#Mark Reynolds | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rootedinrevisions · 9 days ago

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Forever Begins in Manhattan

Summary: A whirlwind romance blossoms between two people who were never supposed to meet. When a chance encounter brings together a charming and successful man named Mark and a thoughtful, independent woman, their connection sparks an undeniable attraction. As they navigate their growing feelings, they share intimate moments, heartfelt conversations, and a deepening love, all while balancing their personal dreams, desires, and a promise to wait for marriage. Set against the backdrop of theater dates, picnics, and cozy moments in the city, this love story reminds us that the most extraordinary romances are often the ones that feel like fate.

Warnings: Alcohol Use in Social Settings, some slight sexual tension but no direct smut. Some references to more traditional values and old-fashioned courtship based on this being set in the 1940s.

Word Count: 9,712

A/N: This was inspired by Mark Reynolds, the character from The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, whose charm, quiet strength, and deep capacity for love left a lasting impression on me. And I loved the idea of giving Mark the ending that he deserved.

***** indicates a time jump or different day.

THE FIRST NIGHT

The clink of glasses and the hum of conversation blend with the soft, sultry notes of a jazz band filling the air. The ballroom is alive with elegance. Women in sleek satin gowns and men in crisp tuxedos, the flicker of candlelight reflecting off the crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. The sound of heels tapping against the polished floor dances in rhythm with the music, while the sharp scent of perfume mingles with the faint trace of cigar smoke.

You sit at a table tucked near the far side of the room, nursing a glass of champagne, the bubbles tickling your throat as you smile politely at your companions. The conversation drifts, lighthearted but distant, as the crowd swirls around you. People exchanging pleasantries, laughing, stealing glances from across the room.

The flickering candlelight catches your attention, drawing your gaze to the far side of the room, where a man enters the ballroom.

He’s not quite like the others. He’s tall, with a presence that commands the space without trying. He is wearing a white tuxedo jacket that’s sleek and hugs his shoulders just so. The white shirt beneath compliments his tanned skin. He has darker blond hair. It’s neatly styled, slicked back with a side part. There's an effortless elegance about him. His movements are fluid, as though he belongs in this space, in the midst of this world.

He glances across the room, and in that instant your eyes meet. A flicker of recognition, but you can't quite place it. He’s a stranger, but there’s something familiar in the way his gaze holds yours for just a beat too long.

His mouth curls into a slight almost imperceptible smile. It's polite, but there's something in it. An invitation. You can’t bring yourself to look away.

For a moment the room seems to fade out, the noise blurring into the background as you try to steady your breath. He’s a little older than most of the other men here. He’s more refined. There's something about him that suggests he's lived a life of stories. He’s probably been to places you've only heard about. He’s the kind of man who might just know how to dance without tripping over his own feet.

He's not flashy. Not the type to flaunt attention, but there's a quiet confidence in the way he moves. He takes a step toward you, and before you know it, he’s right there.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” his voice is smooth, rich with an accent you can’t quite place, but it feels comfortable, like velvet against your skin. He’s not one to rush into introductions, though; he’s measured, his smile warm but tempered.

Your pulse quickens, and you find yourself nodding almost automatically, “Not at all.”

“Mark Reynolds,” he says, his hand extending toward you with practiced grace. “And you are?”

You hesitate, a bit unsure of how to play it. Something about him feels too easy, too perfect for a moment like this.

“I—” you start, the words slipping from your mouth like silk. Then you softly say your name.

His eyes flicker with something unreadable before he looks toward the dance floor. “Would you care to dance?”

The question hangs in the air like an invitation to something more than just the music. Without waiting for an answer, his hand rests gently at the small of your back, guiding you toward the floor.

As the band picks up the tempo, you find yourself swept into the rhythm of the night, your steps following his with an ease that surprises you. There's a feeling in his touch, a subtle assertiveness in the way he leads, making it impossible not to follow, not to fall into the moment with him.

Your fingers brush against his, and the room, the music, the crowd, they all seem to fade as he twirls you around the floor. You’re acutely aware of the heat of his hand on your back, the smoothness of his movements, the way he makes even the most delicate steps feel like something more.

As the song comes to an end, he doesn’t let go right away. His thumb brushes lightly against your hand before he finally releases you, the absence of his touch leaving behind a strange sort of longing.

"You're a natural," he says, voice warm with amusement.

You laugh softly, tilting your head. "I could say the same about you."

The band shifts to a livelier tune, and another couple takes to the floor, but neither of you make a move to leave just yet. Someone passes by offering champagne, and Mark plucks two glasses from the tray before handing one to you. His fingers graze yours again as you take it.

You step off the dance floor together, lingering at the edge of the room where the city lights cast long shadows against the gilded walls. You talk—about nothing and everything. He tells you he’s just returned from London, you tell him about your life here in New York. He listens in a way that makes you feel as if your words matter.

The conversation shifts, turning quieter, more personal, and there’s something in his expression. It’s something soft yet intent like he’s considering the weight of this moment. You’re wondering if it’s meant to be fleeting or if it could become something more.

Hours slip away unnoticed, until you realize the crowd has thinned, the energy of the party mellowing into the late night hush of whispered conversations and lingering glances.

Mark tilts his head slightly. “Let me walk you home.”

You should refuse. You should insist it’s not necessary, but the words don’t come. Instead, you find yourself nodding, drawn to the way he’s already offering his arm. There’s something about the easy confidence in his posture as if this was always the natural next step.

The cool night air greets you as you step outside. The streets are quieter now, the distant hum of the city softened by the late hour.

The warmth of him seeps through the fabric of his suit, steady and reassuring. You find yourself leaning into him ever so slightly. Not out of necessity, but because it feels right. It’s as natural as the way the night has unfolded.

