Continuation:
After leaving the Park, Emma remained unusually quiet, her eyes flicking over to Mark every so often, but never fully meeting his gaze. Mark, for his part, kept his eyes forward, the cold pack still pressed to his swollen face. The throbbing ache in his jaw didn't seem to lessen, but it also didn't seem as bad as it had in the moments after Dylan's fist had made contact. It felt… surreal, almost, like the kind of thing that happened in movies, not to regular people who were just trying to get a Cinnabon and enjoy a date.
Emma had offered to drive him home, but Mark insisted on walking it off. The cool evening air was a refreshing contrast to the hot tension that had clung to the air inside the bookstore. They walked side by side in silence, and though Emma occasionally stole a glance at him, Mark couldn't help but notice the tenseness in her posture. It wasn't just the worry about him; it was something deeper, something that had been there long before the punch had been thrown.
"I'm fine," Mark said again, more for her than for himself, his voice coming out a little muffled from the ice pack.
Emma didn't respond at first. She just kept walking, the faint glow of streetlights casting shadows over her face, making it difficult to read the emotions she kept hidden beneath her calm exterior.
"I should've warned you more about Dylan," she said finally, her voice quiet, almost apologetic.
"You should have," he replied. "at least that he is like a wild animal."
Emma snorted softly, the sound more of a nervous laugh than anything, and for a moment, the heaviness between them seemed to lift.
"Yeah, I guess I should've put a warning label on him," she murmured, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
They finally reached her apartment, a small, cozy place tucked into a quieter part of the city, away from the clamor and chaos of the mall. The building itself was nothing special, just a modest four-story complex with faded brick walls, but inside, Emma had made it her own. Mark had been here a few times before, but never under circumstances quite like this.
The door clicked shut behind them, and Emma immediately went to the kitchen, her movements sharp and purposeful. Mark could hear the rummaging of drawers, the clink of glass and metal as she searched for what she needed. Mark gingerly sank into the couch, the cold still pressed to his face, though it was starting to lose its effectiveness. He tried to settle into the softness of the cushions, but it only made the aches in his body feel more pronounced.
Emma reappeared, a first aid kit in her hands, and she moved toward him with that same quiet intensity that had been present ever since Dylan's fist had landed. She knelt down in front of him, her eyes scanning his bruised face, her fingers brushing gently against the swollen skin around his jaw.
"I'm sorry," she whispered again, though this time, Mark could tell she wasn't just apologizing for the scene earlier. She was apologizing for something deeper, something that had been weighing on her long before Dylan had barged into their lives.
Mark shook his head, the cold pack shifting on his face. "You don't need to apologize. None of this is your fault."
She hesitated, glancing at him, but didn't say anything. Instead, she began dabbing antiseptic onto his cuts, the sting sharp and immediate. Mark winced, but he didn't pull away.
"I really should've warned you about him," Emma said, her voice quieter now, as if the words were meant more for herself than for him.
"You did," Mark said, voice muffled by the ice. "You just didn't say 'hey, your face might end up being a punching bag.'"
She gave him a weak smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. Her hands were steady, though, as she worked, as though the process of caring for him helped her center herself. As she applied the bandages, Mark's eyes wandered to the window, the night outside now settling into a stillness that felt in stark contrast to the chaotic whirlwind they'd just left behind.
"I'm just…" Emma began, biting her lip as she carefully wrapped a bandage around his cheek. "I'm just so used to handling things on my own, you know? I never thought about… this. About how my family would react. And Dylan…" She paused, her fingers stilling for a moment before she continued. "He's always been like that, but I thought, maybe this time would be different. Maybe he'd accept it."
Mark, despite the pain, couldn't help but admire how composed she was, even as her voice trembled slightly. "You can't control how people react, Emma," he said gently. "But you did stand up for me. That's worth more than any punch, you know?"
She looked up at him then, her expression softening just a little. Her gaze lingered on him, and for a long moment, there was a quiet understanding between them—something unspoken that passed through the space between them like a quiet promise.
When she finished, she sat back on her heels, surveying her work. "I should get you some ice for your jaw. Maybe something to numb it, too."
Mark's eyes flickered toward her. "I'll survive."
She didn't seem convinced, but she nodded anyway. "I'll be right back."
As she disappeared into the kitchen, Mark stayed on the couch, his thoughts whirling. What had just happened? He had been punched by a guy who, apparently, was a professional fighter. His girlfriend's overprotective brother had knocked him down in a bookstore in front of a bunch of strangers. And yet, somehow, he wasn't angry. He wasn't even upset. He was more… confused, disoriented by the unexpected turns of the evening.
Emma returned a few minutes later, ice in hand, and she gingerly placed it against his swollen jaw. "You really should be more careful about who you kiss," she said, a playful smile tugging at her lips, but there was a nervous edge to her voice.
"Yeah," Mark muttered, grimacing as the cold numbed his face. "Noted."
But before she could say anything else, her phone buzzed on the table, breaking the fragile moment between them. Emma glanced at the screen, her eyes tightening almost immediately. She stood, her back rigid. Mark watched as she glanced at the phone again, her lips pressed into a thin line.
"It's my dad," she said softly, almost as if the words were foreign to her. "He's home."
Mark straightened. "I thought you said he was out of town?"
"He was supposed to be," she muttered under her breath, her voice a mix of frustration and uncertainty.
She didn't explain any further, though Mark could see the weight of something heavy on her shoulders. She grabbed her jacket from the chair, eyes darting to the door. "Come on," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "We need to talk to him."
"Talk to him?" Mark asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What about?"
Emma paused, her eyes darkening, before turning toward him. "Trust me, you don't want to be here for this."
Mark hesitated, but only for a moment. He stood and followed her into the hallway. Her father's presence loomed in the air like a storm waiting to break, and as they walked into the living room, the weight of it hit him immediately. The man sitting in the leather chair was tall, broad-shouldered, with a posture that seemed to absorb all the light in the room. His sharp eyes flicked over Emma, then turned slowly to Mark.
Mark felt his heart drop into his stomach. There was something about this man that radiated danger, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He didn't even have to be told. He knew, in that moment, that this wasn't just any father.
This was a man who ruled.
Emma's father barely glanced at her as she entered, his voice smooth, calm, but with a dangerous edge. "Emma," he said in a tone that made the word sound more like a command than a greeting. "You've been misbehaving."
Emma squared her shoulders, her eyes locking onto his. "I'm an adult now, Dad. I don't need your permission."
Her father didn't flinch. "I think you do," he said simply. "I don't want you involved with him."
Emma's fists clenched at her sides. "You don't get to decide who I can see. Not anymore."
The two of them stood there, facing off, the tension so thick Mark could almost taste it. Emma's father didn't move, his cold gaze fixed on his daughter as if he were sizing her up. Mark stood awkwardly in the background, unsure if he should intervene or just stay quiet.
After a moment of silence, Emma's father slowly stood from the chair. "You think you can just pick someone out of a bookstore and—"
Emma didn't wait for him to finish. "I don't need your approval, Dad. I'm not your property."
Her father's eyes flashed dangerously, but before the situation could escalate any further, Emma stormed off to her room, slamming the door behind her.
Mark felt the weight of the moment settle on him like a heavy cloak. Her father's warning hung in the air, cold and ominous. This wasn't over.
And he had a feeling, deep in his gut, that it was only the beginning.
****
A/N: wait a second ..how is mark going to escape from here.
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