Mark kept his promise.
Once.
The first time the sky lit up with another emergency—some mid‑tier villain with tech he absolutely should not have had—Mark ducked into an alley, hands shaking as he tugged his jacket off, phone already in his grip.
Amber: at home?
Her reply came fast.
Amber: yeah. you okay?
He swallowed, typed:
Mark: gotta go. something's happening. I'll be late. I'm sorry.
He hit send, shoved the phone into his pocket, and launched himself into the air.
That night, when he landed on her doorstep bruised and stiff, she opened the door with worry in her eyes but no accusation.
"You texted," she said.
"I told you I would," he said.
She smiled, small but real. "Yeah. You did."
It worked. For a while.
Then the calls got more frequent. The emergencies stacked. Some nights he remembered, fumbling out a quick "running late" message as police sirens wailed in the background. Other nights, the threat slammed into him too fast—an explosion, a scream, Cecil's voice in his ear—and the promise slipped to the bottom of his priorities.
He always apologized later.
"Sorry, I forgot to text."
"Sorry, it all happened so fast."
"Sorry, I'll do better next time."
The first time, she believed him.
By the fifth, she just nodded and said, "It's okay," in a voice that meant it wasn't.
She never once said, "You broke your promise." She never once threw it in his face.
She didn't have to. The distance did it for her.
Morgan became the constant in the gaps.
It started small: a text when the news cut to a live feed.
Morgan: giant bug downtown. you good?
Amber: yeah. you?
Morgan: fine. overcaffeinated. under-impressed.
Soon, he stopped waiting for her to text first.
A bank heist with energy weapons—news breaks, cameras catch Invincible crashing through the ceiling.
Morgan called.
"You seeing this?" he asked, voice steady under the muted sound of the TV in the Parkers' living room.
"Yeah," she said. "He's going to get himself killed one day."
"Not if Eve has anything to say about it," Morgan said. "She's babysitting the whole operation."
Another night, some kaiju‑adjacent monstrosity crawled out of the river. The city's sirens blared. People got herded into subway tunnels and basements.
Morgan called.
"You in a safe place?" he asked.
She sat in her hallway, back against the wall, phone pressed to her ear. "Yeah," she said. "Kinda. You?"
"Home," he said. "On monster‑watch. You want play‑by‑play, or distraction?"
"Distraction," she said.
He gave it to her. Stories from school. Something ridiculous Arthur had said over Go. Helen's latest kitchen experiment. Nothing directly about capes. Nothing that made her feel like she was on the outside of his life looking in.
He never once said, "I forgot." He never let the fights be his excuse to vanish.
She didn't compare them out loud.
She didn't have to. The contrast drew itself.
Eve watched all of it from the periphery.
She saw Amber's name light up on Mark's screen, unanswered, while they were mid‑mission. She saw the way he flinched when he checked it later to find three texts stacked: you okay? / mark? / just let me know you're alive.
She saw the way Amber's presence at games and events dimmed. She still showed up. Still smiled. But the smiles got thinner, and the laughs got shorter, and there was a sharpness to her sarcasm that hadn't been there at the start.
Eve kept her mouth shut.
She told herself it wasn't her place. She told herself she was too close, too biased, too everything.
Instead, she stumbled into the role of Mark's sounding board.
"She's mad," he said one night, sitting on a rooftop with his knees pulled up, mask off, city lights washing his face in sodium orange. "I know she is. She says she's not, but I can feel it."
Eve sat beside him, legs dangling over the edge. "Have you tried listening when she says what she is?" she asked.
"I am," he insisted. "She says she understands. She says she gets it. And then she…pulls away. Cancels plans. Says she's busy."
"She is busy," Eve said. "Living a life you keep dropping in and out of."
He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I can't be in two places at once."
"I know," she said. "That's the problem."
She didn't mention the nights she'd watched Amber on a news clip, phone to her ear, lips moving in conversation. She didn't ask who she was talking to. She already knew.
Almost a year after Morgan woke up in a hospital bed, the slow drift snapped.
Prom season.
Talk of dresses and tuxes and limo rentals filled hallways and group chats. Social media flooded with pastel graphics and "Promposal ideas." Mark and Amber hadn't actually defined anything in that language, but it was understood—at least in his head—that they'd go together.
Until Cecil called.
The mission was "time‑sensitive." "Critical." "Can't trust anyone else with this." Words heavy with obligation.
Mark didn't even register the date until they were already in the air, until Eve flicked her eyes over at him and said, "You know what night this is, right?"
His stomach dropped. "Oh, crap."
He checked his phone. A text from Amber that afternoon: so…prom? :) / still on for tonight?
He'd answered hours later with: definitely. wouldn't miss it.
He hadn't texted since.
"We'll be back in time," he said, more to himself than to Eve.
Eve didn't contradict him.
They weren't.
By the time the mission was done—hours of dimensional nonsense, bruises that went down to his bones—the night sky above their Earth was already thinning toward dawn.
Mark hit the ground running, still in his suit, hair a mess, ribs screaming. He flew home, showered in record time, threw on dress clothes that felt wrong without the ritual of getting ready with butterflies.
He got to the venue breathless, tie askew.
The parking lot was mostly empty. The building's lights were down to a few polite glows. Custodial staff wheeled trash cans out, the distant sound of a playlist fading into silence.
Inside, a janitor was sweeping glitter.
"Prom's over, kid," the man said when Mark stepped in, jacket half on. "You're late."
He knew that. He went in anyway.
The decorations drooped. Streamers hung limply. A few helium balloons bumped against the ceiling like they were too tired to float.
No Amber.
She'd waited.
For a while.
Then she'd left.
He called. No answer. He texted. No reply.