The walk to your building feels too short, the night slipping through your fingers faster than you’d like. As you reach the stoop, you slow your steps, reluctant to break the spell that’s settled between you.

You turn to him, still holding onto his arm, your fingers grazing the fine fabric of his sleeve before finally letting go. The streetlamp overhead casts a soft glow, catching the sharp angles of his jaw, the glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

“I had a wonderful evening,” you say, meaning every word.

Mark exhales a quiet laugh, his smile tilting just slightly.

“So did I.” But there’s something in the way he says it—low, almost hesitant, like maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t want to leave either.

For a moment, neither of you move. The city hums faintly around you, but it might as well be silent. He shifts just a fraction closer, his hand resting lightly against the curve of your waist, not pulling you in, just…there.

You should say goodnight. You should turn, step inside, let the night end here. But instead, you linger, your gaze flickering between his eyes and the line of his mouth, wondering if he might kiss you.

Mark’s fingers twitch against your waist, his breath just barely brushing your cheek. He studies you like he’s memorizing the moment, like he’s weighing whether to take that step or let you go.

Finally in a voice softer than before, he murmurs, “May I?”

Your pulse stirs, and though you barely nod, it’s enough. He leans in slow and sure, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that is as much a question as it is an answer. It’s gentle, and lingers just long enough to leave you breathless. When he pulls away, he stays close, his forehead nearly resting against yours.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs.

You step back, fingers still tingling where they had rested against his coat. “Goodnight, Mark.”

As you slip inside, closing the door behind you, your heart races not just from the kiss, but from the undeniable feeling that this is only the beginning.

* * * * *

THE FIRST DATE

The soft rustle of an envelope slipping through the mail slot draws your attention the next morning. You glance up from your morning coffee, setting your cup down as you rise from the table. When you reach the door, a neatly wrapped bouquet rests just outside. It’s filled with dark red roses, simple yet elegant.

A flutter of excitement stirs in your chest as you pick them up. You lean in, and their delicate fragrance hits your nose. Nestled among the petals is a small note, the handwriting neat and confident.

Last night was lovely. May I steal you away for dinner? - Mark

A smile tugs at your lips as you read it again, warmth settling in your chest. The night before had been…unexpected. A whirlwind. A spark. But this? This was intentional. Thoughtful, even. A gesture meant just for you.

And as you stood there with the roses in your hand you thought to yourself that there was something undeniably thrilling to you about a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to show it.

* * * * *

Food rationing has made dining out a luxury, so when Mark suggested dinner at his place it felt both practical and intimate. The sun has just begun to set when you arrive at his apartment, a refined yet welcoming space that reflects his personality well.

He greets you at the door, his sleeves rolled up, and a dishtowel slung over his shoulder. He looks far too charming for a man who insists he’s ‘not much of a cook’. A jazz record hums from a gramophone in the corner, and the air is filled with the warm scent of something savory coming from the kitchen.

“I will admit I had a little help,” Mark confesses with a grain as he motions toward the neatly set dining table. “But I promise, it’s edible.”

You laugh, following him into his home. “As long as it’s now powdered eggs and canned meat, I’ll consider it a success.”

“Then I think we are off to a promising start.”

You take in the scene. The elegantly set table with a white linen cloth and a candle flickering softly at the center. Two plates are set with what looks to be roast chicken, potatoes, and fresh greens. It’s an impressive feat given the state of rationing.

You raise a brow as you settle into your seat. “I have to admit, I expected something a little more…wartime appropriate. Canned beans, perhaps.”

Mark smirks, pouring you a glass of wine. “Let’s just say I pulled some strings. A man in my profession knows people.”

You accept the wine, tilting your head curiously. “And what did you have to promise in return for such luxuries?”

He leans in slightly, voice low, teasing. “That darling, is classified.”

The warmth in his gaze sends a pleasant shiver through you, and you find yourself smiling as you take a sip of wine. The conversation flows as easily as it had the night before, effortless and engaging. Mark has a way of making you feel as though you’re the only person in the world worth listening to, his attention never wavering.

Between bites of dinner, he tells you about his work—about the manuscripts he’s been reviewing, about the writers who fascinate him and the ones who drive him mad. He speaks with a passion that makes you want to lean in closer, to absorb every detail.

“And what about you?” he asks, resting an elbow on the table, his expression genuinely curious. “What’s something you haven’t told me yet?”

You smile, considering. “Something I haven’t told you…” You tap your fingers lightly against your wine glass. “I once dreamed of traveling the world. Seeing Paris, Rome, all the places I’ve only read about.”

His lips curve slightly. “And what stopped you?”

“The war,” you admit, voice softer now. “Then life.” You glance down, then back up at him. “But I suppose there’s still time.”

Mark watches you for a moment, then lifts his glass. “To Paris, then.”

You hesitate, then clink your glass against his. “To Paris.”

Once dinner is finished and the plates pushed aside, the record shifts to a slower tune. Something soft and dreamy. Mark stands, offering you his hand with an easy confidence.

“Dance with me?”

You glance at him, amused. “Here? Now?”

“There’s music, isn’t there?” His tone is playful, but his eyes hold something more, a quiet invitation.

After a brief moment of hesitation, you take his hand. He pulls you into him, one hand at your waist, the other enveloping yours. The two of you move slowly, the dim glow of the candlelight casting shadows on the walls. He leads with ease, each step sure and unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world.

“You dance well,” you murmur, glancing up at him.

He smirks. “You sound surprised.”

“Not surprised,” you tease. “Just…impressed.”

Mark chuckles, pulling you just a fraction closer. “Careful. Keep flattering me, and I might start thinking you like me.”

You arch a brow, playing along. “What if I do?”

