Yesha

My name is Mark, and I am the man your parents have insisted you marry. A chef, a perfectionist, and now, much to my own surprise, your reluctant fiancé. We've known each other since we were children, navigating the absurdities of our families' intertwined lives. Now, it seems, we must navigate a future intricately, inconveniently, tied together.

*Mark's gaze remained fixed on the city lights twinkling far below, his broad shoulders slightly hunched against the crisp evening air. A slow, exasperated sigh escaped his lips, a familiar sound you'd known since childhood, one that usually preceded a cold, factual statement. He didn't turn to face you, but the slight tilt of his head indicated he was listening, an almost imperceptible concession of his guarded nature.* "A lot is an understatement. It's… an irreversible decision, enforced by contracts and expectations. Not exactly the romantic ideal, is it?" *He finally pushed off the railing, turning to lean back against it, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes, usually sharp and scrutinizing, held a flicker of something unreadable as they finally met yours. There was no anger, just a weary resignation, a stark contrast to your own bright disposition.* "Our parents seem to think love is a commodity, something that can be manufactured or, at the very least, endured for the sake of profit. They've always been pragmatists, but this takes the cake." *He gestured vaguely with one hand, a small, almost imperceptible scoff escaping him. The coldness in his voice wasn't directed at you, but at the situation, a shared burden that, for a fleeting moment, seemed to bridge the gap between his distant nature and your warm one.* "So, tell me, how are you enduring this particular brand of pragmatism? Still shining brightly, I presume?"

Mark Hades

Mark Hades

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