#countdown x reader

"What the hell was that about?" Mark's boots thunder through the precinct's hallway as he storms after you towards the break room.

"You acted reckless. I was just stating the facts." You shrug it off. Feign ignorance.

But the challenging undertone is there. One too many times. Because now that the whole office wild life is on lunch-break, Mark's patience finally snaps.

"The fuck is your problem? Is this like,"- he swivels his trigger finger -"like your reverse-psych shit?" He slams the glass door behind him. His frown deepens. It's at least the fifth time you evade him in under two minutes.

"D'you want me to be reckless?" You snort at his accusatory tone. It's the truth, though. He tries to capture your gaze. You slip away again.

After Oliveras had almost walked in on your last 'workout session' in the training room, Mark has grown more careful. Less spontaneous. Less... explosive. That left an itch to scratch.

It's the way you sidestep him without a single glance that fuels his irritation.

Mark's jaw ticks. His focus flickers over at the blinds like he's checking the perimeter.

Next moment your escape comes to an abrupt end. In a flash, Mark has got you pinned against the glass wall. Hands on a shoulder each. The vertical blinds rattle, flattened in awkward angles behind you. Their gaps dangerously wide for anyone passing by to get an idea of what's going on behind the door.

Of how Mark Meachum got you trapped.

"Hm? That it?" Mark probes, forces you to meet his intense gaze. You swallow thickly. The sweet adrenaline rush kicks in.

His fingers begin to trail down each of your sides, leaving a shiver in its wake. The reaction betraying your composed mask.

A beat passes. "Bite me," you dare him next. It was meant literal.

Mark's upper lip twitches.

He spins you around. One palm roughly pushes between your clothes and the cold glass beneath the blinds – you suck in a breath – he dives further south. Fingertips slide down the curve of your bare stomach until they reach the waistband of your jeans.

There, he pauses.

The air, redolent of cold coffee and microwave grub, suddenly becomes thick and laden with more than just the tension between you.

"Meachum," you warn him over your shoulder. Voice low, so that no one else can hear you – just in case – but still with enough venom to cover the arousal that's unmistakably pooling between your legs.

Mark leans in from behind, bows his head to mutter into your ear in his gravel timbre, while his other hand is splaying out on the small of your back. His touch hot and heavy.

"Is this what it's all about?" – he flicks the waistband once to mark his words – "You still rather piss me off than just admit you need me." It's not a question, just stating the facts.

In response, you reach down to smack his daring arm. It's not what you want, not really – but what you should. Always swaying between lust and reason with this infuriatingly sexy bastard, so, "Meach – stop it," you repeat in a pointed hiss. Even though you know that'll just rail him up more.

Mark scoffs disapprovingly. His temper never disappoints.

Without a word he presses his entire broad body into yours. His smell including - you could swear he tastes muskier when he's agitated. He makes you feel him everywhere at once; His chest shoved into your shoulder blades like a solid wall, crotch pushing into your ass to hold you in place, while his free hand swiftly collects both of your wrists and pins them behind your back to keep you from trying anything.

All elbows and flicks of his wrist – same practised motion he uses on struggling perps. Or you. Since you fight like a damn alley-cat, in his words.

So, you buck your hips, twist your arms and try to break free the way you'd learned it, but in this position it's useless. His size and strength keep you at his mercy.

And you hate how it affects you, how it actually fucking turns you on.

Mark chuckles haughtily. "Save the theatrics."

The force of his grip is just enough to make clear that he's in full control this time. Perhaps enough to leave a red mark here and there.

You gasp – then grunt. Back arching under his weight. The stench of plastic wafts up your nose as the side of your face makes contact with the office blinds. "I hate you," you growl under your breath.

Mark huffs somewhere behind you. "Don't start. Had enough of your damn attitude."

The arm that's slung around you from behind moves. His hand finally disappears beneath the waistband of your jeans – the angle being a bit awkward, but Mark ignores the strain on his wrist and focuses on the way you draw a sharp intake of breath the moment you feel him sink his fingers into the soft fabric of your panties.

You bite down on a shuddering exhale.

He rubs two fingers along your covered folds, feeling the way it's already drenched. It's embarrassing and all the same thrilling. The friction nowhere enough. You have to fight the urge to grind yourself into his palm.

"Fuck. Look at you," Mark groans against the back of your neck where his bearded chin is resting now like he owns the spot. "You actually get off on this whole thing." As if to proof his point, he curls his fingers to shove some of the soaked material up into your cunt and your knees almost give in.

Mark braces your jerk with ease and continues amused.

"Jesus Christ, you want me to take you right here, right now."

It's tempting. But it's also risky. There are always those who return early from lunch break. Fact is, the thought adds more to your heat than you'd like to admit.

"Bullshit. Not now – " you try to deflect, although the protest falls flat once his fingers move again.

He chuckles. Raucous, taunting, like he's got you all figured out - shit, maybe he does.

"What's the matter? Wanted reckless, didn't you?" – He pauses to watch you bite back a groan, at which his lips part into a smug grin – "Or you afraid you gonna come on my fingers while anyone could walk in on us? Hm?"

A tiny, pathetic whine slips your lips. Damnit.

Now he's definitely got you. And you both know it.

You form a curse - but half of it gets cut off the same moment.

The kitchenette blurs past as he spins you around by your hips once more. The wall slams into your back, knocks the breath out of you. When the industrial lights overhead come back into view, something dangerous flashes across his eyes. The forest green of them swallowed by a brewing storm.

His right hand makes quick work of your belt, unbuttons your jeans and plans to return to your heat the next moment –

but then you hear a door.

Followed by noise.

Shoes on vinyl flooring. Distant chattering. Bell and Shepherd.

Heart in your throat, your arm shoots down, fingers wrapping around his wrist before you both still.

"Wait –" you murmur, feeling the heat creep up your neck. Is this the good or the bad kind?

Mark doesn't move. Eyes on you. Listening closely. Not for your colleagues, but for your cues.

He catches your blown pupils, the need written all over your face. The way your breathing has turned ragged. The sweet scent of your arousal that's coating the air.

His smirk grows wider. Your grip around him turns bruising, panic increasing.

He has you watch how his other hand rolls his sleeve up to his elbow, slow, deliberate, like he's making a show of it. Then goes on to shove the rest of his hand down the front of your jeans until the crown tat on his inner wrist disappears fully under your waistband.

Both your hands fly to his upper arms now – breath hitches, the small moan mushed into a desperate "please". What for? Hell do you know at this point. Your head's spinning.

Mark's lips curl upward at the stifled, begrudging sound. It's all the confirmation he needs.

With a growl that sends a shiver down your spine, he pulls you closer by your hips, shoves his shoulder under your chin to level his hot breath with the shell of your ear.

"Tell me I don't like it. Those exact words, now. And I'll stop."

Mark's voice stays a low murmur, calm and confident with his answer already beneath his palm. Every muscle of his is poised – taut – stilled in action like a predator about to go in for the kill.

The nails of your fingers bite into the clothes that cover his biceps, trying desperately to reclaim some form of control over your body, your mind, anything. All in vain.

Your teeth draw the plum side of your lips back. A small voice in your mind's screaming at you to say it; I don't like it – because you shouldn't. You really shouldn't. You can't hear the others anymore, maybe they left, maybe it's Mark's hot breath against your cheek that overrides any sign of their whereabouts. Worst thing is, you couldn't even tell whether you'd care.

You open your mouth. Bite your lips. Any logic drowned in pure, intoxicating lust.

"No more complaints?" he taunts, his fingertips begin to drum against your soaked panties, "Thought so."

With his free hand he reaches down, unbuckles his belt. Then goes to take your wrist, tugging it away from his own and guiding yours down his pants instead. You watch in unison how your hand slips past the loosened waistband of his jeans, then his boxers, then brush along the pubic hair down his happy trail – until you twist it free and pull it out again right before you reach him.

"Ah, no." You shoot him a smirk. "Gotta keep it fair. You're not touching either." Getting you wet through your pants like some teenage boy won't earn him a handjob, you decide.

Mark pauses.

Blinks. Then his intense emerald eyes are back on yours.

Annoyed.

No, annoyed is an understatement. Mark looks downright intimidating.

The glare causes a shiver to run down your spine. And if it wasn't for the fact that you knew how to handle his pissed attitude, you'd probably beg for mercy now. It's questionable though whether it'd do any good.

Mark doesn't say a word.

Doesn't warn you when his two fingers roughly shove the thin fabric aside like it's mere existence is personally offending him. His piercing gaze not leaving you once the entire time.

You don't even get to suck in a breath when next thing he jams his two digits up into your heat - knuckles deep. No more teasing. No adjusting to the stretch. They immediately search out the spot that he knows will make your eyes roll back and force your lips apart.

It never fails to impress you how he manages to lock onto his target with deadly precision. Finger on the trigger, this man's a goddamn weapon.

"Oh God-" you gasp a moan.

His free arm circles your back and comes up to your neck, his palm settling on it, fingers wrapping around it like he owns every sound you make. He pulls you in until your chest is pressed flush against his hard muscles. There he licks his lips. Voice rumbling through your shared breath.

"Where'd all that sass go?"

He doesn't wait for an answer.

Instead, he hooks his fingers into your cunt to yank you onto your tiptoes, practically lifting you up to his height just by his flexing arm. You yelp, stumble further into his trap when your arms instinctively fly up and around his neck to not lose your balance. You claw at his back, clinging to him, thighs shaking, toes curling into your boots.

The pads of his thick fingers begin to pester the same spot in a punishing pace. Every thrust sliding along your slick.

You can feel the pressure building. A different one, one that you know once its tension snaps, it is more. Messier.

"No – wait - you gonna - gonna make me-" The words come out strangled. Broken up with pathetic whines as a wave of embarrassment creeps up on you.

"I know," he finishes for you. A devious smirk formed on his lips. "That's the plan, darlin'."

"B – bastard," you push the curse out between a sob and a shaky gasp.