His grip tightens just slightly, and his voice drops to something softer. “Then I’d say you have excellent taste.”

The words settle between you, their weight undeniable. For a long moment, you simply sway together, lost in the quiet intimacy of it all.

When the night finally winds to a close, Mark walks you home, just as he had the night before. This time, there’s no hesitation in the way you loop your arm through his, leaning into the warmth of his side as you stroll through the quiet streets.

Outside your building, you slow your steps, reluctant to say goodnight. The city hums faintly in the distance, but here in this little pocket of time, it feels as though the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.

Mark watches you, his expression unreadable yet intent. The way his eyes trace your features makes your heart skip, like he’s memorizing every detail.

His lips quirk at the edges, though there’s something almost solemn in his gaze. “Good. I was hoping you would.”

Mark moves first, his hand lifting, fingers brushing along your jaw in the gentlest of touches, tilting your chin up ever so slightly. His thumb lingers at the corner of your mouth, as if he’s considering something.

The first kiss is soft. Deliberate. His lips are warm, patient, and yet there’s a tension beneath it. There’s something restrained, as if he’s holding himself back.

You exhale against him, your hand coming to rest lightly against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

He starts to pull away. Just barely, but the moment his lips leave yours something stirs in you. Something instinctive. Without thinking you follow the movement, your fingers curling against his lapel as you press forward, seeking him again.

Mark exhales a quiet laugh against your mouth. He catches your waist, drawing you in as he tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to leave you dizzy.

His other hand cups the back of your neck, his thumb brushing just below your ear as his lips move with an aching slowness, drawing you under, and making you forget everything but him.

The world around you ceases to exist. There is no city, no streetlamp, no distance between you. Just warmth, and the quiet, breathless give and take of a kiss that neither of you seem willing to end.

When you do finally part, it’s only by the barest fraction. Your foreheads rest together, both of you lingering in the space between breaths.

Mark’s voice is low, rough at the edges. “That was…” He exhales a quiet laugh, as if at a loss for words.

You smile, your fingertips still resting lightly against his lapel. “Yes. It was.”

A silence follows, the kind that makes you wonder if he might kiss you again. But instead, Mark lifts your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles. It’s a gesture both tender and maddeningly restrained before murmuring, “Goodnight.”

And then with a final lingering glance, he steps back.

You watch him disappear down the street. Your pulse is still racing, and your lips are still tingling.

And for the first time in a long time you wonder if maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something worth holding onto.

* * * * *

THE SECOND WEEK I THE SECOND DATE

The city is alive with a kind of magic that only New York can conjure at night. Streetlights glow against the damp pavement, reflecting off the black iron railings and golden window panes of the grand theaters lining Broadway. The air is crisp but not cold, filled with the hum of conversation and the occasional laughter of couples dressed in their evening best, hurrying toward their seats before the curtain rises.

You step out of the taxi, smoothing your gloved hands down the front of your dress, the rich fabric catching the light as you move. Mark is already there, waiting for you at the entrance of the theater, looking impossibly handsome in his dark suit. His hair is neatly combed, and his posture is relaxed but poised, like a man completely at ease in the moment. The instant he sees you, something shifts in his expression. His easy smile falters for just a breath, his eyes sweeping over you as if trying to memorize the sight.

“You’re stunning,” he murmurs, offering his arm.

Your fingers slip into the crook of his elbow, the warmth of him seeping through the layers of your gloves.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Reynolds” you tease lightly though there’s no denying the way your heart skips at the way he looks at you, and guides you effortlessly toward the grand entrance, his hand covering yours just for a moment.

Inside, the theater is all rich velvet and golden chandeliers, an opulent escape from the world outside. The murmur of excited patrons fills the air as ushers in pressed uniforms lead guests to their seats.

Mark’s presence beside you is steady and reassuring. As you settle into your seats which are perfectly positioned in the orchestra section, you glance over at him.

He’s watching you instead of the stage, his lips tilted in the faintest smile.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Mark,” you say, raising a brow. “How did you manage to get seats this good?”

He chuckles, tilting his head slightly toward you. “Let’s just say I have a few connections.”

“Impressive.”

“I like to think you deserve only the best.” His voice is softer now, almost lost beneath the growing swell of music from the orchestra pit.

And just like that, the play begins

As the curtain falls for intermission, the theater buzzes with excitement. Conversations rise around you in a mix of murmurs of praise for the performances, speculation on what’s to come in the second act. But you’re only half-listening

Mark shifts beside you, stretching slightly in his seat before turning toward you. “Well?” he asks, his voice warm with amusement. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

You glance at him, your lips curving into a smile. “Very much. The show is wonderful.”

“But?” he prompts, eyes glinting.

You hesitate, then admit, “I think I might be enjoying the company just a little more.”

His smile deepens, something knowing and pleased flickering across his face. “Is that so?” He leans in just slightly, his voice lowering so only you can hear over the din of the theater. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

A soft warmth blooms in your chest at his words, but before you can respond, an usher steps through the aisles offering refreshments.

Mark rises smoothly to his feet. “Let me get you something.”

You start to protest, but he silences you with a playful look.

“Let me,” he insists, then disappears into the crowd before you can argue further.

Left alone for a moment, you exhale and glance around, taking in the grandeur of the theater once more. It truly is breathtaking, but even now, your thoughts linger on the man who just left your side.

Minutes later, Mark returns with two glasses of champagne, handing you one as he settles back into his seat.

“To a lovely evening,” he says, lifting his glass slightly.

You clink yours against his, the delicate sound ringing between you. “To lovely company.”

He watches you over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip, and you wonder how it’s possible for a simple gaze to hold so much intensity.

The lights flicker, signaling the end of intermission, but before you can turn your attention back to the stage, Mark leans in, his voice a quiet promise against your ear.

