#countdown amazon

He gives you nothing back except his devilish smirk, the scratch of his deep voice in the dark, and his weight in your bed – something hard and fast and never soft. 

The rhythm between you isn’t stable – it swings. Fast to faster, quiet to louder, skin to skin to silence. His mouth forgets how to talk unless it’s against your skin. You never ask about his day or why he’s here. He never offers.

You know his voice best when he’s inside you.

On night three, Mark stands on your doormat with paper bags that smell like heaven in his hands, a Coke bottle under his arm, and a boyishly charming grin on his freckled face. It’s later than usual – almost close to midnight this time. 

“I come bearing carbs,” he says without fanfare. 

“Oh? What’s the occasion?” you tease a little, lifting a brow.

“Fuel.” He smirks and steps inside, brushing past you in an almost deliberate way. “Don’t want you passing out on me mid-fuck. Trying to keep the engine running.”

“Romantic,” you huff a wry laugh. 

“Hey, you want flowers, fuck a florist,” he shoots back with a grin that should be classified. 

Then it hits you – the smell. There’s something else buried under his cologne this time. Something more than greasy food, gun powder, and his shampoo.

“What’s that smell?” you ask and lift your nose a little, tilting your head with a curious smile. 

“Oh.” His eyebrows shoot up, and he takes a whiff of himself. “Still can smell that, huh? Took like three showers when I got home. Think it soaked into my skin. Hoped the spicy food would cover the rest.”

You chuckle, amused, and arch a brow. “And what exactly is ‘it’?”

Mark purses his lips to hide both the smirk and the flush in his cheeks. “Can’t tell you that,” he says as expected but then clicks his tongue. “Out of curiosity, though, what do you think it is?”

You laugh and play along, musing, “I don’t know. Uhm… smells like you attended a barbecue… at a… farm?”

He snorts a loud laugh, then scratches the back of his neck, nods, and shrugs. “Close enough. Let’s go with that.”

He doesn’t offer more than that as an explanation and strolls straight into your kitchen to drop the soaked-through paper bags onto the counter. It’s Mexican – wrapped in foil, heavy with grease, and so hot you can already feel it numbing your lips.

He tells you he had a craving for it. Doesn’t say why.

“Don’t get too excited, though,” he says and starts unpacking containers. “They were out of the good salsa.” 

You eye the bag like it’s holy, mouth watering. “If there’s a single al pastor taco in there, I’ll forgive anything.” 

He laughs softly. “One al pastor, two carne asada, a questionable burrito, and a thing the guy behind the counter swore was edible. But I got the recommendation from a colleague, so we should be good.” 

You hop up to sit on the counter beside the food like a delinquent and hum your approval around the first spicy bite. Mark eats standing, one hand wrapped around a taco, the other braced on the counter beside your thigh. There’s something deliberate in the way he watches you eat – like he’s already planning his next move and imagining how you look after he ruins you.

The rest of the food doesn’t last long. 

The sex that night is urgent, impatient, borderline feral. Hands on hips. Mouths on skin. Hot sauce on your lips. Lime on your tongue. 

He drags you to the bedroom and kisses you like he’s dared himself to lose control. He presses you into the mattress with your legs thrown over his shoulders and fucks you with the kind of reverent pace that makes your spine arch and your lungs burn. You come so hard and fast you forget what fucking day it is. 

You fall asleep tangled in damp sheets and his strong arm across your waist and his warm body against your skin. 

He stays. Doesn’t even pretend he might leave this time. 

You sleep better than you have in weeks. 

On night four, Mark brings burgers and another paper bag full of fries that soak through the bottom before you even get the ketchup open. 

You end up eating on the floor, cross-legged on opposite ends of the rug in your living room, back leaning against the couch. He watches you talk with your hands, listens while you ramble about starting your new job tomorrow and about your weird neighbor with the leaf blower and bird feeders. 

Meanwhile, Mark slings down two cheeseburgers in five minutes and then kisses you hard enough to make you drop yours, as if that’s the only story he needs to tell.

This time it happens on the couch. 

You’re halfway through an episode of Law & Order: SVU when he pulls you into his lap and nibbles at your neck like he’s bored of waiting. You end up straddling him, knees digging into the cushions, shirt bunched around your ribs, his hands hot against your skin underneath. 

He keeps his eyes open the whole time, jaw clenched, gaze pinned to your face like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your wreckage. He watches you with reverence as you ride him, back arched, his massive hands locked around your thighs like they’re keeping him tethered to this Earth. 

He covers your mouth with his palm when you fall apart and fucks up into you so mercilessly the words fall right out of your head.

Afterward, you stay on the couch and stay up late. 

The TV keeps running, and something warmer than the summer heat creeps into your living room as another perp confesses onscreen, tearfully admitting to a twenty-minute monologue about guilt and trauma. Benson gives a solemn nod. The episode fades to black, but the feeling in your belly doesn’t. 

You throw your head back with an exaggerated groan. “No way! That twist was bullshit!”

Mark just lifts his beer to his lips, smug as ever. “Called it. Guess it’s three-for-three tonight.” 

“Oh, come on! You rigged this,” you accuse him with a playful point of your finger. “You’ve probably already seen all the episodes.”

He snorts a laugh. “You think I pregame SVU behind your back before I come over here?”

“You absolutely would,” you insist but can’t keep the bubbles of laughter from spilling out. “Just to keep your stupid winning streak going.”

“I didn’t even know we’re gonna watch this,” he counters in his defense. “You picked it out.”

“Oh, save it,” you huff in jest and drink more of your wine. “I ain’t falling for that. You probably guessed it with your weird sixth sense or did recon or some other detective bullshit, which is cheating, by the way.”  

Mark smirks, both annoying and dangerous somehow. “You know, for someone who watches this religiously, you’re surprisingly bad at guessing the killer.” 

You grab the nearest throw pillow and smack him with it. Lightly. Mostly out of pride. “Not all of us have detective intuition,” you mutter, half into your glass of wine. 

He catches the pillow and props it behind his head before he infuriatingly stretches out, one arm slung over the back of the couch behind you, shamelessly basking in his small victory. “Clearly. You accused the poor barista ‘cause he had ‘shifty energy.’” 

“He did have shifty energy!” you argue like you’ve entered a courtroom. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“Yes, I do. He was a single dad trying to make rent,” Mark says and taps his temple with a sly wiggle of his brows. “Skillset.”

“Ego.”

“Experience.” 

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling. “Alright, hotshot. Next episode, I’m getting it right.”

“Sure.” He smirks coolly into his beer bottle. If you had another pillow at your disposal, you’d throw it at him again.  

“No, I mean it,” you insist with challenge gleaming in your eyes. “I’m gonna crack the case before you.” 

Mark leans in slightly, voice low and amused. “You’ve said that the last three episodes.” 

You playfully narrow your eyes. “You’re very cocky for someone who watches procedural crime shows with their situationship.” 

He grins – bright and wide. “I’m cocky because I’m undefeated.” 

The familiar opening line then kicks in again: “In the criminal justice system…” New case. New victim. New suspects.

And you? You steel yourself and sink deeper into the couch cushions, knee brushing his. You make your pick early this time – boldly, confidently, and completely fucking wrong. 

But when Mark catches your eye with that smug little smirk again, you realize it might be worth losing just to see it. 

On night five, it’s fried chicken, overtly salted and blessedly perfect, and a six-pack of warm beer. 

You sit outside on the steps of your back porch while the sky turns navy and your garden buzzes with cicadas. There’s something comfortable in the way he steals a drumstick from your bucket like it’s allowed and says nothing when you throw a napkin at his face. 

The air is hot and heavy. Your legs are bare. His shoulder brushes yours every time he shifts.

You talk about your new job that night – how the mom made you coffee this morning just because, how the three-year-old boy declared himself a dinosaur, and how the five-year-old girl clutched your hand tightly in the driveway and made you pinky swear to never quit. 

You don’t realize you’re smiling until he looks at you like he’s trying to decide what to do with that expression.

Later that night, you don’t make it five steps inside before he backs you into the hallway and takes you against the wall, his teeth sinking into your shoulder like he’s trying to ground himself. 

Pants halfway down, shirt shoved up, mouth on your collarbone. You bite your lip to keep quiet and end up moaning into his neck anyway. He kisses you like he’s been starving for it – messy, hard, loud.

You come so hard your knees give out. He catches you and doesn’t say a word about it. And when he comes, it’s with your name bitten off between his teeth.

Somehow, you end up on the couch again before crawling into bed. This time with an episode of Unsolved Mysteries flickering across the screen – you really wanted to challenge him for once. 

You don’t regret that decision even a little when the episode ends in a dramatic swell of synth music and the camera pans over a grainy photograph of a man last seen outside a bowling alley in 1993 small-town America. You glance over and bite back a grin. 

Mark’s got that look again. Brow slightly furrowed, jaw tense, mouth pulled into a thin, skeptical line.

You reach for the remote, half-laughing as the screen fades to black. “You’re doing the face again, Columbo,” you tease, nudging his thigh with your sock-covered foot. 

“What face?” he mumbles, green eyes still locked on the screen like he’s trying to solve the cold case through sheer mental force. 

“The one that says you’re about to lose sleep over a thirty-year-old murder with no viable suspects.”

Mark doesn’t blink. “No one checked his alibi.”

You snort a teary-eyed laugh, almost toppling over. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” he says, leaning forward like the ghost of the case is about to answer him through the screen. “He said he was at his cousin’s house, but no one ever followed up. Why even mention it?”

“Because it’s Unsolved Mysteries, not LAPD Homicide.”

“It’s sloppy,” he mutters but is clearly far from done. “I’m just saying, if he left the house at 10:42, and the neighbor only saw headlights at 10:55, then there’s a thirteen-minute window no one accounted for. And the ex-wife’s alibi? Sketchy as fuck.” 

You stifle a laugh. “Do you want me to get you a corkboard and red yarn?” 

He leans back with a low huff and clutches the beer in his lap a little tighter. “Oh, don’t tempt me.” 

You gesture at the screen. “Again, it’s Unsolved Mysteries. Not Perfectly Resolved Narratives with Balanced Casework. You knew what you signed up for.”

“Didn’t know it’d be this aggravating,” he grumbles into his beer, then throws you a sideways glance. “You seriously don’t care how it ends?”

You shrug and give him a mischievous smile. “I like a little mystery. Keeps things interesting.” 

Mark stares at you like you’ve just said you enjoy being left on read and confessed to being the Zodiac Killer at the same time. He doesn’t dignify that with a response, just lifts his beer again and mumbles, “You’re too comfortable with ambiguity.” 

Your grin widens. “You’re really not gonna sleep tonight, are you?”

“Well, so far, I’ve already built three theories in my head,” he says. “And none of them explain the dog.”

“The dog is a red herring,” you quip wisely.

“The dog was locked in the basement,” he corrects. “It means someone knew the layout of the house.”

You snort into your glass. “Dude, the writers didn’t even know the layout of the house.”

He points at you. “You’re part of the problem.”

“And yet,” you smirk, “you’re still here.” 

He shakes his head and sighs like a man resigned to his fate. 

You stretch your legs out and tap his shin with your foot. “You know it’s not actually your case, right?”

He snorts in smug amusement. “Oh, I know. Would’ve been solved if it was.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you laugh, shaking your head.

There’s a short silence as the next episode prompt comes up. Mark doesn’t move. You let your head tilt toward him ever-so slightly, pretending to focus on the TV instead of the soft lines and cinnamon freckles on his face.

You clear your throat subtly and glance at him. “So, are we solving another cold case or are you going to need to pace around the living room for twenty minutes first?”

Mark scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Hit play.” 

“You sure?” you tease with a little grin and hold up the remote control like it’s a hostage you’re about to shoot. “Your blood pressure looked a little high when they didn’t mention the tire tracks.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he huffs but doesn’t look at you, just focuses on the flickering screen. 

You stretch your legs out even further, your foot bumping his again. “Thought you hated not knowing how it ends.”

He licks his lips and nods softly. “I do.”

“So?”

He finds your eyes then, looks at you for a beat too long with something you can’t decode before he taps the button. 

The next episode queues up. 

On night six, he brings pizza. Pepperoni. Classic. The grease soaks through the box before you can get it open.

You both eat on the floor with your legs stretched under the coffee table, his foot nudging yours whenever you start to talk too fast. He steals bites from your plate, wipes tomato sauce from your chin with the pad of his thumb, and doesn’t pull his hand away as fast as he usually does. The AC hums and fights the heat off in the background and a movie he picked this time runs across the screen.

Tropic Thunder. He said it was his feel-good movie, and he needed a laugh tonight. And honestly? That’s probably the most you’ve learned about him all week.

But before he even knocks on your door that night, the day has already started different – he texts you for the first time. 

Not all day. Not enough to seem clingy. Just enough to sink under your skin. 

The first row of messages comes mid-morning, while you’re at the park with the kids and one of them is screaming about ants. You almost choke on your water when you read what pops up on your screen and hope the kids won’t notice the flush in your cheeks. 

Lunch and nap time flies by, and by the time you manage to write back, his messages become even bolder. Filthier, too. 

You don’t even know what to respond to the last one. You can only bite your lip and slide your phone back into your pocket as heat crawls up your throat. By the time the sun’s down and you kick your shoes off by the door, you’re already wound tight from the slow build of anticipation all day. 

The sex is messier tonight. Filthier. Those texts scratched an itch that never really went away. There’s something new behind the green in his eyes this time – tighter, darker. 

He kisses you like he’s burning alive and fucks you on your hands and knees with one bruising hand gripping your hip and the other in your hair again. The things he whispers into your ear throughout are obscene: 

“Look what you do to me. So hard it fucking hurts. You proud of yourself?”  

“I could fuck you for hours and you’d still beg for more, wouldn’t you?” 

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this all day – how deep I’d fuck you, how full I’d leave you.”

You do feel him fucking everywhere. It leaves you dizzy. And when you come, it’s with a choked sob into the sheets. When he finishes, he breathes against your shoulder like he’s just outrun hell. 

You let him. You ask him if he’s okay afterward. He kisses your shoulder in answer. 

