a great morning for sukuna involved not waking up.

just rotting in his bed in the comfort of his room kept dark by his block out curtains.

he'd only wake up when his stomach would grumble to which he'd sit up, holding onto his throbbing head, and curse himself for the umpteenth time for his drinking habits.

sixteen bottles of vodka would do that to you.

he'd eat something greasy, fall back in bed and spend the rest of his morning asleep, recharging his body for the recklessness he would put it through later that day.

that was his ideal morning.

not babysitting.

not surrounded by parents who thought their children were equal to olympic athletes.

not on a school field that had cones of every colour imaginable scattered around, along with poorly made banner hung on the pavilions.

and certainly not surrounded by children with their little feet and big snotty heads, and one of them latched to his thigh like a koala.

"yuji, get off me. it's just one race."

"no."

the response came immediately, carrying the emotional stability of a live wire.

"you just have to run from there to there." sukuna pointed towards the short distance between colourful cones. “there to there, that’s all. what are you so afraid of?”

"no."

yuji's whines grew louder and frustrated, attracting the attention from parents and teachers nearby.

some cooed at the nervous child being comforted (from their point of view) by his father.

other's gawked, unable to get their attention past sukuna's build.

he had an impressive yet intimidating build, towering over almost every adult at the school, the rest barely making it past his shoulders.

he was as wide as he was tall, looking like he carried cement and steel for muscles sat on a chair that squeaked under him, struggling under all that weight.

"i'll give you a lollipop if you stop crying and just run the race," he offered, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. that didn’t go through. “okay. two lollipops."

the sniffles quietened, giving sukuna a glimmer of hope that his negotiation worked. the toddler looked up at his uncle, still not letting go but there was an improvement.

"you like lollipops right."

the child's response came in a small nod.

"if you win, i'll get you two.”

“can i have the big one.”

anything to get him to run.

“yes, yes. you can have any lollipop you want.”

“i don’t care. just run, your mom will have my head if you come back empty handed.”

that was not an empty threat, it was true.

if there was anything or anyone that unsettled sukuna's small— buried in the corners of his dark soul— heart; it was his sister in law.

she'd made the instructions clear when she’d barged in and dropped her son at his house; yuji had to participate and she needed to see medals.

usually, sukuna would just fall back on his bed, ignoring her presence all together but the last time he tried that, all his left shoes went missing for a week and so did the spinny thing in his microwave.

yes, sukuna was competitive but she was insane.

“pinky promise.” yuji mumbled, holding his pinky, not even half the size of sukuna’s thumb, out.

“you’re not serious.”

yuji persisted, holding his pinky out until sukuna gave in, wrapping his larger one around the toddler’s.

"okay. pinky promise or whatever.” he pointed to the starting line, “now go over there.”

"no! i don't want." yuji cried when sukuna tried to pull him off. he tightened his grip, pinching the back of sukuna's thigh, the promise forgotten as quickly as it was made.

"motherfu—!"

the people near him stared, one teacher with her eyebrow raised, urging him to finish that statement.

he rolled his eyes. these kids are old enough to swear. what's the big deal?

"can all under 6's please make their way to the starting line." a teacher called over a megaphone, the noise shaking yuji back into a tiger like claw on sukuna.

"i swear-," he quickly turned his temper to a minimum. "okay, let's go to the starting line." he muttered, standing up and waddled to the line with yuji stuck to his leg.

his face was scrunched, annoyance taking over his features in the form of a dark cloud no one was tall enough to see.

at the starting line, he could see that yuji wasn't the only one not in the mood for the race, with two other children crying for their mothers, attempting to run away.

there were a few who were excited, animatedly talking about how they would run and recreating it on the spot.

one who looked clueless.

and one who seemed to not care about the race at all.

sukuna carried yuji to the last lane, standing there with him while he hid behind his leg.

"uhm, excuse me sir. parents aren't allowed at the starting line. only at the stands. would you,"

the teacher looked up.

"please—"

and up.

"make—"

and up.

"your—"

and up.

"—way there."

sukuna blinked.

"no."

curt, leaving no room for argument. not that the teacher cared to. the man looked annoyed already and they didn't pay her enough to deal with that.

so she left, leaving the other parents at the line with their crying babies aswell, one eventually taking their child away from the horrors of the 50 meter sprint.

"alright children! on your marks."

the children geared up, touching the floor with their hands, mimicking what the teacher on the side was doing.

"get set."

the whistle blew and off some of them went. some hopped into another's line. some stalled, looking around to be told what to do.

yuji— he still held onto his uncle's leg.

"don't embarrass me." sukuna muttered under his breath before pulling the kid off of him and doing the unthinkable.

he ran.

half speed towards the finish line, off to the side to not interfere with the other children.

he heard a loud wail behind him.

he didn't turn back, and couldn't help the grin that formed on his face when heard the flat, clumsy footsteps that followed after.

yuji ran snot and tear faced after his uncle. running like some big dog had been chasing after him.

he didn’t look back, eyes basically shut as his loud cries made it over the long distance.

the other parents and teachers giggled. what's funnier than a man build like a tank running in a children's race? but what was sweeter than him doing it for his nephew to participate.

they all cheered, laughed and cooed.

sukuna finally made it to the finish line, turning around to see the chaos behind him.

yuji was still running, hands held out for his uncle, running face first into his pants.

sukuna cringed, knowing how much snot, tears and who know what else children excrete would be on his sweats. but at the moment it didn't matter.

yuji won the race.

he lifted the child up, a proud grin on his face and seating him on his forearm.

“you won.”

yuji didn’t care though, for he only delivered a loud smack across his uncle's face for leaving him behind.

"brat."

sukuna muttered flicking his forehead.

and off they went to get those lollipops as promised.

at the lollipop store

“yuji, i am not paying $12 for a lollipop.”

“but you said I could get anyone i wanted.”

“not a $12 dollar lollipop.”

“you pinky promised.”

with that, yuji walked out with a $24 prize.

“hey! you didn’t even hold your end of the promise!”

i live for unckuna♡

disclaimer:

this is a rewrite and repost.

i don't own any media used in this blog. all credit to their owners.