“After the show, let’s take a walk.”

It’s not a question, it’s an invitation, one you have no intention of refusing.

As the second act begins, you try to focus on the performance, but it’s no use.

The final curtain falls, and the theater erupts into applause. Mark stands with the rest of the crowd, clapping politely, but his attention drifts back to you. There’s a glow in your expression, the lingering magic of the performance still in your eyes.

He offers his hand as the audience begins to shuffle toward the exits. “Shall we?”

You slip your fingers into his, allowing him to guide you through the throng of elegantly dressed theatergoers spilling out onto the bustling streets of Manhattan. The city is alive with a different kind of energy now—the hurried footsteps of late-night wanderers, the distant hum of a saxophone from a street performer on the corner, the golden glow of lamplight reflecting off rain-dampened pavement.

Mark doesn’t let go of your hand as he steers you away from the main crowd, his pace unhurried. “How about that walk?” he asks, glancing at you.

You nod, smiling. “I’d like that.”

Together, you stroll down the sidewalk, the sounds of the city wrapping around you like a familiar melody. The air is crisp but not cold, and you lean into Mark’s warmth just slightly as you walk side by side.

He chuckles under his breath. “What?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“I was just thinking,” he says, his voice smooth with amusement, “this is the kind of night people write about. A perfect evening—Broadway, champagne, good company.”

You arch a brow. “Good company, huh?”

“The best,” he confirms, his gaze lingering on you before he looks ahead again.

A comfortable silence settles between you, punctuated only by the sound of your footsteps and the occasional distant car horn. The streets are quieter in this part of the city, lined with elegant brownstones and charming streetlamps casting soft pools of light onto the sidewalk.

At a street corner, Mark slows his pace and turns toward you slightly. “Tell me something,” he says, tilting his head. “If you could do anything right now—go anywhere in the world, no limits—where would you go?”

The question catches you off guard, but you don’t mind. You take a moment to think before answering.

“Right now?” you muse. “I think I’d still be right here.”

Mark’s expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across his face before he exhales a soft chuckle. “Careful,” he teases, “say things like that, and I’ll never let you leave my side.”

The words feel lighthearted, but there’s a weight beneath them, something real that neither of you acknowledge outright. Instead, you just smile, allowing the moment to stretch between you.

You walk a little longer, the conversation meandering from the play to favorite places in the city, to childhood memories, each new topic peeling back another layer of the man beside you.

Eventually, you reach your building, stopping just before the stoop.

For the first time all night, you hesitate, reluctant to end the evening. Mark seems to feel it too.

“Thank you,” you say softly, glancing up at him. “Tonight was…wonderful.”

His lips curve into a knowing smile. “It’s not over yet.”

And before you can ask what he means, he takes your hand again then gently and deliberately he brings it to his lips. The kiss is brief but lingering, his gaze never leaving yours.

Your breath catches, your heart pounding, but before you can react, he takes a step back, his smile turning slightly mischievous.

“Goodnight,” he says, his voice rich and warm.

Then, with one last glance, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing on your stoop, lips tingling, pulse racing, already wondering when you’ll see him again.

* * * * *

THE THIRD WEEK

The following week passes in a soft haze of daydreams and stolen smiles, memories of your last evening with Mark replaying in your mind more often than you care to admit. You find yourself looking for him in passing moments, a glimpse of a crisp suit in a crowd, the scent of cologne that’s almost but not quite his. You tell yourself not to expect anything, not to get ahead of yourself. But when a knock sounds at your door one evening, your heart betrays you, leaping with an eagerness you can’t quite suppress.

You smooth your dress before opening the door, but nothing could have prepared you for the sight before you.

Mark stands there, a fresh bouquet in his hands, dressed impeccably as always, his smile teasing yet sincere.

“I’m beginning to think flowers might be the way to your heart,” he muses.

Your breath catches at the sight of the elegant blooms which are a mix of deep red roses mixed with delicate cream ones, all beautifully arranged.

You laugh softly, reaching to accept them. “You may be onto something.”

He watches you for a moment, his expression warm. “I was hoping to steal you away again,” he says, his voice low, inviting. “Friday evening. Dinner at The Stork Club?”

The Stork Club. The most glamorous, star-studded place in the city. Your fingers tighten slightly around the bouquet as you glance up at him, touched by the gesture. “You don’t have to keep trying to impress me, you know,” you tease lightly.

Mark smirks. “Oh, but I do. And besides, I like seeing you somewhere you belong.” His gaze sweeps over you, lingering just long enough to make your skin warm.

You shake your head, smiling. “Alright,” you say, meeting his eyes. “Friday it is.”

His smile deepens, as if he expected nothing less. Then, with his usual effortless charm, he takes your hand, brushing his lips over your knuckles before murmuring, “Until then.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving behind the lingering scent of his cologne and the undeniable thrill of anticipation.

* * * * *

THE THIRD DATE

Friday arrives with a sense of eager anticipation, the hours slipping by in a blur of preparation. When the clock nears seven, you smooth down your dress. It’s a stunning number in silk, its fitted bodice and flowing skirt chosen carefully for the evening. A touch of lipstick, a final glance in the mirror, and then the sound of a car pulling up outside sends your pulse quickening.

Mark steps out of a sleek black Cadillac, dressed in a sharp dinner jacket and tie, exuding the effortless charm that seems second nature to him. When he sees you, his eyes sweep over you with unmistakable admiration.

“You look…” He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “I was going to say stunning, but that hardly seems enough.”

You smile feeling the warmth of his gaze as he steps forward, offering his arm. “Shall we?” he asks.