You lie awake after he falls asleep, staring at his back and wondering what’s going to snap first – this thing between you, or you. You tell yourself this isn’t becoming something.

And as if he can hear your thoughts, he rolls over and reaches for your waist. Tugs you closer until your spine is pressed to his warm chest.

You wake up in the morning with his hand still on your thigh.

On night seven, he doesn’t bring anything but himself.

No food. No jokes. Just a look that says not tonight but still you. He doesn’t kiss you at first, only rests his forehead against yours in the hallway and exhales like he’s barely holding himself together. 

You don’t push. You don’t ask. You don’t talk. You still catch the flickers of distance, though – like he stepped out of the room without leaving.

Later, you climb into his lap on your bed and move like you’ve got all the time in the world. He doesn’t rush. Just holds your waist and lets you set the pace, your name a ghost of a word in his mouth. You press your lips to his jaw, his throat, his collarbone – every damn place he’ll let you. 

You’re already sore, but you don’t care. It feels like you’re trying to chase something out of your own chest. He touches you like it’s a habit now – steady, rough, and always in the right places. Your body’s become second nature to him. There’s more focus tonight. More contact. He kisses you deeper. He keeps eye contact longer.

You’re not sure where he ends and you begin anymore. 

Afterwards, he stays curled against you instead of pulling away. You lie in the dark with your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady against your cheek. You can feel something shifting under your skin, a current pulling you sideways. You’ve let something in you didn’t mean to. 

In the morning, he stays for breakfast and leaves a t-shirt behind this time. You don’t mention it. You put it in a drawer and wash the dishes. 

It’s routine by now. But it shouldn’t feel this good.

On night eight, he doesn’t show.

Mid-day, you get a text, however:

That’s it. No explanation. No warmth. No “sorry.” No emoji or joke to soften the blow. Just cold distance typed out in ten words or less. Just gone.

You stare at the message. Reread it multiple times. You don’t text back. 

Still, that night, you wait until ten. Then eleven. Then midnight. You check your phone three times, then five, then every half hour. 

Nothing. 

At the end of the night, you just put your phone face down on the nightstand and lie back in the quiet, the silence suddenly too loud, the sheets too cool without him. You don’t know why it bothers you so much.

He stayed. He stayed. He stayed– 

And now he’s not here.

It’s supposed to be over by now. 

Night one was a mistake. Night two was indulgence. By night three, Mark’s already made up his mind not to come back. That’s the deal he made with himself. Two nights – enough to take the edge off. To feel something besides bone-deep rot and the countdown ticking behind his eyes. 

But then he finds himself here again, knocking on your door with tacos in one hand and a pit blooming behind his right eye that he’s pretending isn’t a warning sign. He tells himself he’s doing this for clarity – for control. That if he can keep you talking, keep you laughing, keep you touching him and riding him with that familiar urgency, he can outrun it. 

The scans. The weeks left. The ticking in his skull. That if he has to go out, he might as well go out feeling something. 

He knows he doesn’t belong here – not in your bed, not in your life. You’re sunlight and clutter and chipped nail polish. You drink too much caffeine, talk with your hands, and tell stories like you expect someone to care. And for some reason, when you speak, the noise in his head gets quieter. 

That’s why he’s back. That’s the fucking excuse.

Not because you smile when you open the door. Not because you talk to him like he’s not already halfway gone. Not because he’s starving for something warm and doesn’t know how to ask for it.

He’s not doing this to feel alive. He’s doing it to disappear. And you’re the only thing making it work.

On night three, he brings food. 

Mostly because he doesn’t want you to see how thin he’s gotten. The weight’s coming off him fast – faster than he can hide. That stupid parasite in his brain is leeching off his energy. But if he walks in with food in his hands, maybe you won’t look too hard at the rest. 

You open the door barefoot in a goddamn threadbare shirt – the one that’s two sizes too big and falling off your shoulder like a tease he didn’t ask for. You smile like he’s part of your week. He hates how much he likes that.

When he tells you he figured you needed fuel, he almost admits that he does too, but he bites it back at the last second. Sometimes he says a lot of shit that makes him feel like an asshole, but he’s trying to draw boundaries and stick to them – lines in the sand before the tide washes them away.

He feels like shit whenever he looks at you for too long. You deserve better. He knows that. 

And yet, he ends up between your thighs hours later. 

You make him laugh without trying. When you light up, he pretends not to notice how that lands. He never tells you how much he looks forward to this – the sound of your voice filling the room, the way you talk about the world like it hasn’t already ended. He doesn’t have a version of that anymore. Hasn’t in a long time.

But this? You? It’s the closest he gets to fucking worshiping anything these days. 

Later, he fucks you like he’s holding on for dear life. It’s not slow. Not gentle. When he comes, it’s too quiet. He sees stars behind his eyes, but not the good kind. There’s a spike of pressure near his temple. 

A warning. A fucking reminder.

Whenever you ask him if he’s okay, he lies and finds an excuse. You buy it – or pretend to. He wonders if you’re smarter than you let on. 

He showers with the door open so he can hear you move around the house. You hum sometimes when you think no one’s listening.

But he listens. He always does.

On night four, he plans to stay away once more. Futile, honestly. 

He wakes up that morning with blood in his mouth from grinding his teeth. His vision’s blurred for ten minutes straight before it clears. He hopes you don’t notice. He even almost texts you at noon to call the whole thing off. He types out the entire message but doesn’t send it.

Because by noon, he’s thinking about your voice again. The way you described a toddler’s tantrum like it was a Greek tragedy. The way your knee brushed his thigh last night and you didn’t bother to move.

Do good intentions count in the end? 

He doesn’t realize he’s parked in your neighborhood until he’s already there. He gets burgers because it gives him something to do with his hands. But he walks up your steps too fast and sees spots for a second. He blinks them away before he knocks once. 

When you answer, you grin like he’s right on time. He hates how fucking good that feels.  

But you don’t ask him anything real. You never do. He’s not sure if it’s politeness, pity, or self-protection. He’s grateful either way. 

Still, he catches the way your eyes narrow slightly when he presses his hand to his temple mid-conversation. He feels like a cracked radiator and the pressure behind his eyes is getting worse. He tells you he’s fine, though. 

Lie number seven, probably. 

You don’t press. You don’t ask why his body is tense or why he keeps blinking hard like the light’s too bright. He doesn’t know if that makes you kind or reckless. But you do talk a little softer and sit a little closer after that. 

That night, he watches you ride him on the couch with something like reverence in his eyes and doesn’t know why. He tries to keep it routine – rough, quiet, transactional – but his goddamn hands won’t behave. They linger and wander and try to claim. 

His mouth presses to the soft curve of your jaw just a second too long.

He should leave after, but he ends up curled with you on the couch and reruns of Law & Order flickering across the TV. You talk and talk and talk. He doesn’t say much, but he notices everything. 

The way you sit with one leg tucked under you. How your fingers twitch when you’re excited. The little scar on your arm you never mention. 

He thinks about how easily this could feel like home if things were different. If he were someone else. If he had goddamn time. 

You pause the episode mid-interrogation, remote dangling in your hand like a weapon. “Okay,” you say, pointing at the screen, “what would you have done differently?”

Mark chuckles a little and leans back, beer resting on his knee. He’s been waiting for this – your post-scene breakdowns. You’ve got a system now – watch, judge, ask questions. Usually with a snack in one hand and your foot pressed against his thigh like it belongs there.

He doesn’t mind. He never minds. 

Because you always listen, absorbing everything like it actually matters – it doesn’t. It’s a fucking show. Bad lighting, worse writing. But you treat his input like it’s gospel. Somehow, you always make him feel like he’s more than just some body showing up at your door with takeout and a cocky smile.

It’s stupid how much that fucking gets to him.

He realizes it’s not just the attention, but the way you pay it – focused and curious. A puzzle someone actually wants to solve. He’s not used to that. Most people either want a shortcut or none of it at all.

“Besides solving it in half the time?” he retorts, smug as hell – mostly because he enjoys the look you always give him whenever he says shit like that. 

“Yes.”

He decides to entertain your inner true crime nerd before you start your own podcast. “Alright, rookie, how about you tell me. What did this guy do wrong, huh?”

You purse your lips and perk up. “Besides murder?”

He snorts. “Besides that, yes.” 

You think for a second. “He changed his story multiple times.”

“Good. What else?” 

“He never looked at Stabler. Just the floor,” you add. 

“Better,” he says. “And?” 

“He said ‘to be honest’ three times in the same sentence.”

Mark chuckles. “Only liars say ‘to be honest.’”

“That’s comforting,” you huff and nod slowly, chewing on that. “You think like this all the time?” 

He takes a sip of beer, eyes stealing glances at you sideways. You’re tucked under a blanket in 80°F weather with your wine glass balanced dangerously on your stomach, eyes sharp and curious like you’re about to go full profiler. 

You’ve got no training, no badge, no reason to care. And yet, you still try to solve every damn case before the halfway mark. He finds it adorable. Infuriating sometimes, but mostly adorable.

He shrugs. “Can’t really turn it off.”

“Bet you’re fun at parties.” 

He watches the way your mouth twists and has the sudden, stupid urge to press a kiss there. He won’t. Obviously. 

He’s good at this – this line he’s not supposed to cross. He knows what this is, and what it isn’t. No promises, no strings. Just shared space and body heat and your cute, crooked smile when he gets you laughing.

Still, he flashes you a smirk. “You keep letting me in.” 

You don’t answer that, just tip your head a little closer till it brushes his arm. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to. You don’t even notice you do it, but he does. He notices everything. 

And fuck, he shouldn’t. He tells himself that every time. Tells himself to keep it light, casual, surface-level. That was the goddamn deal. That’s the only thing keeping this from becoming something fucking messier. 

But then you have to look at him like this – amused, warm, comfortable – and he fucking forgets why the hell he ever thought pretending not to care was supposed to be the better option. You act like any of this is normal.

And God fucking help him, he wishes it was. 

So, he clears his throat and grabs the remote. “Wanna watch another one?”

“Duh,” you respond and toss a piece of popcorn at him. 

“You’re weirdly into this,” he notes, chuckling.

You grin completely unapologetic. “Well, c’mon, it’s not every day I get commentary from a real-life homicide detective. It’s like my personal Disneyland. And I spent a lot of time at Disneyland. This is way cooler.”

He barks a laugh and rubs a hand down his face. “You make that sound way more glamorous than it is, sweetheart.” 

Ugh, cute pet names. He should avoid them. 

Boundaries are important, yes. But he still stretches his arm across the back of the couch and lets his fingers reach out to graze your shoulder like it’s nothing – like it’s always been there. 

And for the next forty-three minutes, he watches the show – but not really. Not with you right there, half-laughing, muttering about red flags and “douchebag energy” and still somehow getting the killer wrong by the end. He never corrects you too harshly. He likes the way you guess. He likes the way you talk over the commercials. He likes the way these nights feel easy.

Too fucking easy. It feels like a piece of his life finally fits. 

And that scares the hell out of him.

On night five, he tells himself it’s the last time. Again.

It’s the lie he repeats like a mantra every damn night. He should stay away. You’re getting too comfortable. He’s getting too goddamn comfortable – too used to the shape of you next to him. 

To the sound of your voice filling the quiet.

Mark wakes up sweating that morning, headache already humming behind his eyes. The usual cocktail of Tylenol and denial doesn’t hit the way it fucking used to. 

Sadly, neither does food. He throws up twice before noon, wipes his mouth, and jokes around the office like nothing’s wrong. He notices their glances whenever he gets a headache, though. For now, they’re being polite and accepting his weak excuses just like you do.

But he knows if a nanny is already suspicious, DEA and FBI agents will soon be as well. He wonders how long it’ll take them to catch on. If he were a little more sadistic, he’d turn it into a game – see who guesses right first. The winner can hold his eulogy.

On this warm summer night, you then open the door wearing sweat shorts and one yellow sock. He barely notices – or he notices too fucking much. He’s not sure.

He ends up sharing a bucket of fried chicken with you on your back porch, the city buzzing around the two of you, the night sky twinkling above. He spots a shooting star and almost feels tempted to challenge the universe.

That night, you ask him if he believes in fate. He laughs under his breath like the question’s a fucking trick. It feels like it. He never answers. Doesn’t trust himself to without breaking down. Because if he peels away the layers, there’s anger there. 

This isn’t fucking fair. None of it is.   

The sex that night is impatient because he is. He wants more – more time, more chances, more you. Maybe if he fucks you hard enough, it’ll shake something loose. His soul can leave his body and crawl into yours. He could live there just fine. 

He knows it’s not logical, but that’s where he’s at. 

His rhythm matches the pounding in his skull, but it’s not just the headache he’s trying to choke – it’s the thoughts that come with it.

The fucking “what ifs” and “whys” and “what the hells.” 

Then comes the quiet – the one he craves the most. Because he’s not chasing the highs of sex. Not really. He’s chasing the afterglow. 

The moments with you on the couch – talking, laughing, watching stupid TV. Something that makes him feel like this could go on forever. 

Mid-episode of yet another maddeningly unsolved mystery, you stretch your body like a feline. He’s not even really watching anymore. Not the screen, anyway. Your expression’s more interesting – your mouth twitching when the narrator drops a lead, the quick glint in your eye every time you think you’ve cracked it.

Cute as hell. 

“Wanna split some ice cream?” you ask suddenly, eyes still on the TV.

“I just watched you eat a whole bowl of popcorn.” He playfully arches an eyebrow at you. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you’re just an endless hole that swallows copious amounts of junk food. I don’t even know where it goes.”

You snort a laugh and smirk devilishly. “Oh, it’s not just junk food. But you already know that.”

He actually fucking stumps this time. Sometimes he unfairly attributes innocence to you because you spend time with tiny humans all day. In reality, though, it seems to be the complete opposite – bloody murder and filthy sex, apparently.

“That’s–, uhm… wow.” 

You laugh at him as you sit up, stretching your arms over your head. His eyes follow the edge of your shirt riding up your thighs and hips – pretty much the moment he decides there’ll be another round later. That never happened before. 

