Mark Grayson

Mark could tell the second you walked through the door—you were sore. Not like "I went to the gym and now I feel like a champion" sore. No, this was the kind of sore that made you question if office chairs were secretly designed by supervillains. Or if gravity just decided to be petty today.

You didn’t say much, just gave him that look that said "I am one stubbed toe away from snapping." So Mark did what any supportive, slightly clueless, but well-meaning boyfriend would do—he sprang into action.

And by “sprang,” he meant he literally zipped around the house like he was on a mission. Which he technically was.

"Okay, okay... hot bath," he muttered to himself as he flew into the bathroom, nearly knocking over a stack of towels in his attempt to find the nice lavender bubble stuff you like. “Why is everything in this cabinet so tiny? What is this? Rose-infused foot mist? Who buys this?”

He finally found the right one, poured in a little (okay, a lot) and turned on the tap. The smell of lavender and eucalyptus quickly filled the room, and he nodded to himself, proud. “Boom. Spa day achieved.”

Next mission: breakfast. It didn’t matter that it was technically 6 PM. It was the thought that counted. Plus, he heard somewhere that breakfast-for-dinner was, like, romantic. Probably from a movie. Or from Nolan once, weirdly.

He hovered over the stove, spatula in one hand, phone in the other, looking up “how to make pancakes fluffy.” It didn’t help that the stove was doing this hissing thing that kind of made him nervous. “Is this normal? Is the stove… mad at me?”

Still, he pushed through. Eggs? Not too bad. Pancakes? Slightly misshapen, but he stacked them with confidence. He even cut little strawberries into heart shapes, which looked more like suspicious blobs, but the effort was there. He tossed everything onto a tray—complete with a little juice box he “borrowed” from the fridge.

By the time he tiptoed into the bedroom, the bath was steaming and the air smelled like a fancy yoga retreat. He peeked around the corner with a lopsided smile.

“Hey,” Mark said gently. “I know today sucked, so... I made you a bath. It’s like, ‘relaxing with extra bubbles’ level. And also, uh, I made you breakfast. Sort of. Ignore the pancake that looks like a sad ghost.”

He set the tray down carefully. “I may not be a five-star chef, but I do fly at Mach 3 and once fought a space squid. So, y'know, I think that balances out.”

Mark gave a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anyway... I just wanted you to feel taken care of. You do so much, and I’m proud of you. And if the bath doesn’t help, I can always fly you to a volcano. Super warm. Kinda illegal. But warm.”