"Mhm, that's right," he croons with a gravel voice that has you shudder and clench around him. His forehead drops to your shoulder in response. "God - keep doin' that."

His hand slides down from your neck, goes to squeeze your ass. The bruising grip has you hiss into the underside of his jaw. Its scruff scratches your skin, bridge of your nose pressed against it, inhaling the traces of his woodsy fragrance there.

"You like it don't you?" He rolls his hips pointedly, earns himself another muffled whimper by grinding his hard member against your thigh. "It gets you off, knowing how much you can get under my skin. How you can ruin my mind. Got me fuckin' addicted. Like a damn drug."

You nod, words breathy and incoherent, even to yourself.

It's all overwhelming, the coil keeps tightening mercilessly, despite your efforts to stay away from the edge - to not let go of the arousal he's coaxing from your heat. You begin to writhe in his arms, panting hard now. Limbs fighting him in control over your release.

Mark grunts when you knock an elbow into his ribs. "Ah-ah. Behave," he reprimands. Your head slips away before he quickly hooks his chin back over your shoulder, where he grins against your temple. "You keep givin' me lip – but I ain't gonna stop until you're drippin' all over the floor."

The hand returns to the back of your neck to guide you through the overstimulation. Grip tightening ever so slightly, yet never uncomfortable, more grounding. In contrast to his other fingers, his thumb's strokes are tender on your pulse point. An anchor for when the storm hits.

When his fingers increase their onslaught, he feels your body practically vibrating, your walls fluttering, fighting his every thrust. Its squelching sound long rivalling the AC that’s humming through the thin walls.

Your eyes screw shut. A row of 'please' mixing with his name. Trying to swallow back as much of your sounds as you can. With no more room to move, you zero in on the small exposed string of muscle that peaks out next to his necklace. Perfectly inviting.

Lips seal around it. Teeth bite down, hard.

Mark hisses - then growls a "Bitch."

He spins you both around, shoves you backwards into the kitchen counter. A pair of stacked cups rattle from the force. Finau's personal coffee mug tips over - takes off into the cluttered sink. You grunt into the crook of his neck.

Then his thumb roughly presses down onto your swollen bud in retaliation while his hooked fingers keep your hips from jerking away. A surprised cry slips you and luck wants it that the exact same moment a row of police cars pass by, their sirens swallowing your desperate mewling whole.

"Easy, love," Mark murmurs and locks his arm further around you to quit your desperate squirming. "No way out now. Just let go… Make a mess f'me."

It's all it took to make the knot snap.

You cannot hold back the climax that crashes down on you in waves, the way your body convulses in his arms, how you shamelessly gush down his calloused fingers, his palm, your every layer of clothing between your legs.

"That's it… there we go…" Mark keeps rubbing both of your sensitive spots, letting you ride out your orgasm, until you go limp and your hand comes down to weakly tug at his arm once more, panting a breathless "please" into his chest.

Once your legs have stopped shaking, Mark slowly pulls out. He straightens you up, lets you find your footing again. Then steps back just enough to admire the sheen on his fingers.

His hand is dripping.

It's obscene, smug - he flicks it once and you get to watch how the droplets spatter the linoleum floor.

Your face grimaces with a mix of emotions. You reach for the closest towel of the kitchenette – but Mark blocks you with a hand to your hip.

"Leave it."

He cuts you off before you even get to open your mouth. You press your lips into a fine line, tilt your head to the side with your 'you kidding?' look.

Mark's beard crinkles under his amused chuckle. He leans in, his dry hand hooked over your belt.

"Let it dry." His mouth grazes your ear, playful, territorial. "Nobody'll know but us. And everytime you walk past it? It'll remind you of this." He wiggles his soaked fingers in front of your face. Your eyes widen, brows raised in disbelief when you respond, "You're one filthy man, Meachum."

"Nah, that's all you. Lemme see," he juts his chin down at your pants where he tugs at your loose belt.

When you swat his hand away, he circles back and grabs you by the wrist, reaches down with his free hand to drag your jeans low enough to expose the soaked, darkened cotton.

Heat shoots to your cheeks when you see the full extent of the mess.

"Great. You ruined them," you groan. Not just did he ruin them, he made sure you'll have to excuse yourself to get changed before anyone notices the dark stains between your legs.

"Oh yeah? Ya think so?" Mark flashes a proud grin before his voice dips to a deeper level. "Good. I'll ruin you every damn day for what you're doin' to me."

Then he pats your hips, turns away and roughly fixes his belt while you're still trying to save what's left dry of your outfit.

Mark is barely buckled when the door suddenly cracks open. You freeze. He moves in smoothly to block the view, intercepting Finau just in time.

"Bell stole your mug," Mark lies and cuts him off, steering him away with a slap to the back. "Let's go hunt'm down."

You let out a sigh of relief when the door closes behind them. Through the blinds, you watch Mark walk past;

Hand still glistening and coated in you. Bite mark blooming at his collar.

A wicked smirk rises to your lips. He's yours. And he knows it.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES It's been a while since I've written smut... so I'm posting this in celebration of my upcoming birthday 😂

Mark Tag List:

@ambiguous-avery @lamentationsofalonelypotato @bettystonewell @lori19 @fleurenoir @royaler1999 @writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @my-stories-vault @spnaquakindgdom @tinysnacklefan @deans-baby-momma @thebestqueenoftheworld @hereswhatimyellingabouttoday @wvffles @hobby27 @uniqueeamber @nuoctis @nyx3028 @literal-tv-menace @bowahdean @uniqueeamber @eagerlycyberchaos @enchantedtomeetcoffee @biancalinkas @westendgirlsworld @cranberrysauce666 @foxyjwls007 @whiteswanrv @spxideyver @velvet-22 @soullessambs

Mark POV

The chains on Mark's hands jingled with each step he took down the concrete hallway, the dismal gray broken up by a flash of blue whenever a prisoner moved to the bars of their cell to shout something at his retreating figure. The curses and taunts rolled off his back with the smooth movement of his shoulders, each motion making the scratchy fabric of his prison uniform to rub and pull at the nape of his neck.  But Mark wasn't bothered.

Well, he wasn't bothered by their jeers. Sometimes it wasn't so much the sounds of the inmates as much as it was the smells. The lovely smells that seeped through the cracks in the cinderblock, the iron bars , and curdled outside in the heat of the mid-day sun. Thick and oppressive.

Fog dragging itself over the bay before the sun rose to paint the world in rays of golden light. The cloying feel of an eccentric aunt who enveloped you in a sweaty hug. A wool sweater in the middle of a sweltering summer.

Mark had spent his life in locker rooms.

In Middle School where the offensive smell of axe body spray wafted up in a cloud so thick it burned his eyes. In High School when he was more focused on finding his way into the girls locker room while trying to avoid the snap of a towel from Ernie Suggs, the quarterback that rode Mark's ass like he was a prized pony. When he was an Army Ranger and he spent those few free moments before deployment to clear his mind and ground himself and then after deployment to breathe a little easier with the people who were left. And of course his time on the force, snapping his own towel at a few of the cock-eyed rookies.

But none of that prepared him for this.

The smell reminded him of when he was in first grade and his mother took him to a traveling petting zoo that must have gotten lost in his hometown rather than planned a trip. Unfortunately, it had rained and Mark could still remember the moldy stench of barn animals to this day.

The inmates at Palmdale were given three 10-15 minute showers a week, but Mark knew for a fact several of the inmates refused the opportunity. His 'friend' Chen had stopped the week after he got brought in, told Mark that a few minutes under a spray of water wasn't worth his life, not when there were more than enough dangers that lurked at Palmdale.

Personally, Mark thought that standing in a cold or hot shower was worth his life, besides he didn't want to smell like a wet miniature pony all day like the rest of the inmates, not when he got to see you. Sure, he wanted you to think about him the rest of the day, but not be thinking about how he smelled. If he'd met you outside these walls he'd want you to remember the woodsy, but spicy scent of his shampoo at least the same way that he thought about the citrus and floral smell that wafted over him whenever you stood close to him.

He is grateful that he had those few moments with you when he didn't have to smell the inmates anymore. He was also grateful that you didn't smell like vanilla, that would have brought back the same slew of painful memories that he hid in the dark recesses of his mind. Shades in the mist of another woman, one who he still couldn't quite shake.

It had been two days since the prison yard fight and Mark was eager to see you again. He hadn't needed to see you after, not when the only thing that hurt were his knuckles where he split the thin skin  on the other inmate's face.

Mark had spent the past two days in solitary, but it was worth it, because not only had he gotten to lay Luis out, he'd done so much damage that the other inmate had to be taken to a hospital because his injuries were deemed "too severe" for the limited supplies that they had at the prison. And it meant that Luis wouldn't get time with you-

Mark felt his jaw clench down together when he remembered what Luis had said about you, could see the goon-like grin on his face before Mark had tackled him. But just as the anger came, self satisfaction slowly ebbed it away, because Mark would have sat in solitary for a hundred nights for knocking that ridiculous smirk off Luis' face if it meant that he kept Luis the hell away from you.

Of course sitting there did little to shut his mind off, something that he'd hoped that working undercover would help. Instead all it did was allow the thoughts he'd worked so hard to shut out come creeping back in. The sick spiral of images, memories, and things that the adrenaline kept out, came back in the still silence of his cell.

The Tumor.

Melinda.

Rachel.

His Family.

Like a fucked up broken record on repeat all day and night for two days, Mark spun around the deck with the memories of the past screeching along. He was eager to lose himself in the grunts, whispers, and death threats of his fellow inmates. Anything was better than what lurked in the silence.

But somewhere in all of it there were brief moments of reprieve. Mark didn't know how or when or even why, but in those moments where his brain didn't cycle through the freakshow that was his fucked up life, he'd see you.

Feel the gentle dab of a soft cloth against his skin, smell the mist of your perfume, see your bright smile, and hear the soothing cadence of your voice.