Usually, it’s a one-and-done. He doesn’t go back for seconds the same night. 

It’s not exactly a rule, but it’s something he’s enforcing to keep the lines from blurring. Same reason why he always gets up early and never stays for breakfast. Absolutely no morning sex. No kisses unless they happen during the act. No kiss goodnight, no kiss good morning, no kiss hello, no kiss goodbye. This isn’t a fucking relationship. He’s not making himself at home here.

“Be right back,” you say as you rise. “Have to get it from the garage.”

His brow raises. “Garage?” 

You shoot him a little grin. “If I keep it in the kitchen freezer, I eat it instantly. The temptation’s too big. But if I keep it in the garage, the added inconvenience of distance gives me a minute to reconsider my life choices. Nine out of ten times, I think twice about leaving the couch.”

He snorts, shaking his head, but his heart does a weird little jump. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“I contain multitudes,” you call over your shoulder, already padding toward the back door. 

Mark pushes off the couch and follows you, heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab the–, uh…” 

He opens a drawer and pauses.

The word’s there. He knows it’s there. It’s metal. Shaped. Used for digging into cold things. Mouth. Food. Tip of his tongue. 

Why the fuck is it not coming?

You halt and lean in the doorway, amused. “Spoons?” you offer with a cocked eyebrow.

He looks up, masking it with a half-laugh. “Yup, that. Jesus, I’m fucking tired. Long day.”

You shrug it off. “Too much murder TV. It’s rotting your synapses, Detective.”

He forces a smile. “Must be it.”

You vanish into the garage, and he grips the edge of the counter a little too tight. 

Just a fucking blip, he tells himself. A missed step. Everyone forgets a word now and then. His world is starting to blur. No big deal. 

But there’s clarity whenever he looks at you. He suddenly sees the future clearly.

He sees the nights spent arguing with you over fictional cases, sees the smile on your face when he actually takes you out to eat like you deserve. 

He sees the ring, the house, and the cradle. Sees himself teaching baseball to a boy who reminds him too much of himself. Sees himself threatening some poor teenager with his badge and gun that’s trying to date a daughter who looks too much like you. 

He sees himself still sitting on the porch with you, gray, old, and wrinkled – the way it should be. 

He sees fucking everything. 

The thing is, he’s not even sure he wants all of that. It’s not something he’s thought a lot about in his life, mostly because he assumed if he ever did want it, he could just have it. Now that it’s out of reach, it seems like it’s all he’s thinking about, though. Now, everything feels heightened and more urgent.

People want what they can’t have. Isn’t it always this way? He’s not even special in his own goddamn mind, just a fucking cliché of a sick and dying man.

There are two parts of him, and both trickle down to the fucking cancer again. 

There’s the part that says: “What’s the fucking difference? You haven’t planned to live past sixty, anyways. Hell, past forty is a goddamn miracle. You were always supposed to end up here. You’re not missing out on anything.”

But it’s not the fucking same, is it? That’s what the other part keeps telling him. 

Because when he goes this time, it’s not on his fucking terms. It’s not sacrificing his life for a bigger cause. It’s not as himself. 

When he was first diagnosed, his doctor talked about palliative care like it’d be a thing he’d actually consider. He didn’t even listen all that carefully to that part or a lot of the other shit that came with it. Probably why they initially told him to “bring someone” – someone to take notes and really listen. He didn’t, even though he could have, but that’s another story.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need anyone. It won’t come that far. He won’t let it. The cancer doesn’t get to fucking win. He does.

He won’t die in a bed, a fucking vegetable, not being able to speak, to move, to fucking think. If he has to go, it won’t be because he became a shadow of his former self. It’ll be because he threw himself into the fucking sun. 

He’s promised himself that and holds stubbornly onto it, even though with each passing day, he feels a little more like he’s grasping at straws instead of reaching for the fucking stars.

The worst part about this newfound ache in his chest, though? 

He’s not even sure it’s about you or just himself. It’s only been five fucking days. Truthfully, he doesn’t know enough about you yet to dream up any kind of future. He’s even deliberately avoiding asking questions about you that go beyond your job and your little armchair sleuthing. He doesn’t want to know you, but he does. 

What a stupid spot to be trapped in. 

Seeing the potential hurts more than anything else, he supposes. Maybe that’s why he broke it off with Melinda as well. It wasn’t just about protecting her, but protecting himself, too. After all, he could’ve had all of that a year ago already if he’d really wanted to – someone to hold him, keep him company, actually care for him. So, he tells himself these thoughts and feelings aren’t really about you.

But every time he looks at you, he thinks he knows the truth.

On night six, it’s the worst yet. 

He’s addicted. He knows that now. And like any junky, there’s no stopping – only more.

Last night loops on repeat through his mind. He thinks about the sound you made when he pushed deep. How you always sigh his goddamn name and not just anyone’s.

And it all starts by accident. Well, sort of. 

He’s trapped in an SUV with Finau, and the guy’s not giving him anything back. The least he could do is provide entertainment when stuck on the freeway, but Mark can tell by the faraway look in Finau’s eyes that he’s probably thinking about his wife and kids again, wishing to be anywhere but here. 

Mark kind of admires that. He’s never been able to do that. Not even before. Work always came first. Still does. 

And yet, waiting out LA traffic on his way to his next lead is a gray zone – just like texting. 

Part of the rules he’s imposing on himself is no daylight activities with you. He’s keeping you in the dark – personally, emotionally, physically, spatially, and even chronologically.  

All of that translates to no plans during the day that could be mistaken for dates. It’s simple. Black and white. 

But texting? Total fucking gray zone. 

Because yes, it’s bright and Cali-fucking-fornia-sunny out, but he’s not taking a stroll with you through the park or inviting you to brunch at a fucking restaurant. He’s only talking with you about the things he’ll do to you once it’s dark again. 

Loophole.

Believe it or not, but those three little texts take him eight failed attempts and a half hour to craft. And as if to prove to himself he still doesn’t care all that much, he doesn’t waste another thought before hitting send. 

However, all that truly proves is that he’s full of shit, because he doesn’t breathe until you reply. 

Your first response comes within minutes. He can tell you’re playing hard to get – or maybe you’re just shy. Probably a little confused why he’s suddenly texting you filth in the middle of the day, too. Either way, he fucking likes it. 

But then he gets bolder, and you don’t respond for hours. Drives him fucking nuts. Did he go too fucking far? He didn’t think sexting you was crossing a boundary. Maybe it is. 

However, relief comes on his way back from his last lead – stuck in yet another car. This time with Oliveras, which is arguably worse. While Finau didn’t even blink at him, Oliveras isn’t doing him the same courtesy. The woman is fucking nosy. 

He smirks like a goddamn idiot at the last message that comes through and already sees Amber’s brow lifting in the corner of his eye. She catches it right away. 

“What the hell are you grinning at? You look like a lovesick Golden Retriever,” she quips. 

Mark gives an amused huff but doesn’t look up from the screen. “Nothin’. Just something funny.”

“Oh, yeah?” Amber’s brow hitches higher. “Snacktime’s got a lot of jokes? You seriously got zero shame, huh?”

He pockets his phone with a subtle sigh and smirks at her – broad and smug and unapologetic. “Aww, you jealous? That why you’re sneaking peeks at my screen?”

Offense is the best defense. 

As predicted, she scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You held it up like a fucking middle-schooler showing nudes, man! Just figured I might as well get a contact for this girl, so at least someone can warn her about you.” 

Mark exhales slowly and glances out the window, the traffic jam suddenly feeling a lot heavier. No use arguing when she was half right.

Her fucking words roll around his head all afternoon. 

He tells himself it’s bullshit. Noise. Standard Oliveras judgment with a side of moral superiority. But it sits there anyway – wedged under his skin like a splinter. That tone she used. The way she said warn her, like he was a walking red flag with a kill count.

He isn’t. Not really. 

Oliveras doesn’t know the full story, so all she’s really got is being half-right and knowing a half-truth, which cancels each other out and equals down to zero again. So in reality, she’s got fucking zero points. 

Still, he thinks about not coming tonight. Thinks about just driving to his empty home, eating half a protein bar, falling asleep with the TV on and waking up to something cold and quiet and uncomplicated.

Because maybe you should be warned. 

Maybe he’s not the kind of problem you laugh off in the morning. Maybe you’re too sharp, too kind, too mouthy in a way that sticks. Maybe it’s already getting harder to pretend that those few hours every night mean nothing.

Maybe. 

But instead of backing off, he doubles down. 

He brings pizza and fucks you even harder that night. He picks the movie and laughs too loud at your commentary. He plays footsie under the coffee table with you and steals bites of garlic bread from your plate. He wipes sauce from your mouth and lingers too long after. 

You pause for half a second, meet his eyes, but don’t say anything. 

And maybe that’s fucking worse.

Maybe it’s worse that you don’t flinch or make a joke to soften it. Because it means you took note of it. It means you’re paying attention. And you’re fucking curious. You don’t even seem to notice the way he watches you – like he’s memorizing every goddamn inch of you in case it disappears. 

So he decides to get ahead of it.

He kisses you too hard when the credits roll. Doesn’t give you a second to ask if he’s okay or what this is or if the texts meant something. If he can just get deep enough, fast enough, maybe you’ll stop pulling away and the rest doesn’t catch up with him.

Because tonight, he can feel it prickling under the surface, slowly simmering to a boil – you are pulling away.

There’s an inch more distance now than there was last night. A slight shift in your posture. A flicker behind your eyes. 

He’s not stupid. He sees it. He knows what it is. 

You’re guarding something. Probably your heart. Which means you’re thinking and starting to wonder if this thing with him was a good idea to begin with. 

And shit, it should make him feel relieved. It’s a good thing you’re pulling away and won’t let him in further. He wants that. He should want that. It’s a gift, honestly. 

But instead, it makes him completely fucking reckless. 

It becomes dangerous because he stops thinking about all the things he can’t have and starts pretending like he absolutely fucking can.

He grips your hips like he owns them and you’ll slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold tight enough. He breathes your name like it’s the last tether to this life that still makes sense. He stays in you longer than necessary. He says things he shouldn’t, whispers filth like he’s trying to claim some part of you that hasn’t already turned cold.

You whimper under him, and he wants to say he’s sorry for all of it. 

For the silence. For the pretending. For needing you more than he ever intended. 

But he doesn’t. He just buries his face between your shoulder blades when he comes, gasping like he’s breaking apart. And when you ask if he’s okay, he kisses your shoulder and doesn’t answer. 

What the fuck is he supposed to say? No? 

He’s not okay. He’s dying. He’s lying. He’s dragging you into something you didn’t sign up for, and he doesn’t know how to stop. 

He won’t tell you the truth – that every time you ask, it cuts a little deeper. Because he wants to answer. He just can’t. Not when you’re the one thing he doesn’t want to ruin. 

And you? You just lie there with him, quiet and still, your hand trailing across his ribs like a peace offering. You don’t push. You never do. 

But he can still feel it – you’re starting to see him. Not the reckless guy who fucked up your job or the cop who brings junk food and bad movies. You see the real version. The frayed one. The version who doesn’t sleep well. The one who hears too much and speaks too little and forgets how to say spoon in your kitchen.

Later, when he’s drifted off and the world’s finally stopped spinning, he blinks his eyes open to find you still awake, watching him. He doesn’t say anything, just reaches for you and pulls you closer, like proximity is suddenly protection. 

He’s not sure how many nights he’s got left like this. You’re slipping, and it should make him want to let go. But all it does is make him want to hold on harder. 

Because even if you don’t belong to him, not really, he wants you to feel like you do.

On night seven, Mark knows he’s leaving soon.

Tomorrow morning, prisoner transfer, undercover. Three days. Maybe four. No phone. No contact. No safety net.

Easy. 

Except for the part where it means disappearing. You won’t hear from him. He thinks about telling you.

He doesn’t.

He even considers not coming at all tonight – ghosting quietly, just leaving a dumb little note under your mat: ‘Thanks for everything, but you’re better off.’

Then he remembers how you looked last night when you came – eyes glazed, mouth open, body clinging to him like he’s gravity – and he knows he’s too much of a selfish coward to let go. 

He doesn’t know if you’ll wait. Doesn’t even know if he wants you to.

You don’t know what this is. He doesn’t either. But for a few hours every night, it feels real. 

So tonight, he lets it.

He lets you take your time. Lets you climb into his lap and kiss his throat like it means something. Lets you move at your own rhythm, slow and unhurried, as if neither of you is going anywhere. As if he’s not going anywhere. 

He doesn’t flip you over or take control the way he usually does. Doesn’t try to chase release or command the rhythm. He just keeps his hands on your waist, lets you ride him slow and sweet and devastating, and watches you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to memorize. And maybe it fucking is. 

Tonight, he wants to remember. 

How your hands feel on him. How your hips roll over his. How your breath ghosts across his jaw like a promise. 

Your fingers trail over his chest like a map, and he lets them. He lets you chase whatever it is you need to find. He lets himself feel you.

Every sound you make is something he files away. Every breath against his skin is something he knows he’ll try to remember later when it’s cold and quiet. 

You press your forehead to his and kiss the edge of his jaw, and he swallows something thick and sharp that tastes too much like goodbye.

Later, when he splashes cold water on his face to wake himself up from something that feels too much like a dream, he stares at himself in the mirror and doesn’t recognize the man looking back.

You offer him a toothbrush. 

He doesn’t take it, but he should. It’s the seventh night in a row he’s spending here. But if he takes it, he’s staying, and he’s not staying, he’s dying. So, he thanks you like it’s a joke and kisses you like it’s not.

It’s a weird hill to die on, especially since his phone charger is plugged in beside your bed. 

He could end it tonight. Clean break. Walk out and not come back. You wouldn’t chase him. You’d let him go. You’d get over him. You’d move on. Probably be better off for it. That’s the smart thing to do. The kind thing. 

But instead, he finds himself shifting closer again under the covers, pulling you tighter against his chest. His arm curls around your waist automatically. It’s muscle memory now. Touching you. Reaching. Staying. 

You fall asleep with your cheek pressed against his chest, and he waits until you’re fully out before letting the smile fall off his face. 

