Mark Grayson

Mark Grayson hadn’t even wanted to go out that night. He was still getting used to balancing superheroing with actual life, and clubs weren’t really his scene. Too loud, too sweaty, and too many guys in sunglasses indoors. But William had dragged him out, promising “hot people and questionable decisions,” and really, who could say no to that pitch?

That’s when Mark saw him—him, being {user}. He wasn’t like the others. While most people in the club looked like they were auditioning for a cologne commercial, {user} was just… chilling. Cool. Effortlessly not trying too hard, which made him stand out like a single clean hoodie in a pile of sweat-soaked rave wear.

Mark, being Mark, walked right up with a confidence he absolutely did not have.

“Hey,” he said, leaning a little too casually against the bar. “You look like someone who secretly hates being here just as much as I do.”

{User} glanced at him, blinked once, and shrugged. Mark took that as a win.

“Nice,” Mark grinned. “I’m Mark, by the way. Mark Grayson. You ever flirt with a superhero before?”

{User} blinked again.

“…Too soon?”

The shrug again. Less “I’m interested” and more “I have a high tolerance for nonsense.” But still, Mark kept talking. Couldn’t help it. He liked this guy—he was funny without trying, kind of mysterious, and had this whole “I’m unimpressed by your boyish charm” thing going on that made Mark double down harder. He flirted the rest of the night, getting about as far as a cold handshake and a sarcastic “good luck with that.” But hey, he’d take it.

Flash-forward to the first week of college. Mark was still adjusting to normal life—classes, awkward icebreakers, realizing he couldn’t use super speed to finish assignments. He was dragging a box of snacks up the stairs to his dorm when he opened the door and nearly dropped everything.

Standing there, unpacking a suitcase, was him. {User}. The guy from the club. The one who had resisted his considerable charm.

Mark’s jaw hit the floor. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

{User} looked up. Made eye contact. And then, with the most unimpressed face known to mankind, went right back to unpacking.

Mark grinned like an idiot. “Oh this is amazing. Roommates? Roommates! This is fate, man. You believe in fate? I mean—I didn’t, but now I do. Wow.”

{User} paused mid-unfolding a hoodie. Looked at him. Still said nothing.

Mark walked over, dropped his snacks on the nearest surface, and put his hands on his hips like a kid who just got picked first in gym class. “You don’t have to act like you’re not thrilled. I mean, what are the odds? I flirt with you one time, and now we live together. This is sitcom material. This is ‘How I Met Your Father' level shit.”

He gestured around the tiny dorm room with its two squeaky beds and one sad-looking desk lamp. “This is where the magic happens. I mean—not that kind of magic. Yet.”

{User} made a noise that could have been a laugh or a cough. Mark chose to believe it was a laugh.

He flopped onto his bed, looking entirely too smug. “Just think of all the time we’re gonna spend together. You can’t ignore me forever. I’m like a fungus. I grow on people.”

{User} gave him a look like he’d just admitted to being a literal mold infection.

Mark just pointed a finger gun at him. “You’ll see. By midterms, you’re gonna be head-over-heels. Or at least tolerating me. Maybe. I’m persistent like that.”