the place he’s about to claim.
“i want you to remember this,” he says low. “the first stretch. the burn. the blood. i want it to haunt every thought you ever have about pleasure. i want you to think of me.”
you whimper, your body trembling under his stare.
he strokes himself once, twice, thick and already hard, precum glistening at the tip.
“look at me,” he growls, lining himself up. “you give this to me willingly?”
“yes...” you whisper, breathless. “please, mark. take it.”
he pushes in slow, inch by inch, and your body screams at the intrusion. it hurts—raw and real—but his groan is feral when your tight heat finally begins to take him.
“fuck—so tight—s-so good—” he curses, clutching your thighs as he sinks in deeper.
you cry out, hands gripping the sheets. “it hurts—”
“i know, baby, i know,” he pants, but he doesn’t stop. “you’re perfect. taking me so fucking well. god made you just for this.”
when he bottoms out, the pain blooms sharp, and you feel it—the tearing. the sudden wet warmth between your thighs that isn’t slick but blood.
your first time. your virginity. claimed.
by him.
mark shudders above you, his eyes fluttering shut. “you’re bleeding,” he whispers, reverent. “fuck, baby... look at this mess you’re making for me.”
he pulls out slightly, then thrusts back in harder, and you gasp again, tears springing to your eyes.
“shhh... that’s it... cry for me,” he coos, rocking into you with slow, punishing rolls of his hips. “hurts, doesn’t it? i know. i know. that’s what happens when you’ve never been touched. and now no one ever will. just me.”
you cling to him, your legs trembling around his waist. pain and heat and fullness swirl inside you like a fever.
he fucks you slow and deep, savoring every inch like a man drinking straight from the chalice.
“you feel that?” he pants. “that stretch? that’s my cock, baby. your husband’s cock. it’s gonna split you open every night from now on.”
“m-mark—” your voice cracks, body shaking.
“i want it to hurt,” he growls. “i want you sore in the morning. limping in church. sitting with your legs tight because your pussy still remembers what i did to it.”
his thrusts deepen, faster now, the bed creaking under the rhythm.
“i’ll fuck a baby into you,” he groans. “fill you up. make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”
you cry out, the pain blending into a sharp kind of pleasure, dizzying and hot.
“oh god—”
“don’t say his name,” mark snarls. “you beg for me. you pray to me now.”
his fingers find your clit and rub fast circles, the added sensation pushing you closer to the edge. the pain is still there, dull and throbbing, but the pleasure—the fullness—drowns it out.
“you gonna cum on my cock for the first time, sweetheart?” he hisses. “gonna milk me like a good wife?”
you sob, nodding, your entire body tensing.
“that’s it. cum for me. fuck—cum while i’m deep in your virgin cunt—”
you break with a cry, your walls fluttering around him, tight and overwhelmed. mark follows with a growl, his hips slamming into yours one last time as he spills inside you, thick and warm.
he doesn’t pull out. not for a long time.
when he finally does, his cum drips from between your legs, streaked with red. he watches it for a second, breathing hard, eyes dazed.
then he presses a kiss to your stomach.
“god forgive me,” he whispers, “but i’ve never felt anything holier than this.”
the room is still warm with the scent of sweat, sex, and candlewax.
you’re trembling in the sheets, heart racing, thighs sticky and sore, and mark—still hovering over you—is staring down at the mess between your legs like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever seen.
“look at that,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “my blood. my cum. all of it inside you.”
you blush, squirming under his gaze, but he hushes you gently.
“don’t move, baby,” he whispers. “let me take care of you.”
he disappears into the little bathroom for a moment, and you hear water running, the rustle of cloth. when he returns, he’s shirtless, flushed, eyes still dark. in his hands: a warm, damp cloth.
he kneels between your legs like he’s kneeling at a holy altar.
“open for me again, sweet girl.”
you obey with a soft whimper.
he parts your thighs gently, reverently, and begins to wipe you clean—slow strokes of the cloth over your folds, careful over the tender soreness, the trace of blood and thick seed.
he breathes heavily through his nose.
“fuck… it’s still leaking out,” he says, voice trembling with hunger. “i really did break you, didn’t i?”
your cheeks burn, but your body clenches at his words.
he wipes a little deeper, letting the cloth slip between your folds, dragging it slowly, maybe too slowly, over your still-sensitive clit. your hips twitch.