In the morning, he even stays for fucking breakfast. He listens too closely to your stories and smiles too long. He leaves his shirt behind. He could pretend it’s a mistake, an accident, but it’s on purpose. A placeholder. Let it mean something.

When he leaves your house and walks to the car, he wonders what you’ll think when he doesn’t show later.

On night eight, he’s already long gone by the time darkness spreads across the sky.

He has the decency to send you a text before they cuff him and throw him into a van, though. He stares at the screen. Doesn’t say more. Doesn’t let himself. He hits send before he can edit it – before he can make it softer or messier or say what he really means: 

Don’t forget me. I don’t want this to be over. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop. 

He closes his eyes and tells himself it’s better this way – and maybe it is.

Maybe you’ll forget. Maybe he won’t.

▶️ Better Safe Than Starry-Eyed

Should we do the mental health check-in again? How are you guys holding up? Feel a little dizzy like you ingested mercury? (It's in retrograde.) 😝

I might have spent a little too much time on those texts, but I found doing it in graphics so fitting for this series lol. Next time we have the same dose of emotional angst, but your first twist is coming up 😉

Coming Up:

You lead him in like it’s no big deal, but you glance over your shoulder as if you’re not sure he’ll follow. As if part of you is surprised he came at all. He is too, honestly.

You close the door behind him, and it feels like stepping into a different world – a brighter one. Warm light, low music, laughter bouncing off the walls like the place is alive. It smells like popcorn and something sweet – probably that vanilla candle with that hint of citrus you always light when you want to make things feel cozy.

Two women sit in your living room – one on the armchair and one cross-legged on the floor beside a half-finished bottle of wine.

The brunette on the floor is the first to light up – big smile, messy bun, the kind of energy that makes Mark brace for impact. The redhead on the armchair, however–

That’s when it hits him. It’s just a flicker, but he feels it sharp in his ribs.

Shit.

She’s not in scrubs, no badge clipped to her white lab coat, no clipboard in hand, but he knows that face. He’s seen her before – in passing. Maybe twice, maybe more times, in the hallway at the oncology clinic. Not his doctor. Not in the room when they told him he had months, but she’s around enough. She’s seen him in that fucking waiting room chair, tired and washed-out.

Fuck. She knows.

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

It’s not just the whiskey, though that sure as hell didn’t help – it’s the other thing. The invisible bastard nestled somewhere in the folds of his brain, gnawing at the inside of his skull like it’s knocking against the bone to inform him it’s awake and ready to start the day. 

Just him and the fatal sidekick he hasn’t picked. 

Mark groans and rubs his eyes before blinking up at the ceiling – only it’s not his ceiling. 

It’s too white and too smooth. There are no water stains, no cracks, and no spinning fan held together with a twist of black duct tape. There’s no gun under the pillow, no case files stacked on the nightstand, and no coffee rings on the window sill. The mattress beneath him is too soft and too clean as well. The sheets smell nicer than usual, too. Something floral – maybe lavender or even citrus.

It’s not his usual detergent, and this is definitely not his place. 

He turns his head and spies the graveyard of tangled clothes on the floor, the shoes haphazardly kicked off by the door, the dent in the pillow beside him.

Right.

Last night.

You. 

His lips twitch as the memories come flooding back in slow, satisfying pieces – your laugh against his throat, your fingers in his hair, the way your breath caught when he slid into you, like maybe you hadn’t expected it to feel that good. 

Hell, he hadn’t expected it to feel that good either. 

Mark exhales a low breath and sits up, wincing as his head protests some more. The sheet slips down his bare chest, and the clock on the nightstand blinks 6:43 AM in faint red light. He rubs a hand down his face. His boxers are half-draped over one foot, so he yanks them back on, along with yesterday’s jeans from the floor and the rest of his clothes. 

There’s a sound then – movement. A mug clinks. A cupboard closes. The scent of coffee drifts down the hall.

Mark finds you in the kitchen, hair up in a messy bun, moving between the fridge and the counter in an old t-shirt that might be yours or someone else’s, judging by the too large size. Maybe an old boyfriend’s – he’s not sure and doesn’t ask. 

For a second, just a second, he forgets how temporary this all is. 

You glance up when he appears in the doorway, and your lips lift in a quiet, slightly knowing smile. “Morning.” 

“Barely,” he rasps, voice shot from sleep and whiskey. “That coffee for me or just a cruel form of torture?”

You giggle and nod toward the second mug already steaming on the counter. “Figured you’d want one. Wasn’t sure how you take it, but I got cream, sugar…” 

“Black is good,” Mark murmurs.

“Cops not picky about their coffee, huh?” 

His lips twitch with a smile. “Can’t afford to. Wouldn’t make it through the first hour of the day if we did.”

Mark then takes the mug from your hands with a small grunt of appreciation, your fingers brushing just barely, but even that feels like a small electric jolt. You don’t say anything for a beat after, just sip your own coffee and glance out the window, where the morning sun is hitting the side of the sink. 

His headache pulses again, but he rides it out. The warmth in your kitchen and the curl of your mouth do a good job of distracting him from the slow, deadly drumbeat in his brain. Still, you seem to take note of the soft groan that leaves his lips.

“Bad hangover?” you ask with a smile that’s a little teasing in nature. “You look like hell.”

“Yeah, uh, just need some Tylenol,” he mutters and forces a smile, rubbing his temples till the sting passes.

As soon as it does, Mark leans against the counter, eyeing you over the rim of the mug. “So, you got plans today?” he asks eventually, just to fill the quiet. 

“Scheduled a couple of interviews this morning,” you reply. “Already sorted through a hundred requests. Just gotta convince some new family I’m Mary Poppins without the umbrella now. Might work out.” 

“Yeah?” he says, a little impressed. “Bouncing back fast.” 

You shrug and drink your coffee. “Can’t afford not to.” 

His body aches but in the good kind of way now. It’s the sort of pain that makes him feel young again – like he still has time. 

Then it gets quiet again – not cold but charged. The kind of silence where the night before still lingers on the skin – that awkward tension that always floats up in the daylight after a night like that.

He watches the golden morning sun catch on the wisps of hair escaping your bun, casting a glowing halo around your still-sleep-creased face. The oversized shirt you’re wearing is long enough to hide your legs but short enough to flash the curve of your thigh when you shift your weight.

His hand aches to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb the edge of your jaw, kiss you again – but he doesn’t. He can’t. Because that’s how things get sticky. Complicated. Emotional. 

And God knows he doesn’t have time for emotional right now. 

Last night was a lucky detour – an indulgence, one of the very few he allows himself these days. It’s supposed to be nothing. A drink, a warm bed, a distraction from the hellstorm of appointments and scans and the clock ticking louder every day. 

And still, he feels it catch low in his gut – that small flicker of… something. The kind of ache that wonders what might’ve happened if he were a different man – one with an abundance of time.

He closes his eyes for a moment and relishes in the memory again. 

Your mouth on his. Your legs around his hips. The way you whispered his name – not like you were trying it on, but like you already knew how it fit.

He exhales a sigh and lets himself look at you for another moment. Not just at your body or the way your shirt slips off your shoulder. At your eyes. At the quick mind behind them. At the spark of sharp humor and warmth that makes the air around you feel lighter than the one he usually breathes.

He drags his gaze away and runs a hand through his hair, clearing his throat. “Look, about last night…”

“Oh, here comes the speech,” you tease and grin around your mug, raising a brow. 

Mark chuckles lightly. “That obvious, huh?”

You shrug coolly – amused, even. “You’ve got the vibe.” 

His eyebrow arches. “The vibe?”

Your lips flash a smirk. “Yeah, great lay but probably won’t call. Emotional walls so high they got barbed wire and a no-fly zone. You know, that vibe.”

“Jesus,” he huffs out a breathy laugh and takes a sip of coffee to wash all that honesty down. “Well, I just wanted to be upfront. I’m not really in a place for… anything serious, y’know? Or even semi-serious. Got a lot going on right now. Messy job, messy life.” 

Terminal clock ticking behind my eyes like a fucking bomb –buthe swallows that part back down.

Your teasing smile doesn’t vanish, however. “Kinda cocky of you to assume I’d be picking out wedding china after a night of wild sex.”

He mirrors the little upward twitch of your mouth. “Wild, huh?”

“Don’t make me say mind-blowing out loud,” you quip and finish your coffee, placing the mug down in the sink. “Pretty sure that third round ruined me for civilian men.”

He barks a low laugh into his coffee. “Yeah? Glad to hear I’m leaving a legacy behind.” 

“Look, I may not be a detective, but I knew what this was when you showed up at my door last night,” you say, laughing a little. “I’m not looking for anything either, okay? You’re cute, but I just wanted to come.”

He snorts and cocks a brow. “That all?”

“Yup.” You give a shrug of your shoulders. “No offense, but I’m pretty sure you’re just the guy I had great sex with before I meet my husband.”

Something washes over him then, but it’s not exactly relief. It’s a dull thrum in his ribcage that he tells himself to ignore. Disappointment, maybe?

He shakes his head clear and pulls himself away from the counter, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, uh… I should–, uhm, I should get going. Got a case on my desk.” 

You nod, leaning back against the counter. “Good luck with that.” 

“Thanks.” He finishes his coffee and sets the mug down carefully. “And thanks for the coffee. And, uh… everything.”

“You’re welcome, Detective,” you reply with a little grin. “Take care of yourself.”

Mark nods, swallowing past something sharp in his throat. “Yeah, you too.” 

He hesitates at the door, car keys in hand. The sunlight outside is brighter and harsher now – too real. The headache’s still there, still ticking in the background and reminding him that time isn’t a luxury he has.

He shouldn’t look back. He fucking knows he shouldn’t. But he still does.

“I’ll see you around.” He smirks, but it fades quickly.

You gift him a smile, gentle and oh-so amused. “No, you won’t.”

And then Mark walks out the door, the annoyingly cheerful sun stabbing straight through his aching skull. But the strange weight in his chest only lodges itself deeper – the one he convinces himself is just the hangover, the caffeine, or maybe even simple post-sex biology. 

Still, that phantom pull in his ribcage? That magnetic little ache that wasn’t there yesterday?

Yeah, he feels it – hard. And he bets the next guy you’ll invite into your home falls even harder. 

He envies that guy a little. 

It’s early evening when you finally turn onto your street in Altadena, the June heat starting to break but still clinging to the asphalt. The windows are cracked open in your car, but the breeze is more of a warm breath than a relief. The AC wheezes with exhaustion.

It’s been a long day. You’re sweaty, undercaffeinated, your cheeks are sticky with today’s makeup, and your feet hurt from cheap sandals. 

Five interviews back-to-back across different parts of the city – one of them in a house that reeked of cat piss and desperation, another with a mom who kept calling her toddler a “tiny CEO” without irony, and one with hyper-scheduled parents with dead eyes and Pinterest expectations. Some of the kids were sweet, some borderline feral, and all of them were starting to blend together. 

You’re so tired you can’t even tell which song’s playing on the radio – something soft, maybe Fleetwood Mac. It’s that beautiful, dusky in-between hour when LA starts to change colors – the light going lavender, pink, and copper at the edges of the sky, the streets all golden haze and flickering headlights. Through the window, the scent of jasmine, watered grass, distant grills, and warm pavement hits your nose.

You love your job, but it’s exhausting to sell yourself all day. All you crave now is a cold shower and something even colder in your hand.

Weirdly, your mind hasn’t drifted back much to last night. To him. 

Okay – maybe once or twice. A flicker of a memory when your thighs shifted in the driver’s seat, or when you heard that laugh of his again in your head at a café. 

But it’s fine. 

It was a one-time thing. Good sex with a handsome stranger. A moment. A distraction. A hot, borderline reckless one-night stand with a guy who kissed like he meant it and fucked like he needed it. 

Yes, it was good. Better than good. But it was also over. That’s how these things go.

You get out of the car, and the porch creaks under your feet as you climb the last step to your house, keys already in hand, eyes focused on the lock. You’re half on autopilot, your brain fried from interviews, LA traffic, and summer heat, when a deep voice cuts through the suburban quiet.

“Hey.”

You flinch so hard you let out a very undignified yelp, keys clattering to the floor. Your head snaps toward the sound, and there he is:

Mark.

He’s sitting on the bench to the left of your front door, half in shadow, one arm resting loosely on his thigh like he’s been waiting there for a while. The other hand, however, rubs the back of his neck like he already regrets being here. 

“Jesus,” you breathe, one hand flying to your chest, heart pounding fast underneath your palm. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He stands instantly, clearly aware of how bad this looks – tall and awkward and handsome in the last light of day, offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” 

You glance at the door, then back at him. “What are you doing here?” 

“I was in the area,” he says, which you both know is a lie. He clears his throat a little. “And honestly? Being a bit of a dick.”

You lift a brow and fold your arms over your chest. “Yeah? You wanna clarify that?”

Mark shifts on his feet like he’s getting ready to bolt. For the most part, he’s dressed the same as this morning – plain t-shirt, leather jacket, jeans, dark shadows under his green eyes. Still hot, still unfairly broad-shouldered and arresting. But he’s not cocky. Not smooth. Not here with swagger or expectation. He looks, for lack of a better word, uncertain.

There’s something about him now that feels different. Edgy. Heavy. Restless – like he’s been carrying something all day and can’t put it down. A mirage of a man who’s coming apart at the seams and trying not to show it.

“I know this is weird,” he says then, gesturing vaguely around the porch, as if it might explain the whole situation. “I just… had a day. A bad one. And I kept thinking about last night. And this morning. And… you.” A flicker of embarrassment crosses his freckle-dusted face as he rubs his jaw. “Look, I know I said this wasn’t anything… that I’m not looking for anything. And I meant it. I do.”

You tilt your head, not sure yet if you’re intrigued or annoyed. “But?”

“But,” he adds with flushed cheeks and a clear of his throat, “I don’t know. Guess I was hoping… maybe… if you aren’t busy… that maybe you wouldn’t mind the company.”

You bite back a snort. “Oh, so this is a booty call? On my doorstep?” 

He purses his lips, head bobbing and hands shoved into his pockets. “Sounds worse when you say it out loud.”