You and Mark were supposed to be studying. That had been the plan for the last forty minutes, anyway. Your notebook was open, your textbook was spread across your desk, and a half-finished problem sat in the margin while you tried to focus on the page. 

Behind you, Mark had been making a spectacular effort to be absolutely no help at all. He was stretched out on your bed like he lived there, one arm behind his head, the other lazily tapping against his knee as he watched you work.

Every few minutes he would try to distract you, making some dramatic comment about how unfair homework was, how cruel teachers were, and how there were clearly better ways to spend an evening.

Like watching a movie. Like eating snacks. Like doing literally anything else—or each other.

“You’re not convincing me,” you said without looking up, writing another line of answers.

Mark sighed like you had personally wounded him. “I’m not trying to convince you. I’m trying to save you.”

You fought the smile threatening to show, shaking your head. “From algebra?” 

“From suffering,” he countered, shrugging. 

You shot him a look, and he grinned that easy, maddening grin that always made it hard to stay irritated for very long. You tried to go back to your notes, but Mark was clearly enjoying himself now, watching you pretend not to notice him while he made it impossible to concentrate. Every time you got through a line, he found another way to pull your attention away.

There was a moment of quiet before Mark stood, the faint creak of the floorboards giving him away just before his hands settled gently on your shoulders. You froze for half a second before relaxing under his touch. His thumbs pressed gently into the knots there, slow and careful at first, then with just enough pressure to make you exhale and sink back into the chair.

“You are evil,” you muttered.

“Maybe,” he said, voice low and amused near your ear. “But I’m useful.”

His hands moved in a steady rhythm, warm through the fabric of your shirt, easing the tension you had not realised you were holding. You tried to keep reading, but then he bent slightly and pressed a light, teasing kiss along your jaw.

“Mark,” you warned, but it came out weaker than you meant it to.

“Hm?” he shot back immediately. 

He did it again, just once, softer this time, and you turned your head just enough to catch the smug look on his face.

“You are absolutely doing this on purpose,” you whispered, fighting to keep your eyes from closing.

“Maybe I just want you to take a break,” he replied lightly.

“You want me to give up,” you grumbled.

“I prefer the phrase ‘spend quality time with your boyfriend.’” he corrected, amusement threading through his voice.

That finally broke your resistance. You let out a long breath, closed your textbook with a thud, and leaned back against him.

“Fine,” you said. “We can watch a movie.”

Mark looked far too pleased with himself. “Knew you’d come around.”

“Don’t act like you won,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes teasingly.

“I did win,” he hummed, shrugging.

“You cheated,” you shook your head, turning around and gently shoving his shoulder.

“Romantic persuasion is not cheating,” he grinned boyishly,

You laughed despite yourself, and he kissed the top of your head like he’d been waiting for that exact sound.

A few minutes later, the two of you were on your bed, the homework forgotten in a messy pile. Mark had pulled the covers up, one arm slung loosely around you while the movie menu glowed softly on the screen. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the TV and the faint noise outside your window.

The opening credits of the movie had just begun to play when his phone buzzed. Mark checked it, and something in his expression changed so fast you almost missed it. The teasing softness vanished, replaced by a tense, unreadable look that flickered across his face and disappeared just as quickly.

“What is it?” you asked, trying to see what was on his phone.

He locked the screen too quickly. “Nothing.”

You frowned at him. “That didn't sound like nothing.”

He gave you a smile, but it did not quite reach his eyes. “It’s probably just something I need to handle.”

“Handle?” you repeated, confusion written on your face.

“Yeah. Just—something came up,” he avoided your eyes, running a hand through his hair.

You watched him carefully, searching his face for the usual joke, the usual easy explanation, but it did not come.

He stood up, already halfway to the door. “I’m sorry.”

“Mark?” you said, sitting up.

He hesitated, like he wanted to say more. For one second, it looked like he might. Then the phone buzzed again, and whatever he had been about to tell you shut down completely.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said quickly.

“That is not an explanation,” you mumbled, crossing your arms.

“I know,” he whispered, looking genuinely torn for a moment, and that made it worse. 

Whatever was pulling him away, it was important enough to make him leave in a hurry, but not important enough for him to tell you what it was. Before you could ask again, he leaned down and kissed your forehead, quick and careful, like he was trying to leave something soft behind in place of the unanswered questions.

“Don’t finish the movie without me,” he added, giving you a small, apologetic smile.

Then he was gone. You were left sitting on your bed with the movie menu still open, the room suddenly too quiet, and his side of the blanket already going cold.

A while passed before you heard anything. At first, you tried to keep the movie on. You really did. It was something light, something easy, but you barely registered the opening scene. Your attention kept drifting back to the door, to your phone, to the silence he’d left behind.

Eventually, you gave up. The TV was still playing softly in the background, but you’d curled up on your bed, wrapped tightly in Mark’s hoodie—the one he’d left behind without thinking. It still smelled like him, faintly warm and familiar, which only made the knot in your chest worse.

The movie had long since blurred into meaningless noise, the soft glow of the screen casting flickering light across your room. You told yourself you weren’t waiting but you absolutely were. So when you finally heard the window shift open, the sound was sharp enough to make you sit up immediately. 

Mark climbed in like it was the most normal thing in the world, landing lightly on his feet. He was holding a couple of takeout bags, and—of course—he had that same stupid, boyish smile on his face, like nothing had happened.

“Hey,” he said easily, glancing up at you like this was just another normal night. “You’re still awake.”

You stared at him for a second, completely unimpressed. “Brilliant observation.”

His smile faltered just slightly, but he recovered fast, lifting the bags a little like they explained everything. “I brought peace offerings.”

You stared at him. “That is not the point, Mark.”

He winced, setting the food down carefully on your desk like he was approaching a wild animal. “Okay. Fair.”

You didn’t move from where you were, still wrapped up in his hoodie. “You left me sitting here with no explanation,” you said, each word sharper than the last. “You just walked out. No explanation. No message. Nothing.”

“I said I’d make it up to you,” he tried, though there wasn’t much confidence behind it now.

“That’s not making it up to me,” you shot back immediately. “That’s avoiding the problem.”

Mark dragged a hand through his hair, the easy confidence from earlier slipping through his fingers. “I know, I just—”

You stood up then, the movement quick and deliberate, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “You what?”

