The Only Exception // (GOT7 Markson)

14

I snuck away to the kitchen while Mark sat patiently at the dining table, eagerly awaiting his specially requested meal.

There was a large cast iron pot sitting atop the stove, the steam from the heat slithering out of the sides of the cover. It smelled amazing.

Damn, Mandy really knows her stuff, I thought.

I equipped the green oven mitts before uncovering the large lid. A beautiful assortment of smells rushed into my nose; it was a very full-bodied smell, there was perfectly cooked beef, creamy mashed potatoes, and cheese shreds that were just barely melted atop the pie.

I felt my stomach knot up and churn at the amazing aroma, letting out a low grumble. Either I was hungrier than I let on, or my body was simply reacting to the home cooked meal.

The faint sounds of classical music jingled in the background as I plated two servings, eyeing the meal closely, wanting to make sure everything was perfect.

When I was finally finished, I took a preparatory breath in and then stepped lightly into the kitchen, moving gracefully as to not spill anything and ruin this moment.

"Dinner... is... served." I huffed lightly, placing the heavy ceramic plate in front of Mark, whose eyes were wide and slanted into half moons at the sight of food.

He was so cute.

"Okay, oh my god." He finally said, staring at me now instead of the food. His voice was a mix of amazement and disbelief. "Did you make this?"

I felt a response instantly fight its way out of my mouth before my mind even had time to process it. It was a lie.

Before it got any further, I bit my tongue down and looked away; the warning words Mandy spoke earlier flashing through my head.

Be myself. Right, I could do that. No lying.

"No, I didn't make it. I wish I did, though." I admitted, hoping the embarrassment that's strewed across my face wasn't completely obvious.

"Well, whoever made it deserves their own cookbook. I can already tell this is going to taste amazing, and I haven't even taken a bite yet."

I exhaled, a relieved laugh flushing its way out of my throat. "Yeah, I'll send your compliments to the chef."

I was sitting to the left of Mark, on the adjacent side of the large fifteen-person wooden table. He was letting his legs swing playfully under him, like a slow pendulum. I could see the excitement in his eyes.

There were a few spare moments where Mark was busy indulging in his food where I caught myself staring a bit too much; Mark's perfectly messy hair swayed with every turn of his head.

His normally reserved and shy personality was absent tonight, hidden somewhere beneath the large toothy grins he couldn't fight back and the hearty, high-pitched laughs he sometimes broke into.

It was odd – as I sat there a foot away from Mark, I was reminded of the many other guys who sat there before him.

There was Andre last year, who sat in front of me half asleep, and was too high on ecstasy to even hold a conversation with me.

Then there was Mitch, the sandy blond boy with the large shoulders. His idea of a dinner date was to bitch and complain about his ex-boyfriend, while sitting across from me and barely noticing I was there.

Those memories tangled around in my chest like a shot of whiskey that went down the wrong tube. It was painfully obvious to me now why I was alone for all of these years.