#overworked prosecutor

For one terrible second, the world stopped. Mark looked down in disbelief, and the paralegal beside him made a sound of pure despair.

You clutched your notebook to your chest like it might shield you from prosecution, and the devastating reality of his stare.

“Oh, my god. I am so, sorry.”

When Mark Callan looked back up at you, it was determined that he was the kind of handsome that seemed almost unfair.

Sharp cheekbones, tired eyes, and a mouth that looked like it never smiled without good reason. His hair was neat, his tie was straight, and his expression was the kind you’d expect in court right before something life-altering happened. 

For a ridiculous moment, you forgot how to breathe. Up close, Mark was both intimidating and enticing.

You, on the other hand, wore a sweater with ink-stained cuffs and had, on more than one occasion, committed a caffeine-based felony.

“This is the People’s case file.” he said calmly

You winced. “I can see that.”

“It is no longer legible.”

“I can also see that.”

His gaze dropped to the spreading coffee stain. “…and now it smells like hazelnut.”

“That part might be my fault.”

“Really?” he asked. “I was about to blame the defendant.”

You blinked, then, because you were nervous and apparently possessed absolutely no survival instincts, you laughed—a small, terrified sound that slipped out before you could stop it.

Mark didn’t laugh, but something shifted in his eyes, something that wasn’t quite warmth but came dangerously close, like the smallest crack of light beneath a door he usually kept locked.

“I’ll fix it,” you blurted. “I’m a scribe—well, I’m interning with records, but I type fast. I can redo everything. I’ll stay late. I can—”

“You can start by not touching anything else.”

Your hand froze midair, and God help you, because Mark Callan had looked at you like you were going to be his newly appointed, biggest problem.

Mark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What’s your name?”

You told him it. He repeated it once, as if he were filing it away under future liability.

When he left, coffee dripping from the edge of his file folder onto the courthouse floor, leaving a path for you to follow as he walked down the hall.

You should have felt relieved. Instead, your stupid heart gave one hard, humiliating kick from inside your chest.

—𝜗𝜚—

The courthouse had its own soundtrack: ringing phones, shoes striking marble, muted arguments leaking beneath office doors, and the steady hum of overworked officials trying to hold the justice system together with nothing but caffeine and spite.

You’d only been there exactly twelve days, and somehow, in less than two weeks, you had already earned a reputation.

It wasn’t terrible, but it was enough that when you entered the records office Monday morning carrying three folders and a blueberry muffin, someone immediately looked up and said, “Careful, Callan’s in the building.”

You groaned. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Rita said from behind a stack of deposition transcripts. “You’re too sweet. Honestly, it’s irritating.”

You dropped your purse into the chair with a dramatic sigh. “He still hates me.”

Rita snorted. “Deputy District Attorney Mark Callan hates everyone.”

“That is not comforting.” You left your coffee and phone on your desk as you shrugged off your coat.

“That’s because you’re young enough to still want comforting.” She turned back to her laptop and placed her glasses back on her face, getting back to whatever Brenner had asked from her.

“You sound like a woman who’s seen things.” You said, and began unwrapping your muffin.

“I’ve worked in this building twenty-two years,” Rita replied. “I have seen things. Including Callan making a defense attorney cry in open court.”

You paused before getting up. “Seriously?”

“She deserved it.”

You appreciated her honesty.

“That’s… weirdly reassuring.” She shrugged, “He’s good at his job,” she said simply. “Too good, honestly. Men like him are pretty much robots, surviving on legal pads and self-loathing.”

You tried not to think about that for too long, but unfortunately, your brain betrayed you immediately, because now you were imagining Mark late at night in his office, sleeves rolled up, jaw shadowed with exhaustion, rubbing tired eyes over stacks of files beneath dim lamplight.

You didn’t even like him, not really. You liked the idea of him; there was a difference. A tragic one, admittedly, but still a difference.

“Earth to disaster girl.” You turned around and blinked. “What?”

Rita grinned knowingly. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“What thing?” You asked.

“The staring-into-space-like-you’re-in-a-period-drama thing.”

“I do not do that.”

“You absolutely do.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself and, with devastating timing, walked your muffin directly into the edge of the filing cabinet.

It launched from your hand, and Rita screamed, but you screamed louder.

Blueberry filling exploded across the floor just as someone stepped around the corner. Polished black shoes, stopping mere inches from the scene of complete pastry destruction.

Silence fell.

Slowly, your eyes traveled upward—dark slacks, an expensive-looking belt, strong hands holding a trial binder—and finally landed on Mark Callan himself, staring down at the murdered muffin between you with disbelief. He had expected many different types of disasters that could happen this morning, but somehow, not this.

“…Again?” he asked.

You wanted the ground to open beneath you. “Okay,” you said weakly, “in my defense—”

“I’m fascinated to hear this.” He raised his eyebrows at you.

“I forgot the cabinet existed.”

“The cabinet has not moved.”

“That feels unnecessarily judgmental.”

Rita had physically turned away so he wouldn’t see her laughing—Traitor.

Mark crouched before you could stop him, picking up the surviving half of the muffin with a napkin from his pocket. His motions were surprisingly careful. Mark’s hands were large, veined, precise; everything about him seemed controlled. Even annoyed, he never wasted energy.

“Here,” he said, standing again and handing you the least destroyed half.

You blinked up at him. “You salvaged it?”

“It seemed important to you.”

“It was blueberry.”

“That explains the emotional attachment.”

Your lips twitched before you could stop them, and for the first time, Mark almost smiled.

It was tiny, gone in less than a second, but it changed his entire face. It made him look younger somehow, less severe, and less like a man permanently braced for impact.

You turned away first. Big mistake, because as soon as you moved, your elbow clipped the stack of folders on your desk, and paper exploded everywhere.

“Oh my God.”

Mark closed his eyes as Rita fully burst into laughter.

You dropped to the floor in horror, scrambling to gather loose witness statements before they slid under desks. “I’m quitting,” you muttered. “Actually, I’m fleeing the country.”

A page drifted past Mark’s shoe; he bent automatically to help.

“You don’t have to—”

“You’ll only make it worse.”

“That is so rude.”

“It’s also statistically likely.”

You glared up at him from the floor. He looked back down at you, and suddenly the space between you thickened.

Your knees pressed against cold tile as you fell to your knees to gather the half of them.

His hand brushed yours as he reached for the same page. It was warm, just barely, but still enough to send heat racing embarrassingly fast up your arm.

Heat crawled up your neck before you could stop it. It was ridiculous, humiliating even, how one accidental touch could undo you so quickly, but your body reacted before your pride could catch up.

Your pulse jumped hard beneath your skin, and suddenly the courthouse felt too quiet, too small, too aware of the two of you crouched there on the floor together.

Mark stilled, his eyes lifted to yours. They were dark brown, tired, and intense in a way that made you feel seen right through.

For one awful, suspended second, neither of you moved. Then someone shouted for “CALLAN!" from the hallway.

Mark stood first, expression locking back into place like a door slamming shut. He handed you the papers without another word and stood up. He walked away, leaving you with the lingering warmth of his fingers and the sudden ache of his absence.

You stayed kneeling on the floor long after he disappeared down the hall, and Rita slowly leaned over her desk. “…Well,” she said.

You stared blankly ahead. “I think I just died.”

A smile broke out across her face. “Yeah,” Rita replied. “That’s usually how it starts.”

—𝜗𝜚—

By Wednesday, you had developed a system.

Rule one: avoid carrying beverages near Mark Callan.

Rule two: avoid carrying food near Mark Callan.

Rule three: avoid carrying literally anything near Mark Callan; Sadly, this left very few options for functioning as a human being.

As it turned out, the courthouse required carrying things constantly; files, boxes, coffee, evidence binders, and your rapidly deteriorating sense of stability, and for some reason, Mark was always there to witness the worst moments.

You were beginning to suspect he appeared only when your dignity was in danger.

And, right on cue, the evidence presented itself.

“Why…” Mark Callan said slowly, “…are you on a ladder?”

You froze halfway up the records room ladder, balancing a storage box against your hip, and looked down to find him standing below you with the exact expression a man might wear upon discovering a raccoon in his office.

“I work here,” you answered carefully.

“That doesn’t explain why you’re climbing unstable office equipment.”

Your jaw dropped. “It is not unstable.”

The ladder wobbled violently; you tightened your grip instantly, and Mark closed his eyes for one long suffering second.

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“I’m fine.” You said, though the breathless little laugh that followed didn’t make you sound very convincing.

“You are visibly not fine.” He added.

“I do this all the time,” you reasured, but the words came out too soft, like you were comforting yourself more than him.

“You shouldn’t admit that out loud.”

You scowled down at him. “You’re weirdly bossy for someone who isn’t my supervisor.”

“And you’re weirdly committed to workplace injuries.”

Your soul left your body as the box slipped, but Mark moved faster than your brain could process.  One minute, the files were falling. The next, he caught the box against his chest with a sharp grunt while his hand shot out toward you, and before you could even process the danger of nearly falling, his palm closed around your ankle, firm and warm even through your tights, stealing the breath straight from your lungs.

The room went dead silent as you looked at each other, both of you frozen in sudden, dramatic stillness, neither one of you moving.

“Oh,” you said faintly. His hand loosened immediately, like he’d realized what he was doing.

“You were about to fall.” Something flickered across his face. It was not embarrassment, but something worse, awareness.

“I was.” Your thoughts jumbled wildly, heart thundering in your chest, skin prickling everywhere his hand had touched.

“You still might.” The air between you felt different now, stretched tight and trembling, as if every molecule in the room was waiting to see what would happen next. 

“It’s possible.” You suddenly felt exposed, like he'd pulled back every layer of defense.

“You should come down.” A flush crept higher on your cheeks as you struggled to keep yourself steady, heat washing over you in a dizzying wave. In that moment, you could almost sense his pulse matching yours. 

“You’re very close to my leg right now.” The silence felt thick, hushed, and you were certain Mark could see the commotion behind your eyes.

His gaze tethered you, sharp and questioning. You wondered if he felt it too—the silent, undeniable pull just beneath the surface.

Mark broke first. “Get off the ladder.”

You climbed down with all the grace of a newborn deer, which was to say, none at all, and the second your shoes touched the floor, one heel caught awkwardly against the tile.

Mark caught your elbow before gravity could finish humiliating you again, and for a breath, all you could do was stare at him while he stared back with the exhausted expression of a man slowly losing a battle inside himself.

“This cannot keep happening,” he muttered.

“Don’t think I’m doing it on purpose.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

You shouldn’t have noticed how close he was. You definitely shouldn’t have noticed how good he smelled: clean soap, coffee, and a hint of expensive cologne under all that courthouse fatigue. Most of all, you shouldn’t have noticed his hand still on your arm.

Unfortunately, your brain had become deeply unhelpful lately.

His fingers flexed once before he let go.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Mark nodded once. Then his gaze dropped to your face properly for the first time all morning. He was not distracted, not irritated, just... looking.

Your stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation.

There was something risky about being watched by someone who spent his life noticing people’s weaknesses. Mark Callan seemed to catch everything: your nervous habits, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, how you pressed your lips together to hide a smile, and probably even your racing heart. 

His gaze lingered briefly —his jaw flexed, and you caught the quick rise and fall of his chest before he refocused, looking almost as if he was fighting to contain his own expression.

It made you wonder, wildly and against your better judgment, if maybe you weren’t the only one struggling to keep your feelings at bay.

You suddenly became very aware of your heartbeat, your breathing, and his eyes that had not yet left yours.

“You missed a spot,” he said quietly.

Your brain short-circuited. “…What?”

He lifted one hand slowly toward your face, and you stopped breathing entirely. His thumb brushed softly beneath your lower lip, wiping away a tiny streak of blueberry jam from breakfast.

A rush of heat went through you so quickly it was embarrassing. Mark looked at the smear on his thumb, then at you, and suddenly the air between you felt too thick to breathe.

The records room door slammed open.

“You still alive in here—” Rita stopped dead.

You jerked backward so fast you nearly hit the filing cabinet.

Mark stepped away immediately, expression snapping back into professional neutrality with terrifying speed.

Rita’s eyes moved between both of you, then downward, then upward again.

“Oh,” she said.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

Mark picked up the box of files as if absolutely nothing had happened.

“Your intern needs safer hobbies,” he told Rita.

Then he walked out, leaving you standing there red-faced and internally combusting.

Rita waited exactly three seconds before shrieking.

You buried your face in your hands. “Don’t.”

“He touched your face.”

“It was jam.”

“He touched your face because of jam.”

“I’m quitting.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m moving to another state.”

Rita leaned against the desk, grinning like a delighted menace. “Honey, that man hasn’t flirted with anyone in this building in three years.”

Your hands slowly lowered.

“…What?”

“Oh yeah,” Rita said casually. “Ice king routine. Doesn’t date. Barely sleeps. Eats vending machine pretzels like a divorced father of two.”

For some reason, that made your chest ache.

“Why?”

Rita’s smile faded slightly. “Work mostly. He had a fiancée once, years ago. Didn’t end well.”

Something uncomfortable twisted low in your stomach.

You hated how quickly curiosity bloomed, hated it even more because beneath it was something softer, something far more dangerous.

Before you could ask another question, Rita pointed toward the doorway dramatically.

“Also,” she added, “he absolutely likes you.”

You made a strangled sound.

“He does not.”

“He touched your mouth.”

“There was jam!”

“Men don’t touch women like that because of jam.”

Your face burned hotter, and though you wanted to argue, wanted desperately to deny it, your stupid heart had already started doing something far more terrifying: hoping.

—𝜗𝜚—

You spent the next two days avoiding Mark Callan with the tactical precision of a fugitive, which would have been easier if the courthouse itself had not apparently decided the two of you were part of some deeply unfunny cosmic experiment.

Every hallway led to him, every elevator opened to him, and every innocent coffee run somehow ended with Mark standing six feet away, looking tired and devastatingly handsome while your nervous system collapsed like wet cardboard.

It was ruining your life, and worse, Rita had noticed.

“You’re spiraling,” She informed you Thursday morning.

“I am not spiraling.”

“You alphabetized sticky notes yesterday.”

“That was organizational.”

“You labeled your lunch.”

“It got stolen last week.”

“You wrote ‘Property of a woman on the edge.’”

You looked down at your yogurt. “That was emotionally honest.”

Rita snorted into her coffee.

You tried focusing on your transcription work instead.

Unfortunately, your mind was no help.

Every sentence turned into thoughts about Mark: the way his voice dropped lower when irritated, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the rare moments where amusement slipped through before he buried it again, and the way he’d touched your face, almost like it surprised him too.

Which was ridiculous; you were reading too much into it. Men like Mark Callan did not look twice at women like you. He was composed, intelligent, and brutally competent. You once tripped over absolutely nothing while carrying soup.

These were different species of people.

“Hey.”

You looked up too fast. Mark stood in the doorway of records holding a legal folder, and your stomach jumped.

“Hi.” Very smooth, very normal, definitely not the voice of someone seconds away from cardiac arrest.

“I need the McAllister deposition transcripts.”

“Oh. Right. Yes.”

You stood up too quickly, your chair rolled backward, directly over the hem of your cardigan.

The cardigan yanked tight against your throat as the chair wheels locked, and you made a horrible choking noise.

Mark stared.

Rita physically had to turn away.

You untangled yourself, trying to act like this sort of thing happened to everyone.

“Here,” you squeaked, grabbing the wrong folder entirely and shoving it toward him.

Mark glanced down. “…This is a cafeteria inventory report.”

You closed your eyes. “Perfect,” You muttered. “Great. Love that for me.”

For one terrible second, silence hung between you. Then a sound escaped him, it was small, rough, and almost disbelieving.

Your eyes snapped upward. Mark had turned slightly away, one hand covering his mouth. His shoulders moved once.

“…Are you laughing at me?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You literally are.”

His composure cracked completely.

It wasn’t a big laugh, Mark didn’t seem like the type, but it was real, low, helpless, and startlingly warm.