“I had to go,” he said, softer now. “It wasn’t something I could ignore.”

Your jaw tightened. “And you couldn’t tell me that before you left?”

“I didn’t have time,” he protested weakly.

You let out a short, incredulous breath. “You had time to grab takeout.”

“That was after,” he mumbled.

“That’s not helping your case,” you said, briefly clenching your jaw. 

“No, I—yeah, I know,” he muttered, glancing away for a second.

He let out a small breath, clearly trying to figure out how to fix this without actually explaining anything. It would’ve almost been impressive if it wasn’t so frustrating.

“You’re mad,” he said, like he was testing the obvious.

“Oh, really?” you said sarcastically.

“I deserve that,” he nodded slowly. 

“Yes,” you said flatly. “You do.”

He opened his mouth, probably to make some half-hearted excuse, but you had already noticed the detail that ruined any chance he had of talking his way out of it. 

Just above the collar of his shirt, barely hidden beneath the fabric, was a dark mark on the side of his neck. Faintly purple, edged in red, like it had only just started to bloom. Small enough that he might’ve thought you wouldn’t notice—but obvious enough that once you did, it was impossible to look away from.

Your stomach dropped so fast it almost made you feel sick. “What is that?”

Mark blinked, caught off guard. “What is what?”

Your eyes didn’t leave his neck. You were already moving before he could react, closing the distance between you in two quick steps. Your hand came up without thinking, fingers brushing lightly against his skin as you tilted his chin to the side. Your fingers hovered just beneath his jaw, eyes locked on the mark.

“That,” you said, and even you could hear the strain in your voice now. “On your neck.”

The instant he saw the change in your face, Mark lifted a hand to cover it, a little too quickly to be casual. His fingers pressed over the spot like he could make it disappear by sheer force of will.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, words rushing out now. “It’s nothing.”

You stared at him, disbelief crashing through you so fast it almost made you laugh. “That is not nothing.”

“It’s just—uh—” he stalled, eyes flicking away for a second like he was searching for something—anything—that would sound believable.

“A what, Mark?” you pressed, your voice sharper now. “Because it looks a lot like a hickey.”

His expression changed immediately. “It’s not a hickey.”

“It really looks like one,” you said bluntly.

“It’s not,” he insisted.

You let out a short, humorless laugh, stepping back just enough to look at him properly. “You disappeared for over an hour, came back with food, and have a suspicious mark on your neck.”

“It is not suspicious,” Mark said dumbly.

“It is extremely suspicious,” you quipped. 

Mark exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that meant he was trying very hard not to react the wrong way. “I know how this looks—”

“Do you?” you cut in, your voice rising now, frustration slipping through. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks pretty bad.”

He looked genuinely thrown now, as if he had expected anything except this. His hands lifted slightly, then hovered uselessly at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “It’s not what you think.”

“Then explain it,” you huffed. 

“I can’t,” Mark said weakly.

You laughed again, but this time it broke a little. “Of course you can’t.”

“It’s not—” he stopped himself, jaw tightening, then tried again, softer. “It’s really not what you think, I swear.”

You shrugged, losing all patience, “Then what is it?”

“I just—” He shook his head, frustrated, like the words were there but he physically couldn’t say them. “I can’t explain it right now.”

“Right now?” you repeated, incredulous. “When exactly were you planning on explaining it, Mark? Because right now would be great.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Nothing. And that silence was worse than anything he could have said. You stepped back again, putting space between you, arms folding tighter around yourself as the sleeves of his hoodie slipped over your hands again. 

“You know what?” you said, your tone suddenly very still. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asked quietly.

“Don’t lie to me.” Your voice wasn’t as steady now, no matter how hard you tried. “If you don’t want to tell me, fine. But don’t stand there and act like I’m stupid.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” he shook his head, frowning.

“Then stop treating me like I am,” you said exasperatedly. 

“I’m not—” he tried to protest.

“You disappeared,” you said, your voice shaking now. “You came back with takeout like that fixes everything, and now you won’t even tell me the truth.”

“I am telling you the truth,” Mark tried, his voice quietening, “just not all of it.”

“That’s the problem, Mark,” you sighed.

Silence fell between you again, heavier this time. The food sat untouched on the desk. The movie still played in the background, completely forgotten. Mark looked at you like he wanted to fix it, like he just didn’t know how without breaking something bigger.

“I didn’t do anything like that,” he said quietly. “I promise.”

Your eyes stung, and the frustration in your chest finally spilled over.

“Fuck, Mark,” you snapped, the frustration finally spilling over. “Just admit it! You’re cheating on me.”

“Woah—” Mark said immediately, stepping forward, hands raised like he could stop the words from landing. His eyes went wide, panic flashing across his face. “No—no, I’m not—I promise, I’m not—”

“Then what am I supposed to think?” you shot back, your voice breaking despite yourself. “Because you won’t tell me anything!”

“I know,” he said, desperate now, running a hand through his hair again. “I know how it looks, I just—I can’t explain it, okay? Not like this.”

“That’s not fair,” you whispered painfully.

“I’m trying!” he snapped, then immediately softened, regret flashing across his face. “I’m trying, I just—”

You shook your head, swallowing hard, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you looked away from him. “You need to leave.” 

Mark didn’t move. For a second, it was like he hadn’t processed it—like if he just stood still long enough, the moment might rewind, undo itself, give him another chance to fix it properly.

“You don’t mean that,” he said quietly.

You did. But you couldn’t say it again—not without your voice breaking completely—so instead, you turned away from him.

“Can we just—talk about this?” he tried, softer now. “Please?”

The hurt in his voice almost made you falter, but you swallowed it down and shook your head, already moving back toward your bed. “We are talking about it, Mark. You’re just not saying anything.”

He took a step closer. “Just—give me a minute, okay? I can explain, I just—”

“Not right now,” you cut in, climbing into bed and pulling the blanket up around you like a shield. “That’s what you said.”

He flinched slightly at his own words thrown back at him. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean?” you snapped, turning your back to him before he could answer. You curled in on yourself, facing the wall, the fabric of his hoodie bunching under your chin as you pulled it tighter around you. “Because I’m donetrying to guess.”