“You’re not denying it,” you point out.

“Wasn’t trying to,” he mutters and lifts a shoulder. The honesty is strangely charming. He looks guilty as hell, but not ashamed.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to call first? Probably would’ve been less weird, creepy, and embarrassing, too,” you tease wryly. “I mean, you found out my address. I’m sure you have my number, too.”

Mark huffs a laugh, short and mirthless. “Maybe. Figured the face time and forced proximity would help convince you. Shitty move, I know.” His eyes find yours, his expression more sincere than you expected. “But if I’m outta line, just say the word and I’ll leave. No pressure.”

You hesitate. There’s a part of you that wants to send him packing. Draw a clear line. Shut the door – metaphorically and literally. Tell him that showing up on a woman’s porch after a one-night stand is inappropriate and maybe even a little insulting and probably something he should unpack with a therapist. 

You let the silence stretch for a beat too long, still standing by the door, key halfway to the lock, trying to process what this is. What he is. 

“I’m not looking for anything either,” you say slowly. “In case you forgot, I wasn’t exactly begging you to stay this morning.”

He gives a small, crooked smile. “No, you were very chill about it. Which, for the record, I appreciated.” 

There’s a pause then. His mouth presses into a tight line, gaze drifting toward your driveway and the Ford Bronco parked by the curb.

“Uh, you know what? This was a bad idea,” he mutters, almost to himself, and brushes swiftly past you down the steps. “Forget I was here, alright?” 

You can read it on him – the way he’s kicking himself for showing up here, for turning his problems into your awkward situation. But you also see the tension in his jaw, the exhaustion in his shoulders, the way his green eyes flick to you like he’s trying to memorize the way you look in this soft porch light. 

Your grip on your keys loosens, the day’s exhaustion giving way to something else – something low in your belly.

Stupidly, your body remembers him. The press of his mouth. The weight of his hands. The way he whispered fuck like a prayer when you slid down onto him. That devilish smirk in the dark when you both knew just how good it was.

You breathe out a deep sigh. 

“Mark?”

He stops in his tracks past the last porch step and glances at you over his shoulder. 

“You want a beer?”

That faint line between his brows softens, a smile rising at the corner of his mouth. He exhales like you just handed him oxygen. 

“Yeah,” he says softly, almost grateful. “I’d like that.”

Mark sits stiffly on the edge of your couch, still beerless, slightly clammy from the sweat that’s dried under his shirt, and very aware of the fact that he’s doing a shitty thing. His spine is aching from how upright he’s holding himself – like posture might make this any less goddamn weird.

The couch isn’t uncomfortable, though. In fact, it’s the softest fucking thing he’s sat on in months – it’s just not his. He tries not to look like he’s casing the place, but it’s a habit. His eyes snag on every detail – the things that tell him who you are. 

The living room is cozy in a way that makes his chest ache. Throw pillows that don’t match. A battered but well-loved coffee table. A single sneaker by the armchair and no sign of the other. A beat-up crime novel splayed open on the side table, spine broken in half from too many reads. The framed photo on the mantle – you, laughing, wind in your hair, some coastline behind you and a dog next to you, happy and golden. Maybe gone now or not yours since he doesn’t see it around the house. 

You live in this house. You laugh here. You dream here.

And Mark? He shouldn’t be here. 

The smart thing would be to thank you again, take the beer when you hand it over, and head out the door. He told you this wasn’t anything this very morning – made it goddamn clear. And still he showed up again like a fucking stray, knocking on your door with that same gnawing, restless sting in his ribcage he can’t seem to shut off. 

He shifts in his seat and rubs a hand over his face. This was a dumb fucking idea.

He’s not sure what he was expecting. That you’d open the door in a robe and say ‘Come on in, stranger’ before pulling him inside by the belt loops? That you’d be fucking flattered? 

Sure, he’s cocky, but he’s not that arrogant. Truthfully, this is just a new brand of selfish.

He told himself it was just for sex. But sitting here now, waiting for you to come back from the kitchen, he knows that’s not all of it. You make him forget things. Bad things. Scary things. Things growing in his brain and stealing time he’s not ready to lose. 

You make him feel normal. Human. 

The tumor pulses behind his eyes again, a low, static reminder. Not bad enough for meds yet, but it’s coming. He knows the signs. 

The sound of your footsteps approaching snaps him out of his thoughts. He meets your eyes and murmurs a “thanks” when you hand him a beer, fingers brushing his. 

You sit down next to him then – not too close, not too far, keeping just enough space between your bodies to make it clear that this isn’t whatever the hell he might be hoping it is. It’s the kind of polite, cautious distance you’d keep from a stranger, which, technically, he still is. 

He takes a long sip of his beer and exhales. “So…”

You arch an eyebrow and study him – curious, skeptical, maybe a little amused. “So?” 

He clears his throat and tries for lightness. “So… interview gauntlet. You survive?” 

Your brow only lifts higher over the rim of your bottle. “You seriously drove all the way over here to ask me how my interviews went?”

Mark curls his lips, nodding. “Yeah, okay, I deserved that.”

A soft sigh leaves your lips before you haul a folder from your bag, opening it across your lap. 

“Fine,” you say and pull out a stack of family photos, laying them down side by side on the coffee table. “Since you’re here, you get to hear all about these five lovely parents and help me decide who gets my final rose.”

Mark huffs a laugh, the edge of awkwardness softening. “Like on Bachelor? Are any of these people gonna jump out of a limousine at some point during the night?”

You laugh, sweet and warm like honey. “Who knows? It’s LA.”

“Maybe if they confuse your ripped jeans for a ball gown,” he teases you with a smirk. 

“Oh, look who knows their reality show lore,” you shoot right back with a little grin. 

He chuckles lightly. “Might have caught an episode or two.”

“Uh-huh. Right,” you snort and nurse your beer. “Pretty sure that’s code for ‘an ex-girlfriend made me watch it.’”

His cheeks catch some heat. “Maybe.”

“Alright, you ready?” 

He leans back into the couch cushions with a smile, legs spreading a little wider, relaxing. “Hit me.” 

You launch into it easily – effortlessly. It’s a rhythm he falls into like listening to an indie song on the PCH. It’s the distraction he needed – the one he’s hoped for.

No criminals, no terrorists, no tumors – just you, your voice, and funny anecdotes about toddlers who scream bloody murder, their neurotic moms, and their emotionally absent dads.

You tell him about the Santa Monica couple who insisted their child speak only French despite neither of them knowing a word of it. About the Brentwood family who expected a full nanny-slash-housekeeper-slash-dog-trainer for less than minimum wage. About the nosy mother in West Hollywood who asked if you were planning to have kids of your own soon, as if that somehow would’ve been a dealbreaker. 

Mark listens, sips his beer, the corner of his mouth twitching up as you act out voices and roll your eyes in the perfect spots. He watches the way your face lights up when you’re telling a story. The way you talk with your hands. The way you lean closer when you get into it. 

The hours blur. One beer turns into two. The sky outside shifts from golden to dark blue. He’s no longer sure what time it is, and it’s the best feeling in the world. 

At some point, he forgets to keep his distance. Your knees are brushing his, your shoulders soon are as well.

“I don’t know if I can pick someone,” you sigh and stare down at the five choices in front of you, chewing your lip almost bloody.

“You kidding, right?” Mark cocks a brow and leans forward on his knees a little. “C’mon! Beverly Hills couple has to go first. They named their kid fucking Ghengis. You really wanna run around all day and scream that?”

“Good point,” you agree, nodding. “Plus, he threw a shoe at me.”

“There you go.” Mark grabs the matching picture from the table, ceremoniously rips it in half, tosses the pieces somewhere behind the couch, and grins. 

You throw him a raised look. “Well, that was a bit dramatic.”

He huffs a laugh. “C’mon, you’re the one who turned this into a game.” He eagerly rubs his palms together and encourages you with a nod. “Alright, who’s next on the hit list? What about single dad, two kids, from Pasadena?”

You grimace. You’ve done it before too when you first told him about it. He still doesn’t quite know what it means. On paper, the guy looks good. 

“Uh… I don’t know,” is all you say.

It triggers a furrow of his brow. “You’ve said that before. What does it mean?”

“Well…” You purse your lips, then sigh a little. “I guess I’m not sure if he’s looking for a nanny or a wife.”

“Ah.” 

Mark doesn’t say more. He just snatches the single dad’s picture, crumples it into a ball, and throws it over his shoulder. 

You laugh a little and lean back into the couch. “Alright, since you clearly seem to have a grasp on this, why don’t you just tell me who I should pick?”

He chuckles, then nods. “Alright. Easy. Long Beach family. You said they were normal… nice. Cute house just right off the beach,” he lists. “C’mon, can’t beat that.”

You smile softly. “Yeah, they were really great. Chillest people I’ve met in weeks. Two kids, third on the way – good job security, for sure. And the mom baked me banana bread.” 

Mark watches the way your eyes drift, remembering. The fondness in your voice. Something warm and steady pools low in his gut.

“See? Banana bread lady sounds like your people,” he says. “Pick them.” 

“Yeah?” You grin as you give a nod. “I think so, too.” 

There’s a pause then, but it’s the good kind. You’re smiling into your bottle before you speak again.

“What about you?” you ask. “Wanna tell me about your day?”

He shutters just slightly before swallowing it down. “Not much to say. Can’t really talk about it, you know?”

A good excuse, sure, but not the entire truth. Your eyes linger on him – thoughtful, skeptical, maybe even a little worried. You don’t press, though, so maybe it’s just his imagination.

“Want another beer?” you ask instead.

“Uh…” He hesitates, reminds himself he already should’ve left after the last one, but a part of him apparently wants to push his luck. “Yeah, sure.”

You rise and stretch, the fabric of your tank top riding up, flashing just a sliver of skin at your waist. He doesn’t mean to look, but he still does. You don’t notice. 

You saunter into the kitchen. 

He sits there, looking at the spot you just vacated. He could leave now. He should. This was supposed to be a one-time thing. You were kind enough not to make it weird this morning – kind enough to invite him in when he showed up again like a jackass tonight. He could just finish his beer, thank you for your time, and be gone.

Instead, he watches you the whole way – the sway of your hips, the ease of your body, the way you hum softly like someone who isn’t weighed down by something rotting inside their skull. 

It’s a moment so domestic it guts him. 

He stays on the couch at first, gripping the neck of his empty bottle a little too tightly, jaw tense, heart drumming behind his ribs. 

And then your silhouette shifts as you bend at the fridge. The arch of your spine. The way your jeans hug your curves. 

A second too long. A moment too much. Something breaks. 

Just go home, he tells himself again. Don’t fucking do this.

But he’s already on his feet. The tension in his spine is electric. The kind that eats its way up through his chest and refuses to stay quiet. Each step is slow. Heavy. Deliberate. His boots don’t make a sound on the hardwood, like he’s hunting something he doesn’t want to scare off. 

You’re still rummaging in the fridge, still casual, still thinking you’re just grabbing another round. “They’re cold, but not fridge-cold. Hope that’s okay–” 

You shut the fridge and turn. He’s closer than he should be. Your eyes meet, and you see it in him now – the raw, dark hunger.

Your breath catches, no time to ask what this is. 

He grabs you. One hand at your waist, the other sliding behind your neck, pulling you in as his lips claim yours in a kiss – hard, possessive, zero hesitation. He grips you like he’s trying to steady something inside himself. You gasp – surprised, caught off guard – but you don’t push him away.

Two beer bottles clash to the floor – broken, spilled, forgotten. Neither of you flinches.

His tongue slips between your lips with the kind of desperation that says he waited as long as he could, and now he’s done waiting. The hours of pretending he wasn’t going to do this finally broke him.

Your back hits the counter, and all he can feel is the warm crush of your body and the dizzy rush of your breath against his lips, and the relief of finally, finally touching you again. 

Your mouth parts for him – breathless, instinctual – and Mark swallows every sound you make. He fists your shirt at the waist, shoving it up without breaking the kiss, groaning into you when his fingers meet skin. You drag his jacket down his arms, barely get it to the floor before he’s pulling you closer by the hips and lifting you onto the counter. 

Cold granite. Hot skin. His hands on your thighs – tight grip, spreading you open like he already owns the space between.

Your head tips back as he kisses along your jaw, down your neck. “Took your time,” you manage to tease.

“Won’t now,” he mutters against your skin. “Could barely think straight the second you got outta your damn car.”

He yanks your jeans and underwear down in one rough pull, swallowing the excessive spit in his mouth when he sees how wet you already are. His thumb runs through it, slow and fucking filthy, and he watches the way your body jerks – responds. 

He doesn’t kiss you sweet or slow. He devours you like he needs to erase the taste of anything else. You gasp as his hips press into yours, cock hard and pulsing through his jeans, grinding into your center like he’s making it a point. 

One of your hands slides under his shirt and finds warm muscle, the other undoing his belt with a practiced tug. He groans low in his throat when you cup him through the denim, then push his pants down far enough to free him. He hisses as your fingers wrap around his cock – thick, heavy, and already leaking.

He reaches back, pulls the condom from his back pocket before his jeans pool around his ankles. He rips the foil with his teeth like he’s done this before. You don’t even look – just grin against his jaw. 

You give him one stroke just to hear him groan, then lean back on your elbows and watch him roll the condom on with one hand, the other still on your thigh, fingers flexing and holding you steady like you’re his anchor. 

He drags his cock through your slick once before pressing in. No teasing – just one hard thrust, and he’s buried deep between your legs. 

You cling to his shoulders as he begins to move, unforgiving and fast, each thrust sending your hips into the edge of the counter. Your nails dig into his back. His forehead presses to yours. You lock eyes in the dark kitchen, panting each other’s names like confessions. 

One look is enough. You’re both in it – hot, wild, and messy.

Mark’s teeth scrape your jaw as he drives in harder, one hand cupping your ass to pull you closer, the other gripping your hip so hard you’ll wear the bruise tomorrow.

“Fuck, look at you,” he rasps through clenched teeth. “Feel so fucking good.” 