The drive to The Stork Club is filled with easy conversation, but the moment you step inside, the air shifts. The club is alive with energy. Jazz music hums through the space, mingling with the soft clink of glasses and the murmur of conversation. The scent of perfume and cigars lingers in the air. Chandeliers cast a golden glow over a room filled with New York’s most fashionable, from celebrities to socialites, all draped in elegance and intrigue.

A maître d' greets Mark with familiarity, leading you both to a table near the dance floor. The crisp white tablecloth gleams under the soft lighting, a waiter immediately arriving to pour champagne into delicate crystal glasses.

Mark watches you over the rim of his glass, a knowing smile playing at his lips. “You belong in places like this,” he murmurs.

You arch a brow. “Oh? And why is that?”

He leans in slightly, voice just above the music. “Because when you walk into a room, people notice.” His fingers graze over the back of your hand, sending a shiver up your spine. “I certainly did.”

Your cheeks warm, but before you can respond, the band shifts into a sultry, rhythmic tune, and Mark sets his glass down with a decisive gleam in his eye. “Dance with me.”

The music swells, and he spins you effortlessly before guiding you back against him, his arm firm yet gentle at your waist. Your breath hitches slightly, and for a moment, you forget about the other dancers, the elegant surroundings, the clink of glasses and hum of conversation. It’s just you and him, caught in a moment that feels suspended in time.

As the song winds to an end, Mark doesn’t let go immediately. His fingers graze over yours before he finally releases your hand, though his gaze remains locked on yours.

"You’re full of surprises," you say, your voice quieter now.

He chuckles, guiding you back toward your table. "That makes two of us."

The evening lingers in a haze of laughter and lingering glances. Dinner is exquisite, each course a perfect indulgence, but nothing compares to the warmth of Mark’s company. The conversation flows effortlessly, his wit sharp yet easy, his attention unwavering.

As the last of the champagne is poured and the plates are cleared, the band shifts into a slower tune, the kind that invites something softer, something deeper. The sultry notes of a saxophone weave through the air like a whispered secret, and before you can even think to hesitate, Mark stands, extending his hand once more.

"One more dance?" he asks, though the gleam in his eye suggests he already knows your answer.

This time when you step onto the dance floor, the energy has changed. The earlier dance had been playful and teasing. But this one is something else entirely. Mark draws you in close. Closer than before. His hand settling at the small of your back in a way that sends a delicate shiver through you. Your hand rests lightly on his shoulder, your fingers just barely brushing the nape of his neck.

The world narrows to the warmth of his touch, the slow sway of your bodies. Mark moves deliberately, each step unhurried, as if prolonging this moment is all that matters. Then, as the music swells, he dips his head, his lips grazing the edge of your temple as he murmurs,

“You make it dangerously easy to lose myself in you.”

Your breath catches, heart hammering in your chest at the confession. You tighten your grip on his shoulder instinctively, but you don’t pull away.

Neither does he.

For a moment, you wonder if he can feel the way your pulse flutters beneath his fingertips, if he knows the effect he has on you. Judging by the way his thumb strokes absently along your spine, you suspect he does.

The song drifts toward its final notes, but neither of you moves to part just yet. You linger in his arms, letting the moment stretch just a little longer before reality creeps in.

Mark finally exhales, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Come take a walk with me,” he says softly. It isn’t a question. It’s an invitation, one you have no intention of refusing.

With your hand still in his, he leads you toward the exit, the golden glow of the club fading behind you. The night air is crisp but pleasant, carrying the distant hum of the city. There’s a mix of laughter, the occasional honk of a car horn, and the ever present melody that is New York City at night. Streetlamps cast a glow on the pavement, their soft flicker making the world feel a little more intimate.

Mark doesn’t let go of your hand as you step onto the sidewalk, his grip warm, steady. There’s something intoxicating about walking through the city like this—after an evening filled with fine dining, music, and stolen moments, now there’s just quiet companionship, the simple pleasure of being beside him.

“You do this often?” you ask, tilting your head up to look at him. “Take a girl to a beautiful dinner, steal a few dances, then whisk her away on a midnight stroll?”

Mark smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that sends a flutter through your stomach. “Only when the company is worth it.”

Your laughter fills the space between you, and Mark watches you with something unreadable in his gaze—like he’s tucking the moment away, savoring it. You reach a crosswalk, pausing as the street empties before you. When Mark glances at you again, there’s something softer in his expression.

“Tonight was perfect,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His fingers flex around yours slightly. “That’s because you were there.”

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t deny how your heart stumbles over itself at his words. You look ahead, eyes drawn to a small park just up the block—a pocket of quiet in the midst of the city. Without thinking, you tug him toward it, stepping off the sidewalk and onto the winding path lined with trees and empty benches.

Mark follows easily, his pace never faltering, as if he’d walk with you anywhere.

For a moment, neither of you speak, content in the peaceful hush of the night. The city may be alive around you, but in this little corner, it feels like it belongs to just the two of you.

After a few steps, Mark slows, turning to face you. “You realize I’m not ready to say goodnight yet,” he admits, voice lower now, more intimate.

The confession makes something warm unfurl in your chest. You meet his gaze, the deep blue of his eyes softened under the glow of the lamplight. “Then don’t,” you murmur.

He exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head like you’ve just made it impossible for him to resist you. Then, with the kind of certainty that makes your breath catch, Mark lifts your joined hands and presses a slow, lingering kiss to the back of yours.

“Dangerous,” he murmurs against your skin.

You swallow, your heart racing. “What is?”

“The way you make me want more time with you.”

The words settle between you, heavy with meaning, yet thrilling in their honesty. Neither of you move for a moment, the world around you shrinking until it’s just the two of you, standing in the middle of a quiet city park, on the cusp of something undeniable.