“mm—mark…”
he smirks.
“you liked it,” he says, his voice thick and satisfied. “i could feel it when your pussy fluttered around me. you liked me taking it. even when it hurt.”
you look away, embarrassed. he grabs your chin and turns your face back to him.
“don’t hide from me now,” he growls. “you’re my wife. my good little bride. i get to see all of it—your pain, your pleasure, your filth.”
he tosses the cloth aside, not done—not even close.
“turn around,” he says, voice lower now. hungrier. “on your knees. let me see how you look from behind.”
you hesitate.
“mark, i’m still—”
“i’ll be gentle,” he says, already helping you shift onto all fours. “just wanna see.”
but when you’re in position, your face down, hips up, your swollen folds still dripping for him, he groans out loud.
“fuck. fuck, baby. you look ruined.”
his thumbs spread you open and he leans in to spit—spits right on your cunt and watches it drip down your slit.
you whimper.
“sorry,” he breathes, kissing your lower back. “i lied. i can’t be gentle right now. not when you look like this.”
you gasp as he presses the tip of his cock against your entrance again, still thick, already hard again.
“mark—wait—”
“shhh,” he says, wrapping one arm around your waist as he starts to push in. “just a little, baby. i’ll go slow. i swear.”
but he doesn’t.
he sinks in fast this time, wet with spit and cum and leftover blood, and the stretch makes you cry out into the pillow.
“oh god—”
“you’re so fucking tight from this angle,” he groans, thrusting deeper. “so wet and raw. i can feel every part of you clinging to me.”
his hips slap into you, heavy and slow, and he watches the way your ass bounces, how your walls suck him in again and again.
“this is how i want it,” he pants, gripping your hips. “every night. bent over. legs shaking. full of me.”
your fingers grip the pillow, knuckles white.
he fucks you slow but deep—intentional, savoring the aftershock of your first time, the way your body shudders under every push.
“look at this mess,” he hisses, pulling out just enough to see the creamy ring around his cock before slamming back in. “my innocent little wife, dripping all over me.”
you moan into the sheets, tears threatening again from the overstimulation.
he leans forward, chest to your back, lips to your ear.
“do you know how many nights i touched myself to this?” he growls. “this exact position? thinking about you on your knees, begging me to fuck you?”
you can’t speak.
“say it,” he demands. “tell me you want it. tell me you like being on your knees with my cock deep in your pussy.”
“i—i like it,” you whisper, shaking. “mark, i l-love it.”
“yeah?” he grits, hips snapping harder now. “you like me fucking you where you bleed?”
you nod desperately, tears finally slipping down your cheeks.
he growls, pulling your hair to tilt your head back.
“good girl,” he pants. “you’re gonna take all of it. every drop.”
his pace grows frantic, sloppy. the room echoes with the sound of skin on skin, the squelch of your soaked cunt, the broken cries leaving your throat.
he reaches between your legs again, fingers finding your clit.
“cum for me again,” he growls. “milk my cock. i want to feel you gush.”
you do—too fast, the pleasure tipping over the edge like a dam breaking. your body arches, walls pulsing around him violently, drawing a deep, choked groan from his chest.
“fuckfuckfuck—i’m gonna—”
his thrusts stutter, then slam deep one last time as he spills inside you again, hot, thick, his cum flooding your womb in waves.
he stays buried in you for a long time, breathing hard, holding your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
then, slowly, he pulls out—and you both watch it drip again: blood, cum, slick. a perfect, unholy mess between your thighs.
he kisses your spine softly.
“that’s two,” he whispers. “i’m not done yet.”
god won’t hear you this morning
the sunlight is soft through the white curtains, warm over your bare back.
you wake to the sound of birds, the smell of pine, and the weight of an arm draped heavy around your waist.
mark’s hand.
you stir gently. the soreness between your legs is still there—a dull ache that reminds you of everything that happened hours before. the blood. the claiming. the way he whispered prayers against your skin while pushing deeper into sin.
“mm... you awake, baby?” comes his voice, low and rough behind you.
you nod.
his nose nuzzles into your neck. a soft kiss. then another. his hand slides over your belly, pulling you tighter against him.
“you okay?” he asks, brushing your hair aside.
“a little sore,” you whisper, cheeks flushing.
he hums. “good. means i did it right.”
you giggle quietly, but it’s breathy, nervous. his lips graze your jaw.