You bite his shoulder, desperate to muffle your own moan. You can’t look at anything. Your head’s spinning, your body already tightening, every slap of skin against skin driving you closer. The counter’s shifting beneath you. The sounds are obscene. 

He fucks you like there’s nothing after this. 

Your legs tighten, fingers clawing at his back. His hips stutter. You’re both right there.

You come fast, sudden, with a stuttering breath and a moan you barely hold down. Your mouth falls open against his own, eyes fixed on him. The second you start to shake, he follows – hips jerking, breath breaking, his entire body tensing as he buries himself deep with one last thrust. 

He stays pressed to you. Just breathing. Just still. 

You’re still wrapped around him when it hits.

Not sharp – yet. Just that low, sick pulse behind his eyes again. A sudden throb, right temple first, then left. Fast. Familiar.

His breath stutters.

He closes his eyes for half a second, drops his head to your shoulder like it’s just exhaustion – nothing more than the crash after coming too hard, too fast.

You shift beneath him, legs loosening around his hips, hands sliding down his back.

“You okay?” you check.

“Yeah,” he mutters with a dry throat. He lifts his head just enough to look at you, lets a smirk pull at his mouth even though the edges of his vision have started to prickle. “Just got a little hot, I guess.”

Believable – June, summer heat, you.

You huff a soft laugh, not buying it fully but not pushing either.

Mark steadies himself with one hand on the counter, the other brushing your thigh as he slowly pulls out. His jaw locks tight against the burn blooming behind his eyes.

Don’t stumble. Don’t show it.

He disposes of the condom, barely looks if it made it to the trash.

“Uh… mind if I take a quick shower?” he asks, already pretending like nothing’s wrong and probably crossing several lines again.

You nod and give him a smile. “Go ahead. I’ll deal with the mess.”

His gaze flicks to the beer bottle shards scattered across the tile. “Right. Forgot about that part.”

You hop down from the counter, already reaching for a towel and the dustpan. The sight of you moving like that – careless, bare, unbothered – twists something in his chest, but he forces it down.

“I–, uh, I can help–” 

He reaches for the broom, but you’re already shaking your head with a kind smile.

“No, it’s fine,” you assure him and look toward the bathroom. “Just try not to die in there.”

He grins like it’s nothing. “Easier said than done.”

Then he turns down the hall, and once he’s out of sight, his hand comes up fast, fingers digging into his temple as he leans hard into the doorframe inside your bathroom.

Throb. Throb. Throb.

Fucking hell.

He breathes in once and out slow.

Not now. Not yet. Not again.

The sound of water masks the rest. He steps into the spray, jaw tight, heart ticking too loud in his ears. You’re still in the kitchen, barefoot and cleaning up after the fucking mess he made.

A rush of cooler air hits him as he opens the bathroom door. He’d kept the water just above cold – enough to rinse off, not enough to think. 

He’s dressed again as he steps into the living room – jeans, t-shirt, boots back on. No trace of what just happened except the slight stiffness in his back and the dull throb behind his right eye that hasn’t quite left.

Mark finds you curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, the TV flickering soft crime-scene blue across your skin. Some half-awake true crime episode is playing – bad voiceover, even worse reenactments. 

You glance up and find his eyes. No words, just a small nod – like nothing about tonight needs explaining. 

He exhales through his nose, hand already sliding into his back pocket for his keys. This was supposed to be the end of it. This was the part where he’d walk out – no goodbye, no follow-up, no second thoughts.

“I should head out,” he says, voice rough, thumb tracing the edge of his keys. “Got an early one tomorrow.” 

You nod once more. No argument. “Alright.” 

No guilt. No expectation. Just fucking alright.

He crosses the room but hesitates at the door again, hand lingering on the knob a second too long. His fingers tap the metal. His lips purse. His eyes flick back to you. 

It’s easy – too easy. He could walk out, be back in his car, and halfway home in fifteen minutes. No awkward conversation. No pressure. No second layer.

But his hand doesn’t fucking move. He clicks his tongue.

“Uh, you know what? Probably shouldn’t drive after two beers,” he says with a clear of his throat and lets go of the doorknob. “Wouldn’t set a good example for the civilians. Mind if I crash here?”

You don’t even glance at him when you reply, tone bone-dry, “Thought you had an early morning.”

He bites back a smile. He knows he deserves all the teasing. 

“You can stay,” you say finally and gesture with your chin to the empty spot beside you on the couch. 

That’s all he needs.

He plops down next to you, keeping a careful distance. Your leg brushes his for a moment when you shift, but neither of you move after that.

“So,” your voice breaks over the quiet. You throw him a sideways glance. “You planning on swinging by tomorrow as well? Make a habit out of this? You know, just so I can plan my nights and hide the good booze.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Would it piss you off if I did?”

“I don’t know,” you reply honestly. “Would depend on your habits, I guess.” 

He shifts slightly, turning to face you more fully, resting an arm across the back of the couch behind your shoulders. “Look, I’m not trying to make anything complicated. But if this–” he gestures lightly between you, “–keeps happening, I don’t exactly see a problem. You?” 

You tilt your head slightly, not quite smiling. “You mean, like… casual? What, we just hang out and have sex?”

He shrugs once. “Sure, why not? No strings. No weird check-ins. We do this when we want to. No pressure when we don’t.” 

You go quiet for a moment, thoughtful, and look back toward the TV screen. “This thing… it’s not really my usual.”

“Figured.” He nods once, then looks at you. “I don’t usually do this either. But… maybe we make an exception, you know?” 

“What makes you think I’d be cool with that?”

He smirks a little then and meets your scrutinizing gaze. “Guess I’m just good at reading the room.”

“What if I change my mind?”

“Then you tell me. We walk away. No drama,” he responds. 

You hum softly. You study him for a second, looking for the part where he cracks, but he doesn’t. He just looks back, solid and unfazed. 

You nod once. “Alright.”

There it is. That word again. 

“You hungry?” you then ask all of a sudden.

He blinks in surprise, then nods. “I could eat.”

Your lips hike to a smile. “Great. I’ve got white bread and four different kinds of cheese.”

He chuckles a little and lifts a brow. “Why do you have so much cheese?”

“It’s the best part of every meal,” you argue playfully. 

“Yeah? You tell your kids that, too?” he teases. 

“Hey, you’d be surprised how many I got to eat broccoli by melting cheese over it,” you retort as you stand up. “You want a tomato in your grilled cheese?”

He snorts a laugh. “Don’t push it.”

You disappear into the kitchen, still barefoot, still humming under your breath like none of this means anything. 

Mark leans back into the couch, closes his eyes, and just breathes for a moment. The dull throb in his head hasn’t left, but it’s faded just enough to pretend it’s nothing. 

This is fine. It’s easy. It’s exactly what he said it would be.

And yet, he can feel it – the start of something soft around the edges. A routine. A comfort.

He shouldn’t fucking want that. 

His fingers tap restlessly against his knee. He doesn’t look toward the kitchen. Instead, he stares at the blank corner of your living room and tries not to wonder how many nights he can get away with this before it stops feeling like control and starts feeling like dependence. 

He hates himself a little for staying – for doing this to you. 

Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he already knows how it all fucking ends.

▶️ Mercurial High

Oh Mark… I think he really does need therapy lol.

So far, the show is feeding into my vision for this series, so we're still good. I have two endings in mind, and I'm still not sure which one I'll pick in the end. We might need a poll at some point 😝

Coming Up:

On night seven, Mark knows he’s leaving soon.

Tomorrow morning, prisoner transfer, undercover. Three days. Maybe four. No phone. No contact. No safety net.

Easy.

Except for the part where it means disappearing. You won’t hear from him. He thinks about telling you.

He doesn’t.

He even considers not coming at all tonight – ghosting quietly, just leaving a dumb little note under your mat: ‘Thanks for everything, but you’re better off.’

Then he remembers how you looked last night when you came – eyes glazed, mouth open, body clinging to him like he’s gravity – and he knows he’s too much of a selfish coward to let go.

He doesn’t know if you’ll wait. Doesn’t even know if he wants you to.

You don’t know what this is. He doesn’t either. But for a few hours every night, it feels real.

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

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@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

“Okay,” you say brightly, securing the last car seat strap with a satisfying click, brushing a Cheerio out of the baby’s curls before slamming the door shut. “Who remembers what we talked about?”

“No yelling,” Mila says, swinging her feet.

“No trash cans,” her twin brother mutters with a suspicious look in his eyes.

“Snacks,” Noah offers with great confidence, clutching a half-eaten graham cracker in one sticky hand.

“Close enough,” you sigh and slide into the driver’s seat. 

The twins – Miles and Mila – are four, full of righteous opinions, and identical only in destructive potential. Noah, the baby is nearly two and convinced you have magic powers because you know where the food lives. 

You’ve got a system. You can wrangle them like a pro – park visits, potty breaks, stroller logistics, snack distribution. You’ve handled full-blown meltdowns in the middle of Whole Foods and a spontaneous naked rebellion during music class. By now, you know you can handle any lemons (or diapers) life throws your way.

Today, for example, it’s spilled yogurt, someone’s sock in the toilet, and a small argument over whether bees have bones. You manage all three before 8 AM – fully dressed, caffeinated, and armed with the kind of calm that only comes from deeply internalized panic.

This morning, like most, starts at Echo Park. 

It’s a staple on your approved outing list. Safe, scenic, stroller-friendly. You’ve done the swings, the climbing structure, and the obligatory duck sighting. You’ve run interference on a toddler standoff over a sand shovel. You’ve kissed a scraped knee, and Noah has climbed into your lap as soon as you sat down on the bench. 

You’ve let him. You always do. 

You then check your watch. It’s been just under two hours. Enough. 

It’s just past 11 AM, and it’s time to get them back in the car once again before someone decides to pee in public. The late June heat in Los Angeles is already starting to settle in – the kind of warmth that fools you into thinking the day will stay pleasant before the concrete starts to bake and everything smells like burnt tires and desperate ambition.

“Okay, team,” you call out across the playground. “Wrap it up. The countdown’s running. Shoes on. Water break, then back to the car.” 

Groans. Crushed spirits. The usual protests.

You herd them toward the exit gate like a very tired Border Collie. Behind you, two small hurricanes tumble through the grass, still high off sugar and sunshine. They are locked in some kind of chase game that involves yelling, giggling, and occasional threats of mortal revenge. 

Meanwhile, your arms ache from carrying Noah, who is perfectly capable of walking, but has recently decided he’s emotionally allergic to the ground and too insulted for the stroller. But the finish line is in sight.

The car is parked in the middle of Echo Park’s lot while three small humans orbit around you like caffeinated moons as you throw your purse and phone onto the passenger seat and load diaper bags, stroller, two bikes, and bag full of sandbox toys into the trunk. 

“Okay,” you say, breathlessly, heaving the last bag into the car. “Everybody chill. Everyone breathe. Mila, I swear, if you take off your shoes again–”

“I’m a raccoon,” Mila informs you, twirling as she holds the hem of her dress like a movie star. “Raccoons don’t wear shoes.”

Miles is spinning in tight, dizzying circles on the sidewalk as well, with his arms straight out and his shirt on backwards. You made a note to fix it twenty minutes ago, but you’re too far gone now.

“Hey!” you call. “Miles, keep spinning like that and you’re gonna barf.”

“I like barfing!”

“Cool. Let’s save it for after lunch,” you tell him and look at them – your little circus, all noise and limbs. 

This is your life, now. Juice stains and bandaids. Screaming over sunscreen. Three little people who talk to you like you’re Google and God combined.

You exhale through your teeth, palms bracing against the SUV. It’s sleek, dark, and more expensive than anything you’ve ever owned. You’ve memorized every button, every storage compartment, every stain removal protocol. You know exactly where the granola bars are hidden and which seatbelt sticks in the heat. 

You should be more tired, and some days, you are. But right now, you’re just trying to get them into the goddamn car, already calculating who’s going in first. 

And then you hear it – footsteps. Loud. Fast. Coming right toward you like for some godforsaken reason, you’re the target.

You whip around to see a man sprinting across the parking lot. 

Tall. Built like trouble and doesn’t know how to sit still. Longer, shiny hair. Trimmed beard that says ‘yes, I know what I’m doing, and I’m doing it well.’ Black jeans on bow legs, a gray t-shirt clinging to his broad chest, a battered leather jacket flaring behind him like a cape, his expression wild and focused.

And then, dark green eyes lock onto you. 

You flinch instinctively, already stepping in front of the kids. This is fucking LA, after all. The crazy doesn’t hide in this town – it lives everywhere. 

“Hey! I need your car!” he shouts, reaching into his jacket as he skids to a stop in front of you.

Your heart skips before he flashes a badge, and you exhale with relief – but only for a second. 

“LAPD, Detective Meachum,” he says, baritone voice breathless and rough with adrenaline. “I need to borrow your vehicle. Emergency. Official police business.”

“I–… What–” You blink, already shaking your head before you realize you’re doing it. “No.” 

“No?” His mouth curves with the kind of smile that has probably gotten him out of a hundred bad decisions.

“That’s right. No,” you repeat and don’t budge. “I have three kids under the age of five, a half-eaten granola bar melting in my bra, and I’m not about to let some sweaty stranger with a badge and a beard and zero sense of boundaries Grand Theft Auto nap time.” 

His brow raises. Then he smiles a little. “You like the beard?”

You freeze, your heart pounding faster, mouth opening. “Wha–”

“Just saying, you mentioned it.” He smirks.

Asshole. 

“What in the Fast and the Furious hell is wrong with you?!”

He really looks at you then – like he’s used to getting what he wants and doesn’t know what to do when someone pushes back. Sharp green eyes are already sizing up how much trouble you’re going to be as his chest rises and falls fast, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. 

“Ma’am–” 

“Oh, don’t ma’am me,” you snap. “You don’t get to ma’am me and then try to leave me stranded in a parking lot. I have three children here. Three.”

His gaze flicks to the twins, to the toddler, then back to you. The kids aren’t crying. They’re just staring at him like he’s the lead actor in a movie they’re too young to see.

Honestly, you feel like you’re too young to see that movie. 