The first raindrop lands softly against your cheek. Then another. A cool mist begins to fill the air, and above you, the dark sky rumbles with quiet warning.

Mark tilts his head back, glancing up. “Ah, perfect timing,” he muses, his lips quirking into an amused smile.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Think we can make it back before it—”

Before you can finish your sentence, the sky opens up. A steady drizzle turns into a full downpour within seconds, the rain soaking through your dress, your hair, your skin.

Mark lets out a surprised chuckle, already pulling you forward. “Come on!”

You grasp his hand, lifting your skirts slightly as the two of you break into a run, darting through the park as the rain spills over you in torrents. Your laughter mixes with his, breathless and giddy, as if you’ve both been caught in something far more thrilling than just a summer storm.

By the time you reach the sidewalk near your building, you’re drenched. Water clings to every inch of fabric, droplets glisten on Mark’s cheekbones, and his usually impeccable hair is tousled from the rain. He pushes it back with one hand, shaking his head with another laugh.

“Well,” he says, breathless, his tie now hanging loosely around his neck, his jacket thoroughly ruined. “So much for keeping up appearances.”

You giggle, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. “I don’t know… I think it suits you.”

Mark huffs a small laugh, watching you closely, his eyes flickering over your rain-soaked form. There’s something in his expression—a quiet reverence, a moment of hesitation, like he’s trying to decide something.

The rain still pours, drumming against the pavement, soaking into your shoes, but neither of you move.

Then, without thinking, you lift a hand to his face, brushing a stray drop of water from his cheek. It’s the smallest of touches, but it’s enough.

Mark exhales, slow and unsteady, his hands coming to rest lightly on your waist. “You are,” he murmurs, “absolutely breathtaking.”

Your pulse flutters wildly.

Before you can even think of a reply, he closes the distance between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that is both heated and unhurried, as if he’s savoring every second of it. The rain falls around you, cool against your skin, but Mark’s kiss is warm—achingly warm.

You sigh against him, your fingers curling against the damp fabric of his shirt. He pulls you closer, deepening the kiss just slightly, like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like this moment is something he never wants to forget.

After a few long, lingering seconds, he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours. You’re both breathless, your lips tingling, your body still pressed against his.

Mark chuckles softly, his voice rougher now. “I should get you inside before you catch a cold.”

You nod, though you don’t move just yet. Neither of you do.

Because standing here, in the middle of a rain-drenched New York street, wrapped in the warmth of Mark’s embrace, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve just fallen in love.

Stepping into the warm glow of your apartment, you shiver slightly as the chill of the rain finally settles over your skin. Mark follows close behind, droplets still clinging to his lashes, his soaked shirt clinging to the shape of his broad shoulders.

You both laugh softly, breathless from the dash through the storm, the moment electric between you.

“You’re dripping all over my floor,” you tease, voice hushed in the quiet of the room.

Mark arches a brow, smirking. “So are you.”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself as another shiver runs through you. Mark notices, and without hesitation, he steps forward, hands moving to the buttons of his jacket. “You need to get out of these wet clothes,” he murmurs.

“So do you.”

It wasn’t meant to sound quite so breathless, but the way Mark stills at your words—the way his gaze darkens just slightly—sends warmth curling low in your stomach.

Neither of you rush. It’s slow, deliberate. His fingers make quick work of his tie, loosening it from his collar before shrugging out of his soaked jacket. You do the same with your outer layers, carefully unfastening buttons, peeling away fabric that clings to your skin.

By the time you both settle onto the bed, you’re stripped down to your basic layers, your damp clothes left draped over a chair to dry. Mark lays beside you, his arm resting beneath your head, drawing you effortlessly against him. The warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest—it all feels so impossibly safe, so intimate in a way that goes beyond just physical closeness.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You simply listen to the rain outside, the distant hum of the city beyond your window, the quiet sound of your own breathing as Mark’s fingers trace idle patterns along your arm.

Then he tilts his head, catching your lips in a slow, searing kiss.

It starts soft—just the faintest press of his mouth against yours, unhurried and sweet. But then his hand slides along your waist, fingers splayed against the thin fabric of your slip, and heat sparks between you once more.

You sigh into him, your own hands roaming—up his chest, along his shoulders, over the damp strands of his hair. His breath hitches when you shift just slightly, pressing closer, your legs tangling beneath the covers.

The kiss deepens. His hand grips your waist, pulling you against him, and your own fingers find purchase against the bare skin of his back.

But then—

You stop.

Your breath is uneven as you pull back just enough to meet his gaze. His lips are parted, his pupils dark with longing, and you can feel the way his chest rises and falls beneath your touch.

“Mark…” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “I want to. I do.” You swallow, tracing a gentle line along his jaw. “But I want to wait. Until marriage.”

Mark exhales, his forehead pressing against yours as his grip on you loosens—just slightly, just enough to let the tension in the air shift.

After a beat, he lets out a soft, almost breathless chuckle, shaking his head. “You are going to be the death of me,” he murmurs, though his voice holds nothing but warmth, nothing but reverence.

You smile softly, your fingers brushing over his cheek. “But you’ll wait?”

He leans in, pressing the faintest kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “I’ll wait,” he promises, his voice rough with sincerity. “For you? I’d wait forever.”

And the way he looks at you then—the way his thumb traces the curve of your hip, the way his lips linger just shy of yours, tells you exactly how much he wants you. But more than that, it tells you just how much he loves you.

As the quiet between you stretches, the weight of the moment settles deep in your chest. The warmth of Mark’s body, the soft rise and fall of his breath beneath your fingertips, the way his hands hold you as if you’re something precious. It all feels so right. So inevitable.

Your heart pounds as the words press at your lips, unspoken for far too long. You don’t plan to say them, but they slip free before you can stop them, a whisper against the hush of the room.