And God, it changed him; the tension in his face eased, his eyes softened a little and for a second, he looked less like the intimidating deputy district attorney and more like someone who hadn’t let himself relax in a long time.

Your own breath caught, and suddenly, you understood something dangerous.

Mark Callan was beautiful when he smiled, absolutely breathtaking. The realization hit you so hard you forgot how to function.

Mark recovered first, clearing his throat and straightening again, but the damage was done. You had already seen it now and realized you never stood a chance.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” You accused weakly.

“You handed me lunch inventory.”

“I’m under pressure.”

“We’re standing in records.”

“You’re very intimidating.”

That flicker of amusement returned briefly. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“You spilled coffee on me the first day we met.”

“That was an accident.”

“You nearly concussed yourself with a filing cabinet yesterday.”

“That was also an accident.”

“And you climbed unstable scaffolding.”

“It was temporarily unstable.”

Mark looked at you for a long moment. Then he shook his head once, like you exhausted him in some fundamental way.

“I’ll come back later for the transcripts.”

“No, wait— I can get them.”

“You seem one minor inconvenience away from a full systems failure.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“You’re holding the yogurt upside down.”

You looked down as blueberry yogurt slowly dripped onto your shoe.

“Oh, come on.”

Mark laughed again—actually laughed this time, quiet but unmistakable—and before you could stop yourself, you laughed too.

The sound seemed to startle both of you.

Something shifted in the room after that, softening at the edges, as if the space between you had become a little less careful and a little more familiar.

Then Mark looked at you again with that dangerous, steady focus, and just like that, the air changed.

Your laughter faded first, but his eyes stayed on yours a second too long, long enough for your pulse to stumble and the courthouse noise outside to feel suddenly, impossibly far away.

“You know,” he said quietly, “most people are nervous around prosecutors because we can ruin their lives.”

You swallowed hard. “And me?”

His gaze dropped briefly to the yogurt dripping sadly onto your shoe, then returned to your face.

“You look at me like you’re trying to outlast it.”

The words landed directly in your chest. Hard, because the worst part was that he wasn’t wrong. Before you could answer, a sharp voice cut through the hallway outside.

“CALLAN!”

Mark looked away first, jaw tightening slightly like he’d been pulled back into himself.

Assistant District Attorney Evelyn Price appeared around the corner with a case binder tucked against her chest. She stopped the second she saw you, her gaze flicking from your face to Mark’s, then back again.

Something in her expression shifted almost too subtly to catch, but neither surprise or recognition.

“Oh,” she said slowly.

Mark’s entire demeanor cooled by several degrees.

“I’m coming,” He told her.

Evelyn’s eyes lingered on you a second longer than necessary before she turned away.

Something uncomfortable twisted in your stomach when Mark glanced back at you once before leaving. He was not cold, not distant, just unreadable.

You watched him disappear down the hall beside Evelyn Price, both of them talking quietly about trial prep and witness scheduling. Professional, Effortless, like they belonged in the same world.

Rita appeared beside you silently.

“…You okay?”

You stared down at the yogurt on your shoe, which somehow felt less embarrassing than the ache blooming unexpectedly behind your ribs.

“Who’s Evelyn Price?”

Rita grimaced instantly.

“Oh boy.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you should maybe not overthink it.” Rita said carefully

“I’m absolutely going to overthink it.”

“Yeah, that tracks.” She sighed.

She was beautiful.

Of course, she was.

She was tall, elegant, composed—the sort who never tripped over cords or stapled her sleeves to a documents.

Meanwhile, you were still haunted by the memory of walking into a glass door last month—an embarrassment that made your cheeks burn every time it resurfaced.

“You’re staring,” Rita warned under her breath.

“I’m observing.”

“You look like a Victorian woman dying of tuberculosis.”

You tore your gaze away. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Unfortunately, Rita was right.

You were staring because Evelyn was laughing softly at something Mark had said, and he was smiling—a real smile, not the tiny, almost-smiles you usually got, but something relaxed and comfortable, as if it happened often.

Something sharp twisted unexpectedly beneath your ribs, jealousy and disappointment flaring up, and you hated how quickly it hurt.

‘Maybe they’re dating,’ your brain whispered unhelpfully.

You tried focusing on work instead.

Keyword: tried.

Unfortunately, your emotional stability was already hanging by a thread, which meant the universe naturally chose that exact moment to make it worse.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You looked up automatically and immediately regretted it.

Brandon Pike from clerical support stood at the counter, grinning at you.

Brandon was handsome in a loud way. Too much cologne, too-wide of a smile, the confidence of someone never humbled.

He flirted with literally everyone, usually harmlessly.

Today, however, after everything, you suddenly found him exhausting, your patience worn thin by your own swirling feelings.

“What do you need, Brandon?”

“Ouch,” he said dramatically. “No good morning?”

“It’s nine-thirteen.”

“Still counts.”

He leaned casually against the counter. “You doing anything tonight?”

Rita made a noise suspiciously close to a snicker.

You narrowed your eyes at her before looking back at Brandon. “Probably reorganizing my life after repeated public humiliation.”

“So dinner’s a maybe?”

“Dinner’s a no.”

“You wound me.”

“You’ll recover.”

Brandon grinned wider. “C’mon. One date.”

Before you could answer, a voice cut cleanly through the room.

“Pretty sure she already said no.”

Every nerve ending in your body recognized Mark instantly.

The entire records office went quiet.

Brandon straightened slightly. “Relax, counselor. We’re talking.”

Mark approached slowly, case file tucked beneath one arm. His expression was calm, too calm, which somehow felt worse.

“She answered you,” Mark said evenly. “That should’ve ended the conversation.”

Heat flooded your face, as a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude battled inside you as everyone watched.

Brandon laughed awkwardly. “Jesus. Didn’t realize she had a bodyguard.”

Mark’s eyes didn’t leave him.

“She doesn’t.”

The silence afterward felt dangerous, not dramatic, just sharp enough to cut.

Brandon cleared his throat first. “Right. Okay.”

Then, apparently deciding self-preservation mattered, he backed away down the hall.

As soon as he disappeared, everyone in records became very invested in their paperwork. 

Cowards.

You looked up at Mark, who was already looking down at you. Suddenly, your heartbeat became a real problem—nervousness and anticipation rippling through you.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said softly.

“Yes,” he replied, without hesitation. “I did.”

The certainty in his voice startled you, a flutter of relief and hope catching you off guard.

Something vulnerable flickered across your face before you could hide it, and you were sure Mark had noticed it.

“You looked uncomfortable,” he added, quieter now.

“I could’ve handled it.”

“I know.”

The words should not have affected you as much as they did. He wasn’t dismissing or belittling you, he was simply saying he hadn’t liked seeing you cornered—and somehow, that was worse, much worse.

Your chest felt painfully tight all of a sudden, anxiety and longing mixing until you could barely breathe.

“Thank you,” you said after a moment.

Mark nodded once, but he still hadn’t moved away, and neither had you.

The room suddenly felt too small, too warm.

His tie was loosened, and his sleeves were rolled to his forearms. He looked tired in that beautiful, devastating way—as if exhaustion was part of him.

“You shouldn’t let people talk over you,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Men like him.”

His jaw tightened faintly.

“You already said no,” he continued. “You don’t owe anyone softness after that.”

Your heart ached unexpectedly because there was anger beneath his calm—anger that surprised you, because it wasn’t possessiveness or ego, but something protective that touched you and left you shaken.

You studied him carefully. “You sound experienced.”

For the first time since walking in, Mark looked away. A tiny movement that was barely noticeable, but there.

“I prosecute enough cases,” he said flatly, and suddenly you felt heavy with understanding, a sadness settling across your shoulders.

The ache in your chest deepened.

Sometimes you forgot what his job was beneath the suits and sarcasm.

He spent every day seeing the worst in people, no wonder he looked tired all the time, no wonder he carried himself like someone permanently braced for impact.

“Mark—”

“CALLAN!”

Evelyn’s voice echoed from the hallway.

You physically watched the walls go back up around him again, so fast it left you dizzy.

Mark stepped back, professional distance restored.

“I’ve got court.” he said.

The softness vanished so fast you almost wondered if you imagined it.

Then his gaze dropped, and you glanced down—your shoelace was untied, again.

Before you could react, Mark crouched.

Your entire brain stopped functioning.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll trip.”

“That is statistically fair, but—”

His fingers moved quickly, looping the lace neatly.

The records room had gone silent again.

You could feel Rita vibrating somewhere behind you.

Mark tied the knot, then looked up, and somehow that was worse.

Something about a man on one knee looking up at you with tired dark eyes felt catastrophically intimate—especially when his expression softened, and he quietly said, “There.”

Your heart genuinely stuttered.

Mark stood immediately afterward like nothing unusual had happened, as if he hadn’t just altered your brain chemistry.

Then he picked up his case file and walked toward the door.

Halfway out, he paused. Didn’t turn around, but you heard it anyway.

“Try to survive the rest of the day.”

Then he disappeared into the hallway.

There was silence, long, heavy silence.

Then Rita slowly emerged from behind a shelf.

“Oh,” she whispered.

You stared blankly ahead. “I think that was the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done to me.”

Rita placed a hand dramatically over her heart.

“Honey,” she said, “that man is in trouble.”

—𝜗𝜚—

The problem with Mark Callan was that he kept doing things that were romantic without realizing they were romantic.

Which somehow made it worse.

If he had flirted openly, you might have been able to handle it. Possibly. Maybe. Fine—not really, but at least then there would have been rules.

Instead, Mark lived in a gray area, tying your shoelaces with courtroom focus, then leaving like he hadn’t just undone you completely.

You spent the whole weekend thinking about it, which was humiliating.

By Monday morning, your brain had become completely unusable.

“Okay,” Rita said, sliding into the chair beside your desk with a coffee. “You look haunted.”

“I’m fine.”

“You just typed his name into a witness transcript.”

You froze. Slowly, horrifically slowly, you looked down at your computer screen.

Halfway through a burglary deposition, the sentence read:

The defendant entered the residence at approximately Mark Callan—

“Oh my God.”

Rita burst into laughter so violently that she nearly spilled her coffee.

You dropped your forehead onto the desk. “I’m quitting.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’ll become a shepherd. Move to the mountains. Never know love again.”

“You’d trip over a sheep.”

“That feels unnecessarily personal.”

Unfortunately, Rita was still laughing when Simon from intake appeared in the doorway.

“Hey, records need the Ellis trial exhibits delivered upstairs.”

Rita pointed at you. “Perfect. She can take them.”

You lifted your head slowly, fixing Rita with an accusing look. “Why do you hate me?”

“Character building.”

“It’s emotional warfare.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

Ten minutes later, you found yourself carrying two heavy exhibit boxes through the courthouse halls, muttering threats under your breath.

Naturally, the elevators were full, which meant you had to take the stairs.

“This is how I die,” you whispered dramatically while climbing.

Halfway up the second flight, one of the boxes slipped against your hip.

You adjusted awkwardly. Then your shoe caught the edge of the stairs and time slowed.

“Oh no.”

The box tipped, papers burst into the air, and your body pitched forward with the terrible certainty that you were about to die in the most humiliating way possible—until one hand caught your arm before impact and another caught the box.

You gasped sharply as your momentum slammed you directly into a solid chest instead of concrete stairs.

For one dizzy second, all you knew was warmth. Strong hands and the sharp scent of dark coffee and cologne.

Then Mark’s voice above you:

“…Every time I see you, gravity appears suspiciously aggressive.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“Please let me die here.”

“That wouldn’t be fair.”

You realized very suddenly that one of his arms was still around your waist. Not casually, firmly, he had grabbed you hard, as if the thought of you falling had scared him.

Your pulse stumbled violently. Slowly, you looked up to find Mark already watching you—much too close, his gaze intense.

The courthouse stairwell suddenly felt unbearably quiet.

His chest rose sharply beneath your hands because, apparently, in your panic, you had grabbed his suit jacket.

Your fingers loosened. “Sorry.”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped briefly to your hands, then back to your face.

“You okay?”

The softness in his voice nearly undid you on the spot.

You nodded too fast. “Yes. Totally. Thriving.”

Mark’s mouth twitched faintly. Still, he didn’t let go immediately, and you couldn’t stop noticing things.

The warmth of his hand at your waist, the faint shadow of exhaustion beneath his eyes, the slight looseness of his tie as if he had been working too hard again—every small detail made him feel dangerously real, and far too close.

“You really need safer hobbies,” he said, his tone somewhere between amused and exasperated.

You swallowed hard, nervous. “I didn’t realize carrying boxes counted as an extreme sport.”

“With you involved? Apparently it is.”

You laughed weakly despite yourself, and there it was again—that dangerous look he got whenever you laughed, as if, for half a second, he forgot he was supposed to keep himself guarded.

Then voices echoed from above, and the moment broke instantly.

Mark stepped back first. The loss of his warmth was intant and painfully unfair, but before you could embarrass yourself further, he bent to gather the scattered exhibits. 

You crouched automatically to help, heart still stumbling over the space where his hand had been.

“Careful,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“You almost just fell down a staircase.”

“That was five seconds ago.”

“Yes,” he replied flatly. “A traumatic five seconds.”

Something unexpectedly tender bloomed in your chest, soft and unwanted, and you tried to ignore it only to fail spectacularly.

As you gathered the papers beside him, your fingers brushed once.

Then again, tiny, accidental touches that somehow felt louder than conversation.

You reached for the same photograph at the same time, and Mark’s hand settled briefly over yours and both of you froze. 

The air shifted, thinning into something fragile and dangerous as his eyes lifted slowly to meet yours.

You stopped breathing.

There it was again—that impossible tension, building quietly between you without permission, without warning, as if neither of you knew how to stop it and neither of you were brave enough to name it.

When you finally spoke, your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

“Mark…”

He looked wrecked suddenly, not visibly, not dramatically, but something in his expression tightened like he was fighting himself.

Then—

“Callan?”

A man in a gray suit appeared at the top of the stairs, and Mark pulled his hand away immediately.

The warmth vanished with him.

In an instant, Deputy District Attorney Mark Callan returned—controlled, professional, untouchable, as if whatever had passed between you had never happened at all.

“We’re waiting on you for pretrial,” the man said.

“I’m coming.”

The man nodded once before disappearing again.

Silence settled between you afterward—awkward now, fragile in a way it had not been moments before.

Mark stacked the final exhibits carefully into the box, his movements precise and controlled, as if order could undo whatever had just passed between you.

Then he stood.

You rose too and lost your balance again because, apparently, God had taken a personal interest in humiliating you.

Mark caught your elbow with frightening speed.

For one suspended second, you just stared at each other.

Then, to your absolute horror, he laughed.

Not politely, not under his breath, not with that careful restraint he wore like armor.

An actual, helpless laugh.

“You cannot be real,” he said under his breath.

You covered your face. “I hate this building.”

His hand lingered on your arm one second too long before he let go. When you looked up again, something in his expression had softened completely—not amusement, not irritation, but something worse: affection, real and unmistakable.

Your heart did something violent and painful inside your chest. Suddenly, the possibility became terrifyingly real: Mark Callan liked you—actually liked you. Not in passing, not by accident. Judging from the look on his face right now, that realization scared him almost as much as it scared you.

He stepped backward first, always first, like he didn’t trust himself standing too close.

“I should go.”

You nodded even though disappointment struck.

“Right. Court.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you moved, the silence stretched, then Mark glanced at the stairs beneath your feet.

“…Do you want me to carry the boxes upstairs?”

Your heart melted so fast it was humiliating.

“You already saved my life.”

“You tripped carrying paper.”

“It was a near-death experience emotionally.”

For the first time today, Mark smiled openly, small, tired, and beautiful enough to ruin you entirely.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

And before you could recover, he lifted both exhibit boxes effortlessly and started up the stairs beside you.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

—𝜗𝜚—

By Tuesday morning, the entire courthouse had apparently decided you and Mark Callan were having an affair.