Hours earlier, when it became clear that he wasn't coming, Amber had stood at the edge of the dance floor in her dress, phone in hand, the lights spinning over her like they belonged to someone else's moment.
She'd gone outside to breathe.
The night was warmer than it should've been, the sky clear. Groups of students clustered for photos. Couples laughed, awkward in formal wear and cheap cologne.
She scrolled her messages. The last text from Mark sat there, cheerful and confident: definitely. wouldn't miss it.
He'd missed it.
She stared at the screen for a long second, then, without really thinking about it, opened another thread.
Amber: you busy?
The reply came in under a minute.
Morgan: depends. how anti‑prom is this emergency?
Amber: very. can you come get coffee with me?
Morgan: send the address.
She did.
He showed up still smelling faintly of the Parkers' living room and laundry detergent, wearing his best attempt at "nice but not trying too hard": a button‑down, clean jeans, shoes without holes. He spotted her outside the café—prom dress, denim jacket thrown over it, hair pinned up and already a little loose.
"You look like a magazine cover from two different issues," he said, walking up. "Prom queen meets indie album."
She huffed a laugh. "You're late," she said.
"Traffic," he deadpanned. "And, you know, wanting to look this mediocre takes time."
He opened the café door for her. Inside, the warm light and hiss of the espresso machine wrapped around them like a quieter universe.
They ordered. Sat. Talked.
She didn't bring up Mark first.
Morgan didn't force it.
Eventually, though, she traced the rim of her coffee cup and said, "He promised."
"Yeah," Morgan said softly. "He did."
"He had a mission," she said immediately, defensive out of habit. "I know that. I know it wasn't on purpose. I know he's out there doing—" She waved a hand. "Important things."
"Both things can be true," Morgan said. "He can be doing important things and also have left you standing in a dress by yourself."
She swallowed. "I didn't want to be that girl," she said. "The one who gets mad because her superhero boyfriend doesn't show up to prom. It sounds…petty. Small."
"It sounds human," he said.
She looked at him. "Do you think I'm being unfair?"
"No," he said. "I think you're allowed to want to matter when the world isn't ending. Not just when you're on fire in a news clip."
Her throat worked. "He said he'd be there."
"He probably meant it," Morgan said. "He just couldn't cash the check."
She let out a shaky breath that turned into a humorless laugh. "You always have metaphors ready."
"Side effect of not being able to throw people into space," he said. "I work with what I've got."
She smiled, faint, but some of the tightness in her shoulders eased.
Somewhere, between sips of coffee and the soft hum of the shop's playlist, she made a decision she didn't say out loud.
Mark did what he always did when things broke: he went to Eve.
He found her on a rooftop not far from the venue, legs crossed, mask off, hair pulled back.
"You were right," he said, landing harder than he meant to. "She's mad."
Eve looked at him. His tie was crooked, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes tired in a way that had nothing to do with the fight.
"She has every right to be," Eve said.
"I know," he said. "I got there and it was…over. The janitor was sweeping. She was gone. She didn't answer her phone."
He laughed, a short, bitter sound. "I missed my own prom because I was in another dimension punching things."
"Only you," Eve said softly.
He sank down beside her, the weight of the night finally settling on his shoulders.
"I keep thinking I can do both," he said. "Be Mark and be Invincible. Have this life and that one. And every time I think I'm getting the balance right, something…tips. I let someone down. Usually her."
Eve didn't say, You're letting yourself down, too. Not yet.
"I'm a terrible boyfriend," he muttered.
"You're a good person in an impossible situation," she said. "And yeah, you're messing up. But you're not doing it because you don't care."
"It doesn't feel like that matters," he said. "Intent doesn't fix a ruined night."
"No," she agreed. "But it matters to me."
He looked at her then, eyes searching. "Why?" he asked. "Why do you…stick around? When I'm like this?"
Because I know what it's like to be the one left standing alone, she thought. Because you keep trying even when you're failing. Because when you're not, you're—
"You're my friend," she said. "And my partner. I'm not going to bail just because you're an idiot sometimes."
He huffed a laugh that broke halfway through. "Thanks, I guess."
She shifted closer without thinking about it, shoulder brushing his. The contact grounded him; she could feel the tension in his frame, the way he was holding everything too tight, the way his breathing hitched like he was trying very hard not to crack.
He leaned into her, just a little.
"I don't know what to do," he said, voice rough.
She wrapped an arm around him, pulling him into a proper hug. He resisted for half a second, then melted into it, burying his face against her shoulder like he had after worse missions, after bloodier days.
"It's okay," she murmured. "Breathe. One thing at a time."
He did.
The city hummed around them, distant and indifferent. Up here, under the wide sky, it felt like the two of them were the only fixed points in a world spinning too fast.
"You're always here," he said quietly. "When everything falls apart, you're…just here."
"I'm not going anywhere," she said.
He pulled back enough to look at her.
The rooftop lights caught in her eyes, reflections of distant windows and stars. He could see the worry there, and the softness, and something else he'd been trying not to name.
"Eve," he said.
She knew, in that moment, what was happening.
She should say something. She should pull back. She should remind him of Amber, of promises, of choices.
Instead, with his hurt written plain on his face and her own heart thudding too loud in her chest, she did the thing that had been hovering on the edge of their orbit for months.
She kissed him.
It wasn't a grand, sweeping thing. No fireworks. No music swelling.
It was a hesitant press of lips, brief but real, a line crossed in the quiet.
He froze, just for a second.
Then he kissed her back.
All the lines they'd been pretending not to see lit up at once.
Far across the city, in a small café, Amber laughed at something Morgan said and felt something twist in her chest—a string she hadn't realized connected her to a rooftop she couldn't see.
On the board none of them had agreed to play, several stones shifted position at once.
And nothing, from that point forward, was going to be simple.