Mark stayed where he was for a moment, like he was trying to decide whether to push again or give you the space you were clearly asking for. You could practically feel him there, just behind you—hesitating. Your shoulders stayed rigid, your hands gripping the blanket as if it were the only thing holding you together.

For a while, he didn’t move at all. The silence stretched long enough that you almost thought he might ignore you, might stay anyway, might try one last time to break through the distance you’d put between you.

Instead, you heard a quiet exhale. Then the soft sound of his footsteps crossing the room. They stopped right beside the bed and you felt the mattress dip slightly as he leaned closer, hesitating again—like even now, he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

Then, gently—carefully—his hand brushed back just enough of your hair to expose your forehead. The kiss he pressed there was light, tentative. Lingering for just a second longer than it needed to, like he didn’t quite want to pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. 

Then the window slid open again, and a moment later, he was gone.

The next few days at school felt strangely louder than usual. Not because anything had changed in the halls—the same lockers slammed, the same voices echoed off the tiled floors, the same teachers called for everyone to hurry along before the bell—but because now every place Mark appeared felt impossible to ignore.

He tried, at first, to act like nothing was wrong. You saw him in the hallway on Monday morning, just outside your second-period class. He was standing near the lockers with his backpack slung over one shoulder, talking to some classmates, but the second his eyes found you, the conversation around him seemed to fade from his attention completely. His expression shifted in that tiny, instinctive way it always did when he saw you—softening at the edges, like you were still the first person he wanted to look at no matter what was going on.

You kept walking, eyes forward, gripping your books a little tighter against your chest as you passed him. You could feel his stare following you anyway, warm and hesitant and full of something you refused to let yourself think about.

“Hey,” he said quietly as you went by but you didn't answer.

There was the smallest pause, like he might reach out, like he might say your name again, but he didn’t. By the time you glanced over your shoulder, he had already gone still, looking after you with an expression that made your stomach twist unpleasantly.

He looked like he wanted to follow but you turned away before he could. It did not get easier after that. In class, he kept trying to sit near you. If there was an empty seat beside you, he would drift toward it like he had every intention of pretending the two of you were normal. If you moved your things to claim space before he could, he would hesitate for a second, looking almost sheepish, then settle somewhere else with a look on his face that suggested he was trying very hard not to make it obvious how much that bothered him.

The second day, he did manage to sit beside you in history. You noticed his hesitation before he even sat down. He slid into the chair next to yours carefully, keeping a little too much distance between your elbows, his notebook placed neatly on the desk as if he were trying to prove he could be respectful and normal.

For a few minutes, he did not speak. He just sat there, one knee bouncing under the desk, glancing at you every so often like he was waiting for some sign that this might be the moment you finally looked at him.

You stared at the board, copied down notes, and pretended very hard that the sudden awareness of his presence did not make it difficult to breathe. Then, very quietly, so quietly you almost missed it, he nudged a folded slip of paper toward your notebook.

You ignored it, continuing to write until the bell rang. When you finally gathered your things and stood to leave, he straightened too quickly beside you, like he was hoping to catch you before you disappeared into the crowd.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

“No,” you mumbled, walking away.

It came out sharper than you meant, but not sharp enough to stop him from looking stricken. You heard him say your name, but you were already out the door. By lunch on Wednesday, he had run out of ways to pretend he was not trying. You found him before he found you, which made the whole thing worse in a way you had not expected.

You were walking past one of the side tables near the cafeteria when you spotted him across the room. He was half turned in your direction, tray in hand, the second his eyes landing on you making his shoulders go subtly tense. 

He looked like he had been in the middle of a joke a second earlier, but whatever expression had been there vanished the moment he saw you. He said something to the people beside him—probably an excuse, probably nothing important—and then he started toward you.

“Wait,” he said under his breath, falling into step beside you.

“I’m busy,” you shook your head, keeping your gaze away from his.

He let out a small, humorless breath. “You’re walking to lunch.”

“Yes,” you shrugged. “Busy.”

That should have made him stop. It should have made him back off. Instead, he fell silent for a beat, then said, “I’ve been trying to talk to you.”

You stopped so suddenly he nearly took another step before catching himself. The hallway around you kept moving, students threading past with bags bumping against their sides, but you and Mark stood in the middle of it all like a pair of magnets that had finally hit the wrong side of each other.

“I noticed,” you said, voice low and tight.

He looked like he had been punched and refused to show it. “Then why won’t you listen?”

You laughed once, but there was no humour in it. “You really want to ask me that?”

For a second, he looked exactly like he had that night in your room—stuck between saying too much and saying nothing at all. That same frustrating, helpless look. The one that made you want to yell and also made you want to believe him anyway.

He dragged a hand through his hair. “I know I messed up.”

You stared at him, then went around him without answering. His shoulders sagged slightly as you passed, and you hated that you noticed.

After that, he kept trying in smaller ways. He held doors open when you were close enough to ignore him. He slowed down in the hall just enough to make sure you would not have to squeeze past him, but not enough that it looked intentional. 

Once, in the middle of chemistry, he quietly slid your dropped pencil back onto your desk without saying a word, his fingers brushing the edge of your notebook for the briefest second before he pulled away.

By Thursday, it had started to feel like a pattern. Mark would appear near your locker and then find an excuse to linger. He would catch your eye in the hallway, start toward you with that careful hopeful look on his face, and then stop when you turned away first.

It should have made you feel powerful. Mostly it just made everything ache. Because even when you were angry, he still looked at you like he cared. Even when you refused to speak to him, he still found ways to stay close without pushing too hard. And that made it impossible to forget how much you wanted him to simply say the right thing.

At the end of the day on Friday, you were at your locker when you heard his voice behind you.

“Hey,” you heard his voice.

You did not turn around at first. Your fingers stayed on the lock, though you had already opened it three times without taking anything out.

“Please,” he said, quieter now.

You shut the locker door slowly and finally turned. He was standing a few feet away, looking tired in a way that school had nothing to do with. His hair was a little messy, his backpack only half zipped, and there was something cautious in his expression that made him look younger than usual. More vulnerable. 

“I just want to talk,” he said. “Please… I’ll explain everything.”

“Not right now, Mark,” you sigh, averting your gaze to the floor. “Eve wants to—

“Please,” he begged, reaching for your hand. “Please.”