You discovered this when a bailiff winked at you in the hallway and said:

“Morning, Mrs. Prosecutor.”

You nearly walked directly into a water fountain.

“WHAT?”

The bailiff laughed himself into another dimension while you stood there in horrified silence, clutching a stack of transcripts.

This was somehow Rita’s fault; you could feel it.

You stormed into records to find her humming cheerfully as she organized files.

“What did you do?”

She didn’t even look up. “You’ll need to narrow that down.”

“People think I’m dating Mark!”

Now she looked up, and the woman had the audacity to grin.

“Oh,” she said. “So it’s spreading.”

You stared at her in betrayal. “Spreading?”

“Honey, the two of you have the subtlety of a hospital fire.”

“We are not—”

"You look at him like he hung the moon."

“I do not.”

“And he watches you, like you might accidentally kill yourself if left unattended.”

“That feels unfairly specific.”

Rita pointed a pen at you. “He carried your boxes upstairs yesterday.’’

“He was helping.”

“He glared at Greg from evidence for asking if you were single.”

Your mouth fell open. “He what?”

“Oh yeah,” Rita said, delighted. “Very territorial. Honestly? Kind of hot.”

“Rita!”

“What? I’m old, not dead.”

You buried your face in your hands. 

This could not be happening. You were not workplace-romance material. You were workplace-workers-compensation material. 

Unfortunately, your humiliation only worsened around noon, because you were delivering signed affidavits to the litigation floor when you heard voices drifting from one of the partially open conference rooms.

“…seriously, Callan?”

You slowed instinctively, not intentionally. Okay, maybe a little intentionally.

Inside the room, Assistant District Attorney Evelyn Price leaned against the conference table with crossed arms while Mark stood near the window reviewing a file.

“You’re imagining things,” Mark said flatly.

Evelyn laughed softly. “Am I?”

“You are.”

“Then why did you nearly bite Brandon Pike’s head off last week?”

Your entire body froze. Mark didn’t answer immediately, which somehow felt louder.

Evelyn tilted her head knowingly. “That’s what I thought.”

“This conversation is inappropriate.”

“So is staring at the records department every twenty minutes.”

You physically stopped breathing.

Inside the room, Mark looked profoundly exhausted.

“Evelyn.”

“Oh relax,” she said. “I’m not judging you. Frankly, it’s nice seeing you care about something besides work for once.”

Something complicated flickered across his face then, left too quickly to fully understand.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Evelyn’s expression softened slightly.

“I know you haven’t looked at someone like that in years.”

Silence. Heavy silence.

Then Mark said quietly:

“She deserves someone less complicated.”

The words hit you directly in the chest—not because they were cruel, but because they weren’t. They sounded honest, painfully honest. 

You stepped back on instinct before they could realize you were standing there. Your heartbeat thudded too fast, too heavy, as if it had forgotten how to breathe.

You should have left, you absolutely should have left, but instead, like the emotionally intelligent woman you very much were not, you shifted your weight at the worst possible moment, and the affidavits slipped from your arms.

Paper exploded across the hallway floor.

Inside the conference room, silence fell.

“…Oh my God,” you whispered.

The door opened, and Mark stepped out first. His eyes found you kneeling among scattered paperwork, then flicked to your face, your guilty expression, and something in his own changed instantly.

“Were you standing here long?”

“No,” you lied terribly.

Evelyn appeared behind him, looking openly delighted.

“Well,” she said. “This is awkward.”

You wanted to die, preferably swift.

Mark crouched automatically to help gather papers. “You should’ve said something.”

“I was leaving.”

“You were eavesdropping,” Evelyn corrected.

You made a wounded noise.

Mark picked up several affidavits before speaking quietly without looking at you.

“You heard that.”

Not a question.

You swallowed hard. “Some of it.”

The hallway suddenly felt much too small.

Evelyn looked between both of you before sighing dramatically. “I’m going to go before this turns into a slow-burning legal drama.”

Neither of you acknowledged her.

She left anyway, muttering something about emotional constipation.

You stayed kneeling on the floor beside Mark in painful silence.

“You think you’re complicated?’’ You ask softly.

Mark exhaled slowly.

“You shouldn’t have heard that.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

His hands paused briefly on the paperwork. Then he looked at you—really looked at you—and something in his expression shifted. 

He seemed worn in a way you hadn’t seen before: not just physically, but emotionally.

“I work seventy hour weeks,” he said quietly. “I miss holidays, birthdays, most nights I sleep in my office.”

You tried speaking, but he kept going.

“I prosecute violent crimes. Half the things I see follow me home.” His jaw tightened slightly. “And people around me…” He paused once. “Eventually, they get tired of coming second to the job.”

Your chest hurt because none of that sounded arrogant. It sounded lonely, painfully lonely.

Mark looked down at the papers again. “You deserve easy.”

The words came out rougher than intended, and somehow that hurt even worse, because it sounded like he had already decided he couldn’t be what you needed.

“Who said I wanted easy?” You said before you could stop yourself.

Mark went very still, and the air shifted dangerously. His eyes lifted slowly to yours, and there it was again, that unbearable tension, like both of you were standing too close to something neither of you knew how to describe.

Your pulse hammered painfully as Mark’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.

You noticed

God, you noticed

Then footsteps echoed at the end of the hall, and the moment was shattered.

Mark stood first, retreating behind professionalism with visible effort as he carefully handed you the last affidavit. His expression controlled again, but not quickly enough to hide what had almost happened between you.

“Our hearing starts in ten minutes.”

You stared up at him from the floor.

“Right.”

But neither of you moved, not yet, not while the air between you still felt too fragile to disturb.

Then Mark did something that completely destroyed what little remained of your emotional stability.

Very gently, almost absently, he reached down and fixed the crooked collar of your blouse, his fingers brushing your shoulder with a tenderness that felt far too natural, far too instinctive, as if some part of him had moved before the rest of him could remember he was supposed to be careful around you.

Your breath caught hard.

Mark seemed to realize what he had done at the exact same moment you did, and his hand withdrew.

The look on his face afterward was almost alarmed, as if touching you had become dangerous, as if the softness he kept letting slip was beginning to frighten him more than anything else.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away down the hall, leaving you kneeling there with a stack of papers in your arms and a heartbeat that no longer felt survivable.

By Monday, your mood had become so visibly pathetic that even the courthouse security guard paused while checking IDs and gave you a sympathetic look, as if even he could sense your disappointment.

“You okay?” Rita asked, eyeing you slumped over your keyboard.

“No.”

“That bad?”

“I think he regrets me.”

Rita made a face immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“He’s avoiding me.”

“He’s trying not to fall in love with you in a government building.”

You dropped your forehead onto the desk, overwhelmed by helplessness.

“That is not helping.”

“Honey, that man looks at you like you personally invented hope.”

You groaned into the wooden surface, but unfortunately, Rita’s encouragement stopped working around lunchtime.

When Mark walked into records looking devastatingly handsome and emotionally unavailable, which, honestly, should have qualified as workplace harassment.

He was wearing a charcoal suit with his tie slightly loosened, the circles beneath his eyes looked deeper than usual. 

The exhaustion was unmistakable, etched not just in his face but in the way his shoulders slumped, weighed down by case files and the impossible expectations of the DA's office.

The second you saw him, your heart ached with a terrible mix of worry and longing. 

You wondered if it was only the mountain of trial prep draining him, or if something heavier was pulling at him from outside the courthouse walls. 

Once, you'd caught a glimpse of a crumpled envelope peeking out from his briefcase, its corner marked with a bank logo and handwriting that did not look like his—hinting at a complicated family relationship.

Sometimes, late in the day, you heard him on tense phone calls, his voice tight, layered with the kind of worry you recognized from experience.

Occasionally, there would be a reluctant mention of his brother or flashes of half-finished sentences about someone 'back home' before his voice dropped to a low murmur the second anyone passed by.

“Callan,” Rita greeted casually.

“Rita.”

His eyes flicked toward you automatically, then away too fast, as if even making eye contact cost him something vulnerable, exposing feelings he was not ready to share, and the thought sent a sharp, anxious ache through your chest that made it hard to breathe for a moment.

“I just need the Davidson files,” he said.

“I’ll grab them,” you offered too quickly.

Mark hesitated.

“Okay.”

The word came softer than expected, so you disappeared into archive storage, desperate to escape before your humiliation became impossible to hide. 

Naturally, the Davidson files were on the highest shelf imaginable, because even fate—or God—seemed personally committed to targeting you in your moment of vulnerability, and you climbed carefully this time, muttering under your breath as you reached for the box.

“Okay,” you whispered. “No falling. No humiliation. We’re evolving.”

The box caught awkwardly, so you tugged harder.

Three additional binders immediately slid off the shelf directly toward your face.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me—”

One hand caught a binder midair while the other grabbed the ladder before it could fall, and when you looked down, of course, it was Mark, because apparently the universe had officially typecast him as your personal emergency response team.

“You know,” he said dryly, “most people retrieve files without entering combat.”

“I was ambushed.”

“By office supplies.”

“They moved first.”

His mouth twitched faintly despite himself, and you climbed down carefully this time—which meant, naturally, your shoe caught on the final rung. 

Mark steadied your waist automatically before you could stumble, his hands lingering for barely two seconds, but the brief touch still sent a jolt through your body, rattling your nerves and leaving you dizzy.

Then his hands dropped immediately, like he had remembered, he wasn’t supposed to touch you anymore.

The realization stung more than it should have, leaving you feeling foolishly exposed as you quietly handed him the Davidson files.

“Thanks.”

Mark nodded once, and then silence settled between you—awkward, heavy, and instantly unbearable. You hated it, hated how thick the air felt now, how it seemed to amplify every uncomfortable emotion twisting inside you.

“I haven’t seen you much,” you blurted before your brain could stop you.

Mark’s expression shifted subtely.

“I’ve been busy.”

The answer was technically true, which somehow made it worse, and you stared at him for a second too long, unsure what to do with the uncomfortable honesty sitting between you.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Straight to jail.

Your soul left your body the moment the words escaped, and Mark looked genuinely startled—not offended, but caught. 

The room went painfully quiet before he finally exhaled once through his nose, like he was trying very hard not to react.

“Yes.”

Your heart sank, a cold heaviness settling in your chest as disappointment took over.

“Oh.”

Mark’s jaw tightened immediately. “That’s not—”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I do, actually.”

The intensity in his voice pulled your gaze up, and your stomach somersaulted with nervous hope.

Mark ran one tired hand across the back of his neck before speaking carefully.

“You make this difficult.”

Your pulse stumbled painfully, the reality of his words stunning you into silence.

“…What?”

His gaze locked onto yours fully for the first time in days, and suddenly, all the oxygen disappeared.

“You walk into a room,” he said quietly, “and I stop thinking about everything else.”

Your heart skipped a full beat, and Mark looked almost frustrated by his own honesty now, as if the words had slipped out before he could pull them back.

“You smile at me, and I forget what I’m saying mid-sentence.” His laugh came rough and humorless. 

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is for a prosecutor?”

You stared at him in complete silence, because surely this was a stress hallucination.

“I spent three hours yesterday rereading the same witness statement,” he continued quietly. 

“Because I saw you in the hallway and my brain stopped functioning afterward.”

Heat flushed through you so suddenly it was almost unbearable, a dizzying rush of shock and hesitant yearning, because Mark Callan looked wrecked, as if every honest word had cost him something he had not meant to give away.

“And that,” he said finally, “is why I’ve been avoiding you.”

The ache in your chest shifted, softening into a tenderness so sharp it made your eyes sting, because he sounded scared—not of you, but of wanting you too much.

In that moment, your own fears pressed in alongside his, twisting through every part of you. Some old memory flickered beneath the surface, the familiar echo of a love that unraveled when you let yourself hope a little too much, the disappointment of trusting someone who promised to stay but chose to leave instead. 

You wanted so badly to believe in the hope shining in his eyes, but under it pulsed the old, familiar panic: What if you reached too far? What if you rushed everything by hoping for more than he could give? 

The vulnerability felt impossible, like standing at the edge of something breathtaking and terrifying at the same time. But still, you couldn’t let go of the hope that maybe he was just as afraid of losing this as you were.

When you finally spoke, your voice came out softer than you intended, trembling at the edges with nervousness and an honesty you could no longer hide.

“You make me nervous, too.”

Mark went still.

“I know.”

That admission hit hard, sending a rush of relief and vulnerability through you, because of course, he knew. Mark noticed everything.

Silence stretched between you then, thick with all the words neither of you knew how to say properly, heavy with feelings too fragile to name, until finally, softly, you whispered. 

“Mark…”

Your phone rang, and you nearly screamed as the noise shattered the tender moment, jolting you out of your feelings and back into reality. 

You fumbled it from your cardigan pocket while mentally apologizing to every known deity, and Mark actually laughed under his breath—warm, helpless, and dangerously fond.

You answered the phone too quickly. “Hello?”

Rita’s voice blasted through immediately.

“WHY IS CALLAN STILL IN RECORDS?”

You closed your eyes in mortified horror, feeling embarrassment boil over. Across from you, Mark looked genuinely delighted for the first time all week.

“I hate everyone,” you whispered into the phone.

“Evelyn says you two have been missing for fifteen minutes, and she’s taking bets now.”

“Oh my God.”

“Also,” Rita added cheerfully, “if you kiss him in archive storage, I need at least twenty dollars from somebody.”

You hung up immediately, and silence fell for one suspended second before Mark laughed—really laughed, low, helpless, and completely devastating. 

You stared at him, stunned, your heart skipping at the sound, because there it was again: that rare, unguarded version of him, beautiful enough to make your chest physically ache.

“You know,” he said once he recovered slightly, “your coworkers are terrifying.”

You smiled helplessly. “You should hear what they say when you walk by.”

His eyes softened instantly at your smile, and suddenly it felt as if your hearts recognized each other all over again, the room quieting as the laughter faded and the air thickened between you. 

Mark looked at you for too long, and you looked back, neither of you moving until he finally spoke.

“We should probably get back.”

“Yes,” you whispered.

Neither of you moved, the tension pulsing quietly between you as you lingered on the edge of something more again. 

Mark’s gaze flicked briefly toward your mouth before he caught himself, sending your heartbeat into catastrophe, and then he stepped back first—always first—but this time, before he fully turning away, you spoke softly.

“For the record…”

You swallowed hard.

“You make it difficult, too.”

He walked out of archive storage shaking his head, leaving you standing there alone with a heartbeat that felt like a full legal confession.

—𝜗𝜚—

After the archive storage incident, the tension between you and Mark became unbearable—not awkward, but worse, mutual. It lived in lingering eye contact, unfinished sentences, accidental brushes of hands that left both of you silent afterward, and the way Mark started appearing beside your desk with coffee you never technically saw him buy.

It was in the way you began memorizing the sound of his footsteps without meaning to, and it was becoming a problem, a huge one, because now the entire courthouse watched the two of you like a live television drama. 

There were whispers in the break room, knowing glances exchanged in the halls, and suddenly every late afternoon coffee or shared smile felt like it might end up as the next headline of courthouse gossip. 

At moments, you caught your supervisor watching a little too closely or heard your own name paired with Mark's in a low-voiced conversation that quieted the second you appeared.

There were protocols against workplace relationships here, or at least enough unspoken rules to make your cheeks flush every time an email popped up from HR. Just existing in the same space with him felt riskier now, as if the next slip could turn rumors into real consequences neither of you wanted to face.

“Morning, lovebirds,” Simon from intake greeted Tuesday morning.

You nearly dropped your bag.

Mark, standing beside your desk reviewing a file, didn’t even look up.

“Good morning, Simon.” He said.

Simon blinked. “Wow. Didn’t deny it.”

Mark calmly turned a page in the file, and your soul left your body.

“Oh my God,” You whispered.

Simon physically clutched his chest. “OH MY GOD.”

“Get out,” Mark said dryly.