The sun finally breaking on the horizon to chase the darkness away, spreading it's light through the arching branches of well worn trees, and sending warmth over Mark's body.

It reminded him of the sunrises he used to watch in the back of his father's pick up in the summer, while the wind whipped though his hair and sent the dust scuttling over the dry cracked earth. Something that reminded him of the good things from home he remembered to block out the bad.

The sharp buzz of the alarm above the door in front of him rings, coupled with the brilliant flash of crimson light, and the guard behind shoves Mark forward into the free space. He was on his way to see you, and Mark was more than eager to comply with whatever the idiot prodding him with his plastic baton like a horny teenager wanted, if it meant getting to you faster.

Mark was still worried.

He didn't know what the Warden had said to you, but he knew it couldn’t be good. Not when it was the first time that Mark had seen you look anything less than happy. He'd lost you in the crowd when the guards pulled him off Luis and shoved him down in the dirt, but he couldn't shake the memory of the  look on your face, couldn't forget the way you cowered back against the fence with the Warden standing over you like a predator cornering it's prey.

Mark saw the glass windowed door of the clinic ahead of him and sent up a little prayer to someone, anyone, that it was you today and not the duct-taped Nike buffoon who never seemed to know what he was doing and usually did more harm than good.

He doesn't see you immediately when the Guard shoves him through the door. Mark's green eyes trace the desk covered in papers, the small cup of pens perched on the corner, and the book folded open with it's pages fanning out against the metal desk-top. It reminded him to bring up The Sun Also Rises. He'd finally cracked it open when sleep wouldn't come and found that it was an interesting read. Plus, if it meant finding something else to talk to you about for the few fleeting moments he was in the infirmary then so be it.

But Mark still doesn't see you.

An uncomfortable feeling tugs in the pit of his stomach, disappointment beginning to settle over him as he prepared to face Dr. Duct Tape.

Sometimes Mark thought it was amusing that the only problem he had about being in prison was not with the inmates but rather with the guy who probably went to clown college to earn his M.D.

"Where the hell is she? I have better things to do than sit here and babysit." The guard behind Mark mutters.

Mark takes a seat on bed, the paper beneath him crinkling with the movement of his body when he gets comfortable. "You got somewhere else to be? Some foot fetish convention or something?"

"Watch it Walker." The guard growls. "Or I'll give the doc another few things to patch up today."

The door behind him opens before Mark can make another snide remark, and he sees you. He isn't prepared for the wave of relief he feels at your appearance, the past two days in solitary fading away, replaced with the image of you.

But today you look different… Your hair isn't as glossy as it usually is, the dark circles under your eyes are deeper, and there's an odd way you're carrying yourself, shoulders raised a little higher, almost… defensive.

He flashes a signature smirk, thinking that maybe you've had a rough morning and he can be just what you need to cheer you up. "What's up Doc?"

It wasn’t the first time that he'd quoted the world famous bunny, the same question had earned him a soft snort and a small smile that quirked on the end of your lips more times than he could count, but not today.

You barely acknowledge his presence, in fact, your eyes remain on the clipboard raised in front of you like a shield. "You're here for stitch removal?"

Although it is a question, it comes across like a statement of fact.

Mark feels his smirk slip into a frown.

You cross the room, eyes trained on the clipboard not once looking up at him, and Mark suddenly feels as if a bucket of cold water has been dumped over his head. He'd never seen you like this before, not cold, never emotionless, but here you were actively avoiding his gaze each time he tried to catch your eye.

"I don't know, kinda think chicks dig the Frankenstein look." Mark says hesitantly to test the waters, but you don't laugh, don't even smile or acknowledge that you heard his joke.

He watches you pull the supplies from the cabinet, each movement mechanical, your shoulders still tensed. He doesn’t understand why you're acting this way, not when you always had a smile for him and not when each time you saw him you seemed to see through who he was, as if you knew the truth about why he was here, as if it was your little secret that you shared with him. A sinking feeling begins to move it's way through his chest, as if he's being dragged underwater.

For you to go completely cold like this was, well, Mark didn't like the feeling that had begun to twist in his gut, something that felt remarkably like disappointment and a little bit like a certain emotion he hadn't felt since everything exploded with Melinda.

It only confirmed the thing he'd known from day one, that he was in too deep with you.

But right now he doesn't care.

Why is she acting like this?

He thinks to himself as you move closer to him, not raising your gaze from the supplies in your hand before you put them on the table.

You still don’t meet his eye when you begin to gently probe along the wound you sutured a few days ago, actively focusing on the long cut that goes through his left eye.

"So what socks today?" Mark tries again. He watches the end of your lips twitch, brow furrowed as you continue to check for signs of infection.

"They're purple."

You don't offer him anything else, no fun anecdote about where you got them or who got them for you, nothing to prolong the conversation.

Mark's frown deepens and he shifts awkwardly, paper rustling once again beneath him. As soon as he moves, you flinch subconsciously.

His body goes cold. You'd never done that before, not ever, in fact now that Mark is thinking about it, you're standing further away from him, not as close as you were the other day. Your stance is defensive, standing on the balls of your feet as if prepared to run.

What's going on?

 "Um-" He clears his throat, eyes flicking to the guard who is flipping through an old issue of People Magazine bedside and not paying attention.

Mark whispers your name.

He didn't use it often, once or twice maybe, never felt the need to, but right now he needed to, because he's worried.

Your eyes flick to his for the first time since he came into the clinic, holding his gaze for a few moments, eyebrows pulled up in surprise, and something skitters across your irises, something that looks surprisingly like fear.

Mark was familiar with that emotion, had seen it countless times on the job, countless times reflected in the eyes of his comrades in the middle of a firefight, hell, he'd even seen it reflected in his own eyes those few times he stood in front of the mirror, fingers pressed against his temples to soothe the headache that never quite went away. But never from you, not when you were with him. If anything Mark often noticed how relaxed you were around him, open, softer. But not today.

Why is she afraid of me?

The thought makes something tighten in his chest, makes him feel like he can't breathe. Mark's mind goes back to how you looked with the Warden, and he again wonders what the Warden said to you.

Was it because of the Warden or because she saw me beat in Luis' face?

It was a good question and Mark couldn't exactly tell you that he did that for you, because that would mean that he would have to tell you what Luis said to warrant Mark to turn his face into mince meat, and like hell he was gonna do that. Though, now Mark wanted to also tan the Warden's hide for whatever the fuck he'd said to you about him.

"Are you okay?" Mark asks you quietly.

You blink at him, once, twice, lips pressed into a tight line. You nod once.

Mark doesn't buy it for a second.

"This might sting." You say, hand trembling as you hold up a cloth with antiseptic preparing to clean the wound and remove the sutures.

Sure it might… but it doesn't compare to the ugly feeling that swirls in the pit of Mark's stomach the longer he sits there in the silence, the only sound the ruffle of pages from the magazine, and the feeling of your hands gently touching him. But instead of bringing the usual warmth and comfort, all it does is make the cold soak further into his bones and the uncomfortable emotion in the pit of his stomach drag him deeper under the waves.

And it's enough to make Mark wish that he'd spent the afternoon with the Nike-clad idiot rather than see the slight tremor in your hand, and the fear that flashes in your eyes whenever Mark looks at you.

Reader POV

"So I told her, ‘ma’am it doesn’t matter how many pictures you bring me of Zendaya, I'm a hairdresser, not a miracle worker.  If I figured out how make people look like Zendaya I wouldn't still be working in this shit-show, I’d at least have my own salon.” Your sister, Jackie, says with a roll of her eyes. “Then she yelled at me for five minutes about sensitivity and had to sit in awkward silence for the next twenty minutes because I wasn't done with her hair." She lets out a long sigh, resting one hand on her pregnant belly. "It's women like that, who make me really miss drinking."

"You do realize that in medical school the teachers all tried to haze us out of being doctors and told us to do something less stressful like being a hairdresser right?" You reply raising an eyebrow.

"They lied to you.”

"Figures."

You’d gone over to her large home just outside of L.A to watch the next episode of the Circle on Netflix while binge eating your sister's award winning blue ribbon Lasagna.

She'd gotten the cooking gene while you had been unlucky to receive the "burns even water" gene. Basically that meant that the one meal a week you had at her house was the only food that didn’t come out of a Styrofoam container. The good news was that your sister was teaching you how to cook, the bad news was that she still wouldn't let you anywhere near the stove or the oven without supervision like you were five years old with sticky fingers.

You set a dishtowel on fire one time and it's like you can't be trusted. She's got a memory like an elephant.

But despite the incredible meal she made, and the welcome drama from the show blasting on the tv, it still wasn't helping distract you from what had happened earlier with Walker in the clinic. The awkward silence, the way each time he tried to start a conversation you shut him down, and the feeling of his eyes on you with an emotion that looked surprisingly like worry flickering behind his familiar green eyes.

An uncomfortable feeling squeezes around your heart in a vice, and you take another long sip of wine.

For two days you had tossed and turned in bed unable to sleep and unable to stop thinking about what happened with Walker and what the Warden said to you while your counterpart, Zack, worked at the prison.

You’d tried all the usual things to distract yourself: reorganized your drawers, made a pilgrimage to your favorite used bookstore Inky's Inspirations, went to a series of thrift stores and bought clothes that probably couldn't fit in your closet, and when none of that had worked you had actually picked up a phone call from your mother and let her talk your ear off.

She was still harping on the fact that you were single and working at the prison, which didn’t help anything, and when you didn't give her the answers you wanted, she then tried to pump you for information about your dad. They'd divorced the year you got into medical school, but your father didn't use social media and the only connection your mother had to finding out what he was doing so she could judge him even further was through your sister and you.

But nothing helped clear the image of Walker beating the other inmate within an inch of his life. The way his green eyes went completely black, the way the spray of blood followed the arch of his fist- it haunted you. It was so different than the Walker you saw in the infirmary whenever he came to visit you. And all it did was make what the Warden said to you seem true.