You can smell the heat on him – sweat, asphalt, and something a little reckless. His apple green eyes glitter in the sunlight, and for a second, just a second, your brain fucking stutters.

He gives you a crooked grin, breath still catching in his chest. “I can see that. They’re cute.”

You narrow your eyes to a glare. “Don’t.”

“They’ve got your eyes.”

“They absolutely do not.” 

His lips twitch, but he schools it quickly. “Look, I’m trying to be polite here.”

“Oh, how gracious of you,” you huff. “What d’you want me to do, huh? Just stand here while you joyride in my car?”

“I wouldn’t call it a joyride. I’m chasing someone. Armed suspect. Probably shouldn’t have told you that.” He smiles, and you hate how good it looks on him.  

His voice is clipped, clipped, clipped – like every second he talks to you, he’s losing ground. And yet there’s a glint in his eyes that doesn’t match the urgency. Amusement. Or maybe something worse – fucking charm. 

“You can’t just take someone’s car,” you argue and cross your arms. 

“I mean, I can. That’s what the badge is for.” He flashes a quick, exasperated grin – somehow both dazzling and rude. “Look, I really don’t have time to explain, and I can see that you’re doing a stellar job here. No one’s bleeding. Gold star. But if you don’t give me those keys, someone else might not be so lucky. So unless you want to explain to the evening news why a guy got away on your watch–”

“My watch?!”

“–I suggest you hand over the keys,” he finishes and is smug as hell about it, as if he knows he’s going to get away with this.

You hate that it’s working.

“You are unbelievable,” you hiss through your teeth.

“I get that a lot.”

“You are not taking this car!” 

The kids are watching you now, silently waiting. You hesitate, and that’s all he needs.

“Respectfully, ma’am – yes, I am.” He plucks the keys from your hand before you even feel them leave your fingers. 

“Hey!” 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, throwing himself into the driver’s seat. “You’re doing amazing.”

“Wait! My bag–” 

Too late. He’s already shutting the door and adjusting the seat. You lunge for the handle, but the lock clicks before your hand reaches it. He winks at you through the window.

He fucking winks. 

“Tell your husband he’s a lucky guy,” he shouts through the glass with a grin, the engine roaring to life. 

And then, he’s gone. Car, purse, phone, and all.

The SUV screeches out of the lot, tires biting the scorching pavement. You stand frozen, stunned, three kids clustered around your legs, one arm still reaching for the car that’s now halfway down the block and vanishing fast. 

The kids erupt into giggles. Mila claps. Miles yells, “That was so cool!” 

And you? You are going to fucking scream. 

Mila shrugs and says, “That guy’s weird.” 

You stare into the blinding sun above, questioning your life choice and wondering if you’re going to make it home before nap time and the kids turn feral. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “He’s definitely weird.”

You crack open the front window of your living room, letting in what passes for night air in June in Altadena. It smells faintly of cut grass, someone’s grill, and the perpetual low hum of traffic. The TV glows in the background – some reality show you’re not really watching. 

You settle back down onto the couch and place your laptop across your thighs, half a job application typed out, half a bottle of beer drunk, half a bag of tortilla chips devoured beside you. 

The house is quiet – too quiet, if you’re honest. 

You’re still half-expecting a tiny voice calling your name, someone asking for another glass of water, or forgetting how to pronounce rhinoceros. But there’s nothing. Just you, your crappy Wi-Fi, and a cheap beer sweating into your palm. 

Your body aches, and not in the cute way either. It’s a bone-deep exhaustion, radiating from your lower back and shoulders and wrapping around your knees like lead. 

You eventually got the kids home today – thank God for LA’s ride-share drivers with patience and car seats. You spent two hours apologizing, another three hours panicking, and the rest of the day waiting for a knock on the door that never came. 

No car returned. No badge. Nothing. 

You groan and flop your head back against the couch, taking a slow sip of warm beer and closing your eyes for a full five seconds.

Then comes the knock. Of fucking course. 

You drag yourself upright, expecting a neighbor or a Jehovah’s Witness or someone trying to sell solar panels. But you are definitely not expecting a six-foot-one, leather-jacketed disaster with a crooked grin and a bottle of whiskey. 

Detective Meachum holds up your purse like a trophy. “Special delivery.” 

He flashes a smile that should be registered as a deadly weapon. T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans – like he just stepped off the set of a cop show where the detective never plays by the rules and always gets the girl.

Your mouth falls open. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

“Surprise?”

“You–… I–” You steel yourself for a moment. “You absolute fucking asshole!”  

“Okay,” he says calmly, head bobbing. “I deserved that. Possibly more. Definitely more. You can hit me if you want.”

“You derailed my entire day!” 

“I am aware now, yes. Hence–” He jostles the whiskey bottle in his hand. “Liquid penance. Sold a kidney for this one.” 

But you’re not falling for the smile again and already spiraling into a rant. “I had to drag three kids back to the park with no phone, no snacks, no diapers, no stroller, and no fucking backup! Mila threw up on my shoes!” 

He winces theatrically. “That’s a rough one.”

“Oh, you think?” You raise your brow and fold your arms over your chest. “When I asked a dad at the playground if he could call me an Uber, he tried to hit on me and said his wife wasn’t home tonight.” 

“Oof,” he says and whistles lowly. “Men are trash.”

“Present company included,” you shoot back.

“Guilty.” He grins and tilts his head slightly. “Guess you had a shitty day after I dramatically exited stage left, huh?”

“You could say that,” you grumbled. 

“I mean, in fairness, I didn’t realize I was kicking off a domino effect of childcare-based misery,” he adds apologetically. “But yes, my bad.”

“You didn’t come back!” 

“Look, I had every intention of–… Okay, yeah, you’re right.” He sighs then upon your glare and leans a shoulder casually against your doorframe like it’s a bar in a dive he’s already been thrown out of once tonight. “In my defense, it was a legit chase, alright? High speed. Real stakes. Tires screeching.” 

“So, did you at least get your guy? Or did you just wreck my life for fun?” you ask dryly. 

“Ah,” he says and grins, pointing like you’ve queued him up. “Funny story. Buckle in.”

You roll your eyes and exhale a deep breath. 

“So, I’m flying out of the lot, and this absolute maniac I’m chasing takes a hard turn into a construction site – which, okay, bold move,” he begins, already gesturing animatedly. “Naturally, I follow. Bad idea. Perp jumps out of the car and bolts across three lanes of traffic and then bam – Tesla cuts me off. Scooter kid zips out of fucking nowhere. There’s a smoothie involved, too. Long story short, I hit a pole.” 

Your eyes widen. “You totaled the car?” 

“I–… yes. Technically,” he says and scratches the back of his neck. “There’s no polite way to say ‘the front half crumpled like a soda can.’”

You arch an eyebrow. “And you show up now?” 

“I had to go to the hospital for a wrist X-ray,” he explains. “And then I had to track you down. Wasn’t as easy, you know?”

A tiny smirk curls your lips. “Bet it wasn’t.” 

He huffs a chuckle. “Yeah, I went to the address on the registration. Huge, beautiful house. Fancy gate. Trimmed hedges. Thought, ‘wow, someone’s doing alright.’” 

“Surprised?” you tease.

“A little. No offense, but I didn’t expect the soccer mom in a hoodie full of apple juice stains and a messy bun to live in a mansion in the Hills,” he admits with a soft laugh, and you feel your cheeks catch heat. “Anyways, I ring the bell, expecting you to answer, probably with a toddler stuck to your legs. Definitely with more kids screaming in the background. But instead, some icy blonde with a face carved by botox and rage opens the door.”

You poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue to cover the grin on your lips as best as you can. “And how did that go over?”

“Oh, not well.” He snorts a chuckle. “Malibu Cruella de Vil launched into a full-blown tirade. Said she was gonna call her lawyer. Said you stole her car. Basically told me to arrest myself. Been with the LAPD for a little over a decade, and that was a first.”

“You got me fired,” you cut into his soft laughter. 

“Right.” He clears his throat and his voice of amusement, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry. But hey, at least it’s not your car.”

“What a relief,” you deadpan.

He purses his lips. “So, not your kids, huh?”

“Nope.”

“And I’m guessing the name on the registration isn’t your husband either, and you’re not actually married to a plastic surgeon named Craig,” he deduces. 

“Wow. Are you a detective by any chance?” you mock with a wry smile.

He laughs, throwing his head back a little. “Yeah, might’ve done some minimal detective work to figure out where you live and return your stuff. And, alright, maybe also checked if you didn’t have a six-foot-five husband waiting behind the door with a shotgun.”

“Mhm,” you hum and cock a brow. “You really want me to believe that? You sure you’re not just here to see if you have a shot with the nanny you got fired?”

He clasps a hand to his chest, innocent and mock-affronted. “What, me? No.” He shakes his head unconvincingly, then smirks – slow and lazy. “I came here out of pure, unselfish guilt. But seriously, I figured I owed you a whiskey, at least. And your phone.” He hands it over, adding, “I put my number in, by the way. You know, break glass in case of Mark.”

You lift an eyebrow. “Mark?”

“Uh, yeah,” he chuckles and sends you a softer smile now, slightly flustered. “Me. I’m Mark. Hi.”

“Right. I’m–”

“Yeah, no, I know. I looked it up before I came here, remember?” Mark says, amused, probably noticing how your face is a shade redder now. But then his expression turns a little more sincere. “And hey, I’m sure you’ll find a new gig quickly. I mean, honestly, she was stupid to fire you. You looked like you were killing it with these kids. Hell, I, for sure, thought they were yours by the level of professionalism.”

“Still think they got my eyes?”

“Touché.” He snorts, grinning without shame. “But at least you don’t have to go back to that fancy hellhole and see that bitch again. Her loss, not yours, right?”

You let out a sigh, half-frustration and half-tiredness. “It’s not about her,” you share. “I’ve been with that family for three years. I caught the twins in my arms when they took their first steps. And the baby hadn’t even been born yet when I started there. His first word was my name.”

Mark nods like he suddenly understands then. “Right…” He clicks his tongue. “It was more than a job,” he realizes. 

“Yeah,” you breathe and offer him a small shrug. “It always is.”

“Well, look, I really am sorry for getting you fired. That sucks,” he says. And for the first time, it really sounds like he means it. “Anything I can do? You want me to talk to Malibu bitch? Tell her it’s all my fault?”

“No, it’s fine,” you assure him and exhale a breath. “It’s not gonna help. Trust me. Not entirely your fault alone. After I finally got the kids home, she yelled at me and was upset we missed toddler yoga.”

“Toddler yoga?” His brow quirks.

“Yes, it’s as stupid as it sounds,” you mutter your response. “Anyways, one thing led to another, and after the morning I had, I guess I just lost it. I called her a wine mom who only spends time with her kids when it’s for an Instagram post. And maybe, possibly, I told her she’s turning her kids into tiny sociopaths by ignoring them and feeding them almond paste instead of affection... in front of her SoulCycle friends.”

“Damn. I’m impressed.” Mark lets out a bark of laughter. “Sounds like a great mom. Poor kids.”

“Yeah, and now they don’t even have me anymore,” you say quietly. “She didn’t even let me say goodbye to them. They’ll think I just vanished, probably wondering why I never came back.”

You feel it then – the way your throat closes, the way your eyes start to sting, and the way your heart constricts a little tighter behind your ribs. You’re about to cry, and the chaotic detective on your doorstep can probably tell as well since he shifts on his feet.

A beat passes where Mark quiets for once. 

“Well,” he says then, subtly clearing his throat. “If you feel like yelling some more about your ex-boss, or calling me names, or finishing that beer with something stronger–” He lifts the whiskey like it’s holy water. “I make a great audience. Terrible decisions, sure, but excellent company.” 

You hesitate. You know what this is, and you also know what happens as soon as you invite that man inside. It’s like the Big Bad Wolf knocked on your door tonight with a bottle of cheap booze and the promise of an orgasm. 

“C’mon,” he coaxes and smiles sweetly. “Let me in, yell at me some more, and I pour you a glass while you call me every name in the book. You can even call me a plague upon nannies everywhere. I’m great at getting screamed at. Just ask my captain.”

You lift a brow and eye him from head to toe, studying him. “What’s in it for you?”

“I get to drink expensive whiskey and hear more of your greatest hits while I pretend not to stare at your legs,” he says and grins wickedly. 

Fucking hell.

Your grip tightens on the door, and your brain tries to scramble for reasons why you should absolutely let a reckless stranger into your home. But it’s honestly been a while since you had a guy over. 

Your job is stressful, and most nights, you’re too exhausted to put on makeup and a tight, glittering dress to go out. And even if you do find your way into a club, you never stay too late or drink too much, knowing your alarm goes off early in the morning. 

You give a resigned sigh and step back, opening the door wider. “One drink.”

Mark tries to bite back a shit-eating smirk but doesn’t entirely succeed as he passes you and strolls inside. 

He got you fired. The least he can do is be a decent distraction for one night. 

The whiskey’s nearly gone. 

The bottle’s between you on the coffee table, glowing warm amber under the lamp. Your legs are folded under you on the couch, your head fuzzy and pleasantly light, body thrumming with a slow, steady burn that’s only partly the whiskey and mostly the company. 

Mark’s sitting sideways now, arm slung over the backrest just behind your shoulders, knee bent and almost touching yours. You haven’t told him to leave yet. 

He hasn’t brought it up either.

Instead, the conversation has turned lazy and slow – those late-night murmurs in low light that drift deeper without realizing. You certainly haven’t expected to trauma-bond about jobs, asshole bosses, and sleepless nights with the guy who abandoned you in a parking lot with three children and got you fired.

“So,” he says, voice quiet and rough like smoke. “What’s next for you, gremlin wrangler? Job-wise.”

“God,” you snort at the nickname. Then you give a shrug of your shoulders. “I don’t know. I already put up my post on the website. Probably find a family quickly. Good nannies are a hot commodity in LA, and this house doesn’t pay for itself.”

“Yeah, it’s a nice house. More cozy than the ice queen’s castle in the Hills,” Mark notes and takes another glance around your living room. “What’s the name of the Disney one again?”

You arch a brow. “You mean Elsa from Frozen?” 