Simon fled immediately to spread destruction elsewhere.

You turned slowly toward Mark in horror. “You cannot do things like that.”

Mark finally looked up.

“What things?”

“You just— you—”

“I answered a greeting.”

“You answered it like that.”

A tiny flicker of amusement appeared in his eyes.

“You’re blushing.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he replied calmly, “you keep talking to me.”

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but nothing came out.

Mark looked unbearably pleased with himself for approximately two seconds before professionalism settled back over him, which was deeply unfair.

“How’s the Wilson transcription going?” He asked.

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Are you pretending to be normal right now?”

“I’m always normal.”

Yesterday, he’d stared at your mouth for six full seconds while you explained copier issues.

“Sure.”

Mark’s gaze softened for the briefest second before his expression shifted, and you noticed immediately.

“Wait,” You said slowly. “You look awful.”

He blinked once, as if the statement surprised him. “Thank you.”

“No, I mean—” You lowered your voice. “Have you slept?”

Mark looked away, and your chest tightened at once, because there it was—the answer was absolutely not.

“You’ve been here all night again, haven’t you?”

“It’s trial prep.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

Something frustrated and tender twisted painfully inside you, because he said things like that so casually, as if exhaustion was normal, as if running himself into the ground didn’t matter, and you stood before you could overthink it, making Mark look immediately wary.

“That expression concerns me.”

“You need food.”

“I eat.”

“You had pretzels for lunch yesterday.”

“You remember my lunch choices?”

“You remember my near-death experiences.”

“That’s because there are so many.”

You ignored that. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“The cafeteria.”

Mark stared at you like you’d suggested armed robbery.

“I have work.”

“And you’ll still have work after consuming one vegetable.”

“I’m not sure the cafeteria legally counts as vegetables.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You dragged me away from a homicide file.”

“You prosecute murders better when your organs function properly.”

Something warm flickered across his face—quickly gone, but there all the same—before he sighed and finally set the file down.

“Five minutes.”

“Ten.”

“Seven.”

“You negotiate literally for a living.”

“And I’m excellent at it.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself, and of course, Mark noticed. His expression softened instantly in that dangerous, quiet way that always made your heartbeat feel suddenly unstable.

“Seven,” you agreed softly.

The courthouse cafeteria was mostly empty at that hour as you carried your tray carefully toward a corner table, Mark walking beside you with black coffee and what looked suspiciously like an actual sandwich. It was progress.

Unfortunately, the second you sat down, your sleeve caught the edge of your plastic fork, sending it flying dramatically across the cafeteria.

A woman at another table ducked.

Mark closed his eyes briefly, as if asking the universe for patience and e none.

“I genuinely need scientists to study you.”

“I’m having a hard day.”

“You threw cutlery.”

“It was accidental.”

Mark laughed quietly into his coffee, and there it was again—that impossible warmth, the kind that still startled you every time. 

You watched him take a bite of his sandwich, exhaustion lingering heavily beneath his eyes, and without the sharpness of the courtroom or the constant noise of the courthouse halls around him, he looked different sitting there. 

Softer. 

Lonelier somehow. 

Enough to make your chest ache unexpectedly. You had the sudden urge to reach out, to find the right words that would lift the heaviness from his shoulders, but all you could do was sit with the ache in your chest and hope he felt less alone just from your quiet presence. 

For a moment, you almost whispered something honest—a small confession about wanting to help, about how hard it is to see someone you care about struggle and not know how to fix it—but the words caught in your throat, fragile and unspoken. Still, you lingered there in the hope that he might feel it anyway.

“What?” Mark asked suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring at me.”

Mortifying.

You looked down instantly. “Sorry.”

Mark was quiet for a second.

Then:

“Don’t apologize for that.”

Your heart absolutely folded in on itself, and suddenly the cafeteria felt too small, too warm, too full of things neither of you were saying. 

Mark leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you with those unbearable dark eyes, as if he could hear every frantic thought your face was trying to hide.

“You know,” he said quietly, “most people are intimidated by me.”

“I am intimidated by you.”

“No,” he murmured. “You’re nervous around me. Different thing.”

Your pulse stumbled.

“You cross-examine murder suspects for fun.”

“I do not do it for fun.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

A reluctant smile tugged briefly at his mouth before it faded, the exhaustion returning so visibly you could almost watch him retreat back into it in real time.

“How long have you been doing this?” you asked softly.

“Too long.”

“That’s not a number.”

Mark looked down at his coffee for a moment before answering.

“Eight years in the DA’s office.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“You ever think about stopping?”

His eyes lifted slowly back to yours, and suddenly something deeper moved beneath his expression—something tired, aching, and far too honest to hide.

“I don’t know how.”

The honesty of it hit hard because he didn’t sound dramatic; he sounded sincere, as if somewhere along the way work had consumed everything else. 

Your chest ached painfully for him, and before you could think better of it, you reached across the table and touched his hand, just lightly, warm skin beneath your fingertips.

Mark froze instantly, his eyes dropping to your hand before lifting slowly to your face. You should have pulled away, absolutely should have, but instead your thumb brushed once against his knuckles, the smallest movement imaginable, and still enough to change the entire atmosphere. 

Mark inhaled sharply, not loudly, but enough to make your heartbeat turn catastrophic as the cafeteria noise faded into something distant and meaningless.

His gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made breathing difficult, and then he said quietly, rough around the edges, “You really need to stop doing that.” 

You swallowed hard. “Doing what?” His voice dropped lower. 

“Touching me like it doesn’t affect you.”

The words landed somewhere deep and dangerous because he sounded like he was barely holding himself together, and maybe, horrifyingly, so were you. Your voice came out barely above a whisper. 

“It does affect me.”

Mark looked wrecked, absolutely wrecked, and his hand turned slightly beneath yours before he could stop himself, like instinct, like he wanted more contact. Your breath caught, and then suddenly, Rita’s voice rang across the cafeteria.

“Oh my God.”

You jerked apart instantly as Rita stood there holding a salad and the expression of a woman witnessing live theater. Behind her, Evelyn Price looked one second away from screaming.

“You two are insane,” Evelyn informed both of you, while Mark leaned back in his chair, visibly resigned, and you considered immediate death. 

Rita pointed aggressively between you. “Hand touching in public? During business hours? In this economy?” 

You opened your mouth weakly. “It wasn’t—,” but Evelyn cut in with, 

“What are you, a Jane Austen protagonist?” 

Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can either of you behave professionally for one minute?”

“No,” both women answered immediately.

You buried your face in your hands, but across from you, Mark looked dangerously close to smiling again, and somehow, that made everything worse.

You peeked between your fingers, your embarrassment still prickling, and caught the hint of warmth softening his features. 

For a split second, it felt like it was only the two of you at that table. Despite the chaos around you, something hopeful settled between you.

Mark glanced away with the trace of a secret smile still hiding in the corner of his mouth, and you couldn’t help wondering if this was the start of something neither of you had enough courage yet to name.

“He had pretzels for breakfast.”

“He’s a grown man.”

“He’s a prosecutor,” you corrected. “That’s basically the same thing as a raccoon digging through survival supplies.”

Evelyn pointed at you accusingly. “See? This is exactly how it starts.”

“What starts?”

Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely wrong. 

The thing about Mark Callan was that he loved quietly, not with speeches or grand gestures, but with small, careful acts that slipped beneath your skin before you even realized they mattered. 

What you never saw was how deeply these acts cost him, how each gesture was the product of a dozen silent decisions. 

Mark’s mind spun constantly around you, cataloging your preferences and making quiet promises to himself that he would notice, remember, protect. 

He never said it out loud, but every morning, every gently placed coffee, every watchful glance in a crowded hallway, was Mark’s way of telling you what he didn’t yet know how to say.

Like the way he automatically moved you away from crowded hallways with a hand on your lower back, or how he’d started leaving sticky notes on your desk attached to coffee cups.

Eat lunch with me today.

You forgot your scarf.

Don’t climb anything while I’m in court.

You kept every single one, which felt equal parts romantic, pathetic, and maybe a touch concerning for your mental health.

Until one Tuesday morning, when Rita walked into records and saw Mark setting a blueberry muffin beside your keyboard.

“Oh, so we’ve entered domesticity.”

Mark barely looked up. “Good morning, Rita.”

“You brought her breakfast.”

“She skipped it yesterday.”

Your mouth fell open. “How do you know that?”

Mark finally glanced at you.

“That’s not important.”

The terrifying thing was, he genuinely meant it. 

Of course, he noticed things like that, as if it mattered by default. Your chest warmed painfully. 

Rita looked between both of you, her expression that of a woman witnessing the slowest courtship in human history.

“You two are one shared grocery list away from retirement.”

“We are not together,” you protested weakly.

Mark handed you your coffee without even looking away from the file in his hands. You stared at him in betrayal while Rita physically wheezed. 

She wasn’t entirely wrong. Over the next few weeks, your routines quietly tangled—dangerously so. 

You started eating lunch in Mark’s office because pretending you didn’t want to see him was harder than you thought. At first, it was by coincidence, then it became normal.

You'd walk in, balancing takeout containers and iced coffees, while Mark sat buried beneath case files at his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his forearms. 

Every single time, the second he saw you, something in his face unknotted, eyes softening with a glow that belonged only to you. Without fail, a small, unguarded smile would break through, and your heart would thud with giddy affection. 

God, you loved being the reason he smiled.

You realized it one mortifying Thursday, when Mark smiled at something ridiculous you said over cafeteria soup, and your whole chest ached with something softer, deeper than affection.

You began noticing the little things, too.

The way he pushed his coffee toward you automatically when you reached for it absentmindedly. 

How he remembered which pens you liked because you “complain dramatically” about the bad ones.

The way he silently moved dangerous obstacles out of your path after witnessing enough of your accidents to lose faith in your survival instincts entirely.

After days of slipping into routine, you stepped into his office one rainy afternoon, shivering from your dash through the parking garage, umbrella forgotten.

Mark looked up from his desk, noticed you shivering, and immediately stood, concern evident on his face.

“You’re soaked.”

“I noticed.”

“You didn’t bring a coat?”

“It looked sunny earlier.”

“That was six hours ago.”

“Time is fake in this building.”

Mark sighed softly like a man carrying an unbearable burden. Then he shrugged off his suit jacket and walked toward you. Your heartbeat instantly stumbled.

“You’ll freeze.”

“Mark—”

“Take the jacket.”

You stared at him helplessly as he settled the jacket around your shoulders himself, his hands carefully draping the fabric and smoothing it down. 

The jacket was warm from his body and smelled like dark coffee, cologne, and him. 

Your pulse hammered, wild and unfair, as his hands lingered by your collar, fingers warm and close, heat prickling along your skin. He was always too close now, close enough for your heart to trip and your breath to catch.

His eyes dropped to your mouth automatically, then back to your eyes. 

Silence filled the office, heavy and familiar, the kind that always ended badly for both of you.

“Tell me,” you whispered softly, “that you’re thinking very respectful thoughts right now.”

Mark looked genuinely offended.

“I’m a prosecutor.”

“That is not an answer.”

His mouth twitched faintly. Then he stepped closer, and your breath caught immediately.

“You’re standing in my office wearing my jacket,” he murmured. “I’m doing my best here.”

Heat flooded your entire body.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said quietly, “you keep coming back.”

Your heart folded painfully in on itself because he still sounded almost bewildered, as if he couldn’t quite grasp why you wanted him. 

Warmth climbed up your throat as you reached up—almost without thinking—to straighten his crooked tie, your hand trembling with tenderness. 

Mark went completely still, the intimacy of the gesture striking you both at once. When your fingers accidentally brushed the warm skin of his throat, his breathing shifted—subtle, but enough. 

“Careful,” he said softly.

You looked up. “Why?”

His eyes darkened immediately.

“Because I haven’t kissed you all day.”

Your stomach dropped; your hands turned sweaty and hot. 

The room seemed to shrink, every sense narrowing to him. Suddenly, you needed air and more of him all at once.

You barely had time to inhale before Mark’s hand slid along your jaw and he kissed you.

It started restrained. Careful. A soft press of his mouth against yours like he was still pretending he had self-control left.

Then you kissed him back harder.

Mark made a low, rough sound in his throat that sent heat spiraling straight through you, and suddenly the carefulness cracked.

He guided you backward until the edge of his desk pressed against your hips, his hand firm at your waist now, fingers tightening just enough to make your breath catch.

The kiss deepened fast after that.

Hotter. Messier.

Like weeks of tension had finally found somewhere to go.

Your fingers slipped into his hair instinctively, and Mark swore softly against your mouth before kissing you deeper immediately, like that tiny pull unraveled the last thread keeping him composed.

His mouth moved against yours with growing urgency, slow enough to savor but rough enough to leave you dizzy, and every shallow breath you managed to take tasted like coffee and him.

A quiet sound escaped you before you could stop it.

Mark’s reaction was immediate.

His hand slid higher along your waist, thumb brushing beneath your shirt as his forehead knocked briefly against yours, both of you breathing unevenly now. His eyes stayed half-lidded on your mouth like he was trying very hard not to lose the remainder of his restraint.

“You are so much trouble,” he murmured against your mouth.

“You kissed me first.”

“You fixed my tie.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“It should be.”

You let out a breathless laugh. Mark smiled against your lips and kissed you again—slower this time, gentler, drawing out the moment. 

The office door suddenly rattled.

“CALLAN!” Evelyn shouted from outside. “If you’re emotionally compromising each other again, your witness is waiting.”

You covered your face at once. Mark braced a hand on the desk and laughed, helpless and warm enough to make your chest ache.

After a moment, he looked at you again, and the smile faded into something quieter, fonder, dangerously real.

“You should probably go before I forget I have a job to do.”

Your heart did a painful little flip, and the worst part was that you didn’t really want to leave either.

—𝜗𝜚—

Mark Callan did not get jealous easily. Mostly because Mark Callan did not allow himself many things easily. Anger, sometimes. Exhaustion, constantly.

But jealousy was new to him, dangerous and tucked away, like something sharp hidden quietly behind his ribs.

You noticed it for the first time on a Wednesday afternoon. A subtle shift: a new investigator from downtown lingered too long near records, smiling at you. His name was Tyler Greene.

Pretty in an aggressively polished—expensive watch, perfect suit, the kind of man who leaned in too close when he talked, assuming women enjoyed that kind of thing.

You were only being polite.

Mark knew that.

Unfortunately, Tyler apparently mistook basic human kindness for encouragement.

Mark saw the whole thing from halfway down the hallway.

The investigator leaned casually against the records counter. You laughed nervously at something he said—not real laughter, just your polite one.

Mark could tell the difference now; God help him, he knew all your different laughs.

Tyler smiled wider anyway, then he touched your arm—briefly, casually, but enough to make something sharp move beneath Mark’s skin. 

Rita noticed immediately from her desk. “Oh boy,” she muttered.

Mark didn’t answer, but his jaw clenched once—nothing more. 

He kept walking, maintaining his professional, controlled, untouchable facade, but ten minutes later, while reviewing witness statements, he realized he’d missed an entire page—Tyler Greene’s laughter from records still ringing in his ears. 

Absolutely pathetic.

He hated how his attention kept drifting,hated the irrational irritation crawling under his skin.

Most of all, he hated the ugly little thought that kept whispering beneath it all.

He can give her things you can’t; time, ease, normalcy, a life that didn’t revolve around homicide trials and emotional exhaustion.

Mark forced himself back to work, but his focus only lasted approximately twenty minutes. 

Then, when he walked into the break room for coffee, he heard Tyler’s voice around the corner.

“…I’m telling you, she’s adorable.”

Mark slowed automatically. Another investigator laughed quietly. “The records girl?”

“Yeah. Sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Something possessive and immediate twisted low in Mark’s chest at the phrase ‘records girl’. As if you weren’t a person, just something soft to point at. 

Tyler kept talking, oblivious. “She’s got that whole shy thing going on.” 

A pause.

“Bet you she blushes if you say literally remotely sexy to her.”

The other man snorted.

“What, you trying to ask her out?”

“I mean…” Tyler laughed. “Maybe. If Callan doesn’t murder me first.”

Mark went still, and the second investigator laughed harder. 

“Oh come on. They’re not actually together.”

“Still,” Tyler replied. “Guy looks at her like he’s one inconvenience away from putting somebody through drywall.”

They laughed again. 

Mark should’ve walked away; he knew that. 

He was a prosecutor, an adult man; this was ridiculous, but then Tyler spoke again.

“She’s probably worth the trouble, though.”

Instantly, something in the wording hit wrong—not admiration, but assessment, like Tyler was talking about winning a prize rather than a person.

Mark felt his irritation sharpen, turning cold and precise—the same controlled anger he channeled in court.

Without giving himself time to reconsider, Mark stepped around the corner. 

Both investigators straightened at his approach, Tyler’s smile fading first.

“Callan.”

Mark looked at him evenly.

“You have work to do?”

The other investigator vanished instantly. Coward. Tyler recovered slower. “Just grabbing coffee.”

Mark nodded once. Then quietly:

“Then grab coffee.”

The silence afterward felt suffocating. Tyler shifted first. “Look, man, I wasn’t—”

“She works here,” Mark interrupted calmly. “She’s not entertainment for bored investigators.”

Tyler’s expression tightened slightly. “I was just talking.”

“You were talking about her like she wasn’t standing ten feet away.”

The younger man looked uncomfortable now—which was good. Mark stepped closer; not threatening, but somehow worse.

“You want to ask her to dinner?” Mark said evenly. “Do it respectfully. You make comments about her with your friends again, we’ll have a different conversation.”

Tyler stared at him.

“…Are you her boyfriend?”

The question landed squarely in the center of everything Mark had been trying not to think about. Technically, no—you weren’t his, even if his entire body reacted to you as though you already belonged there.

Mark’s jaw flexed once before he answered, careful and measured.

“No.”

Tyler relaxed slightly. Big mistake.

“But,” Mark continued quietly, “you should still be careful.”

The younger man swallowed.

“Right.”

Mark held his gaze for another second before stepping away—conversation over, control restored. Or so he told himself. Yet his chest felt tight for entirely different reasons, because the question lingered: 

Are you her boyfriend? 

No, not officially.

Suddenly, that realization bothered him far more than it should have.

By the time Mark made it back to his office, he was thoroughly exhausted with himself. Of course, that was precisely when you appeared in his doorway with two coffees and a paper bag.

At the sight of you, his entire nervous system relaxed—an infuriating response he couldn’t control.

“There you are,” you said. “You forgot lunch again.”

Mark stared at you for a second too long. You noticed instantly.

“…What?”

In that moment, he looked tired—not with the usual courtroom fatigue, but with something deeper. You slipped into the office quietly and set the coffee on his desk, your movements gentle in response to his mood.

“Hey.”

Mark leaned back in his chair slowly, watching you.

“You flirt with everyone like that?”

Your eyebrows lifted. “What?”

“The investigator.”

Realization flickered across your face, and to his horror, a gentle smile appeared—not mocking, but softly amused.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Mark exhaled through his nose. “I dislike him.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“I know enough.”

You moved closer slowly, warmth flickering in your eyes now, and somehow that made it worse.

“You know,” you murmured, “you get very broody when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You look one minor inconvenience away from prosecuting somebody emotionally.”

“That’s my normal face.”

You laughed softly, and the sound made Mark’s chest ache; in that moment, all his irritation melted away, replaced by something far more dangerous: affection—deep enough now to terrify him. You stopped beside his desk, standing close.

“Mark.”

His eyes met yours immediately, and that unbearable pull between you surfaced once more. 

When your fingers brushed lightly against his tie—a tiny touch, yet still enough to unravel him instantly.

“You know I only bring lunch to one grumpy prosecutor, right?”

The jealousy vanished so quickly it almost embarrassed him, replaced in an instant by something warmer. He let his hand settle gently around your wrist, the gesture instinctive and tender.

“You shouldn’t say things like that during work hours.”

Your heartbeat stumbled at the low roughness in his voice.

“Why?”

Mark looked at your mouth. Gone. Absolutely gone.

“Because I’m trying very hard to behave.”

—𝜗𝜚—

The fight began because Mark Callan loved you enough to suddenly believe someone else could make you happier.

Which, unfortunately, was the worst thing to say to a woman already halfway in love with him.

It happened on a Friday—of course it did. Fridays at the courthouse were always strange: everyone was exhausted, emotionally frayed, and surviving on caffeine and bad decisions. 

You were already struggling when Tyler Greene intercepted you near the elevators. 

He didn’t physically corner you, but strategically positioned himself between you and the exit, that too-smooth smile in place again.

“Hey,” he said easily.

You adjusted the files in your arms. “Hi.”

Tyler shoved one hand into his pocket. “Listen, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to grab dinner sometime.”

Your stomach sank—not because he’d asked, but because you already knew this would get complicated. 

Reaching for gentle honesty, you replied carefully.

“That’s nice of you, but—”

“C’mon,” he interrupted with a grin. “One date.”

You shifted slightly. “I’m actually not really looking—”

“Is this about Callan?”

Your expression gave you away at once, and Tyler caught it, his knowing smile appearing immediately.

“There’s nothing happening there, right?”

The question hit harder than expected, because technically, what was happening between you and Mark? Stolen kisses, shared lunches, hands lingering a moment too long; he looked at you like you mattered. Still, there were no labels, no promises, nothing solid enough to explain. 

Sometimes you wondered if you were making it all up in your head, if all those unspoken moments could really add up to something real.

You wanted to ask, to pull the words into the open, but fear kept you silent: fear that putting a name to whatever this was would break the fragile, lovely tension or turn it all into something casual. 

Longing twisted quietly in your chest for something you could point to, something you could call yours—something more certain than coffee and glances you almost understood.

Your hesitation lasted just a beat too long, and Tyler’s expression softened slightly.

“Then let me take you out.”

Before you could respond, the elevator doors slid open behind Tyler, and Mark stepped out. The timing might have been funny if your life weren’t in the process of unraveling. 

Mark’s eyes found you first, then Tyler, then the unmistakable tension between you both. 

Instantly, something shuttered behind his expression.

“Callan,” Tyler greeted casually.

Mark’s gaze stayed on you. “Everything okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

Tyler leaned back slightly. “I was just asking her to dinner.”

A heavy silence fell, and your pulse spiked instantly. Mark glanced at Tyler, then at you—and for one horrible second, you caught it: that flicker of hurt, almost immediately buried beneath professionalism. 

His jaw tightened once before he nodded.

“That seems reasonable.”

Your stomach dropped.

Tyler looked surprised; you, devastated. Mark didn’t seem to notice either reaction—or maybe he saw both and chose to keep going anyway.

“She should probably say yes.”

The words hit like a physical impact and you stared at him.

“What?”

Mark finally looked directly at you. He was calm, too calm.

“Tyler seems nice.”

Betrayal bloomed slowly, hot and sharp beneath your ribs. 

Tyler glanced awkwardly between the two of you, suddenly realizing he’d stumbled into something dangerous. 

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Wow.”

Mark’s expression shifted slightly. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, I think you did.”

Tyler immediately stepped backward. “Okay. I’m gonna—”

“Great idea,” you snapped.

He vanished instantly, coward. 

Then it was just you and Mark, stranded near the elevators in terrible silence. 

Your chest hurts, actually hurts, because suddenly, every soft thing between you felt humiliating. 

Every lunch, every kiss, every moment, you’d started believing maybe this was becoming real.

Mark lowered his voice carefully. “You deserve someone who can give you more than this.”

“There it is.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“The self-sabotage thing you do whenever something starts to matter.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” Your voice cracked slightly despite your best effort. “Because you kiss me in your office, you look at me like— like I matter to you, and then the second someone asks me out, you tell me to go?”

Mark looked stricken instantly.

“You matter too much.”

“Do you hear how insane that sounds?”

The hallway fell unnaturally quiet around you, people nearby pretending not to listen—cowards. Mark stepped closer, lowering his voice even more.

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

“No,” you said softly, hurt blooming wider now. “You’re trying to decide for me.”

His jaw tightened.

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is pushing me away every time you get scared.”

The words landed hard, and you saw the impact immediately—because beneath Mark’s composure was a man held together almost entirely by guilt and exhaustion. 

Now, you had struck the exact fracture point.

“You think this is fear?” he asked quietly.

“I think you’ve already halfway convinced yourself you’ll mess this up.”

A heavy, terrible silence settled between you—because you were right. 

Mark looked away first, and that hurt worst of all. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was tired.

“People like Tyler don’t come home at midnight carrying every verdict they couldn’t save, and closing arguments still bleeding through their teeth.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“They don’t cancel plans because a witness disappears. They don’t cancel dates or spend night sleeping in their office.”

“Mark—”

“You want honesty?” His laugh came rough and joyless, the sound scraped raw from somewhere inside him.

There was a long, fragile beat before he continued, and when he finally spoke, his words faltered, thin as glass.

“Fine. I like you enough that I notice every time you enter or exit a room. Enough that hearing another man talk about you makes me irrationally angry.”

Mark swallowed, struggling for the right words, his gaze dropping to the floor as if ashamed. 

"Sometimes it feels like everything in me is wired wrong—like loving you is a test I'm always failing even when I try."

He forced himself to look back at you, every defense peeled away, voice trembling now. "And I still think you’d be happier with someone easier to love."

The ache in your chest turned unbearable because he believed it completely. You stepped closer before you could stop yourself.

“You don’t get to decide what makes me happy.”

Mark looked wrecked now. Utterly wrecked.

“You say that now.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means eventually this stops being charming.”

Your eyes burned unexpectedly.

“Wow.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m serious too,” you shot back. “Why would you do this to me? You say that you care and then act as if it wouldn’t matter. That you’d rather go out with Tyler Greene?”

Something in Mark’s expression cracked at that, as if hearing it out loud wounded him. 

Good—you were hurting too.

“You think I want easy?” you whispered. “I want you.”

An enormous silence followed. Mark stared at you, as if he couldn’t breathe, as if your words had physically wounded him. For one horrible moment, you thought he might finally say it too—but instead. 

“You shouldn’t,” he said it quietly. 

That was the breaking point—pain flashed hot across your face before you could hide it, and you stepped backward at once.

“Wow, got it.”

Mark’s expression changed instantly. “That’s not what I—”

“No,” you interrupted softly. “I think maybe it is.”

The hurt in your voice embarrassed you instantly. 

You hated that he had this power over you—and hated, too, how miserable he looked. 

Neither of you moved. 

Finally, you shook your head once.

“I can’t do this today.”

You turned before he could stop you.

“Wait—”

But you kept walking—quickly enough that he couldn’t see your eyes burning or hear the tremor in your breath. 

You stepped into the elevator alone, jaw clenched tight, throat burning. For the first time since falling for Mark Callan, he didn’t follow.

Each second he stood there settled like a cold weight in your chest. 

By the time the doors slid shut, you pressed your back to the mirrored wall and let a silent tear slip down, furious at yourself for wishing he stoped you from going, even now. 

The ache was sharp and absurdly hopeful—that maybe, just maybe, he’d still come after you.

“You look like someone canceled Christmas.”

“I’m working.”

“You alphabetized office supplies.”

You stared down at the paperclips in horror.

“…Oh.”

Rita sighed softly, less teasing than usual now.

You swallowed hard. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That bad?”

You laughed once, small and painfully tired. “He told me I should go out with Tyler.”

Rita’s face changed immediately. “Oh, that idiot.”

Something sharp twisted behind your ribs, because that was the worst part. Mark wasn’t cruel; he wasn’t careless. He genuinely believed he was protecting you, which somehow hurt even more. He always seemed to brace for loss where others hoped for happiness. 

Maybe it came from old wounds he never talked about, or from years of convincing himself that love was just one more thing he could fail at. 

The way he walked through life, always looking for what might go wrong, had shaped him into someone who mistook distance for safety. 

Letting you go was his attempt to protect you, not from his mistakes, but from the heartbreak he was sure he would eventually cause.

"He thinks he’s bad for me," you admitted quietly.

Rita leaned back against the desk. "Honey, Mark Callan thinks sunlight is probably bad for people."

You managed a weak smile despite yourself, then it faded.

“He looked at me and basically said wanting him was a mistake.”

Rita’s expression softened immediately.

“Oh sweetheart.”

You looked away quickly before your eyes could betray you.

Meanwhile, across the courthouse, Mark was having an equally terrible morning.

Evelyn found him in his office staring at the same page for ten straight minutes.

“You look insane,” she said casually.

Mark didn’t look up. “Good morning to you, too.”

“You fought with her.”

Silence.

Evelyn sat down across from his desk. “Okay. What did you say?”

Mark pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That’s already a bad sign.”

“I told her maybe she should go out with Tyler.”

Evelyn blinked slowly.

“Oh, you absolute idiot.”

Mark closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.

“She deserves someone better than me.”

"No," Evelyn shot back immediately. "She deserves someone who stops making decisions for her because he’s scared."

Mark’s jaw tightened.

“I’m not scared.”

“You are terrified.”

He looked away, which was answer enough.

Evelyn sighed heavily. “Mark.”

“She looked hurt.”

"Well, yes," Evelyn replied. "You essentially told the woman you’re in love with to date another man."

The words landed hard; hearing them made it impossible to hide anymore.

Mark stared down at the case file in front of him without seeing any of it. The terrifying thing was—he couldn’t even deny it anymore. It had happened slowly, then all at once.

Somewhere between coffee runs, courthouse lunches, and memorizing the sound of your laugh, it happened. 

Somewhere between catching you when you stumbled and watching you smile at him, it happened. He realized he was more than just the exhausted prosecutor everyone else saw.

He loved you, and instead of saying it, he’d hurt you.

Evelyn watched realization destroy him in real time.

"Oof," she muttered sympathetically.

Mark laughed once under his breath, humorless.

“Told you.”

“You know what your problem is?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“You think loving someone means preparing for the moment they leave.”

The words hit too close.

Mark looked away again because once upon a time, someone had left, and before that, his father had loved his work more than his family. Mark had spent his entire life learning that people eventually got tired and chose easier things.

How could he not believe the same would happen here?

Evelyn’s voice softened slightly. "She’s not asking you to become somebody else."

Mark swallowed hard. “She should.”

“No,” Evelyn said firmly. “She should get to choose.”

Silence settled heavily afterward, then Evelyn stood.

“For what it’s worth,” she added casually, “I’ve never seen you happy before her.”

The office door closed quietly behind her, and Mark sat there alone for a long time afterward.

You were trying very hard not to cry over transcription files, which felt deeply humiliating.

You were reorganizing depositions when someone knocked softly against the records doorway.

Your heart betrayed you immediately, then sank just as fast when you looked up and saw Tyler Greene instead.

"Oh," you blurted before you could stop yourself.

Tyler winced slightly. “That reaction was brutal.”

Guilt flashed instantly. “Sorry.”

"It’s okay." He shoved his hands into his pockets awkwardly. “Actually… I kinda deserved that.

You blinked.

Tyler leaned against the doorway carefully this time, noticeably less cocky than before.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “I didn’t realize how serious whatever’s happening with you and Callan was.”

Your chest tightened, the sensation painful and sharp.

“We’re not…”

You stopped because suddenly you didn’t know what to call it anymore.

Tyler seemed to understand anyway.

“He looks at you like you’re the last good thing on earth,” he admitted. “Honestly, it’s a little intense.”

A helpless laugh escaped you, eyes burning unexpectedly.

Tyler immediately straightened. “Okay, wow, he really screwed this up.”

You laughed harder, despite yourself, wiping quickly beneath your eyes.

“This is so embarrassing.”

"No, embarrassing is me asking out a woman who was clearly already emotionally invested in somebody else," Tyler said.