“kiss me,” you whisper.
he turns you gently, and your lips meet—slow, lazy, lips barely parting. it’s sweet. warm. the kind of kiss that feels safe.
but then you feel it. his cock, hard again, pressing against your thigh.
you open your eyes.
he’s looking down at you, expression darker now. hungrier.
“we should get ready for church,” you say softly, as if that’ll make the heat between you disappear.
his hand moves down. between your legs. he touches you like he owns the space between your thighs.
“mm,” he hums. “god can wait.”
“mark—”
“don’t pretend you didn’t dream about it,” he murmurs against your lips. “you were grinding against me in your sleep. moaning.”
you blink, embarrassed. “i—I didn’t know—”
“oh, baby,” he chuckles darkly. “your little pussy knew.”
his fingers glide through the mess still lingering there from the night before—his cum, dried and sticky and warm again from your heat.
you gasp.
“you’re soaked,” he growls. “and we haven’t even started.”
you moan when he circles your clit.
“mark… please…”
“you want it?” he says, voice low. “again?”
you don’t answer. can’t.
his fingers slide inside you slowly, and you cry out.
“your body wants it,” he hisses. “look at how greedy she is. already sucking me in.”
“it’s not right,” you whisper. “it’s morning. it’s—”
“it’s sunday,” he says, pulling his fingers out and sucking them into his mouth. “let’s worship.”
and then he rolls you over. pushes you flat on your stomach.
his hands spread your thighs again.
he growls—growls—at the sight of your cunt, pink and swollen and messy with everything he’s left inside you.
“fuck. i want to breed you.”
you shudder.
“mark—”
“i mean it.” he leans over, cock hard and throbbing against your ass. “i want to fill you again and again until my cum takes. until you’re swollen with my baby.”
your breath catches. the filth in his voice. the fire in your stomach.
he presses his cock against your entrance.
“you’d look so beautiful,” he whispers. “waddling around the church with my child inside you. the pastor’s daughter-in-law, pregnant and ruined and everyone knowing who did it.”
you bite your lip, whimpering.
“say it,” he commands. “say you want me to knock you up.”
“i—i want it,” you cry. “i want your baby, mark.”
he thrusts in deep. slow. your mouth falls open.
“fuck,” you moan. “oh my god—”
he snaps his hips forward, and the stretch opens you again, deep and raw. you’re already wet—soaked from both your desire and the filth he left inside you—and he glides in smoothly, thick and throbbing.
“that’s it,” he groans. “take it. take my cock like a good wife.”
your hands claw at the sheets as his thrusts build in rhythm, slow but deep, dragging along every sensitive spot inside you.
you’re not quiet this time.
you moan. you sob. you say words you were never allowed to say.
“fuck—mark—so deep—oh fuck me harder—”
he slaps your ass.
“language,” he growls. “filthy little girl.”
“yes—yes—i’m filthy—so fucking filthy for you—”
his rhythm gets rougher. desperate.
“god won’t hear you now,” he pants. “not when you’re begging me to fuck a baby into you.”
your walls tighten. your climax rises sharp and fast.
“cum for me,” he hisses. “cum like a whore. my whore. my wife.”
and you do.
you scream into the mattress, body shaking violently as your orgasm crashes through you, pulsing around him.
“shit—fuck—gonna fill you again,” he snarls. “breed this tight little cunt.”
his thrusts lose rhythm, grow frantic, and then—
he spills.
hot. thick. so much.
his cock twitches deep inside you as he empties himself, groaning into your neck like he’s dying.
when it’s over, he collapses over you, still pulsing.
your legs are shaking. you can barely breathe.
and between your thighs, you’re leaking again.
this time, it feels like even more.
like a baby might really come of it.
he kisses your cheek.
“i’m gonna do it again tonight,” he whispers. “until it sticks.”
── .✦ nct dream reacts to you doing the “my current boyfriend” prank on them
A/N | cute trend on tiktok :D
★ mark.
“dude, what did you just say?” mark blinked at you, confused as soon as he heard the words leave your lips. he tried to play it cool, but his knees nearly buckled at the thought of him just being your current boyfriend. “is this some kind of joke?”
★ renjun.
“excuse me?” renjun raised his eyebrow. he had the sassiest expression ever when you dropped the “current boyfriend” bomb. he narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms at you, “you wanna say that again?”