Something in the way he said it—the way his voice dipped, the way he looked at you like this was his last shot—finally cracked through the wall you’d been holding up all week.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “Fine. One minute.”

Relief flickered across his face so fast it almost hurt to see. “Okay. Okay—yeah, okay.”

You narrowed your eyes. “But if you waste my time—”

“I won’t,” he said immediately.

He led you out of the building, past the usual after-school crowd, past the buses and the noise and the lingering groups of students. The farther you went, the quieter it got, until the sounds of school faded. Eventually, he stopped near the edge of the grounds, behind a cluster of overgrown bushes and a half-forgotten fence line that no one really paid attention to.

You folded your arms, glancing around. “Wow. Romantic. Really setting the mood here.”

Mark huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… it’s private.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “If you brought me out here to confess something weird, I’m going to need you to be a lot more specific.”

He looked at you then and for a second, the nerves were obvious. “I just need you to trust me for like… five minutes.”

“That depends heavily on what happens in those five minutes,” you said dryly.

Then, without much warning, Mark shrugged his backpack off his shoulder and dropped it to the ground.

You blinked. “Okay…?”

He crouched down, unzipping it quickly, like he’d already made up his mind and didn’t want to give himself time to hesitate again.

“Mark,” you said slowly, suspicion creeping in, “what are you doing?”

“Just—hang on.” He pulled something out.

You pointed at the bundle in his hands. “That. Is that your explanation?”

His face did something strange then—half confusion, half realisation. “Oh.”

You crossed your arms. “Oh?”

Mark glanced up at you, just for a second, then back down as he stood. “I think you’re misunderstanding.”

“Am I?” you asked flatly. “Because right now it looks like you dragged me behind the school so you could show me a superhero Halloween costume.”

That got a tiny smile out of him again, despite everything. He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose and shook his head. “It’s not a costume.”

Your eyes flicked down as he started pulling his hoodie off, and you immediately looked away, exasperated. “Oh my god, are you serious right now?”

“I need you to see this,” he said, a little more urgently now. “Just—give me a second.”

You crossed your arms tighter, leaning back slightly as you watched him, completely unimpressed. “You know, most people go with flowers. Maybe a heartfelt speech. Not… stripping behind a bush.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, “I figured you’d say something like that.”

You gestured vaguely at him. “Because this is insane.”

He didn’t argue with that. Instead, he pulled off his shirt, and for a second, your brain couldn't quite process what you were seeing. Bruises, faint in some places, darker in others, scattered across his chest and along his ribs. 

Some were small, barely noticeable unless you were looking for them. Others weren’t. Your gaze dropped, tracking the line of them across his stomach, the uneven pattern of healing marks that didn’t make sense. 

You couldn’t look away. Because there was one mark that stood out more than the rest. It cut up from his chest—long, thin, and darker than the others. Not round like a bruise from impact. Not scattered like the rest.

A sharp, whip-like streak that trailed upward toward his collarbone, Toward his neck. Toward the exact place where—

“…that’s…” you started, but the words didn’t come out right.

Your eyes flicked from his chest to his neck, then back again, the realiSation settling in piece by piece, replacing anger with something far more uncertain.

“That’s what I saw,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper now. “The other night… That wasn’t—” you swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. “It wasn’t a hickey.”

“No.” He shook his head once as he finished pulling the suit on. He bent down and picked up his backpack, glancing at you with an intensity that made your stomach twist. “Do you trust me?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?” you huffed, crossing your arms.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice softer now, almost fragile. He held out his hand, and the small tremor in his fingers betrayed how serious he was. “Do you… trust me?”

For a second, you wanted to say no. You wanted to stay angry, wanted to keep your heart guarded and your face set in a glare that would make him finally explain himself properly.

But the truth was already pressing against everything else. So after a beat, you exhaled slowly, sliding your hand into his and, without fully trusting your own judgment, said, “Yes.”

He stepped closer at once, reaching for you carefully as if he was worried you might change your mind. One arm slipped around your back, the other under your legs, and before you could fully process what he was doing, he lifted you into his arms with a steadiness that made your breath catch.

“Hold on,” he murmured, adjusting his grip under your thighs. “Just hold on tight.”

“Wait, why—?” you started, but your words dissolved into a sharp yelp as the ground dropped away. “What the fuck, Mark? You can fly?!”

“Yes,” he said, his voice carrying the thrill of movement, the wind whipping your hair into your face. “I can fly.”

Your legs instinctively squeezed around his waist as he surged higher, the trees and the school shrinking beneath you. The sky stretched wide, the air cool and rushing, and your heart felt like it had dropped to your stomach and then tried to leap back up again.

“Mark—Mark, this is not funny!” you half-shouted, half-laughed in disbelief, your face pressing instinctively into his shoulder as you held on tighter. “You’re insane—this is insane—”

“I’ve got you,” he said quickly, his voice steadier than yours, grounding despite everything. “Hey—hey, look at me. You’re safe with me.”

You shook your head instinctively. “No, I am not looking down, I am absolutely not looking—”

“Not down,” he said, softer now. “At me.”

Slowly—hesitantly—you lifted your head, and looked at him. The wind still rushed around you, the sky stretching endlessly behind him, but for a moment it all blurred into nothing. It was just Mark—hovering there like this was the most natural thing in the world, his hands steady on you.

You searched his face, trying to reconcile this impossible, unbelievable thing, with the boy you’d been arguing with just minutes ago.

“You can fly,” you said again, quieter this time, like saying it softer might make it make more sense.

A small, almost sheepish smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah.”

You stared at him, shaking your head slightly as you tried to process everything. “You’re… this… what?”

“I’m…” he started, then stopped, exhaling softly. His eyes flicked over your face, like he was trying to read every reaction before it even happened. “I’m Invincible.”

You searched his face again, harder this time, looking for the hint of a grin, the spark of teasing, anything that would tell you this was another one of his ridiculous jokes.

You stared at him in complete disbelief. “That is the dumbest superhero name I’ve ever heard.”

Despite himself, something almost like a laugh slipped out of him. He shrugged weakly, nodding. “Yeah.”

“You’re actually a superhero,” you whispered. “And you just—never thought to mention that?”