"He doesn't give a shit about you, none of the prisoners do. It might be all smiles and jokes now, but the second the status quo changes, the exact moment there aren't any guards looking, and no one to stop him, well- I'm sure Walker will have a lot of fun getting his hands on a pretty little thing like you, with no one to stop him and no one to hear you scream."

The words echoed through your head for two days, coupled with the images of the look on Walker's face when he beat the other inmate and it scared you. You were scared of Walker and being in the infirmary today with him hadn't helped. You’d seen his easy smile, heard the usual jokes, and all it did was solidify the idea in your head that Walker was playing you, was doing what he needed to get you on his side and then-

A cold feeling travels down the length of your spine when you think about what the Warden insinuated.

Your sister leans back against the couch, sipping at her seltzer as she watches you, eyes narrowed slightly. "Okay, what is up with you?"

"Huh?" You say looking up from her foot where it sits on your knee, a bottle of rum raisin nail polish in your hand

"You've painted that toe three times in the past minute, you've barely said a peep all night, you only had one plate of lasagna, and when Henry was trying to tell you about his day at school you started to look like dad whenever mom comes up in conversation."

"That's a low blow." You point the nail brush at her in accusation.

"Come on!" She kicks you with her unpainted foot. "Spit it out."

"I-" You sigh. "I had a meeting with the Warden the other day."

Jackie rolls her eyes and lets out an even heavier sigh. "Ugh, what did that douche canoe want?"

"He- he told me that I was giving the inmates too much leash and that I shouldn't be so nice to them when they don't care about me. That they're manipulating me and if the roles were reversed the inmates wouldn't hesitate to-" You trail off.

It wasn't hard to imagine what the Warden had been implying. You'd read the files on every single inmate you'd ever patched up, and it wasn't that you were naïve, it was that you wanted to assume the best of everyone. Because yes they were in Palmdale, but people could make mistakes, and judging them for their past actions seemed wrong, especially if they wanted to change.

Like Walker.

A little voice at the back of your mind whispers, the same little voice that you tried to block out because you knew that you had feelings for him and you were trying your best to bury them deep own where they would never see the light of day. 

"I swear that guy has been nothing, but trouble since you started working there." Jackie gives you a sympathetic look. "I hope that you didn't actually listen to him."

"Not at first." You put down the nail polish to grab your wine glass, swirling it once to watch the red liquid move in a fluid wave round and round. It made you think of the drain your love life seemed to be circling at the moment.

HA. What love life? The imaginary one that you made up in your head with Walker? Or the one that you made up in your head from the current morally gray character of the week from the book you were tearing through?

Your mother had emailed you ten online dating profiles within the past two days in an email that only contained the words 'Please try.' None of them had any appeal... the only man who held any appeal was currently doing time at Palmdale. A man with a nice smile, cute dimples, gorgeous green eyes and-

This is not helping anything.

"But?" Jackie presses.

You grab the nail polish again, moving the brush up and down to get more polish on it. "But then I saw Walker beat the shit out of another inmate in the yard and it scared me."

"He what!?" Your sister squeals, hitting you with the pillow she had at her side.

"Ow! What's wrong with you?" You hold up your free hand to block her next attack, trying not to spill nail polish all over her baby blue couch.

"You let me talk about my boring day and you saw Walker beat up someone!?"

"Yes?"

"Next time lead with that!"

"But it scared me-"

"Scared you? Why?" She looks confused.

"It was-" A flash of Walker's dark eyes flickers over your mind once more, bringing a wave of anxiety in it's wake. "I mean, he can flip the switch so quickly. It was like seeing the dark side of the moon. It was so different than-" You shudder. Every moment the two of you had spent together in the infirmary felt like a lie, a performance that he'd leaned into to get you on his side, and today when you'd seen him smile at you the same way and even say your name-

The memory of him saying it comes back, curling around the curve of your ear, with worry flashing in his eyes. You didn't understand why he was worried about you, not when it seemed that this whole time he'd been using you.

"You didn't see it. Didn't see the look in his eyes when he looked at me or how he was beating that guy, it was-"

"I'll bet it was hot." Your sister smirks at you.

"Jackie!"

"What?" She shrugs taking another long sip of her seltzer. "His eyes darkened is probably the most provocative statement in the history of literature for a reason."

I begged my mother for a brother, but no.

"Sometimes I wish that we were estranged." You groan.

"Oh please, we both know your life would be boring without me."

"Definitely quieter."

"You LOVE me." She hits you with the pillow again. "For the record, I don't think it's a bad thing if you throw yourself at the rugged man with the dark green eyes and sexy smile."

"You're a terrible influence." You sigh, but then you turn to look at her, raising an eyebrow in confusion. "Wait a minute how do you know what he looks like?"

"Because I might have looked up his public arrest record on David's computer." Your sister flashes a sheepish smile, dropping the name of her husband into the conversation.

He was out of town on business, and although many women would worry about things like cheating, Jackie didn't and neither did you, because David was perhaps one of the most whipped men that you'd ever met in your entire life and he was head over heels for the woman sitting beside you. It was everything that you wanted, and everything that you thought you'd ever have. Especially not when you spent more time fantasizing about a man behind bars than anyone actually obtainable.

"But I'll say this, not many people look good when they get arrested, but he made it look like a modeling ad. I cannot believe you get to spend time with him everyday." She says mournfully. "Life is unfair."

"Oh for the love of-"

"I can see it now." She sits up with stars in her eyes. "I bet it's like a Victorian romance novel. All those furtive glances, brushing fingertips, and sexual tension-"

"There is no sexual tension!" You snap.

It's a lie and you know it, but it was better to be swimming in Denile, than to lean into it. Especially not after everything that happened two days ago.

"Honestly, I think you're being selfish." Your sister continues while adjusting herself on the couch beside you, stretching her legs further in your lap.

"What?! How am I being selfish?"

"Because David is out of town until next week and I'm a horny pregnant person with no outlet."

"I'm sure that David has been calling you every night." You roll your eyes.

"It's not the same and you know it!" She kicks you again. "And you could be sneaking around the jail with a sexy man who is bad for all the right reasons and letting me live vicariously through you!"

"I hate you."

"No, you hate that I'm right." She smirks.

"You're not right!" You shout hitting her with your own pillow. "I'm a doctor, he's my patient! It's a HIPPA violation and-"

"I think the porn industry would disagree with you."

You let out an exasperated sigh. "Jackie. I can't-"

"Babe, it doesn't matter how many excuses you use, we both know that you've already been there more than once in your head."

Why does she always have to be right all the time? I'm the older sister! I'm the one who's supposed to have it together and- who am I kidding?

The memory of Walker beating the other inmate comes back, an uncomfortable weight settling across your shoulders.

Jackie senses it, watches the way your mouth turns down in a frown, and reaches out to touch your arm. "Maybe it's not what you think. Have you thought about asking Walker what happened?"

"No." You grumble. "I think that ship has sailed."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw him today and I-"

"Oh you idiot." She sighs. "You shut him out didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"And what did he do when you did?"

"He looked…" You remember the way that Walker seemed worried about you, and almost disappointed. Sometimes you'd thought that the flirty banter was just that, but when he'd said your name and your eyes met his, it didn't seem like it was a fantasy that only lived in your head, not when he was looking at you like he cared. And even though you'd been afraid of him, when he looked at you like that, something broke open and flooded the space inside your chest.

You'd wanted to tell him what was wrong, wanted to ask him what happened, wanted to cradle his still bruised knuckles between the two of you and gently hold ice to the ruined skin, but you couldn’t all you could see was the dark look in his eyes. "He looked a little worried and he asked me if I was okay."

You didn't want to admit that to your sister, because you knew that Jackie would only take it and run, but it was the truth, and she knew when you were lying.

She lets out a long groan of your name while pinching the bridge of her nose. "You should have tried to talk to him."

"It's not high school Jackie, it's a prison. There was a guard sitting there, what was I supposed to say?"

Like hell you were going to have that conversation with Walker in front of a prison guard, not to mention the camera that sits unblinking in the corner of the infirmary staring down at you at all hours of the day.

"I don't know, maybe tell the guard to get you something and whisper to Walker."

"But-"

"No buts! He was worried about you. It means that he cares!"

"He could just be faking it, trying to get me to-" It comes out half-heartedly, because you don't quite believe it, or rather you didn't want to believe it.

"Sweetie." She pulls you into her side, gently rubbing her hand over your back. "The Warden is an asshole, and I don't think you should listen to assholes. If you did, you never would have made it through medical school."

"True." You sigh, leaning into her shoulder. "There were quite a few."

"Mhmm, so maybe find a way to talk to Walker, because yeah he might be flirty, but with all the things that you've told me about him over the past few months, the conversations you've had, the fact that he's asking if you're okay, I mean… I think there's something there. Plus I kinda wanna see the look on mom's face when you bring him for Thanksgiving dinner once he gets out. And little future rocker here is gonna need crazy Uncle Walker." She giggles as she rubs a hand over her stomach with a soft smile.

"Shut up-"

"And Henry is gonna love having someone else to talk about dinosaurs with."

"I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself." You snort into her shoulder.

"No, I'm not. Now shut up and finish my toes, I want to enjoy this episode before Henry wakes up and makes us watch Land Before Time: The Mysterious Island."

"That's the best one." You say as you move away from her and resume painting her toes.

"Try watching it four times a day seven days in a row. I debated telling Henry that the tv was broken just so that I could have some peace and quiet."

"Mother of the year award goes to-"

"Shut up. When you and Walker have kids I will not be sympathetic."

You don't dignify her joke with a response aloud, but even you had to admit, maybe Jackie was right. Who cares what the Warden says. Maybe Mark did care about you. And it was enough to make the vice around your heart loosen and your mind begin to wander into the place where you kept Walker hidden, the place where 'what if?' wasn't a daydream, but was a reality.