That startled a real laugh out of you, warm, small, still enough that Tyler smiled slightly in relief.

Then his expression softened.

"For the record?" he said quietly. "You deserve somebody who’s brave enough to let you love him back."

Your chest ached immediately. because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Mark loved you, you knew he did, but he was so terrified of ruining it that he kept pulling away the second happiness got too close. 

Sometimes your mind circled back to the way he used to gently tap your mug with his pen every morning until you remembered to actually drink your coffee, or how he once spent a Saturday teaching you how to properly shuffle a deck because you kept losing bets at game nights. 

Every time you replayed that Sunday in your head—the shift in his eyes, the way his voice went flat as he told you to go out with someone else—a new ache splintered inside you. 

You couldn't stop wondering if he was battling fear or if, somehow, you were to blame for not making him feel safe. 

A quiet, persistent voice kept asking what you could have done differently. Should you have been more patient when he pulled away, more reassuring when he doubted himself, or less open with your own hopes? 

In weak moments, you convinced yourself that maybe your wanting too much had made him retreat, as if loving him the wrong way had tipped the balance. 

It was twisted comfort, thinking self-blame might at least mean there was something you could fix, something you could control. 

The worst part was how part of you still reached for hope, desperate and stupid, because even now you missed him in ways you didn’t know how to put into words. 

Mornings felt emptier. The ache wasn't only in your chest, but in your hands that wanted to touch, in your breath that kept catching when you remembered the promise of how things used to be—the warmth of his shoulder brushing yours as you both tried not to smile during long afternoons in his office. 

You kept telling yourself to move on, to choose pride instead of longing, but every quiet moment brought back memories of him, and you hated how powerless it made you feel. 

Still, part of you realized, slowly and with effort, that all the blame in the world wouldn't change the truth. 

Choosing to love someone fearfully was never a mistake, and maybe it was time to stop apologizing for wanting him to stay.

Tyler glanced toward the hallway before stepping back.

“I’m gonna save my own life and leave before Callan senses me talking to you again.”

Despite everything, you smiled faintly.

“Probably smart.”

Tyler pointed once toward you as he walked backward away from records.

“For what it’s worth? He’s miserable too.”

Then he disappeared down the hall.

You stood there quietly afterward, heart aching in complicated directions, because the worst part was— you already knew.

Mark lasted exactly three more days before completely unraveling.

Not publicly, because Deputy District Attorney Mark Callan would rather throw himself into Lake Michigan than have a public emotional crisis.

But privately? Privately, the man was deteriorating.

He stopped sleeping properly, started forgetting meetings, and twice, Evelyn caught him staring blankly at unopened case files, as if he no longer remembered how words worked.

Which, considering this was the same man who once cited criminal procedure from memory during a power outage, was deeply alarming.

“You need to fix this,” Evelyn told him Thursday afternoon.

Mark rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “I know.”

“No, like immediately.” She pointed toward him aggressively with a legal pad. “You’ve been glaring at vending machines.”

“They’re badly designed.”

“You walked into the wrong courtroom yesterday.”

Silence, then reluctantly. “…That happened once.”

“Mark.”

He leaned back heavily in his office chair and stared at the ceiling.

The problem was, he didn’t know how to undo the damage he'd caused. Courtrooms made sense, arguments made sense, evidence, logic, but you? 

The apology hung in his mind like a heavy file, waiting on his desk, daring him to pick it up and do something right for once. He turned the words over restlessly. 

Would you even want them? Would you believe them? 

Each possible scenario played out—saying too much, not enough, pushing too hard, or waiting until there was nothing left to say. 

Fear of rejection warred with shame for having hurt you; he wanted to run, to fix, to retreat, all at once. But this, he told himself, required more courage than any closing argument. It was time to try.

You had somehow become the one thing in his life capable of reducing him to a man standing in an elevator hallway saying exactly the wrong thing because he was too scared to say the right one.

He missed you, God. He missed you constantly. Missed your voice in his office, missed your coffee cups abandoned beside his paperwork, missed the way you smiled sleepily at him during late lunches, like just being near him made your day better.

The realization hollowed him out because he had finally gotten something good, only to immediately try to push it away.

Evelyn watched him self-destruct for another minute before sighing dramatically.

“She cried, you know.”

Mark went completely still; the air in the office changed instantly.

“…What?”

Evelyn’s expression softened slightly. “Not in front of everyone. But yeah.” She crossed her arms. “Congratulations. You emotionally damaged the nicest person in this building.”

Guilt hit hard enough to physically hurt. Mark closed his eyes briefly because he knew exactly what your face probably looked like when you were trying not to cry, and the thought nearly killed him.

“She deserves someone better,” he said quietly again, weaker this time.

Evelyn looked genuinely exhausted now.

“Okay, I need you to listen carefully.” She leaned both hands against his desk. “That woman walks around looking at you like you personally invented safety. Do you understand how rare that is?”

Mark looked away.

“She knows what your job is.”

Silence.

“She knows you’re difficult.”

Longer silence.

“She still brings you lunch.”

Something in his chest twisted painfully because she did, you always did. Even when he forgot himself entirely, somehow you remembered him.

Evelyn straightened with a sigh. “At some point, this stops being selflessness and starts becoming cowardice.”

The word landed cleanly—cowardice.

Mark stared at the files spread across his desk, then, finally, stood.

Across the courthouse, you were trying very hard to survive your day with dignity.

Unfortunately, dignity became difficult when you still instinctively looked for Mark everywhere, and you hated it. 

Hated how your eyes searched hallways automatically, how your chest tightened every time footsteps slowed outside records, how every coffee tasted disappointing now because none of them were brought to you by a tired prosecutor who remembered exactly how much cream you liked. 

It was pathetic, absolutely pathetic.

You were midway through reorganizing transcripts when Rita appeared beside your desk.

“Don’t panic.”

You looked up immediately. “That sentence guarantees panic.”

“Callan’s coming.”

Your heartbeat betrayed you instantly, and before you could respond, Mark appeared in the records doorway.

The room went silent, actually silent. Even the printers seemed emotionally invested.

Mark looked exhausted, not just courtroom exhausted, but fully, deeply human. His tie hung loose at his collar. Shadows beneath his eyes were deeper than usual. His hair was slightly messy, as if he had been dragging frustrated hands through it all day.

But the second he saw you— something in his expression cracked open. Relief, so immediate it hurt to look at.

Rita looked between both of you once and immediately grabbed three random employees by the shoulders.

“We’re leaving.”

Nobody argued, and within seconds, the records room emptied entirely.

The door clicked shut behind them, and then it was just you and Mark standing in the quiet. Neither moving, your pulse hammered painfully.

Mark spoke first.

“I’m sorry.”

The words came rough, immediate, like he’d been holding them in for days.

You swallowed hard but said nothing. Mark stepped closer carefully, not enough to crowd you, enough that you could see how tired he looked.

“I hurt you.”

Your eyes burned unexpectedly.

“Yes,” you admitted softly.

The honesty visibly hit him, and Mark exhaled shakily once before continuing.

“I thought if I gave you an out now, it would hurt less later.”

Your chest tightened.

“Later?”

“When I disappoint you.”

The quiet certainty in his voice broke something in you instantly, because he really believed that, believed loving him would inevitably lead to regret.

You shook your head slowly. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I know.”

“You keep acting like caring about you is some burden I haven’t thought through.”

Mark looked down briefly.

“Maybe because every person who’s loved me eventually realized it was.”

The confession settled heavily between you, not dramatic, not manipulative, just painfully honest.

Something softened painfully inside your chest.

“Mark.”

His eyes lifted slowly to yours, and God, He looked terrified, not of rejection, but of hope. You stepped toward him before fear could stop you.

Mark immediately stopped breathing.

“You know what I think?” you whispered.

His voice came quieter now. “What?”

“I think you’re so used to being needed that you don’t know what to do when someone just… wants you.”

The words wrecked him, completely. You saw it happen in real time, his composure cracked wide open, leaving behind something unbearably vulnerable beneath.

Your throat tightened instantly.

“I don’t care that your job is hard,” you continued softly. “I care that you stop eating when you’re stressed. I care that you sleep on your office couch instead of going home.” Your eyes burned. 

“I care that you fold your notes into tiny, perfect rectangles before every trial, because you think neat edges keep you calm, and that you still keep the silly wooden gavel from law school on your desk even though you say it’s ridiculous. I care that you look at me like loving you is something I’ll survive instead of something I already chose.”

For a moment, Mark struggled to breathe. His voice broke, and he shook his head once, overwhelmed. “You always notice things other people miss.” He swallowed hard, reaching for something solid to hold onto. 

“You have this habit of humming under your breath when you’re trying to focus—it gets stuck in my head for hours. Or the way you scribble little doodles in the margins of meeting notes and always act embarrassed when you think I see them. There are mornings when I walk in, and I see that you’ve put the lemon scone at the top of the pastry bag just because you remember it’s my favorite. Or the way you leave those little sticky notes on my files—dumb jokes or stuff you think will make me laugh. I never say it, but it’s those small things that always make me feel like maybe I could be good, just because you chose me.”

Silence.

Mark stared at you like you’d reached directly into his chest, then quietly, almost helplessly:

“How are you real?”

A watery laugh escaped you.

“Unfortunately, very.”

Mark made a soft, broken sound somewhere between a laugh and an exhale.

Then suddenly he crossed the distance between you, fast enough to steal your breath.

His hands framed your face carefully, almost reverently, and when he kissed you—it felt different this time, not stolen, not desperate, intentional. 

Weeks of restrained affection poured into one devastatingly tender kiss, and you melted into him instantly.

Mark’s forehead rested against yours afterward, breathing unevenly.

“I’m so in love with you,” he whispered before he could stop himself.

The entire world stopped. His eyes widened slightly like he couldn’t believe he’d said it aloud. Your heart shattered beautifully inside your chest because there it was, finally, Real.

You touched his face gently.

“Good,” you whispered back. “Because I’m ridiculously in love with you, too.”

Mark laughed then, actually laughed, relieved, disbelieving, and maybe a little emotional.

Then he kissed you again right there in records while the entire courthouse probably listened through the walls.

Somewhere in the corridor, muffled voices rose and then hushed completely, the way gossip gathers itself before bursting. You could already imagine the whispers by the coffee machines, the speculative glances in morning meetings, every knowing look as word inevitably spread faster than case files on a Monday.

You didn't care—not about the rumors, not about the stares—but the aftertaste of anticipation lingered, sharp and bright. 

The aftertaste of anticipation lingered, sharp and bright.

Mark felt it too.

You saw it in the way his eyes flickered toward the closed records-room door, the way his jaw tightened as if he remembered, all at once, where you were. The courthouse. The middle of the day. Surrounded by thin walls, nosy clerks, and a building full of people who lived for evidence.

But then his gaze came back to you.

And whatever sensible thought had crossed his mind died there.

“Mark,” you whispered, but you didn’t know whether it was a warning or a plea.

His thumb brushed over your cheek, slow and trembling, like he still wasn’t fully convinced you wouldn’t vanish beneath his hands. “Say it again.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

His voice lowered, rougher now, scraped raw by feeling. “That you love me.”

The words stole through you like warmth under the skin.

You reached up, curling your fingers carefully around his wrist, feeling the fast, unsteady beat of his pulse beneath your thumb. For once, he wasn’t composed. He wasn’t sharp-edged and untouchable. He was standing in front of you completely undone, his mouth parted, his eyes dark and desperate with hope.

“I love you,” you said softly. “I love you so much it’s embarrassing.”

Something broke across his face.

Not pain this time.

Relief.

He kissed you before either of you could breathe.

This kiss was not careful.

It began with his hands tightening around your face, with a quiet, wrecked sound caught in his throat, with your back pressing into a shelf of old records as his body crowded yours—not harshly, never harshly, but with the helpless urgency of a man who had spent too long starving himself of something freely offered. His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of every breath, every tremble, every soft noise you failed to hold back.

He tasted faintly of coffee and mint, warm and familiar, and beneath that something entirely him—something steady, aching, and intoxicating. His lips were firm, then softer, then seeking again, each kiss deeper than the last. 

Every time you thought he might pull away, he came back like he couldn’t bear the distance, like even an inch between you was too much after everything that had gone unsaid.

Your fingers slipped into his hair.

Mark shuddered.

The reaction was so immediate, so vulnerable, that it made your heart twist. His hands slid from your face to your waist, gathering you closer, not enough to hurt, only enough to make you feel the truth of him—how badly he wanted, how carefully he was trying not to take. That restraint made the kiss even more devastating. 

He held himself back with visible effort, his breath breaking against your mouth, his forehead touching yours for half a second before he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like love had finally given him permission to fall apart.

You clutched the front of his shirt, wrinkling the crisp fabric he always kept so neatly pressed.

For once, he didn’t seem to care.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmured against your lips, voice uneven, “what you do to me?”

You tried to answer, but he kissed the words away.

This time, the kiss was warmer, almost dizzying in its tenderness. His mouth dragged gently over yours, once, twice, before settling there with a kind of aching patience that made your knees feel weak. It wasn’t just passion. It was gratitude. It was fear. It was every morning glance, every remembered scone, every note left on a file, every almost-touch that had haunted the space between you for weeks.

You felt it all in the way he kissed you.

Like he was apologizing.

Like he was confessing.

Like he was finally allowing himself to believe he could be loved without earning it first.

When you pulled back, barely enough to breathe, his lips followed yours instinctively, and the sight of it nearly ruined you.

“Mark,” you breathed, smiling despite the tears in your eyes.

His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “I know.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I know I’m going to kiss you again.”

A laugh escaped you, soft and breathless.

Then he did.

And this kiss was slower, but somehow even more intense. He tilted your chin with his fingers, his touch delicate in contrast to the hunger in his mouth. The courthouse disappeared beyond the door. The muffled voices, the fluorescent lights, the stale paper smell of records and ink and dust—all of it blurred until the only real thing was Mark pressed close to you, kissing you like he had been waiting his whole life to be wanted instead of needed.

When he finally stopped, he didn’t move away.

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, his breathing ragged and warm over your lips. His hands stayed at your waist, his thumbs moving in small, absent strokes like he couldn’t stop reminding himself you were still there.

“I’m scared,” he admitted quietly.

Your chest ached. “Of what?”

His eyes opened, and there was so much tenderness in them it almost hurt to look at him.

“That I’ll wake up tomorrow and convince myself I don’t deserve this.”

You swallowed past the tightness in your throat and touched his face again, brushing your thumb along his cheek.

“Then I’ll remind you.”

His expression crumpled softly.

“Every day?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

You smiled through the ache. “Every day.”

For a second, he only stared at you.

Then Mark kissed you once more, not because he had to hide anything, not because he was afraid, not because the moment was stolen.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the records room, surrounded by transcrip files, terrible vending machine coffee, and the deeply uncomfortable realization that you were hopelessly in love with Mark Callan.

Then the doorway darkened, and there he was. His tie was gone, sleeves rolled up, dark hair a little messy, and exhaustion clear on his face.

He looked so drained that a sharp concern twisted in your chest, but when his eyes met yours, relief eased across his face, and affection softened the exhaustion. 

The mix left you feeling seen and unexpectedly hopeful.

“You’re still here,” he said quietly.

“So are you.”

Mark glanced toward the pile of files surrounding you. “How long have you been sitting on the floor?”

You looked around vaguely. “Time has lost all meaning.”

“That’s concerning.”

“I had a system.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“That feels judgmental.” He stepped inside with two coffees, and when your fingers brushed as he handed you the cup, that familiar spark moved between you again. 

“You brought me caffeine?”

“You looked half-conscious three hours ago.”

“That’s just my face.”

Being around Mark had become easy now—dangerously easy. The silence that followed didn’t feel awkward anymore. Instead, your nerves tingled with the sense that something was changing between you.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

You noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way he absently rubbed his wrist. 

“Your hand bothering you?” you asked softly.

Mark glanced down like he’d forgotten he was doing it.