Mark let out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh but heavier. “It’s not exactly something I can just bring up over homework.”

Your gaze dropped for a second, then came back up to his. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s dangerous,” he said quietly. “Not just for me.”

You frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means… the people I deal with—the things I deal with—they don’t just go after me.” His voice lowered, more serious than you’d ever heard it. “They go after people I care about. “And you…” he hesitated, eyes flicking away for a split second before coming back to you. “You’re not just someone I care about. I didn’t want you getting hurt because of me. I thought if I kept it separate—if I didn’t drag you into it—you’d be safer.”

“You thought lying to me was safer?” you asked, but there wasn’t as much bite in it now

“I thought keeping you out of it was,” he admitted.

“You should’ve told me,” you said finally, your voice quieter now.

“I know,” he said softly, nodding slowly.

You furrowed your brows, angry at yourself. “I thought you were cheating on me.”

His eyes widened slightly. “I know—and I hated that. I just didn’t know how to fix it without… this.”

For a long second, neither of you said anything. The wind rushed past, loud and steady, tugging at your clothes and hair while the world stretched out impossibly far below. Mark was still watching you like he was bracing himself—for anger, for disbelief, for you to pull away from him even now.

Instead, you blinked once. Then again. And then, completely out of nowhere, a short, breathless laugh slipped out of you.

Mark froze. “What?”

You shook your head slightly, still staring at him like you were trying to rearrange everything you thought you knew. “I’m sorry, I’m just—”

Another small laugh escaped you, and you dragged one hand up to your face for a second, pressing your fingers against your forehead like that might help.

“I am literally online all the time,” you said, looking back at him. “Like, chronically online.”

Mark’s expression shifted, confusion cutting through the tension. “Okay…?”

“And you’re telling me,” you continued, incredulous now, “that my boyfriend is Invincible, and I just… missed it?”

He blinked at you.

You stared right back at him. “There are videos. There are photos. There are, like, entire forums dedicated to you.”

“I—well—yeah, probably,” he admitted awkwardly.

“And somehow,” you went on, lowering your hand and staring at him in pure disbelief, “my own boyfriend being a superhero completely escaped me.”

When you put it like that, it sounded even more ridiculous.

Mark huffed out a small, nervous laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “In my defence, I was trying very hard to not be obvious.”

“You broke my door once,” you said flatly.

He looked almost apologetic, but there was a tiny spark of amusement in his eyes now too. “That was one time.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You told me it ‘just fell off its hinges.’” 

That earned a small, helpless laugh from him. “It kind of did—”

“Mark," you huffed, sending him a look.

“Okay, yeah, that one’s on me," he winced.

Despite everything—the anger, the confusion, the lingering hurt—your lips twitched. Just slightly. Then your expression softened again, your gaze dropping briefly to his chest, to the fading bruises, to the mark that had started all of this.

“I should’ve noticed,” you said more quietly this time, looking back up at him. “I feel stupid.”

Mark’s expression changed instantly at that, the humour fading into something softer and more careful. “Hey. No, don’t.”

You huffed, looking away for a second before meeting his eyes again. “You are only getting away with this because we are floating and also because I am currently too shocked to fully yell at you.”

His smile widened a fraction. “Good to know.”

You glared at him, but the glare did not have much force behind it now. Not when you were still clinging to him in midair, not when the world had just tilted itself upside down and somehow he was still looking at you like you mattered more than the secret he’d kept.

“Mark,” you said quietly after a beat, the disbelief still sitting all over your face, “you really are ridiculous.”

“I know,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes flicked down to his mouth, then back up again before you could stop yourself. His grip on you shifted just slightly, careful and steady, like he was giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted to. 

You didn’t pull away, if anything, your grip on him tightened just a little. Your nose brushed against his, causing his breath to hitch slightly at the sudden closeness. Mark’s eyes fluttered shut as your lips met, a sigh escaping him as he kissed you back.

His tongue traced the outline of your bottom lip, seeking entry as he pressed himself closer to you—as close as possible, just short of actually being skin to skin. He was determined to make this moment last, savouring every second of the closeness between you. 

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t by much. Your foreheads almost brushed, your breath still mingling between you. Mark looked at you like he had just been given something he wasn’t entirely sure he deserved.

“Are we okay?” he asked quietly.

“We’re… getting there,” you said.

Relief softened his expression immediately, something lighter breaking through the tension he’d been holding onto all week.

“Okay,” he breathed.

There was another small pause. Then, very gently, he shifted his hold on you, glancing down toward the ground below before looking back at you again, something a little more familiar—something a little more Mark—creeping back into his expression.

“…So,” he started, just slightly hesitant, “this might not be the best follow-up to a life-changing revelation, but—”

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Mark.”

He smiled, just a little. “Do you fancy takeout?”

“Fine,” you muttered. “But you’re paying.”

The burger joint smells like grease, salt, and teenage nostalgia. The kind of place where the booths have cracked vinyl and the milkshake machine screams like a wounded animal every time someone orders vanilla.

Mark sits across from you, hunched over a basket of fries he hasn’t touched. His hair is still a little messy from his patrol as Invincible, soft waves flattened on one side. There’s a faint bruise blooming along his jaw, purple creeping under his golden skin. He keeps poking at a fry like it personally offended him.

You watch him for a moment, heart doing that familiar, treacherous squeeze before you approach with caution, “She cancel again?”

He shrugs. Too fast and causal. A performance you know all too well. You’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s pretending everything is fine. He’s about as subtle as a marching band in a library.

“Yeah,” he says, forcing a small smile, “Something came up.”

Something always comes up with her when the two of them have plans, and you always end up with Mark to pick up the pieces.

You bite the inside of your cheek, tasting iron and all the built up frustration. Not at her, not really. At the situation. At the way he keeps showing up for someone who keeps leaving the door half-closed, and at the way you’re sitting right here, wide open. You’re always sitting right there.

“Well,” you say, grabbing a fry and pointing it at him like a tiny golden sword, “her loss. These fries are elite. Crispy, salty, borderline life-changing. She’s practically missing the eighth wonder of the world here.”

A ghost of a laugh escapes him. Small, but real, and making your heart do that stupid, traitorous flutter, “There is no way fries are comparable to the wonders of the world, Y/N.”