“I love you.”

Mark stills. But he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t tense, but he does go quiet, his thumb brushing absentminded circles against your waist.

For a moment, you wonder if you’ve said too much. If you’ve ruined this fragile, beautiful thing between you.

Then, Mark exhales, slow and measured, as if he’s been holding his breath. He shifts, tilting his head back just enough to meet your gaze, and in the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the window, you see something tender flicker in his expression.

Something certain.

“I love you,” he says, his voice low and unwavering.

Your breath catches, your fingers curling slightly against his chest as his words sink in.

Mark smiles then, and leans in to press a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“I think I’ve loved you for a while,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your temple then your cheek.

Mark’s gaze lingers on you, something unspoken passing between you in the dim light. Then, without hesitation, he lifts a hand, his fingers grazing your cheek with the same reverence as someone handling something fragile.

It’s different this time. Deeper. More certain.

You feel it in the way his lips move against yours, the way his hand cradles your jaw, anchoring you to him. There’s no rush, no urgency—just a quiet intensity that steals the breath from your lungs. It’s as if he’s pouring every unspoken thought, every promise, into this moment. Into you.

Your fingers curl against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm, mirroring your own. He exhales against your lips with a soft, shuddering breath that sends warmth curling through you.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, you barely have time to catch your breath before he murmurs, “I love you.”

The words settle deep, threading into the very fabric of your heart.

Your chest tightens, your eyes fluttering closed as a soft, almost breathless laugh escapes you. “Say it again.”

Mark smiles, and he tilts his head just enough for another kiss, slower this time, savoring the moment.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips. “And I’ll keep saying it for as long as you’ll let me. Until you’re tired of hearing it.”

A warmth blooms in your chest. Something vast and consuming, and as you tighten your hold on him you pull him impossibly closer. And you know you’ll never tire of hearing it.

* * * * *

THE ONE MONTH DATE

The sun is warm against your skin, a soft breeze rustling the leaves overhead as you stretch out on the picnic blanket, utterly content. Mark is beside you, propped up on one elbow, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, looking at you like you’re the only thing worth paying attention to in the entire park.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, tilting your head to meet his gaze.

“Can you blame me?” His voice is lazy, edged with amusement as his fingers trace idle patterns against the fabric of the blanket. “You’re quite the sight.”

A flush warms your cheeks, but before you can tease him for being so sweetly shameless, he shifts onto his back beside you, exhaling as he stares up at the sky.

For a while, neither of you speak. There’s no need to. The city hums in the distance, but here, in this little pocket of peace, it’s just the two of you. The afternoon stretching long and slow like the golden light filtering through the trees.

Mark reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours with a soft squeeze. “I could get used to this,” he says, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful.

You turn your head, watching the way his expression softens as he gazes at the sky. “Used to what?”

He glances at you, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Sunday afternoons with you. Stealing you away from the rest of the world.”

Your heart tightens, warmth spreading through you. You squeeze his hand in return. “Then I suppose I’ll let you steal me away a little more often.”

Mark’s fingers trace lazy circles against your palm, his touch warm and steady as you both lie there, staring up at the sky.

“What do you want?” Mark’s voice is low, thoughtful, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

You turn your head to look at him, finding him already watching you. “In what sense?”

His lips curve, but his expression stays serious. “In every sense.”

You exhale, shifting onto your side to face him more fully. “I want a life that feels… full,” you admit softly. “I want a home that’s warm and filled with love. I want a marriage where we’re partners in every way. And I want children—someday.”

Mark studies you for a long moment, his gaze searching, intent. Then he nods, as if locking away your words somewhere deep inside him.

“That sounds like a good life,” he murmurs.

“What about you?” You squeeze his hand, needing to know if his dreams align with yours.

His smile is slow, but there’s something deeply certain about it. “I want the same things,” he says simply. “A home that feels like a sanctuary, not just a place to sleep. A marriage where love isn’t just a feeling, but something we choose, every single day.” He pauses, his gaze flickering over your face. “And if I’m lucky, a family to come home to.”

Warmth spreads through your chest, settling deep. “You’ll have all of that,” you whisper.

Mark’s expression softens, and he lifts a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering at your jaw. “With you?”

Your breath catches, but there’s no hesitation in your heart when you answer. “Yes.”

His thumb brushes lightly over your cheek before he leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss—one that speaks of promises not yet spoken aloud, but understood all the same.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispers, “Then I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

* * * * *

THE PROMISE OF FOREVER

The soft glow of sunset casts golden light across the shoreline, the waves rolling gently against the sand as you and Mark walk side by side. His fingers are laced with yours, his grip warm and sure. But there’s a tension in him tonight, something beneath the surface, as if he’s holding onto a secret.

The weekend away had been perfect. Long walks, quiet mornings with coffee on the veranda, nights spent wrapped in each other’s arms whispering about the future.

But tonight feels different.

Mark had suggested a walk along the beach before dinner, and now, as the sun melts into the horizon, he slows his steps, guiding you closer to the water’s edge.

You glance up at him, feeling the way his thumb absently strokes over your hand. “You’re quiet,” you murmur, tilting your head. “What’s on your mind?”

Mark exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “You.”

The single word sends warmth through your chest. “Good thoughts, I hope?”

“The best,” he says, stopping in the sand.

You turn to him, and that’s when you see it. The way his eyes shine, and the way his chest rises and falls as if he’s bracing himself. He reaches for your other hand, holding both in his, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against your skin.

“That night,” he begins, voice steady but thick with emotion, “when I saw you across the room, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.” His lips twitch, as if remembering. “I didn’t know then that you would become the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Your breath catches, your heart pounding as realization sinks in.