★ jeno.
“am i hearing you correctly?” jeno nearly dropped the drink he had the second he overheard your phone call. his jaw clenched, taking strides towards you. “you better correct yourself, baby, people might think they have a shot with you.”
★ haechan.
“you think you’re so funny, huh?” haechan scoffed, pressing his tongue against his cheek, the little habit he does when he’s getting angry. “if i called you my current girlfriend, i’d be getting my ass kicked, so you better take that back.”
★ jaemin.
“princess, did you say that right?” jaemin frowned. his doe eyes staring right at you. his brows furrowed when you didn’t say a word. his expression was weary as he processed what you had just called him “you meant forever boyfriend… right?”
★ chenle.
“is this a prank? because it’s not funny.” chenle deadpanned, looking at you dead in the eye as if he was waiting for you to start laughing. “we’re getting married, none of that current boyfriend shit.”
★ jisung.
“please take that back,” jisung almost whined, wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck. he was already pouting against your skin, “say you’re joking, please.”
the red light above the recording booth clicks on once again. “ready when you are,” the staff says over the intercom into the booth, already distracted with his phone.
when mark doesn’t make the effort to start, the staff looks back up to him.
“you good in there?” the staff calls lazily over the intercom. he’s hunched in his seat, sipping iced coffee, and fiddling with buttons.
mark presses the talkback button. “yeah, just give me a second.” the staff shrugs and leaves the studio to give him a small break. they had been at it for quite some time now, and it wasn’t hard to see the frustration written all over mark’s face.
you on the other hand, were still seated on the worn couch outside the booth, feet crossed, heart racing. you watch through the glass as the staff member leaves giving you a polite but passing smile as he walks out.
he knows you’re not supposed to be in there. but mark’s already waving you in with a flick of his fingers, mouthing, ‘come here.’ your mouth immediately goes dry.
he’s taking off his headphones, hanging them on the mic with a little more force than he intended. his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, black rimmed glasses perched perfectly on his nose. they made him look calm. focused. but you know better.
mark had been off all day. a little short with the other members, quiet during practice, distracted when the manager gave him pointers. and now, even as he was (supposed to be) testing levels and recording his parts, he was bothered. his eyes hardly left you, boring into you through the glass of the room.
you sit up slowly, smoothing down your skirt. and as you walk to the booth, his gaze sharpens and takes in your full body in front of him.
“you look tense,” you murmur, stepping up beside him.
he huffs. “been tense all fucking day.”
you tilt your head. “how can i help?”
mark doesn’t say anything at first. but his hand comes up, fingers grazing your chin before gripping it firmly. “you wanna help, baby?” and his voice, low and tight, sends heat straight to your core. “then get on your knees.”
you slowly drop to your knees as your hands slide in and down his thighs, feeling the tension in every muscle. he breathes in through his nose deeply, and pulls himself free, tip red and angry, already slick with precum. your mouth waters at the sight alone.
“open your mouth.” you do.
“tongue out.”
you obey again, moaning softly as he taps the head of his dick against your tongue, and smears precum over your lips, your saliva mixing with it. “fuck, you look good like this,” he mutters, hand wrapping tighter around the base of himself.
you press a soft kiss to the flushed tip of his dick, letting your lips linger enough to make him twitch.
you kiss it softly a few more times then light little kitten licks follow. soft swipes across the slit, down the side, lazy circles over the sensitive underside. you moan like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
mark’s jaw clenches holding back a moan. both hands curl into fists at his sides.
“you like that?” you smirk against him, licking a slow stripe up his length. “you’re already twitching so much…”
he hisses through his teeth when you close your lips around just the head and suck. only delicate and teasing, your eyes locked on his through your lashes.
“don’t play with me,” he grunts, voice tight with need. “you came in here to help, no?”
you blink up at him innocently, still kissing along his tip. “i am helping…”
he grabs a fistful of your hair, making you gasp. “then open that damn mouth and stop acting like you don’t know what i need.”
and you do. slowly, lips parted, breath hot.
your lips wrap around him, tight and wet, your tongue flattening as you suck harder. he hisses, hips jerking forward. you moan, cheeks hollowing.
“yeah?” his voice drops at your moan, teasing and breathless. “you like this? my dick down your throat?”
you gag around him as he thrusts deeper, spit already dribbling down your chin. he doesn’t stop or slow. just grips the back of your head and uses your mouth like he owns it. like it was the only thing it was made for.