“You clearly haven’t had the right fries then.”You say with a grin, shoving the basket toward him.

He rolls his eyes, but he takes one. Then another. The tension in his shoulders loosens a notch, like a knot finally starting to untangle.

Victory. You’ll take it.

You lean back in the booth, watching him eat, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. This is your specialty. The emotional first aid. Bandaging invisible bruises with jokes and junk food. You’ve been doing it for years, after all.

Later, you’re both sitting on the hood of his car in the parking lot, the night wrapped around you like a dark blanket. Streetlights spill golden across the puddles on the asphalt. The air smells like spring rainfall.

Your shoulders touch. It’s such a small thing. But your body registers it like a lightning strike.

Mark tilts his head back, staring up at the sky, “You ever think about how weird everything is now?”

You glance at him, your head tilting a bit as you look at him, your gaze roaming over his stupid, perfect face, “Define weird.”

He gestures vaguely upward, and then towards himself, “Flying. Fighting aliens. Trying to keep my grades from tanking. Dating someone who can rearrange matter at the molecular level.”

You snort, gently pushing your shoulder into his, “Yeah, that last one would keep me up at night too.”

He huffs out a laugh, breath fogging faintly in the cool air. For a moment, there’s quiet. Comfortable and familiar. The kind of silence that only exists between people who have known each other since scraped knees and science fair disasters.

Then he speaks again, his voice soft as those brown puppy eyes stare blankly ahead, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your heart stutters. Hard enough to hurt, as you try to ignore twinge. You keep your gaze fixed on the streetlight ahead, pretending your pulse isn’t doing gymnastics through your veins.

“You’d survive,” you say lightly, “You’re basically indestructible.”

“That’s not what I mean.” His voice is closer now, a deep hum settling in your ears and you risk a glance at him. He’s looking at you.

“You always know how to make things better,” he says, “Even when everything’s a mess.”

The words land softly, but they echo between your ribs, rippling like a dropped stone in deep water. Because this is the part that hurts the most.

You do know how to make things better. You know his favorite comfort food. You know the exact joke that will make him laugh when he’s spiraling. You know how he takes his coffee, how he cracks his knuckles when he’s nervous, how he gets quiet when he’s scared.

You know him, and you love him.

The realization sits in your chest, heavy and glowing. Because you know you don’t love him as just your best friend. You love him, in that deep, soul crushing way that makes you question your morality. What you would do protect him, how you would bend until you break to make sure his heart stays beating steady and unbroken.

You swallow. Your voice comes out significantly steadier than you feel, “That’s what best friends are for, dummy.”

You bump your shoulder into his again. He smiles, soft and grateful, the kind of smile that makes your chest ache in the sweetest, cruelest way.

Inside, your heart folds in on itself. Like a letter you’re not ready to send. Above you, the stars keep shining, indifferent and beautiful, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil you’re facing. And you sit there beside him, close enough to touch, wondering how someone can be so near and still feel just out of reach.

And… Jealousy is an ugly word. It’s bitter and small, and so not you. You’ve spent years convincing yourself it doesn’t belong to you. But sitting here under the hum of the streetlight, shoulder pressed to his, listening to him talk about a girl who keeps slipping through his fingers, you finally admit the truth curling in your chest.

You are jealous. Not of her powers, or her brilliance, or beauty. Of her proximity. Of the way she gets to hold his hand without thinking twice, of the way she gets the soft parts of him you’ve been carefully guarding for years.

Because she doesn’t see it, see him. Not the way you do. She misses the way he always gives the last fry to whoever he’s with, even when he’s starving. She misses how he rubs the back of his neck when he’s nervous, how he hums under his breath when he’s trying to concentrate, how he looks at the sky like he’s carrying the weight of the whole planet on his shoulders. She misses the quiet hero, the boy beneath the suit.

And God, you wish she knew what she had. Because you do. You’ve always known.

Your chest tightens until breathing feels like you’re dragging a bowling ball through wet cement. The words claw at your throat, sharp and desperate, and before you can shove them back down where they belong, they spill out, “I love you.”

“Yeah, I know I love—“

“No, Mark. I love you.”The confession lands between you like shattered glass and Mark freezes.

You feel it instantly, the way his body goes rigid beside yours, the way the easy warmth that’s always existed between you flickers and stutters. Panic floods your veins, hot and dizzying, but the dam is already broken. The truth keeps rushing out.

“I didn’t mean to,” you continue, voice trembling, hands gripping the edge of the hood like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, “I tried really hard not to, Mark. I told myself it was just friendship, that I was being dramatic, that it would pass.”

A shaky laugh escapes you, brittle as thin ice, “But it didn’t. It just kept getting bigger, and–and louder. Every time you smiled at me, every time you called me first when something went wrong, every time you showed up at my door looking like the world had chewed you up and I was the only place you felt safe. Me. Not her.”

Your vision blurs. You blink hard, but the tears come anyway, hot streams rolling down your cheeks.

“I know you love her,” you whisper, “I know that. And I swear I’ve tried to be happy for you. I am happy for you. But it hurts, Mark. It hurts watching you give your heart to someone who keeps dropping it, when I would hold it like it was the most precious thing in the universe. Not like it’s invincible.”

Mark’s head snaps up at that, hurt flashing across his face before he can hide it, not that you’re even really looking at him.

“That’s not fair,” he says, voice tight, defensive in a way you’ve rarely heard directed at you, “She’s not dropping it. She’s trying. You don’t know everything that’s going on with her.”

A hollow laugh slips out of you, sharp around the edges.

“I know enough, Mark.” You swipe at your cheeks, frustrated when more tears follow immediately after, “I know she cancels. I know she disappears. I know you sit there pretending it doesn’t bother you while you pick at cold fries and tell me it’s fine.”

His jaw clenches, shoulders squaring like he’s bracing for impact from the last place he has ever expected it, “She’s dealing with a lot,” he insists, “More than most people. You can’t just— just judge her like that.”

“I’m not judging her,” you shoot back, voice cracking despite your best effort, “I’m judging the way you keep getting hurt and acting like it doesn’t matter.”

Silence snaps between you, tense and humming. You take a shaky breath, forcing the words out before fear can swallow them again.