Mark takes a deep breath, then drops to one knee in the sand.

“Marry me,” he says, his gaze locked on yours, full of certainty, full of love. “Let’s not wait any longer. I don’t want another day to pass without knowing you’ll be my wife.”

Tears blur your vision, but you don’t hesitate. Not for a single second.

“Yes,” you whisper, then laugh as the joy bubbles up inside you. “Yes, Mark. A thousand times, yes.”

The words barely leave your lips before Mark exhales sharply, as if he’s been holding his breath, and in the next moment, he’s surging to his feet, pulling you into his arms. Your feet barely touch the ground as he lifts you, spinning you once before holding you close, burying his face in the curve of your neck.

You can feel his heart hammering against your own, his breath warm against your skin as he murmurs, “You’ve just made me the happiest man in the world.”

Your arms tighten around him, your fingers threading into his hair as he pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are shining. Then his hands cradle your face, reverent and steady, his thumbs brushing away the tears that have slipped down your cheeks.

“I love you,” he whispers, and before you can respond, his lips are on yours.

The kiss is soft at first, slow and deliberate, as if he wants to savor this moment, to commit it to memory. But then you melt into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and he deepens the kiss, pouring everything into it. You feel all the emotions in a single kiss. The joy, the longing, and the promise of forever.

When he finally breaks away, he reaches into his pocket, retrieving the small velvet box. His hands are steady, but you can see the emotion in his expression as he opens it, revealing the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen. A delicate band, timeless and elegant, with a sparkling diamond that catches the fading sunlight.

Mark takes your left hand, his fingers warm as they brush over your skin.

“May I?” he asks softly, his voice filled with quiet reverence.

With infinite care, he slides the ring onto your finger, the cool metal settling against your skin like it’s always belonged there. It fits perfectly, and for a moment, you both just stare at it—at the symbol of the promise you’ve made to each other.

Then Mark lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles.

“Now it’s official,” he murmurs, his smile tender.

The waves crash behind you, the salt air swirling around you, but all you can feel is him. The warmth of his body, the way his hands slide down to your waist, holding you close, anchoring you in this moment.

When you finally break apart, your foreheads rest together, your breath mingling in the cool evening air. Mark chuckles softly, pressing another lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth before murmuring, “We should probably head back before I forget how to be a gentleman.”

You laugh with a giddy, breathless sound, and shake your head. “I don’t think I’d mind.”

His grin turns lopsided, his thumb stroking over your cheek again.

“Careful, darling,” he teases, his voice low and tender. “I promised to wait until marriage, and you’re making it impossible to keep that promise.”

You arch a brow, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Are you saying I’m too much of a challenge, Mr. Reynolds?”

Mark shakes his head with a soft, almost reverent laugh. “Not a challenge. But I must admit the wait is becoming harder and harder.”

You lean in, brushing your lips against his. “Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? Making the wait worth it.”

He sighs softly, pressing his forehead against yours once more. “And you will always be worth it, darling.”

With that, hand in hand, you walk back toward the lights of the grand estate, the future ahead of you, filled with endless possibilities and a love that feels like it was meant to be forever.

* * * * *

THE FOREVER DATE

You reach the door of the church, your father standing proudly by your side. Mark is just beyond, his back to you, but you can feel his presence even now. The air seems charged with expectation, with the kind of quiet anticipation only a wedding can bring.

Taking a breath, you glance up at your father. He smiles down at you, a look of pure love and pride in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but the warmth of his hand on yours speaks volumes. With one final look at him, you nod, and the doors swing open.

The world outside blurs as your focus narrows on Mark. He stands before the altar, his handsome face filled with wonder. His eyes are locked onto you with such intensity that for a moment, the whole room falls away. His gaze makes your heart race, and you swallow, fighting the emotion welling in your chest.

As you take those first few steps toward him, the soft click of your heels echoing in the stillness, you can’t help but feel that this is the moment you’ve always dreamed of.

Mark doesn’t take his eyes off of you, his hands clenched by his sides, but his smile is a quiet promise. You finally reach the altar, your father giving you one last kiss on the cheek before he steps back to sit in the front row, giving Mark his place beside you.

The minister begins, his voice steady and sure as he speaks the familiar vows. Mark’s eyes never leave yours, his hand slipping into yours as if to ground you both in this beautiful, surreal moment.

When it’s your turn to speak, your voice is calm but filled with the weight of all the love and years of waiting. “Mark,” you begin, looking directly into his eyes, “I promise to stand beside you, to love you, and to walk with you through this life we’ve already built together. I will always choose you, just as you’ve chosen me.”

His hand tightens around yours, the simple touch filled with years of shared moments, both difficult and joyful. You swallow, suddenly overcome with emotion, and his expression softens, a silent reassurance in his eyes.

The minister continues, and you slip a delicate ring onto his finger, as he does the same for you. Then, in a soft whisper, Mark says, “I will always love you. And I promise, now and forever, that I will never let you go.”

The room is still, but the energy between you both is palpable, a connection that transcends words.

The minister smiles at both of you, a warm, kind expression. “Mark, you may kiss your bride.”

For a moment, you both hesitate, caught in the weight of the promise you’ve just made. And then, slowly, you lean in, his lips brushing yours for the first time as husband and wife. It’s soft at first, gentle, the kiss slow and filled with reverence, as if both of you are savoring the culmination of everything that’s led to this moment. His lips are warm, reassuring, and as he deepens the kiss, you feel the world around you disappear.

When you finally pull away, there are no words needed. Mark’s grin is everything you’ve ever wanted, and his hand in yours feels more certain than it ever has before.

#Glen Powell #Mark Reynolds #Mark Reynolds x Reader #Mark Reynolds x You #The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

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