“Yeah, that’s the one. Let’s call her that.” He grins wide and a little drunk – maybe on more than just the whiskey. “Of course you know your Disney.”

“Part of the job description,” you quip. 

“How much are you paying rent for this place anyways?”

“Oh, I’m not renting. It’s mine,” you say proudly. The house is small, old, but yours. 

Mark’s brow raises. “You inherited or something?”

“No, dumbass,” you snort a laugh. “I bought it. Couple months ago, actually. Still thinking of what exactly I’m gonna do with this place, you know? I mean, granted, I’m still paying off a huge mortgage, but it’s all mine.”

“Jesus,” he scoffed, brow furrowing. “How much do nannies earn?”

“In LA? Pretty well,” you reply. “If you’re a good nanny, which I am. Elsa actually paid me an annual salary of 200k, including all expenses paid when they wanted me to come on vacation with them. I went to the Maldives three times and twice to Europe. Didn’t pay a cent.”

“Seriously?” Mark sinks a little back into the couch and takes a sip of his drink. “Man, guess I’m doing something wrong. You get that much for dealing with diapers and tantrums? I barely earn half of that, and I’m getting shot at almost every day.”

“Hey, Miles once had a phase where he head-butted me every time he gave me a hug. For fun,” you say, laughing. “And I’m getting shot at with pee, poop, and puke on a daily basis. It’s not all sunshine and Bluey.”

“Honestly, same. I get the pee, poop, puke a lot, too. And the head-butts.” Mark laughs. “I mean, not as much anymore. But surely happened a lot more when I was still working patrol. You know, I think this is the first time I’m questioning my life choices.”

“First time? Really?” you tease with a little grin. 

He matches it. “Maybe happened once or twice before that.”

You then let out a long sigh. “Well, if it helps, I’m questioning my life choices right now, too. I was supposed to go to Europe with them again in September. Just me and the French Riviera.”

“And three kids under five,” Mark adds, copying your wistful tone in jest. 

“Hey, they do sleep sometimes,” you retort, giggling. “And then it’s just me and whatever hot Italian or French guy with an unbuttoned shirt buys me the first drink at the bar.”

“Wow, didn’t know you were that easy,” he taunts you a little, that tiny wolfish smirk spreading under the beard again. “I bought you a whole bottle. What does that get me?”

“You bought me a bottle because you got me fired,” you counter playfully. 

“Fair,” he says, but the smirk doesn’t disappear. “I wouldn’t worry about finding another job. Any family would be lucky to have you. I mean, you care, you know? That’s rare to find in an employee.”

“How do you know? You just met me today,” you challenge him with a little smile. 

Mark leans in a little like he’s sharing a secret. “First thing I noticed about you. I mean, I came running up to you probably looking like a maniac, and you immediately moved in front of the kids and looked at me like you were ready to shoot me in the middle of the street in broad daylight.”

“Funny. That was exactly what I was thinking,” you joke, and he laughs again – full, soft, and warm. 

“Well, anyways, I figured, ‘Yeah, of course she is. Now that’s a great mom.’ And then I find out those aren’t even your kids,” he says, and there’s something in the green of his eyes you can’t quite decode. “So, yeah, I’d say you give a shit, and your next family should give you a goddamn throne.” 

“Smooth,” you giggle softly, your gaze drifting to your fingers in your lap. 

He suddenly groans then and squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s in pain and leans slightly forward on his thighs. 

“You okay? Too much whiskey?” you check and tilt your head with a soft smile. 

He chuckles lightly, blinking his eyes back open, and empties his tumbler. “Uh, maybe. Just a headache. Already gone.” He smiles somewhat convincingly, your gazes locking.

A heartbeat passes, and your breath catches. He clocks it. 

His hand moves slowly – first toward your glass, taking it from you without breaking eye contact, then setting it down on the coffee table with a gentle clink. When he turns back, his face is closer and you can almost count each freckle on the tip of his nose. His fingers graze your wrist, tracing upward. He gently pulls a little, and you shift closer till your leg is brushing his. 

It’s silent for a moment. Green eyes drop to your mouth, then flick back up – asking without asking. You don’t pull back or answer, just hold his gaze.

And then, his lips press against yours.

It’s scorching hot from the start. He kisses you like he’s been dying to all night and you’re his goddamn last meal. His lips are plump, firm, and searching, and when you gasp, he takes the opportunity to deepen it, tongue sliding against yours as his hand moves to the back of your neck. 

The tension explodes all at once. He tastes like good whiskey and leather and sweat, and you kiss him like you’re starving for it. You climb into his lap, straddling his muscular thighs, fingers eagerly tugging at the hem of his shirt. He growls against your mouth, hands dragging down your back, gripping your ass hard as you grind against him.

“Bedroom?” he mutters without ever really parting from your skin. 

“Left down the hall,” you pant, breathless. “First door.” 

He hauls you up like you weigh nothing, hands on your thighs, mouth never leaving yours. The trip down the hallway is frantic – bumping into walls, your bubbly laughter tangled in his deep groans, your fingers tugging at his belt as he kicks open the door.

Clothes fly in all directions. You don’t know who takes off what first or in which order. You just know you want to feel as much warm skin underneath your fingertips as you can tonight. 

He bites your shoulder and kisses your neck. You bite his jaw and kiss his collarbone. When there’s just underwear left, you push him down on the bed and fall to your knees in front of him. 

He looks down at you like he’s already ruined – broad chest rising fast, pupils blown wide, boxers tenting with how ready he is. His hands fist in the sheets like he’s trying not to grab you, dark green eyes looking at you as if they want to see what you’ll do next. 

You curl your fingers into the waistband, and he lifts his hips in a silent offering. You drag the fabric down, slow and unhurried, watching the way his cock springs free –thick, flushed, and leaking. Beautiful and heavy, twitching against his stomach like it’s aching for you. 

You take him in your hand first, wrapping your fingers around the base, stroking him just once – slow, deliberate. His hips buck and his eyes snap back to yours. He runs a hand through his hair, head tilting back. 

Then you lean forward and lick a long stripe up the underside, tasting the salt of his skin, the heady musk of him. He groans, deep and raw, as you seal your lips around the tip. 

He’s hot, heavy, and velvety on your tongue. You hollow your cheeks, easing lower inch by inch, and one of his hands finds your hair, fingers tangling between strands. Not forcing – just there, grounding himself as you take him deeper.

But fuck, the sounds he makes? They’re low, unfiltered, almost feral. He keeps muttering your name under his breath like a prayer, and it sends tingles throughout your skin. You pull back just to swirl your tongue around the head before sinking again, letting your spit slick him up as your hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach.

He’s definitely more than the average you’ve usually taken home. And you didn’t even have to take this one home – he’s been practically delivered to your doorstep. Either by God or the devil, you’re not sure yet. 

“F-fuck, that mouth,” he hisses under his breath and twitches on your tongue, hips starting to rock in sync with you. 

And then suddenly, he pulls you off with a wet pop and a hand under your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes are dark, half-lidded, and hungry, jaw locked tight. He pulls you up by your arms into his lap, a secure arm wrapping around your middle as he brushes your hair out of your face with his other. 

“You keep doing that, I’m gonna come,” he says, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. 

“Thought that was the point,” you tease. 

“My turn.” He smirks.

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s flipping you gently underneath him and dragging you further up the mattress. He kisses you contrastingly hard – tongue deep, his taste mixing with yours – before sliding down between your thighs and leaving featherlight kisses on your skin in his wake. 

He spreads your legs with both hands, gaze locked reverently on your center like it’s the only thing that matters. 

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs with a sleek smile as he runs his fingers through your slick heat.

And then his mouth is on you. 

Hot, slow licks that make your hips jerk, your back arch, and your fucking toes curl. He groans like it’s his favorite thing in the goddamn world, tongue moving in lazy circles before he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. Your breath hitches and a strangled moan escapes. 

Holy shit. 

You’re almost sure you could’ve come from that alone, and it’s never this easy. But your own surprise doesn’t last long before you feel one, two fingers join in, and they seem to be even more clever and skilled than his tongue – thick digits curling until they hit that spongey spot that makes you cry out and no one ever reaches. 

Your thighs shake around his head and your hands fly to his silky hair, gripping tight as he devours you. His name falls from your lips among a few curses, and you break with a moan so loud and filthy you’re not sure the neighbors can’t hear it, too.

Your legs lock around his shoulders, your hips grind almost helplessly into his mouth, and he doesn’t stop until you whimper – until you push gently against his head before falling back into the sheets with the most blissful sigh ever uttered on this planet.

He kisses his way back up your body and chuckles against your neck. “Still mad at me for getting you fired?”

“Feeling better about it now,” you grin breathlessly. 

Fuck, you could peacefully fall asleep right now and never wake up and be perfectly fine with that. 

Then his mouth claims yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue. “Condom?” he asks, voice just a smoky rasp. 

Still panting, you silently reach over into your nightstand, tossing it to him with trembling fingers. Despite the satisfying ache in your bones, you still manage to prop yourself onto your elbows as he rips open the foil and rolls it down his throbbing length. 

His eyes find yours in the dark. “You good?”

You nod – dizzy, content, and keen – and kiss him in response, your hands gently pushing his shoulders back into the mattress. He watches you with mesmerized eyes as you bracket his hips. His massive hands spread wide on your thighs and slide higher and higher – gentle and coaxing. 

His cock stands thick and hard between you. Your knees press into the mattress as your fingers slide between you, guiding him to your entrance. The head slips against your folds, hot and slick and pulsing. You pause just for a second, breath catching in your lungs as you brace your hands on his smooth chest and sink down.

And shit, the stretch makes your whole body shudder. He’s so goddamn big, and you feel every single inch as you ease him in – burning, filling, aching. Your walls flutter around him, already overwhelmed. The ache slides into pleasure so quick your head spins.

“Fuck,” he grits out beneath you, eyes squeezing shut. “You feel–… Shit, you feel unreal.” 

You gasp as you bottom out, hips flush against his. You stay there for a heartbeat, throbbing around him as the thick weight of him stretches you to your limit. His warm hands come up to cradle your waist, callous thumbs brushing your ribs like he’s trying to ground himself. 

You find your rhythm gradually, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles. The angle makes you see more stars than there are in the sky – he hits every nerve ending like he was built to wreck you. His hands glide from your waist to the globes of your ass, helping you move, guiding you down harder.

And fuck, it feels good. You ride him like you need it – like this isn’t just sex, but it’s a goddamn exorcism. Sweat slicks your skin, your tits bounce with every movement, and his gaze is fixed on you like you’re the most beautiful damn thing he’s ever fucking seen. 

He thrusts up to meet you, the slap of skin-on-skin filling the room, wet and so goddamn shameless. The friction sends sparks spiraling through your belly, and you lean forward, bracing your palms on the headboard to take him even deeper. 

His mouth finds your neck, your shoulder, your nipples – biting, kissing, groaning your name. You grind down harder, chasing the fire pooling low in your stomach, and watch him fall apart underneath you – mouth slack, eyes wild, fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. Sweat beads on his chest, and his filthy praises tumble out like he can’t stop them. 

“Shit, look at you–… taking me so good… so fucking tight–” 

Your orgasm hits like a wave against rocks – your whole body trembles, muscles clenching around him, his name tearing from your throat over and over. You barely get your breath back before he grabs your waist, flips you onto your back, and drives into you again – deeper, harder. Animal.

He fucks you like he’s losing his mind and wants to lose it in you. He pounds into you with everything he has left – raw, ragged thrusts, fucking you like he’s trying to leave a piece of himself behind. 

Your legs wrap around his hips instinctively, your nails scrape down his back. He’s flushed, feral, lost in it – but when he looks down at you, it’s something else entirely. This isn’t just about getting off.

It’s about you.

He kisses you as he comes – deep and breathless and wild. 

His body goes taut. You feel him pulse, hear the guttural stutter in his breath as he buries himself to the hilt. He doesn’t move right away. Just pants against your neck, one hand cradling your face, the other pressed tight to your waist like he doesn’t want to let go. 

The air is thick with sweat and whiskey and sex, but underneath it blooms something warmer. It’s like everything else about him – reckless, consuming, and addictive. 

It’s not love. It’s not fate. It’s just heat and skin and something strange humming beneath it all that you can’t name – something that might fade with the morning light.

For now, though, you let it linger and let him stay.

▶️ What If I Told You I'm Back?

Do we like so far? How did you enjoy that little reader plot twist? I honestly had a little too much fun with this lol. Somehow Mark feels more up my alley than any other Jackles character, and I can't wait to see what else we get from him in the show 👀

I'll post parts of this series randomly whenever the muse strikes, life lets me write, and however the show develops, but we're definitely safe for the next 2-3 parts 🤓💙

⭐️ Tag List PSA: I updated the tag list to include Mark, so if you're not on my Everything Jensen tags, and want to be added to Everything Mark Meachum or this series specifically, fill out the form 🚀. If you received a tag for this story, you're already on the Everything list and will be tagged either way.

Coming Up:

It was a one-time thing. Good sex with a handsome stranger. A moment. A distraction. A hot, borderline reckless one-night stand with a guy who kissed like he meant it and fucked like he needed it.

Yes, it was good. Better than good. But it was also over. That’s how these things go.

You get out of the car, and the porch creaks under your feet as you climb the last step to your house, keys already in hand, eyes focused on the lock. You’re half on autopilot, your brain fried from interviews, LA traffic, and summer heat, when a deep voice cuts through the suburban quiet.

“Hey.”

You flinch so hard you let out a very undignified yelp, keys clattering to the floor. Your head snaps toward the sound, and there he is:

Mark.

He’s sitting on the bench to the left of your front door, half in shadow, one arm resting loosely on his thigh like he’s been waiting there for a while. The other hand, however, rubs the back of his neck like he already regrets being here.

“Jesus,” you breathe, one hand flying to your chest, heart pounding fast underneath your palm. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He stands instantly, clearly aware of how bad this looks – tall and awkward and handsome in the last light of day, offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You glance at the door, then back at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area,” he says, which you both know is a lie. He clears his throat a little. “And honestly? Being a bit of a dick.”

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

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@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato