#jensenackleseffect

Author’s Note:

Hi loves 💕 This is a one-shot featuring Mark Meachum (from Countdown). I’ve been itching to write something raw, emotional, and messy with him, and this poured straight out of me. Expect angst, heartbreak, unresolved tension, and a hell of a lot of feelings. This piece is told through my OC’s POV—she’s a profiler-turned-teacher dragged back into the field, and guess who she runs into again? 👀 Yeah… you already know it’s going to hurt. Now we also have Mark's POV 🐞🤭

Warnings: (18+)

Anything else let me know.... If you wanna be tagged let me know...

Remember: this is my work, it's truly based on fiction, so please don't take my work. Thank you. 🤭

He left her standing there, hurting, while he escaped like a coward into the office, searching for evidence that wasn’t even his priority.

@jacklesversebingo @winchesterwild78 @angelbabyyy99

But the truth? He hadn’t broken up with her because she was too clingy, or too sensitive. If anything, those were the pieces of her he loved most—the parts that made her human, soft, real. Hell, he still loved them. He still loved her.

But with everything going on, with the darkness breathing down his neck, he couldn’t give her forever. He couldn’t risk it.

He stared down at the papers scattered across the desk—sketches of bombs, maps of high-value targets. His vision blurred, the lines bleeding together as heat pricked his eyes. The pounding in his skull grew louder, heavier, reminding him of his own mortality.

Mmmm🤭😋... Not really sure, which I want more, the cake or the one holding it? 😋🤣 Which do you choose frendies? 🐞🩷

Warnings: This might be triggering for someone who've lost someone due to depression, or has been feeling in the dark lately - please know, there's always help out there, there's someone who cares. and if you can't seem to think of anyone, feel free to message me. I love ya okay! With that being said, enjoy this chapter, and thanks for reading, if it made you feel something, feel free to comment and like. But please don't copy my work. love y'all so much. xxx <3

Since that moment in the hospital with Nathan, I haven’t stopped running.

Not physically—no, I mean the kind of running you do from yourself.

I threw myself into work, let the chaos fill the cracks, anything to stop the noise in my head. I haven’t seen him since that night. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still feel the press of his lips… the weight of what I shouldn’t have wanted.

When I can’t sleep—and lately, that’s most nights—I run. Or I hit the gym until my body’s too sore to think. Because everything feels too loud, too close, too damn much. And I feel nothing.

It’s all of it—Tom, Mark, Nathan, this cursed case, the nightmares that claw through my sleep.

But if you looked at me, you’d never know. I still smile in all the right places. Still laugh like the woman I was before life got ugly. Before the fear became a part of me.

No one knows how many times I’ve—

“Hey, you with us?” Mark’s voice cut through the fog. Of course it was him.

I blinked, focusing on his face, on Oliveras next to him. “Yeah,” I lied softly. “Just tired.”

He tilted his head. “We’re checking out that lead, remember?”

“Right. Sure,” I said, forcing a smile and trailing after them like some damn lost puppy.

The car ride was full of their usual bickering—Mark teasing, Oliveras snapping back—but it all faded into white noise. My mind was somewhere else, my fingertips tracing the faint scar along my neck.

The one Tom left.

Sometimes I still feel the cold blade against my skin, the weight of his breath in my ear.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t fought back. Wish I’d just… let it happen.

At least then, maybe I’d finally be done running.

We came to a stop, and my body moved like it wasn’t even mine anymore. On autopilot.

Strangely, I was grateful for it—because as long as I kept moving, it looked like I was fine.

Damn, I hate that word. Fine.

After about an hour, the so-called lead turned into a dead end. Figures. While Mark and Oliveras argued over next steps, I wandered off, letting my feet choose for me. The warehouse was hollow and cold, just like I felt inside. Somehow, I ended up on the roof, looking down.

Gravity had this way of calling to me—softly, almost kindly. And for a split second, the thought crept in. The dark one.

No one ever tells you this part about surviving trauma. They patch you up, clear you to leave, and tell you you’re lucky. But they don’t tell you that when you check out of the hospital… sometimes, you’ve already checked out on living.

My phone buzzed, cutting through the fog. I took a step back, feet finding solid ground again.

“Yeah?” I answered, voice flat.

“Where the hell are you?” Mark’s tone was gruff.

“Coming. Thought I saw something—sorry.”

“Move your ass.”

I rolled my eyes. “Keep your whiskers in check, damn it,” I muttered under my breath, hanging up.

And just like that, I went back down—back to pretending. Slipped into the SUV without a word, like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t almost leaned too far over the edge.

We walked into the office, and there he was — Nathan.

Back already. Too soon, if you ask me.

Funny, huh? I care about everyone else but can’t seem to give a damn about myself.

The team swarmed him, clapping his back, cracking jokes like he hadn’t almost died a few days ago. When it was my turn, I held out my hand, all business.

“Welcome back, sir.”

My voice came out too professional, too polished — like I’d rehearsed it.

He took my hand, mumbled a thank you. The smile on his lips didn’t match his eyes.

Those eyes looked… hurt.

And of course they did.

Because of me.

But I can’t. I can’t let him in. I can’t let him see the mess I am underneath the badge and the brave face. How could I let him feel something for me — me — when I don’t even know what I am anymore?

I sank into my chair, eyes fixed on the evidence board, though I didn’t see a damn thing. Just a blur of photos and red string and exhaustion.

I know it’s getting worse.

Damn, I’m a trained clinical psychologist — I know.

But how do you treat yourself, huh? Someone tell me.

Because I don’t know.

Hours bled together. Everyone around me moved like ghosts, talking, laughing, pretending.

I interacted when I had to.

Smiled when expected.

Hell, I should get an Oscar.

Nathan wrapped up the day with, “Tomorrow’s another day. Get some rest.”

And just like that, I was gone.

First one out the door — because facing him? Yeah, not happening. Call it cowardice if you want. I call it survival.

I grabbed my gym bag and disappeared.

The punching bag didn’t stand a chance.

Every swing landed harder, faster — like I could beat back the noise in my head if I just hit hard enough. But the truth? The damn thing wasn’t my enemy. My problems were — and they were winning.

Sweat stung my eyes. My knuckles were raw, split, bleeding. I kept going anyway, until suddenly a pair of strong arms wrapped around me from behind.

I screamed, fought, kicked.

Then—

“Would you stop fighting?”

Nathan.

Damn, that was loaded in all the wrong ways.

“Leave me the hell alone,” I spat, still thrashing. But he didn’t let go. His voice dropped low, gentle.

“Please… please listen to me. You’re destroying yourself.”

That stopped me cold.

“What?”

He turned me around in one swift movement, his blue eyes burning straight through me.

“You think I don’t see what’s happening to you?”

I looked away, staring at the gym floor, because anywhere was better than his eyes. But he lifted my chin with one finger, brushed the sweaty hair from my face with the other.

“It literally hurts to see you like this,” he said, voice rough. “If you’d just talk to me — to someone.”

My lip trembled. Damn it.

“I… I don’t know where to start. How to start.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes softening. “Take my hand. We’ll take baby steps, okay? Please.”

Tears blurred my vision.

“Nathan… please. We—we can’t.”

He shook his head. “This isn’t about us. Or what happened in the hospital. This is about you.”

Barely a whisper: “I don’t know what to do next.”

He extended his hand.

I stared at it.

Then placed mine in his.

I was too tired to resist.The ride to his place was quiet. He didn’t say much — just that I could shower, crash in the spare room.

But his tone said everything:

I can’t let you be alone tonight.