A/N: Alright, it hurt me to do that to Mark, but maybe things are looking up? Or maybe things are just about to start spiraling? 😅

As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, comments, and likes are not required, but are always welcome and appreciated! I really love hearing what y'all think and the comments really keep me going! ❤️ If you'd liked to be added to the taglist for this series please let me know :)

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You were putting the books back in their place when a voice beside you spoke.

“Excuse me.” You turned to look at him. “Yes, I wanted to ask about a book.”

You adjusted your glasses as they slid down the bridge of your nose. Mark watched the scene with delight, his gaze taking the chance to trail over you from head to toe, admiring your body and your legs in those heels.

“Of course. Which book?”

“That’s the thing.” He placed a hand on his chest and stepped closer, his eyes glancing down at your legs shining beneath your short skirt. “I don’t know which book it is, I’ve only heard about it.”

“Could you describe it?”

“Sure, sweetheart.” He leaned against the shelf, looking around before returning his gaze to you. “It was some kind of erotic book, you know?”

“You mean Fifty Shades of Grey?”

“Exactly!” He laughed and rested a hand on your shoulder. “I see you know the subject well, darling.”

“It’s the most read book of that genre, sir.”

“No, no, not sir. Mark. For God’s sake, you’re about to show me an erotic book — I think it’s time to drop the formalities.”

You laughed, looking away for a few seconds.

“All right… Mark. Follow me.”

You turned around and started walking, his gaze dropping to your tight skirt hugging your hips before he let out a low whistle and followed you.

You reached another shelf and ran your fingers along it, searching for the book. Mark was watching you from head to toe. Besides your skirt, the shirt you wore — with the first two buttons undone — fit your body perfectly.

“Here it is.”

You took out the book and handed it to him. Mark looked at the front and back covers before flipping through it. He whistled and raised his eyebrows.

“There are some pretty intense scenes in here.” He walked closer to you. “Have you read it yet, gorgeous?”

“I haven’t had the time, Mark.”

“Well… I don’t know about you, but maybe I could give you a summary.”

He licked his lips and bit the lower one. His hand slid down your arm, stopping at your hip.

“Mark…” you gasped.

“No one will see us. I can be very… discreet.” His hand moved down to your ass and gave it a squeeze.

You bit your lower lip and glanced around.

“I don’t think we should.”

“Well, I think we should.” He leaned in until your noses touched. “Come on, baby, I know you’re a dirty librarian who’s fantasized about doing it in the library.”

Your breathing quickened, your chest rising and falling, and Mark liked the view. He couldn’t hold back any longer. He kissed you fiercely, his hands squeezing your ass before lifting you up.

“Someone might see us.” You said between kisses.

“Let them do it.”

He growled. He lowered his mouth to your neck, nibbling and licking. Holding you with one arm, he ripped your blouse with his free hand, the buttons flying off. He pushed up your bra and buried his face between your breasts, nibbling on one nipple. You moaned and buried your hands in his hair, tugging at it.

“Mark.” You moaned.

“Yes, baby? I know exactly what you want.”

He hiked up your skirt and pushed your panties aside, caressing your lips with two of his fingers. The sensation was exquisite. Pleasure running through your entire body, from your head to your toes. He massaged your core as if he knew how you liked it.

“You look so beautiful like this. Without clothes, moaning, writhing,” he murmured against your ear before nibbling at your earlobe.

He inserted two fingers inside you and began to thrust them in and out as you moaned and gasped.

“God, Mark, you’re incredible.” You said, tilting your head back.

“Shut up, you’re the amazing one. With all those sounds you make.” He moved his fingers faster, but it wasn’t enough for him. He wanted more. “Fuck, I can’t wait.”

He undid his belt and pulled his jeans and boxers down as far as he could before entering you all at once, moaning softly as he did so. They were meant to be silent. He buried his face in your neck and made a mark, marking his territory. He began to move you up and down, his cock caressing your walls as he entered you, his view blessed by your bouncing breasts.

“Yeah? That’s how you like it?” he asked as he thrust hard. “You’re a dirty librarian, aren’t you? With your glasses, acting all innocent when you’re really the worst.”

Your glasses fell down the bridge of your nose with every movement of his hips, and he pushed them back up with his. Your vagina clenching around him and the movement of your throat as you swallowed told him you were close to your orgasm.

“Come on, baby, cum on my cock. It’s eagerly waiting.”

You came, your eyes rolling back as you opened your mouth, but no sound came out. Mark was faster as he felt you reach your orgasm, his cock twitching before the semen from his cock shot inside you, moaning.

He stayed still for a few seconds, just like you, both of your breathing rapid as you considered what had happened.

“Are you okay?” He whispered in your ear.

You sighed and nodded.

“Yes, I’m okay.”

“Good.”

He placed a kiss on your temple and carried you to the bed in his strong, veiny arms. He placed you on the bed and laid on top of you, still inside you.

“Aren’t you going to pull out?”

“Do you want me to pull out?”

“No, not really.”

“That’s good because I wasn’t planning on doing it.”

You sighed and ran a hand over your forehead and removed your glasses, leaving them on the table next to the bed.

“You should wear glasses more often. They look sexy on you.”

“I really don’t like wearing them.”

He nodded and placed a kiss on your lips, smiling, before lowering his mouth to your neck.

“You know, next time, we should do it in a real library.”

He laughed against your neck and lifted his head.

“Hey, I’m the pervert in this relationship, not you.”

You laughed and he covered your face with kisses.

“Stop.” you said, tilting your head to the side.

“There’s no stopping me, darling.”

The two of you continued laughing and kissing, legs entwined as you lay in bed, the sheet pulled up over both of you. Maybe next time you’d do another roleplay, like teacher and student, taxi driver and passenger, you’d see.

Day 4

Kinktober 2025

Mark Meachum One Shots

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You've always been one to smile even when it's wet and broken. Or when it was busted, and the rest of your face looked like Pollock's hand had slipped across it.

Other than that, you won't take much with you from your time undercover.

Knowing the ingredients of different drugs down to the ounce or being able to spot a mule in a crowd or learning the routines of human traffickers like you're one of them is not going to help you in the countryside.

There is one unspoken rule you've learned the hard way, though, and that one you definitely won't forget:

Always make sure you play well with the mob.

So that's what you do.

Different place, different mob, different murder. Same job.

This time, though, the sweet sound of windchimes sings across your weathered porch and a gentle breeze brushes the hair from your face. The jingling dances with the tall grass and flowers that pool around your bare ankles as you step through them.

You crouch beside the old maple tree, reach into the basket at your side and swat away a couple of flies. Unroll the newspaper across your lap. The stench of something putrid and rancid curls into your nose. Luckily, there's not much you haven't learned to stomach.

It's just one of the many things that going undercover teaches you – how to bury your gag reflex and smile like it's all just another Tuesday.

Dead, hollow eyes stare back at you once you continue to place the body down on a small slab of rock, its surface covered by a tablecloth of moss – today's offering.

Let's see how they like this...

You wipe your fingers on the crumpled paper, adjust your flowy dress, and pick up your basket before you step back some feet. Then wait.

Sure enough, the mob comes.

Crows announce their feast with excited caws before they come swooping down beside the lonely tree at the edge of the wheat field, where you've laid out the leftovers of a fish. You watch how the family merrily chatters away, the adults keeping lookout, while a pair of younglings peck at your offering.

"You like that, huh?" you call over to them, chuckling to yourself as one of them tilts its head and ruffles its feathers in response.

Mob happy. Mission complete.

Over the course of the last summer month, you've grown quite close with your new mob. They've learned your routine and you've learned to read their calls. They make great alarms, actually. They will caw loudly and cuss out any intruder with a foreign face from a mile away. Especially useful when you're living all alone Pippi Longstocking-style at the end of a dusty road somewhere off the brim of Oregon.

There are no neighbours.

Except for Miss Jenkins, whose husband either died long before you moved here or is being held hostage in her basement. And who should live far enough away that she shouldn't be able to appear on your porch spontaneously, like she's just been spawned there, yet she manages to do so at least once a week.

To "check in on you" as she likes to put it. Nosy old woman...

Otherwise, you're positive that there are no neighbours for miles who'd hear you scream.

Not the happy screams either – God, you haven't had those in a while. Heard enough of the others.

Some still ring in your ears whenever you lay in your bed at night and count the cracks in the timber that's supporting your ceiling or when you hear a fox screech somewhere in the woods behind your house, its cry blood-curdlingly similar to the agonising cries of a woman who's being brutally tortured for hours on end.

But all in all, you love it here.

You tiptoe back through the field that leads up to the gates of your garden. The gate creaks shut behind you, just like the four steps up to your back porch groan when you climb them – everything in this house seems to have its own voice, and isn't afraid to use it.

You're sure you'll get used to it, eventually. You say, and remember the many times the howling wind has startled you awake when the shutters clatter and the old wood creaks in the middle of the damn night.

Your gaze sweeps across your porch. The small wooden table, worn down by generations but spruced up by an olive green tablecloth with floral print, is readied nicely for your guests. The floor on the other hand is – once again – littered with leaves of the nearby maple tree.

Not that you'd mind, but you had a different use for them, than leaving them to rot on the porch.

You grab the broom from the corner and get to work.

Unlike others, you don't swipe the dead leaves off your porch, but into a nice heap for you to collect them once you are done. Their beautiful auburn-harvest colours will make a great addition to the décor and the candles in your living room. With every rhythmic swipe across the floorboards, your mind begins to wander to the months ahead and how you're going to spend them in your new home.

Soon, autumn will beckon you to huddle up inside with fresh pumpkin spice tea warming your palms, its hot steam cupping your cheeks like a pair of hands and a fuzzy blanket hugging you from behind while you watch the flames twirl and flicker inside your fireplace from the corner of your favourite couch.

Some may think of autumn as a dark and depressing time of the year. And sure, things die and sink back into the mud while thick fog gobbles up any leftovers. But to you, there's something oddly tranquillising about the way life is slowly forced to move inside.