“You deserve someone who shows up, Mark. Every time. Not when it’s convenient for them, or when the world isn’t on fire. Every time. Big shit, small shit. All of it, Mark.”

“She does show up,” he says, quieter now, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. His eyes flicker, uncertainty creeping in, but stubborn loyalty holding the line steady, “You just… don’t see it.”

Your shoulders sag, exhaustion washing over you in a heavy wave as you speak softly, “I see you, Mark.”

Silence swallows the parking lot. You finally turn to look at him, and the expression on his face makes your stomach drop.

It’s a mixture of everything you wouldn’t want it to be in this moment. Shock, confusion, guilt. Love nowhere to be found.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

The words are soft and gentle. Careful. Like he’s afraid anything louder might break you completely.

“I… I didn’t know,” he continues, running a hand through his hair, eyes darting anywhere but your face, “You’re my best friend. You mean everything to me, and I never wanted to hurt you or anything.”

Each sentence lands like a slow, steady bruise. He slides off the hood of the car, movements stiff, uncertain. The distance between you grows by a few inches, then a few more, until the warmth of his shoulder is gone entirely.

“I think… I should go,” he murmurs.

Another apology sits heavy in the air, unspoken but obvious. You nod, slipping off the hood as well, because speaking feels impossible now. Because if you open your mouth, you’re afraid the sound that comes out will be something broken and unrecognizable.

He hesitates for a second, like he wants to say more. Like he wishes there was a version of this night that didn’t end with both of you standing on opposite sides of an invisible fault line.

But there isn’t.

So he climbs into the car, starts the engine, and pulls out of the parking lot, red taillights shrinking into the darkness until they disappear completely.

And you’re left sitting under the streetlight alone, heart cracked wide open, finally empty of all the secrets… and possibly down one best friend.

🪐Invincible Masterlist🪐 🦇Return To The Batcave🦇

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“What’s not fair?”

“That you’re taking care of me.”

He hears you laugh, and he slumps back against the couch, huffing again. 

“It’s not funny,” he murmurs. “I’m serious here.”

“Well, what do you want me to do? Leave you in the izakaya while I’m peacefully sleeping without my husband beside me?”

The thought isn’t too unpleasant for Tsukishima. He’d rather have you here—at home, well-rested—instead of waiting for him

“...Maybe.”

You sigh, though there’s no particular annoyance in your next words, Tsukishima hopes.

“That’s stupid.”

And now that he’s thinking about it, yeah. Maybe that was stupid.

What kind of wife wouldn’t worry for her husband’s well-being while he was out? You’re definitely not that kind.

His glasses slide slightly down his nose, and you’re quick to fix them without asking. He feels your fingers brush his cheek once again in the process.

Tsukishima paused.

“…Hey,” he says.

“Yes?”

“You’re touching my face.”

You hum. “I am.”

He swallows. “Okay.”

You stood straighter and turned to the kitchen, probably for water—you always think ahead like that—and Tsukishima’s eyes followed you automatically. He reaches out without thinking and lightly catches the sleeve of your cardigan.

“…stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say easily.

His grip tightens just a little. “Promise?”

He knows how he probably looks right now. His cheeks are faintly flushed and his eyes are heavy-lidded but longing. Because it’s you—and Tsukishima is ok with looking like this because it’s only for you.

“I promise.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, relieved, and lets go. “I just wanted to check.”

When you returned, you sat beside him and held the glass to his lips. “Drink.”

He obeys, because apparently drunk him is very cooperative. When he’s done, he sighs and leans sideways, his shoulder bumping into yours. He doesn’t move away—simply doesn’t want to. Instead, he adjusts until his head rests against your shoulder, then adjusts again so this time his head rests somewhat uncomfortably on your neck.

He feels you still, then relaxes, one arm coming up to steady him. “You’re very cuddly tonight,” you noted.

He made a negating sound, pressing closer to you. “That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“I’m only like this with you,” he says, like this is an important distinction that must be clarified immediately. “Everyone else is… a bother.”

You laughed. “I’m honored.”

…

“…did you know,” he starts, words careful despite the slur creeping in (he’s in a losing battle against sleep, but he remembers he still has to brush his teeth), “that I think about you a lot?”

“I would hope so. We’re married.”

“Yes, but—” He frowns, clearly struggling to articulate whatever he wanted to say. 

His hand lifts, fingers flexing like he’s trying to grab the right words out of the air. “Like… little things. During the day. I’ll see something stupid—like a cat that looks judgmental—and I’ll think, you would laugh at that. Or when I’m annoyed, I think about how you make tea. You do that thing with the spoon.”

“The thing with the spoon?” You tilt your head, intrigued.

“You tap it twice,” he replies, nodding, very serious. “On the rim. Every time. Even when you don’t need to.”

“…I never noticed that.”

“I notice.”

He shifts on the couch, suddenly restless, hands fidgeting in your embrace. “I’m not good at saying things,” he continues, voice quieter now. “I know that. I think I sound stupid when I try. Or obvious. Or like I’m saying something everyone already knows.”

“Kei…”

“But I love you,” he blurts out, too fast, too—too not very tipsy of him. “Like—really love you. Not in the normal way. In the way where my chest feels weird when you’re tired, and I want to fix it, but I don’t know how. In the way where I want to come home faster just because I know you’re here.”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“And sometimes I worry,” he admits. “That I don’t say it enough. That you’ll think I don’t feel it as much as I do.”

So this is what it felt like to hold your feelings on your sleeves and hope the other person wouldn’t turn you away because you’re too much or too little.

“Kei, I know.”

He pulls back and looks at you, startled. “You do?”

You nod. “You show it in your own way. A hundred little ways.”

His eyes sting, just a little. He blinks rapidly, scoffing weakly. Since when did he have the time to have tears glossing over his eyes?

“Wow. I’m—” He laughs once, breathy and embarrassed. “I’m way more emotional than I thought.”

“It’s kind of cute,” you tell him.

He huffs. How good you are with the words is just so… so right for him.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret’s safe.”

He hides his face on your shoulder. His voice comes muffled now. “You’re really patient with me.”

“Someone has to be.”

He knows that. That someone has to be, or else he’d maybe grow old and gray alone, with the world hating him or something.

“…thank you for bringing me home.”