“Old injury.” He said it quickly, as if the explanation should be enough, but you caught the way his eyes darted away for a moment, distant and shadowed. 

Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, you had seen him flex his left hand over and over, like he was testing its memory against something that once hurt much worse. 

Whatever it was, you sensed that pain still lingered, more in his mind than his body.

“You should rest.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “You say that like it’s an option.”

“It should be.”

When he looked back at you, the room shifted in that sudden, unbearable way it always did between you, and your chest tightened with anticipation.

“You worry about me a lot,” Mark said quietly.

“You make it very easy.”

Before either of you could say anything else, the fire alarm screamed overhead. 

You jolted up too quickly and caught your foot in your bag strap. Mark reacted on instinct, one hand grabbing your wrist and the other steadying your waist. 

Unfortunately, this still sent you crashing directly into him, coffee spilling forgotten onto the floor as you found yourself pressed against his chest, his hand firm at your waist, red emergency lights flashing across his face.

Neither of you moved. 

Your heart thudded wildly with fear of what might happen and desire for something you’d wanted for so long. You could feel his hesitation in the way his hand stilled, unsure whether to let go or hold on.

The alarm blared around you, but all you could focus on was Mark’s warmth, his slow, slightly uneven breathing, and the way he looked at you like every careful wall inside him had finally started to crack.

When his gaze dropped to your mouth, your entire body reacted with nervous anticipation and hope, and you saw the exact moment he realized you had noticed his internal struggle. 

“Mark,” you whispered.

His jaw tightened with restraint, as if holding back a storm of feelings, but when you whispered his name, something in him finally broke free.

His hand rose to your face slowly, almost carefully, his thumb brushing your cheek like he was afraid you might disappear. 

“You have no idea,” he said, his voice rough and unsteady, “what you’ve done to me.” 

The honesty of it ruined you. 

You leaned into his touch, just barely, a silent confession of your feelings, and that was enough to send relief and urgency through you. 

Mark exhaled sharply, a breath full of pent-up longing and fear, then kissed you like he had been trying not to for weeks, desperate and finally unrestrained.

At first, the kiss was careful, almost hesitant, as if both of you feared what this meant, but when you made a helpless sound against his mouth, relief and overwhelming desire deepened it. 

The courthouse, the alarm, the spilled coffee—everything faded away. 

There was only Mark, his hand cradling your face, his other hand tightening at your waist as he kissed you with all the intensity he usually kept buried beneath professionalism and restraint.

His mouth was warm against yours, firm at first, almost careful, like he was still trying to be good, still trying to hold back even as every part of him gave away how badly he wanted this.

He tasted faintly of coffee and peppermint, sharp and warm and impossibly him, and when his thumb brushed along your cheek, the tenderness of it made your knees feel dangerously unreliable.

You clutched the front of his shirt, feeling the crisp cotton twist beneath your fingers, and Mark responded like the touch broke something in him.

His mouth moved deeper over yours, slower now, more deliberate, like he was learning the shape of you, memorizing the way you softened against him.

He kissed you once, then again, each press of his lips a little less restrained than the last, his breath unsteady against your mouth when you made a small, helpless sound you couldn’t swallow.

The low sound he made in return nearly undid you completely—rough, quiet, and pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.

His hand flexed at your waist, drawing you closer before he seemed to remember himself and loosened his grip just enough to make it careful again.

That only made it worse somehow, the restraint, the way he kept trying to be gentle even while kissing you like he had been starving for this. Like he had spent weeks imagining your mouth and still wasn’t prepared for what it would do to him.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads nearly touching while the alarm still screamed overhead. 

Mark looked stunned, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened; anxiety flickered through his wide eyes, mixed with a kind of amazed vulnerability that left him uncertain how to react. 

“That was a terrible idea,” he murmured.

You stared at him breathlessly. “You say that after kissing me like that?”

For a heartbeat, a sharp ache of uncertainty filled your chest. Fear and insecurity flared as you worried that this moment might ruin everything between you.

Mark was stubborn and flawed, but his quiet kindness, the way he made you laugh even on the worst days, and the rare gentleness in his touch remained in your mind. 

He listened when you spoke, remembered the smallest details, and made you feel safe, even when the world felt impossible. Wanting him was terrifying, but the chance for warmth, laughter, and steady affection felt like a risk worth taking.

You stared at him, feeling both exposed and brave, and told him he had no right to say that after kissing you like that.

“You should not look that pleased right now,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry,” you said, still dizzy, still smiling helplessly. “I think my brain melted fifteen seconds ago.”

A helpless laugh escaped him, and then he smiled—really smiled, relief and joy breaking through his usual guardedness, making your chest ache with happiness and affection.

Then the records room door slammed open.

Rita burst in with Evelyn and two courthouse security officers, and you and Mark sprang apart so violently it looked criminal. 

Silence fell, long and horrifying, as Evelyn looked from your flushed face to Mark’s, then down at the overturned coffee on the floor. 

"Oh," she finally said, her tone stuck somewhere between shock and delighted suspicion, while Rita clutched her chest like she had just witnessed the most important moment of her life. 

For a split second, Evelyn's eyes widened, her mouth opening as if to say something before she pressed her lips together to hide a dawning grin. 

Rita blinked twice, caught between gasping and beaming, she looked back and forth between you and Mark, her excitement almost impossible to contain.

—𝜗𝜚—

You quickly learned there were almost no dignified ways to recover after being caught making out with Deputy District Attorney Mark Callan during a courthouse fire alarm, especially when Rita and Evelyn were the witnesses—the two women immediately became unbearable.

“You know,” Evelyn said the next morning while pouring coffee in the break room, “most people wait until at least the second date before violating municipal safety procedures.”

Without missing a beat, you shot back, “We’re just overachievers. Some of us like to make a good impression with the fire marshal.”

Evelyn waggled her eyebrows. “Is that what the kids are calling it now?”

You buried your face in your hands. “Please stop talking.”

Rita looked delighted beyond reason. “No, no, let’s really unpack the fire alarm aspect. Symbolism matters.”

“It was not symbolic.”

“You literally kissed under flashing red lights.”

“Accidentally,” you argued weakly.

Evelyn nearly choked on her coffee. “You accidentally tongue-kissed a prosecutor?”

You felt like you could die from embarrassment.

Across the room, Simon from intake whispered, “Tongue-kissed?” to another clerk with the urgency of a man receiving state secrets.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

The rumors spread through the courthouse before noon, and they were not subtle. 

By lunch, someone had anonymously left a tiny fire extinguisher on your desk with a note reading: For future workplace passion emergencies.

You wanted to die from embarrassment, mortification burning under your cheeks. Rita, meanwhile, was on another level. 

Not content with merely enjoying the spectacle, she kept sneaking pictures of your horrified face every time Mark’s name was mentioned, already scheming about the perfect photo collage for your as-yet-nonexistent wedding. 

Every time you caught her eye, she grinned even wider and mouthed, "You’re welcome," like she had orchestrated the whole thing. 

When someone walked past your desk with a knowing look, Rita would lean over and whisper outrageous ideas about T-shirts and group chats, all with the delight of someone who lived for this kind of drama, her loyalty always taking the shape of relentless, infuriating cheerleading.

Meanwhile, Mark Callan had become impossible to look at directly because now you knew what his mouth felt like, how his hands tightened when he kissed you deeper, and the rough sound he made when you touched him back. 

Your brain replayed it constantly like a cursed movie trailer.

Unfortunately, Mark seemed equally unsettled, the memory of the kiss flickering in his eyes and a tension clinging to him that matched the electric nervousness you felt inside. 

You noticed right away when he walked into records that afternoon, looking composed—too composed, the kind of composed that screamed barely holding it together inside.

His tie was perfect, his suit immaculate, but his eyes found yours instantly, and suddenly the entire room felt too warm.

Nobody spoke, mostly because the entire records department was openly pretending not to watch. 

Mark cleared his throat once.

“I need the Benson files.”

Rita handed them to him immediately without breaking eye contact with either of you.

“Thanks,” Mark muttered.

A heavy silence settled between the two of you because neither knew how to act normally anymore. 

Not after last night, not after he kissed you like he was starving.

You tucked your hair nervously behind your ear. 

Mark’s gaze followed automatically, dropping to your mouth before snapping away, sending your heartbeat into public health concern territory. 

“Can I talk to you?” He finally said.

The room instantly erupted into fake coughing, and you glared at everyone while Mark looked one second away from prosecuting somebody personally. 

You followed him into the empty conference room beside records, your pulse hammering violently, and the second the door closed, silence swallowed both of you whole. 

Neither of you moved, and there was a brief silence until you spoke simultaneously. 

“I’m sorry—”

You both stopped.

Mark exhaled sharply through his nose. “You first.” 

Your stomach twisted nervously. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.”

He stared at you like you’d said something incomprehensible.

“You think you’re the problem here?”

“I mean…”

He took one step closer, not enough to touch, but enough to make breathing difficult.

“You are the only easy thing in my life right now.”

Your heart broke instantly because he sounded exhausted, honest, and completely defenseless as he dragged one hand down his face before continuing quietly.

“I’ve spent two weeks trying not to cross lines with you.”

You swallowed hard.

“I know.”

“No,” he said softly. “I don’t think you do.”

His eyes met yours fully, dark, intense, and completely wrecked.

“You smile at me, and my entire day changes.” His laugh came rough and tired. “You trip over air, and somehow I still think you’re the most beautiful woman in every room.”

Heat flooded your chest so painfully it almost hurt as Mark stepped closer again, still careful, always careful with you.

“I hear your voice in hallways before I see you,” he admitted quietly. “I know the sound of your footsteps now.” His jaw tightened slightly. “And last night…”

He stopped like he didn’t trust himself to finish the sentence, and when you finally spoke, your voice came out tiny.

“Last night what?”

Mark looked at you in a way that completely unraveled your nervous system.

“Last night I kissed you,” he said softly, “and realized I’ve been wanting to do so for a lot longer than I realized.”

Your eyes burned unexpectedly, because there it was again—that terrifying sincerity, no games, no smooth charm, just honesty—and you stepped toward him before fear could stop you, making Mark go still immediately.

"You know what the worst part is?" he whispered.

“What?”

“I think it started when you covered my files in coffee stains.”

A startled laugh escaped you, warm and doubtful.

“You have terrible judgment.”

“So I’ve been told.”

That look crossed his face again, the one that made him seem emotionally doomed, as his hand lifted slowly toward your face and paused halfway there like he was still asking permission. 

“You tied my shoelace…”

“You nearly concussed yourself on six separate occasions.”

“…and you caught me every time.”

You leaned into his touch immediately, and the relief in his expression nearly destroyed you as his thumb brushed softly across your cheek, his forehead resting briefly against yours until both of you simply breathed, quiet and close, like the world outside the conference room didn’t exist for a minute.

“You scare me a little,” he admitted softly.

Your heart squeezed painfully. “Why?”

“Because I like you enough to ruin this.”

You pulled back slightly to look at him properly.

“Mark.”

“I mean it.” His eyes searched yours. “This courthouse— my job— people talk.”

“People already think we’re one workplace incident away from marriage.”

A helpless smile tugged at his mouth before fading again.

“I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”

For a split second, you thought about all the ways this could go wrong—the courthouse rumors already out of control, HR policies neither of you had bothered to look up, the real possibility that one or both of you could get written up or worse if anyone decided to make an issue of it. 

It wasn't just gossip, it was jobs and reputations and the countless ways people you barely knew could have power over your happiness. 

The weight of it pressed against your chest, sharpening your worry, but even knowing the risk, the thought of not taking the chance with Mark felt even scarier.

The tenderness of that almost undid you, because even now, he was worried about you, and you touched his wrist carefully.

“Hey.”

His eyes lifted immediately.

“You’re allowed to want something good too.”

Something in Mark’s expression cracked at the words, like nobody had ever told him that before.

When his mouth found yours, it wasn’t desperate or consuming—it was soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that asked you to stay instead of trying to take anything from you.

You melted against him before you even realized you were moving.

He exhaled quietly into the kiss, forehead leaning against yours afterward, his nose brushing yours once in a way that felt almost shy.

Then a knock slammed against the conference room door.

“CALLAN!” came Evelyn’s voice from outside. “If you’re done secretly making out again, your witness is here.”

You covered your face instantly while Mark closed his eyes in visible defeat and actually laughed, full and helpless, and somehow hearing that sound mattered almost as much as the kiss itself.

As the sounds of laughter faded and the world outside pressed in again, you felt something new settle in your chest—a cautious, hopeful certainty that this was only the beginning. 

No matter how complicated tomorrow might be, you found yourself smiling, heart open and eager for whatever came next, ready to see where this would take you.

He would glance at you in a hallway and his whole expression would shift, the lines around his mouth easing, the guarded distance in his eyes replaced by something warmer. 

The relationship gave him small moments of certainty, reminders that he wasn’t alone in fighting for every day. Even on the worst mornings, you could see it: Mark letting himself be cared for, and in return, letting pieces of his affection show, and everyone noticed.

Especially around you.

He started meeting you downstairs in the mornings, with coffee already in hand. Started walking you to your car after late nights. Started touching you casually in ways that completely ruined your ability to function normally.

A hand on your lower back in crowded hallways.

Legs brushing yours beneath cafeteria tables.

Absentmindedly fixing your necklace while discussing witness schedules like he wasn’t actively shortening your lifespan.

It was domestic in the quietest, most dangerous way.

One Tuesday evening, you found him asleep at his office desk at nearly midnight, head resting against crossed arms beside a mountain of trial binders.

Your chest physically ached at the sight. Loving Mark like this, seeing him finally at rest, chipped away at all your old defenses. 

The memory flashed back—those endless nights when he would push himself past the point of exhaustion, barely giving you a glimpse beneath his steady exterior. You thought of all the times you had wished you could ease this heaviness for him, imagined what it would feel like to be the person he let in. Now, watching him like this, vulnerable and trustful, it made your chest burn with something sharper than affection. It was hope, and gratitude, and a kind of awe that left you feeling completely undone.

The lamp on his desk cast soft gold light across his face, exhaustion written into every inch of him. He looked younger asleep, less guarded.

You set the takeout bag down quietly and brushed your fingers gently through his hair.

Mark woke instantly. Years of prosecutor stress had apparently destroyed any normal sleep cycle. His eyes blinked open in confusion before landing on you and softened.

“There you are,” he murmured sleepily.

Your heart nearly exploded, his voice still sounded heavy with sleep, warm, real.

“You fell asleep again.”

Mark sat up slowly, rubbing tired eyes. “I was resting strategically.”

“You drooled on a homicide file.”

“That feels defamatory.”

You laughed softly as he reached automatically for your wrist, pulling you closer between his knees. The intimacy of that simple movement still affected you every time.

Especially when he rested his forehead briefly against your stomach with a quiet, exhausted exhale.

Mark looked up at you. There was that look again, like you caring about him still surprised him every single time.

You bent down and kissed him softly, slowly, sleepy.

Mark sighed quietly against your mouth before his hand slid along your waist.

“You know,” he murmured, lips brushing yours again, “you showing up in my office after midnight is becoming a pattern.”

“You’re predictable.”

His eyes closed briefly as the words hit somewhere tender.

Then he kissed you again, deeper this time, smiling faintly when your fingers slid into his hair.

“God,” he whispered against your lips, “I missed you today.”

Your chest ached instantly because he said things like that so honestly now. No hesitation. No walls. Just truth.

Somewhere along the way, the relationship stopped feeling fragile. Mark let you close instead of pretending he was fine, and you let yourself hope this softness was real. 

That evening, with the courthouse silent and the world narrowed down to just the two of you, it became clear: you were both still choosing each other, even at your most worn out and unguarded. 

Maybe that was it, the precise moment the relationship settled into something solid, lasting. It wasn't a grand gesture, just the steady comfort that grew from being trusted, from staying and letting yourselves be seen.

Not because life got easier.