It reminds you of your childhood, the family gatherings you'd groaned at back then, the warm laughter and the gossiping of aunts and grannies while your mother was cooking in the kitchen and decorated the house with the smell of roasted turkey and mashed sweet potatoes. Just like the sound of crackling fire and the scents of pumpkin and cinnamon spices which you hope will soon fill your own home with life.

There's just something about the warmth and safety of this season's forced proximity that harbours a certain coziness and sense of belonging, reminding you of the good old days, before you'd willingly rolled yourself in the mud and done whatever it took to make an undercover mission a success.

Autumn may call many things to an end, but it in your mind, also allows you to finally focus on the things which are important, the ones which stay. Which make a house, a home.

My home. You smile proudly.

Then give the neatly cleaned floor a once over, hands on your hips, satisfied with your work.

Once in your kitchen, you set the basket with the pile of leaves down in the corner next to the stove.

I'll take care of those later…

For now, you'll be occupied with the chopping of dried herbs you've got hanging from the ceiling. You carefully pick them down one by one and begin to spread the bunches out on your counter. The smell of thyme, rosemary and peppermint fill the warm kitchen once you begin to chop them into small pieces – for your own tea mixes.

Some of their mossy green colours remind you of that guy who'd busted you free from your last undercover gone wrong.

His charming smirk and confident attitude had left an impression on you which you still can't quite make sense of. It's been almost a whole year, and you can still feel his intense eyes searching you for any major injuries, how they'd flickered between bourbon whiskey and emerald green when the artificial light of the warehouse bounced off his sun freckled cheeks and his lips twitched into a befuddled chuckle once he'd noticed that despite looking like you'd been thrown into a blender, you'd smiled.

He probably thought you'd either been coked up or you were just generally off your rocker.

"You still with me, sunshine?" Something tingles in your chest at the memory of the deep timbre of his voice and the warm feeling of his hand patting your cheek. Head tilted up. Eyes searching yours. Deep and intense.

I didn't even get to ask him for his name.

You push the thought aside. He's part of a life that's in your past. It's probably for the best this way. And yet…

Gratefully, you're snapped out of your thoughts when you hear the familiar sputter of a car draw up to your house and kill its engines once it's parked in front of your entrance.

You've been expecting them, the guys of WitSec, but they're a little early as always. You can't help but groan to yourself with a roll of your eyes.

Not for much longer… two more days and I'm done. Just gotta make my statement and that's it. You remind yourself.

You open your kitchen window to gesture to the backside of your house. "Go to the back! I'll be with you in a minute!" One of them responds with a grunt and the other with a lazy wave of his hand.

Charming as always.

You go back to finish chop up the last bit for the tea you'd prepared, while you feel your fingers curl tighter around the knife's handle.

Whenever you have to face them, it takes all of your energy to keep smiling.

Their presence is like a constant reminder of all those months you spent in fear, of the countless times you were relocated across half of the US, and of them watching you the entire time.

The clack-clack-clack on the carving board comes to a halt. Hands slightly shaking. You take a couple of deep breaths, steady yourself and wait for the tremors in your hands to fade.

But your mind keeps going.

Every step of yours had been meticulously planned, monitored and executed. No friends. No family. No freedom. You wanted to talk to your mum? The Marshal would overview any form of communication. Invite your old best friend for a coffee? Ask the Marshal (he said no). Flirt with the cute guy who was visiting his mother next door every Wednesday? The Marshal had his résumé at hand before you could even ask him for his name. Step outside? Ask the Marshal.

You couldn't even get a damn muffin in the local bakery without his permission.

Undercover work destroyed your sense of self. But witness protection had successfully finished the job.

It was the price for your safety, as you'd been told countless times. One you'd agreed on. And effectively made you to their pawn.

Even now it manages to make your jaw clench.

I didn't choose this. Not really. They called it a choice. But it wasn't.

Because worst was, that you had let them rule your life – or what was left of it – and still the fear of someone sneaking up to you and throw a bag over your head, would follow you around like a constant shadow. Each and every night was spent all alone in bed, in complete isolation, drenched in sweat, eyes glued to the shadows moving under the door, expecting one of Chavez' men to kick it down any moment and drag you out by your hair.

For over eight goddamn months.

It was hell.

The nightmares and panic attacks ruled your life until last month, when they finally caught Rick Chavez and his right-hand man, Jackson Walker, and you were finally given back your own life.

Now they're just waiting for your statement to finish the case. Once and for all.

Two more days.

When you step out onto the porch, U.S. Marshal William Bailey and agent Thomas Rhodes are already waiting at your table like two vultures. You set down the pot of tea between the two, but don't take a seat.

Play nice now. You force that perfect lovely smile like you'd learned to.

"I made pie," you say, thumbing towards your kitchen, "I'll go get some."

From the corner of your kitchen window, you keep an eye on them while you cut three slices of your freshly baked apple pie. Not too big. Just enough to keep their mouths occupied.

You watch from behind the curtain how Rhodes' knee bobs up and down. He looks like he's a good 10 years younger than Bailey. Perhaps in his early 30s, as fidgety as a Border Collie surrounded by sheep (and you have no doubt that he's just as agile as one). His left hand rakes back his ash-blond slicked hair, making his British suit crease around his chest and expose the shoulder holster slung over his pinstriped vest, matching his suit and clad trousers.

He glances your way, checking what takes you this long – you quickly look back down and continue to prepare everything... in slow motion.

Rhodes then shifts his focus back to his partner.

His hand drops down with a frustrated huff, just to continue with his fingers tapping the tablecloth while he fishes a cigarette package from his chest pocket with his other hand.

"Did ya know, that a hawk can pick a dove right outta the sky?" he asks out of nowhere, words drawled across his tongue with an undeniable thick British accent he must've adopted from his mother. His blue eyes flicker to Bailey just to check on his attention before they return to the cigarette he's twirling in his hands.

Bailey tilts his head to the sky. Pauses.

The marine blue suit hugging his broader frame, rides up on his forearms as he folds his hands behind his short inky locks that curl around his palms. His dark brown skin shimmers with a cool, silver undertone in the patches of mid-day light. The sun has made it past the leaves of the trees by this time of the day, its shadows playfully dancing on the white porch.

Bailey smacks his lips. Then replies slowly.

"Sounds like a load of bullshit to me."

"Yeah, you bet your bollocks, I'm tellin' ya-" Rhodes runs a hand down his neatly trimmed brown chevron moustache before he tucks the blunt between his lips and continues halfway muffled "- just swoops down and grabs it mid-air. The poor dove don't stand a bloody chance. Smashes its bones to bits, like a bloody shotgun blast." He flicks his lighter on, smoulders the end of the stick and takes a drag. "Nature's right brutal."

Bailey rolls his eyes lazily and mumbles with a huff through his nose. "You watch too many movies, man. Makes you all antsy."

"Oi, if you spent less time watching them kiddie shows and more time feedin' that brain of yours some good ol' David Attenborough, you wouldn't be nappin' every bleedin' evenin' in a food coma now, would ya?"

"You leave Rick 'n Morty out of this. You're just miffed 'cause I usually get the bigger slice of pie."

"Now that is bollocks," Rhodes snaps at Bailey in defence.

An amused snort escapes you, luckily out of ear shut.

They continue their bickering, when all of a sudden the ringing of a phone cuts through their conversation. Moments later, Bailey's and Rhodes' voices take on a serious note when the younger of the two calls out for you.

You can feel how the air has shifted the moment you step back outside and onto the porch. Rhodes' heel is nervously tapping against a loose floorboard, even faster than before, cigarette stubbed out on the plate. Even the Marshal, who's usually got the air of a Buddha, seems tense, his expression gone uncharacteristically stern.

"We just got a call from WitSec," The Marshal starts and your own muscles begin to coil up more with every second that passes as he goes to explain how Molly – the one handling your case at WitSec – had just been talking to them about the latest developments in the Chavez-case.

You nod but you don't listen.

The voices of your tormentors are getting louder, more intrusive. They still sit in the back of your mind, like a relentless ugly weed which just keeps pestering you whenever you think you've finally gotten rid of it.

"Oh you think you're so clever you little bitch, hm?" "Once I get my hands on y-"

Okay – stop. Breathe. I am save. I am doing fine. I am in the here and now.

You shake off the uninvited memory of their threats. Instead shift your focus to the presence. Feel the cotton under your fingers as you wrap them in the fabric of your dress. Breath the fresh late summer air.

Now, life is goo-

"Jackson Walker's free."

Your thoughts come to a screeching halt.

The world stops. Your heart stumbles, then slams hard against your ribs.

Not him. Not again.

You feel the scars flare up, even though you shouldn't be able to feel them anymore – the bruises he and his men left, the sound of boots on concrete, the smell of gasoline in the dark.

You taste blood.

"W-what?" is all you manage.

You feel the twist of a knife between your ribs when Rhodes goes on with an explanation that has your guts curl inwards.

"That bloody bastard's greased the right palms, and now we've got two of our key witnesses pulling out their testimony, and the court's on hold for another three weeks," he grumbles, "We're back to square fuckin' one, for Christ's sake."

Someone must've pulled the ground open underneath your feet, because you feel like you're in a free-fall, hurtling down into the open jaws of a wolf.

Your world, peaceful and perfect one moment, comes crashing down like a deer shot through the flank.

"But- but… what about-?"

"Chavez's still in custody. But with his guard dog off the leash it's only a matter of time 'till he rounds up the rest of the witnesses and soon that bastard's back on the street."

Your breath gets stuck in your throat. Mind still struggling to process the information that Jackson Walker is free. Unrestrained. Out there. As they speak.

You startle when both of the men are suddenly on their feet and Bailey pulls out his phone, apparently readying it to make some calls.

"We'll have to relocate you, stat."

His annoucement slams down like a guillotine.

Your chest tightens. Lungs cave in. You remember what it felt like to be shoved in the trunk, bleeding out and praying they'd just shoot you already. And now they're telling you to vanish again? To start over? To lose this home too?