“good fucking girl,” he practically growls, eyes locked on the way your mouth takes him in.
your nails dig into his thighs, knees starting to ache against the floor. but the way he looks down at you, eyes all half-lidded behind those glasses, lips parted, cock glistening with spit. it’s enough to make your pussy clench around nothing.
soon, you try to pull back for air and he doesn’t let you, shoving you back down until your nose is flush against his abdomen.
“breathe through your nose, baby. you can take it.”
your eyes begin tear up as he fucks your throat deeper, rougher, groaning with every wet, squelching sound you make. the messy gags, the slick noises, your soft choking, it was all driving him insane.
“look at you,” he pants. “so pretty.”
your throat tightens, spit bubbling out past your lips, dripping onto your chest. it’s disgusting. and you love it.
“gonna come down your throat,” he gasps, pace stuttering. “and you’re swallow, right?”
you try to nod around him, only making yourself gag more, desperately full of him.
he groans out loudly, voice breaking, hips jerking as he releases down your throat in thick, hot pulses. you swallow it all, messily and wanting, sucking through it until he was wincing.
“fuck—baby,” he mutters, pulling out of your mouth gently, breath still ragged. “shit.”
your lips are swollen, a dark shade of pink that nearly matched the color of your flushed cheeks. your chin slick with spit, and you’re still panting on your knees.
he reaches down, wiping your mouth with his thumb, smearing it across your cheek as he exhales. “you okay?”
you nod, eyes almost dazed. “yeah.”
“too good at that shit,” he mutters, eyes still dark behind the glasses. “fuck.”
you smile, soft and wrecked. “seemed like you needed a little pick-me-up.” his gaze flicks down to your thighs. “yeah, well…”
you blink, eyes catching the way his dick slowly grew straight and firm again. “you’re hard again?”
he licks his lips, not bothering to hide his grin. “stand up, and turn around. wanna fuck you bending over the soundboard.”
you didn’t need any more motivation, slowly rising to your feet. you knew better than to try to tease him about getting hard again so fast, especially with the way you were throbbing and dripping your your own soaked panties.
what i think an argument with mark would look like.
mark doesn’t wanna argue, but he lets you talk. not interrupting listening to you, gently rubbing your thigh because it brings him comfort even when you’re upset. yeah it may be selfish in the moment but you like it too, his touch grounds you, like a soft reassurance saying “i’m here, even when you’re mad, even when you’re upset. i’m here.” which was comforting, you two rarely argued or more so disagreed but when you did you both would give each other the silent treatment, going to different parts of the house, he’d lock himself in his studio and you’d lay on the rug in the living on the floor near the window. you’d usually be the first one to break say “dinners ready” or “you need anything from the store” but mostly you’d break the silent treatment to get him to come eat, he’d always apologize first even if he knew you were in the wrong, hell you knew you were in the wrong. but you don’t interrupt him, listening to him like he listens to you. if he says he needs reassurance, done. if he says he needs you to be more present, done. if he says he wants you two to get better at communicating so that you both won’t keep just walking away from each other, done. whatever he asks you to do, you do not even because he’s a man but because he’s your man and you know he would—does the same for you so doing something in return for him is nothing. they may seem like small things to you but these are things he’s been thinking about and the fact he was willing to communicate that with you means you both are moving in the right direction. now if he could get you to open up more about what you need from him, you’re the type to just fix things in your own way. like if he forgets to take out the trash you’d just do it instead of confronting him because you hated confrontation and didn’t wanna make it a big deal but your actions would show otherwise, how you’d mope around the house or sit at the other end of the couch when you’d usually snuggle besides him. he noticed these things even when you thought he didn’t. and god is he super patient with you.
coco’s notes .. i dunno if this is technically a argument? i’m not sure what you’d call it but this is a random thought i had and wrote it down while it was on my mind. also it’s like 3am… and i’m having BAD mark brainrot. not proofread.
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.”
“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,
hai i’m back🤫🤫 i disappeared and lwk lied in my last post cause is the 7dream text post in the room with us?? ANYWHOOOO
MARK BF TEXTS MY BABY i so excited for molo i’ve been waiting for this shit for so long, also slight dedication to the annon who asked for mark bf texts don’t think i forgot!!! here they are😛 holy yap bruh SORRY