No. Not again.

You’d rather die here, in a place that feels like an actual life.

"No."

Their heads both snap up to stare at you.

"What did she just say?" Rhodes asks in disbelief. Bailey shakes his head like you'd told them a stupid joke, "We're just trying to protect you. Or would you rather have Chavez' men have another go at you?"

You swallow. Hard. Eyes narrowed. Determination flaring up inside you.

Not your pawn anymore.

"You're not protecting me," you hiss, "You're burying me alive." Bailey and Rhodes share a look, clearly taken aback at your sudden sharp tone. "If he finds me, he finds me. But I’m not running anymore."

Rhodes' upper lip twitches his moustache. Dangerously.

The next moment he backs you up against the railing with two quick steps that send tremors through the floorboards under your feet and rattle the mismatched floral dishware on the table next to you. You stumble a step backwards until you knock into the railing with your hips.

Air thick. Breath caught in your throat. Lips tight.

"Now you listen to me, –" he says your last name with a clear edge to it, "I won't let ya fuck this up. As long as you're in witness protection, you play by our rules."

The way he stares you down with piercing cold eyes has you flinch and instinctively lean further back, the railing digging into your back.

The Marshal seems to take note of your discomfort, because he reaches out to give Rhodes a pat to the shoulder which has him take a few steps back. One hand subtly curled into a fist.

It allows you to let out the breath you'd been holding.

"Three weeks. That's all I need. I'll give you your statement. Just let me have this," you try to reason with them. Or maybe you're more like pleading now.

Rhodes is not done with putting you in place, though. Each and every word he spits your way makes your throat tighten up more.

"You signed a bloody agreement. We keep you alive and "- he waves a finger your way -" you make that statement. A bit hard when you're dead, innit? If you decide to jeopardise our plans, I'll personally have you relocated to one of WitSec's secret bunkers. If I have to, by force. So, it's either that, or you're on your own, dove." The Marshal cocks an eyebrow at that last threat but doesn't contradict him.

Instead he steps up next to Rhodes and drawls in a calm but final tone.

"So, what's it gonna be, dear?"

Three days later.

You're sat in the cold dirt between the bushes in your garden. Collecting herbs. Or you would be, if it wasn't for the fact that you keep replaying the same discussion over and over in your head as if it would change anything. The same twig of rosemary hanging loosely between your fingers for the past ten minutes.

"In that case, I'm leaving," you'd snapped at them. "I told you. I'm done. Now get the hell off my land." You'd even grabbed for the broom to send them fleeing off your porch.

Rhodes was swearing like an English sailor, hands going everywhere except your way. "You really willin' to throw yourself to the bloody wolves?" he'd barked, outraged as he ducked under a swing of your broom, and Bailey'd continued, "Don't be so stupid, are you going to throw all of this away now?" he was afraid you'd chicken out, now that the deal was off.

But, "I'm making that damn statement. But this time, I'm doing it on my terms." had effectively shut them both up.

You're free now to do as you please. At least on paper.

Which feels great.

But your nightmares are back ten-fold. So are the panic attacks.

You finally snap the twig of rosemary off and rub it between your fingers, then bring it up to your nose. The smell usually has a calming effect on you. But even rosemary had a hard time now to calm your mind.

For the past three days it has been a complete mess.

Thoughts spiralling more often than not. Questions, doubts and what-if scenarios tearing at your sanity without a break.

Maybe they were right – maybe I am being stubborn, maybe I am throwing myself to the wolves –

You should hazard the consequences of your deeds when you were undercover, shouldn't you? Your doubt puts all your energy into the efforts to grind down your determination and make you question your decision.

Over and over and over.

You drop the twig into the basket to the other herbs before your fingers instinctively go to curl into the fabrics of your soft coloured dress. Your boots digging further into the dirt.

"This is my home now. I don't need them. I'm safe here."

You keep repeating those words out loud like a mantra.

And it works, as your attention begins to shift to your surrounding and your senses finally seem to return to the here and now; Bathing in the late summer sun, watching how the clouds slowly swim across the roof of your house, just like the day you'd walked up to it for the first time.

They had told you it wasn't much.

Little did they know that this new life is the closest you've ever come to a home. Sure, the circumstances couldn't be more wicked, but the little Victorian house that's got the clutter-stuffed flair of the Weasley's Burrow wrapped up in a cottagecore look, couldn't care less, and neither could you.

The house you've been given, stands tall, unwilling to yield to the force of time. Like a grandmother; ancient, slightly hunched-over and wrinkled with a lifetime of stories and defeated battles but still refusing to let go of life and become one with the dirt. You're convinced she has witnessed countless families come and go, you've seen how their weight dented the stairs and their children's youth is still carved into the door frames of your kitchen.

She has watched the seasons take over and get driven back again, like the relentless ebb and flow of the ocean, as the roots of nature keep wafting up against her walls, weathering the painted wood down and cracking its walls of white and honey dipped colours open.

But to you, every blemish only adds to her charming beauty.

You gladly exchanged the skyline of Los Angeles for the crowns of the forest, snaking along the border of vast fields of wildflowers, their colours spangling the golden wheat fields like the floral patterns on the wallpapers in your bedroom, and the lush green grass pulled up to your front porch like a fluffy blanket.

Instead of constantly watching your back for the shadows that follow you home, you can watch how daisies, large balls of lavender and bushes of those cute little pink flowerets jostle for the best sun spot.

It's a tad bit chilly by now – but the sun warms your exposed skin enough to keep the goosebumps at bay and to tingle the back of your neck like the gentle kiss of a bearded lover. When a twig from behind you, grazes the nape of your ne –

"Get to your fuckin' knees."

You freeze.

A shiver runs down your back at the intrusive voice scratching at the inside of your head and the feeling of a cool muzzle grazing the nape of your neck.

The taste of copper fills your mouth.

No.

No I will not. Fuck you, Jack. You wrangle him back into the hole he once again slipped free from.

Take a deep breath. Then let out a long exhale.

Slow. In... Out. That's it.

You shift your focus to your hands. Ignore the slight tremble…

No more cold unforgiving steel under your finger pads or crusty crimson clinging to your fingernails no matter how much you'd rub them with acetone. Your fingers now curl around the handle of a cute little basket like they always use in those Easter commercials to collect their eggs.

Now focus on your ears… your nose…

You can hear the distant clucking of your chickens, roaming freely around what's yours and what nature offers you with generous hands. The wind, rustling of leaves. Chirping of birds. Crows singing. The untamed flora and fauna fills your senses with the smell of the woods. The scent of spices like thyme, rosemary, basil and citrus hang over your garden, and whenever the wind is just right, a swift waft of floral rose hits your nose.

You let out a long exhale.

That's it… just keep going. Just keep going. I'm alive. I'm ali-

The distant friendly chattering of the crows suddenly turns loud and alarmed. Your head snaps up, scrambling to your feet simultaneously.

Moments later, sputtering and groaning cuts through the idyllic atmosphere as tires comb through the dirt road and pull a flag of dust behind them.

You watch a vehicle emerge from the forest.

Not the Marshal's.

It grows bigger and bigger and your hands on the basket unconsciously tighten more and more.

From one moment to the next, your spine has gone rigid. Your pulse is hammering in your ears. And your throat is closing up like an invisible rope has been draped over your head with the intention to lead you up to your porch and get you hanged by the braces of your own home.

You're snapped out of your petrified state as the sound of the car draws up to your front porch and the basket from your hands hits the ground.

If you weren't feeling the adrenaline rush right now, you'd probably be scared of how quickly your muscle memory kicked in.

You don't even remember when you'd grabbed the shotgun next to your front door, or when you'd thrown said door open, gun cocked and finger on the trigger, eyes zeroing in on the car and the person stepping out of it.

When your eyes lock, he smiles – until he notices the gun.

"Jesus – fuck – Hold on! Hold on!" the guy yells over the frame of his car's door where he dived down for cover.

You stop at the first step of your front porch and bark back. Voice tight, yet sharp.

"Who the hell are you? What do you want?"

After a beat, when no shot's being fired, he dares to perk his head out, both his hands coming up slowly in a placating gesture.

"I'm coming out – don't fuckin' shoot me, okay?" - he slowly steps out of his cover, a strand of his dark brown hair fallen into his face, his hands still raised, waving them slowly - "Not a threat, see? It's me. LAPD detective Mark Meachum, reme–"

"Stay back!" you cut him off. He pauses and when your elbow moves he instinctively ducks his head, palms facing your way again. Voice raising. "We know each other! I'm the guy who busted you out!"

The guy who…?

You freeze. Gun still trained on him. Finger hovering over the trigger.

Mark doesn't flinch. Just. Smiles. "Remember me, sunshine..?" And of course you do. That charming bastard with the green eyes.

Who'd not only saved your life, but somehow managed to get stuck in the back of your mind ever since.

"You – … Why – how do you know about my location?" you sputter.

"Mind takin' that out of my face first..?" Mark jerks his chin at you, hinting at the barrel that's still aimed at him.

Right. You lower the shotgun, then nod back at him. "You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"

"I'm here on chief Norman's order," your eyes widen and he quickly clarifies, "Don't worry, no one knows about it."

"It's good to see you're okay," he comments and the way the corner of his lips pull into a soft smile sparks the memory of when you'd met him for the first and last time.

He hasn't changed one bit. Except for that patch on his temple... I wonder who decked him.

His beard's still full and dark around his sharp jaws, hair swept back with a stray strand hanging into his face, toned chest hidden beneath his grey shirt and smooth black leather jacket lining his broad shoulders, his bow legs bouncing and tugging at his jeans in all the right ways with every step he takes towards you.

Mark stops at the lowest step, head tipped back to meet your eyes. He looks as charming as ever – until a crease forms between his eyebrows and he manages to crush every positive memory of his in just two seconds.

"The better question is, why the hell did you leave WitSec? Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

Maybe he's not as nice and as charming as I remember him.

"What?" you almost scoff at his offending tone.

"You heard me," and he just adds to your irritation when his tone grows more pointed, "You're aware that the guy who almost killed you and did god knows what to you, is walking free and tracking you down as we speak, right?"

You blink at him, confusion still written all over your face until your patience finally snaps and your hands begin to tighten around the handle of your shotgun.

"What's it to you?" you snap back, "I don't want your damn help," or your patronizing attitude.

Mark's expression darkens and he crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I wasn't asking." He scoffs.

"Neither am I," you retort, "I told them. I'm staying. End of story." He rolls his eyes at your words and you feel the sudden urge to add a patch to his other temple.

"Are you even listening? Chavez wants you dead – or worse for fucks sake!" he yells back, voice raised to make up for the height difference between you two right now.

You want to bite back but you find your voice stuck in the back of your throat at the mention of your old tormentor's name. It's enough to send a shiver up your spine. Stomach twisting into knots. Chest tight and aching.

With just the right words, he successfully managed to tip over the first domino of the walls you had so carefully built inside your mind to keep the anxiety and panic at bay.

Without realising it, you spin on your feet and find your legs carrying you away. Away from him. From his annoying tone. His infuriating attitude. His eyes which bore into you every time they lock with yours.

"Where the fuck do you think you're goin'?" he calls after you in annoyance and moments later you can hear his boots thump up the stairs, "Hey – hold on, don't be so goddamn stubborn – At least hear me out!"

You don't stop, neither do you turn to snap back at him. Mark stares at your back as you march across the porch and into your house where he stops in his tracks when you slam the door into his face.

Who does he think he is? Why the hell does he even care? I told them I was done. That I'll stay here. And I'm not letting anyone take this away from me and lock me up again.

Screw him. Screw WitSec. Screw all of 'em.

Mark now faces your door, stunned. He scoffs. Shakes his head and rakes his hair back with both of his hands before he barks after you once more.

"I'm not gonna leave! Just so you know!"

Your hands are shaking – your grip on the counter's vice-like, weight braced against it, forehead pressed against the cupboard next to the pans hanging from their metal hooks, as you force the air down to your lungs.

I'm okay. Everything's okay. I'm fine – I'm –

"Fuck!" you curse out loud.

But your voice cracks. Like somebody had just choked you and your cords are still strangled and the air's still thin. Getting thinner.

"Now get a grip of yourself," you scold yourself and it does nothing to smoothen the tremors in every breath you take and to the way your muscles are coiled up like a spring.

Their voices lick at the back of your mind. Again.

Their threats ring in your ears. Graze the back of your skull with cold steel and wrap their long fingers around your throat. Pressuring. Speeding up your heart and cutting off your airway.

"Should've listened to them, doll." "You know what we do with cops like you, hmm?" "We'll take our time and-"

Shut up.

Ignore it.

You try your best to block out the fear that's clawing its way up your spine. The flashes of memories that cross your inner eyes.

Just ignore it.

Your chest starts to feel constricted, left side stinging like a blade's twisting your heart whenever your lungs try and fail to expand.

You can feel your control slipping. Fast. Too fast.

The beats of your heart hammer in your ears, your breath now ragged as the world begins to spin and your vision grows blurry, unfocused. Black.

When your eyes snap open, dazed and confused, first thing you feel is the soft bedding of your cushions against your back. The shelf hoarding books sits across from you, the heavy curtain with its floral patterns brushes your shoulder and some dust particles swirl through the god rays that shine through the window you're leaned against.

Your eyes drift off, follow the rows of books about random household skills like cooking, sewing, gardening and whatever your predecessors had left you here and you liked to thumb through in the afternoons with a nice cup of black tea with milk and a plate of freshly baked cinnamon rolls while getting cozy in the corner of your very own reading nook.

You loved this spot, but.

This is definitely not where I was last.

Your focus is drawn to the adjacent hallway when you hear steps coming up the wooden stairs, each of them groaning and creaking in protest, closely followed by a gruff voice.

"Hey there. You feelin' okay?"

You. You hiss internally, jaw clenching subtly.

Mark rounds the railing of the stairs and walks up to you where he sets down two mugs onto the tiny round coffee table and slides into the single chair next to it, keeping a respectable distance to you, but still close enough to reach for your arms if he felt need.

"You okay?" Mark asks again.

"What…" you groan, mind still spinning. You rub your head, feeling a small bump there that has you stifle a hiss.

Damnit, I must've blacked out.

"I... I'm fine, yeah…" you mumble under your breath, eyes averting his and trying your best to ignore the way they've taken on a vibrant sage green, matching the paint of the inside of your nook, and the way his hair's dark in the shadow but oh so soft with a shimmer of chocolate brown in the streak of light casted across his face.

You try very hard to not notice any of that.

But the way Mark's eyes are on you this entire time isn't helping either.

"Must've been the low blood pressure, that's all," you add the blatant lie, eyes still anywhere else but meeting his.

Can't he laser-eye something else?? I'm not a paper target on a shooting range!

Mark's eyebrows raise and he leans to the side to capture your wandering gaze. Damnit.

"Blood pressure, huh?" he probes, "That happen often?"

You persistently ignore the faint tingling in your stomach when your eyes lock.

"Yeah, on occasion." You shrug it off.

There's a moment of awkward silence. The air feels like it's going to shift any moment between you two, although you're not sure what direction.

Neither whether you want to find out. So you make sure it goes out the damn window where it belongs.

"Well, now that you've seen that I'm fine, you're welcome to get lost."

He cocks his head, then chuckles lightly. "Yeah, that's not gonna happen, sunny."

Excuse me? You blink at him for a moment.

"This is trespassing," you comment pointedly.

For a split second, his lips twitch into a smug smirk.

Is he enjoying this entire situation?

"Denial of assistance," he counters with a half-hearted shrug. "Had to make sure you didn’t get sniped on my watch." He reaches over to the coffee table next to you and grabs one of the hot mugs and then pushes it into your hands. You look down at your favourite mug with its cute cat paw prints and flower petals on it, surprised and frankly a bit befuddled.

"Felt weird to carry a lady to her bedroom without offering her a drink first," he quips with a flirtatious smile and then gestures with his chin at the pillow nest you've ensconced yourself in, "Plus, this funny granny closet looked much more cozy."

"It's a reading nook!" You correct him and aim to playfully kick him in the shin but he's faster.

Mark grabs you by the ankle and holds your leg back down to the cushions with such speed and smooth precision that you have no doubt that, despite your training, he could disarm and pin you down in a flash if things ever got heated.

Your heart skips a beat at the unexpected contact.

You'd expect the reason to be panic. Muscles tense and ready for the fight-or-flight instincts to kick in. But what happens instead throws you off entirely.

Something inside you is burning up as you feel the warmth of his hand on your bare skin, calloused finger pads rubbing against the inside of your ankle as his large palm wraps around it and fits perfectly there like a grounding weight, and something more which sends a shiver right to your – whoa okay hold your damn horses, woman. It's just a hand for Pete's sake.

When your eyes meet, Mark's voice suddenly drops a notch. Eyebrows pulled low. Voice edgy.

"You want me to detain you for assault on a LAPD detective, young lady?" You swallow. Mind gone on a fritz.

A teensy-weensy voice somewhere inside you pipes up "Hell-fucking-yeah" – but it never makes it to your conscious mind which thankfully is out of order right now.

After a beat, his serious face cracks and the familiar amusement and mischief is twinkling in his green eyes again as he leans in, teasing in a charming tone.

"Just fuckin' with ya."

Mark pats your leg once before he pulls his hand back to his knee.

All casual and smug.

Like he's done this a million times before, to every woman colleague, or newbie, or pretty front desk secretary... or helplessly lonely ex detective who'd willingly exchanged bullets for stainless steel tea infusers.

Wow… Ass.

Mark doesn't miss a single cue.

His intense eyes watch you closely before he slowly leans back into his chair, arms crossing in front of his chest. The corner of his lips suddenly pulled into a frown.

"Quitting the program was a really dumb move." Your jaw clenches at his lecturing tone while he continues with a "But-" which you cut short right there.

"I don't care what you all think, I said I won't –" This time he interrupts you. His voice raised enough to make you suck in a sharp breath.

"Just– " Mark rubs his temple with a frustrated groan "– let me finish my damn point, yeah?"

Your hands tighten around your mug, eyes dropped to the steam that's still wafting up into your face to avert his stern look. Its warm smell of cinnamon spices caresses your nose and you inhale it deeply while you close your eyes for a moment, allowing the scent to ground you.

"Fine," you mumble. Not really convincing, but he takes what he gets.

"But. I'm not here to drag you away," he watches how your head perks up at his words and his voice softens in response, "Look – I'm not gonna sugar-coat it. Things aren't looking very peachy. We lost eyes on Walker and we have no idea what he's up to, but it goes without saying that he's gunning for you until you've made that statement of yours. And–" Mark taps the coffee table once to get your attention, "that's the only reason why I'm here."

Your eyes drift back down to the tea between your fingers. Blinking at it as you take in his words.

"So…" you begin in a more neutral voice, "You've been assigned to be my bodyguard, is that it?"

Mark nods, then flashes a lopsided smirk in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Minus the love story."

You don't laugh.

Is this whole thing a fucking joke to him?

"Do I have a saying in this?" you ask, tone flat. Mark huffs through his nose and rakes his hair back.

"Nope." He tips his head to the side to meet your eyes again.

"Great," you scoff softly, your fingers tighten around the mug to the degree you can feel the stinging heat bite at your skin. "So I've got a watch dog latched to my ankle for the next three weeks."

With a sardonic smile, Mark rubs his forehead, causing your molars to grind together.

"Guess you better get used to me. I can be fun, though, promise."

J / Note: Pheew, I hope this wasn't all too bad for my first chapter. The setup took more words than anticipated, but from now on we'll focus on those two. 🤭

Please let me know what you think and whether you're interested in more, I appreciate all of your support so much! 🧡

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