But because the two of you stopped fighting the fact that this was real.

Weeks passed like this.

Quiet happiness unfolded in courthouse hallways and stolen evenings, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant stamping of court files trailing behind you. 

Dates slipped in between impossible schedules, each one feeling rare and almost illicit. At tiny Italian restaurants after late hearings, the air would be thick with the scent of garlic and roasting tomatoes. Candlelight would shimmer against Mark’s tired face while outside, traffic rattled softly along rain-slicked streets. 

On rainy bookstore afternoons, the smell of old paper and fresh coffee hung between the shelves. Mark would follow you through aisles, umbrellas dripping quietly by the door. He pretended not to enjoy himself, but you caught him inhaling the scent of a new hardcover and always, always secretly carrying every book you picked up.

One memorable disaster involving ice skating ended with you falling six separate times and Mark nearly throwing out his back catching you.

“You skate like a newborn deer,” he informed you while helping you upright for the fifth time.

“You still love me, though.”

Mark looked at you over the collar of his coat, dark eyes warm despite the winter cold.

“Hopelessly.”

The word hit so hard you forgot how to breathe, and you slipped again.

Mark caught you with a laugh against your temple.

“See?” he murmured. “Hopeless.”

Tonight, though, the courthouse was finally empty.

Rain pressed softly against the windows of Mark’s office while the city glowed gold and silver beyond the glass.

You sat curled sideways on his office couch, wearing his suit jacket over your clothes, because the building air conditioning was trying to kill you personally.

Mark sat at his desk finishing edits on a closing statement. Tie gone, sleeves rolled up, seading glasses low on his nose, and honestly? It should have been illegal.

You watched him quietly while pretending to read through deposition notes.

Mark noticed instantly, because of course he did.

“You’ve reread the same paragraph four times.”

You blinked innocently. “No I haven’t.”

“You just turned the packet upside down.”

You looked down. The packet was indeed upside down.

“…That feels nitpicky.”

Mark’s mouth twitched. God, that tiny, almost-smile still destroyed you.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaustion lingering beneath his eyes but softened now by something warmer.

Home.

That was the terrifying thing. Somewhere along the way, the two of you had started feeling like home to each other.

“You should go home,” you murmured softly. “You’ve been working since six this morning.”

“So have you.”

“I’m less noble about it.”

A quiet laugh escaped him.

Then silence settled again, comfortable. Rain is tapping softly against the windows, the low buzz of dim lights. Mark was watching you with that unbearable fondness that still made your chest ache.

Eventually, you stood and stretched before walking toward his desk.

Mark’s gaze followed, always.

You stopped beside him, fingers brushing lightly through the slightly messy hair at his temple. His eyes closed briefly at the touch, a tiny reaction, but still enough to make warmth bloom low in your stomach.

“Tired?” you whispered.

Mark turned his face slightly into your hand without thinking.

“Yes.”

The honesty of it softened something inside you instantly. You leaned down and kissed his forehead gently, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

Mark exhaled shakily once. “Careful.”

You smiled softly against his skin. “Why?”

His hands settled slowly at your waist, warm, steady.

“Because I’ve been trying to finish this motion for twenty minutes,” he murmured, “and you standing this close will make that impossible.”

Heat curled low in your chest. “You looked stressed.”

“I am stressed.”

“So I’m helping.”

Mark opened his eyes, finally. Dark and tired and impossibly soft when they looked at you like this.

“You are not helping.”

His hands tightened slightly at your waist. Then he kissed you, slowly at first, like he wanted to savor it.

Nothing desperate anymore, nothing stolen. Just Mark kissing you deeply and thoroughly, and warm enough to make your knees weaken.

You melted into him immediately. His chair rolled backward slightly when you moved closer between his knees. Mark made a soft sound against your mouth that nearly unraveled you entirely.

Your fingers slid into his hair automatically. The kiss deepened, slower somehow. More dangerous because there was no rush now, just wanting.

Weeks and weeks of growing intimacy settled between the two of you until even silence had become charged.

Mark’s hands moved carefully along your waist beneath the oversized suit jacket. Reverent almost, like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you this way.

Your breathing turned uneven when his mouth brushed slowly along your jaw.

“Mark…” The sound of his name in your voice visibly affected him.

His forehead rested briefly against your shoulder. You felt the rough exhale against your skin before he looked up again.

“You should know,” he said quietly, voice low and rough around the edges, “that my ability to think rationally around you has deteriorated significantly.”

You laughed softly.

Then his hand slid carefully along your thigh, and the laughter vanished immediately.

The room changed all at once, the air heavier now. Your pulse stumbling hard beneath your ribs.

Mark looked up at you slowly, like he was giving you every chance to stop this.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

For a split second, anxiety slipped through the warmth. What if this softness was temporary, or you let yourself hope too much? It was so easy to get used to being wanted like this that the idea of losing it made something sharp and uncertain flicker in your chest. Before you could pull away or hide the fear in your eyes, Mark's hand tightened gently on your leg, and he pressed his forehead briefly to yours, steady and grounding. 

In that quiet moment, you remembered that neither of you was going anywhere, not now, not later. Choosing each other had become a daily promise, and beneath everything else—the nerves, the hope—was the certainty that you were both in this to stay.

"Hey," he murmured, voice soft but certain, "I'm not going anywhere."  

The simple reassurance eased something knotted inside you. You forced yourself to breathe, to stay present, to trust that you were both still here.

You nodded immediately. 

His thumb brushed lightly against your leg once before he kissed you again. This time deeper, needier, like restraint was becoming harder lately.

You climbed carefully into his lap before you could overthink it. Mark inhaled sharply against your mouth. His hands steadied automatically at your hips. Warm and strong and careful even now, always careful with you.

The kiss broke briefly when your forehead bumped his. You burst into helpless laughter immediately. Mark stared at you for one exhausted second before laughing too.

“Romantic,” he murmured.

“Shut up.”

“You just headbutted a prosecutor.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Barely.”

You smiled against his mouth before kissing him again, softer this time.

Outside, thunder rolled quietly through the city.

Inside Mark’s office, the world narrowed down to warmth and rain and his hands sliding carefully up your back beneath his jacket.

Every touch unhurried, intentional.

Your heartbeat felt enormous now because this was different, not frantic, not impulsive. Just intimacy unfolding slowly between two people who had already fallen hopelessly in love, and Mark kissed you like he knew it, too.

The courthouse gala.

Which sounded significantly more glamorous than it actually was. Mostly, it involved attorneys drinking expensive wine while pretending they enjoyed networking.

Still, it mattered. The gala was one of the few nights when every attorney, judge, and staff member would gather outside the courtroom, their professional masks slipping just enough for everyone to see each other as people. 

For you and Mark, it felt like stepping into the world as a real couple for the first time—no secrets, no keeping your distance. It wasn't just an event. It was a quiet announcement to the people who had become a kind of family, proof that everything between you had changed, and apparently, dressing up mattered to Mark far more than expected.

You discovered this when he showed up at your apartment to pick you up and completely stopped moving the second you opened the door.

Silence, long silence. Your stomach flipped nervously. 

“What?” Mark just stared, actually stared.

Dark suit. Black tie. One hand still frozen against the doorway like he’d forgotten why he was there.

“Mark?”

His eyes lifted slowly back to yours. The look on his face nearly destroyed you.

You had spent an hour getting ready. Soft black dress, hair curled, makeup carefully done, but the way Mark looked at you now made you feel devastatingly beautiful.

“You look…” He stopped once, visibly collecting himself. “Jesus Christ.”

Heat flooded your cheeks instantly.

“You clean up okay yourself.”

Mark laughed quietly under his breath, still staring.

Then softly, “I had a whole speech in my head on the drive over.”

Your heart fluttered helplessly. “Yeah?”

“It’s gone now.”

You smiled.

Mark physically looked affected by it, like every soft thing you did still landed somewhere deep inside him.

Then his gaze dropped slowly down the length of your dress before returning upward, and the temperature changed suddenly.

Your pulse stumbled. “Mark.”

“That dress is deeply unfair.”

You laughed breathlessly. “We’re already late.”

“I’m aware.”

Yet somehow neither of you moved.

Mark stepped inside slowly instead, one hand settling at your waist. Close enough now that you could smell his cologne and feel warmth radiating through his suit jacket.

“You know what the problem is?” he murmured.

“What?”

“I’m trying very hard to behave like a professional adult.”

Your heartbeat turned catastrophic. “And?”

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.

“You opened the door looking like this.”

You kissed him first; you couldn’t help it.

Mark made a low, surprised sound against your lips before immediately kissing you back harder, one hand tightening at your waist while the other slid into your hair carefully, like he already knew exactly how to hold you.

You stumbled backward into the apartment wall with a breathless laugh. Mark followed instantly, kissing you deeper until both of you forgot entirely about the gala for several dangerous minutes.

By the time you finally arrived at the courthouse ballroom, both of you looked suspiciously flushed.

Evelyn noticed almost instantly. “Oh my God,” she muttered. “You two absolutely made out in the parking garage.”

“We did not,” Mark lied calmly as you nearly choked on champagne.

The night passed in a blur after that.

Music. Laughter. Crystal glasses clinking beneath warm gold lights while attorneys and judges drifted through the ballroom pretending they weren’t all deeply exhausted people wearing expensive clothes.

Mark’s hand rested against your lower back nearly the entire evening, not possessive, instinctive. Like somewhere along the way, his body had simply decided this was where he was meant to keep you.

People kept stopping him for work conversations, but even as he discussed motions or witness timelines, his attention kept drifting back to you every few seconds. Checking, always checking, like he still couldn’t fully believe you were there.

At one point during a slow song, Mark pulled you gently onto the dance floor.

You stared up at him in surprise. “You dance?”

“Badly.”

“You prosecute organized crime.”

“That skillset does not transfer.”

You laughed softly as his arms settled around you, and suddenly the ballroom noise faded away.

There was just Mark, warm hands, tired eyes, softer than you’d ever seen them before.

“You happy?” you asked quietly.

Mark looked at you for a long moment before answering.

“With you?” His thumb brushed gently along your waist. “Always.”

Your heart folded in on itself, and you rested your forehead briefly against his shoulder, smiling helplessly when his arms tightened around you.

“Careful,” you murmured. “People might think you like me.”

Mark’s mouth brushed your temple.

“Let them.”

The music swelled softly around you. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just swayed together beneath ballroom lights while rain tapped quietly against courthouse windows far above the city.

Then Mark glanced down at you again, and the look on his face nearly stopped your heart.

Not longing, not tension, something quieter, fuller, like love had settled so deeply into him it had become part of the way he looked at the world now.

“You know,” he said softly, “you’re wearing my ability to think clearly.”

You blinked up at him. “What?”

“That dress.”

Heat rushed instantly into your cheeks. “You mentioned that already.”

“I’m mentioning it again.”

“You’re impossible.”

Mark hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

Then, lower, “Maybe. But you have a terrible habit of making impossible feel worth it.”

Your breath caught, because he said things like that now — softly, casually devastating — like honesty had become second nature between you.

Later, much later, after the gala ended and the courthouse emptied into cold midnight streets, Mark drove you home in comfortable, exhausted silence.

The city lights blurred gold outside the windows, rain streaked softly across the windshield, while low jazz hummed quietly through the speakers. His hand rested loosely over yours on the center console the entire drive.

When you reached your apartment building, neither of you moved immediately. 

Mark looked so handsome; it was dangerous.

“You should come upstairs,” you said softly.

His eyes lifted to yours instantly, and the air changed.

“Are you sure?” The gentleness of the question made your chest ache, because even now, Mark treated your heart like something precious.

You nodded once. “Yes.”

Silence settled between you then, heavy now, meaningful.

Mark leaned forward first and kissed you softly before either of you could get nervous.

The elevator ride upstairs felt impossibly intimate. His hand rested warm against the small of your back the entire way. Neither of you spoke much once the apartment door closed behind you.

You didn’t need to. The tension between you had changed over time into something deeper than desperation, trust, wanting, love.

Mark loosened his tie slowly while watching you across the room, and your heart skipped hard at the sight.

“You’re staring again,” you whispered.

“You’re beautiful,” he replied immediately, like it wasn’t even a question anymore.

The honesty of it hit deep.

You stepped closer first. Mark’s hands found your waist instinctively, gentle, always gentle with you.

The kiss this time was slower than before. No frantic courthouse urgency. Just warmth, affection. Months of built-up tenderness are finally given space to breathe.

You felt the exact moment the restraint left him, not roughness, just honesty, like Mark had finally stopped holding himself back from loving you fully.

He kissed you carefully between soft laughter and whispered reassurances, forehead resting against yours every few moments like he needed to stay close.

“You okay?” he murmured quietly at one point.

You nodded immediately, fingers brushing his jaw. “Yeah.”

Mark kissed you again, softer this time, reverent enough to make your throat tighten emotionally. The rest unfolded slowly, tenderly.

Your fingers loosened his tie fully before pulling it free, and Mark watched you the entire time, dark-eyed and quiet, like he was barely holding himself together.

Clothes abandoned piece by piece between quiet kisses and nervous smiles, and Mark looking at you like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

There was nothing hurried or careless about him. He touched you like someone learning something sacred by heart, and you melted into him instantly, your hands sliding into his hair as his mouth moved against yours with growing warmth.

There was no rush, no urgency, only intimacy unfolding softly between two people already hopelessly in love. Even when the kiss deepened, his hands stayed gentle along your back and waist, careful in a way that made your chest ache, like he was still afraid of pushing too far too fast.

You broke apart only long enough to breathe, and Mark rested his forehead briefly against yours.

“You can tell me to stop at any point,” he murmured softly.

Your heart physically hurt, not because the words surprised you, but because they didn’t; because this was who he was with you—attentive, tender, and terrified of hurting you even accidentally—so you touched his face gently.

“I know.”

His eyes closed briefly at that, like the words had reached somewhere tender in him.

Then you kissed him first, and something in Mark unraveled completely.

The restraint softened after that—not into anything rough or overwhelming, but into something more honest, more wanting. He kissed you like he had spent months holding himself back and still couldn’t quite believe you were here in his apartment, touching him back.

Your fingers slipped slowly beneath the collar of his shirt, finding warm skin and the steady beat of his heart. Mark inhaled sharply when your hands moved against him.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered softly against his mouth.

A rough, quiet laugh escaped him.

“So are you.”

The nervousness might have embarrassed you with anyone else, but not with him, because Mark looked nervous too. Not uncertain, just emotionally exposed in a way you had never seen before, like this mattered to him enough to make him vulnerable.

That realization softened every remaining edge of fear inside you.

You kissed him slower, then gentler, and Mark made a quiet sound against your lips that nearly shattered your heart.

“Come here,” he murmured softly after a moment.

The bedroom felt strangely intimate in the low apartment light, not because of what might happen, but because it was his.

There were books abandoned on the nightstand, half-finished case notes beside the bed, and reading glasses folded neatly near the lamp—small pieces of a life no one else really got to see.

Mark sat on the edge of the bed for a second, looking up at you as you stood between his knees, and suddenly the air shifted again.

It was quieter now, more serious, and your heartbeat fluttered nervously beneath your ribs.

Mark noticed, and his hands settled carefully along your hips.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” he said softly.

The sincerity in his voice nearly undid you.

You smiled shakily. You were breathing hard, skin flushed, eyes wide. “I know”

Mark reached up. Brushed your hair from your face. His voice, when it came, was low. Steady. Reverent. “And I mean that.”

“I know,” you repeated gently.

His eyes searched yours carefully, like he was making absolutely certain.

Then your fingers brushed softly along his jaw.

“I want this too.” You reached for him. He had his hand in his hair. Lips trembling.

The look on his face afterward was almost unbearably tender, like those words meant more to him than you realized.

Mark kissed you again slowly, drawing you closer between his knees as his hands slid carefully along your back. Every touch felt deliberate and reverent, as if he were trying to memorize you, too.

He undressed you slowly, reverently—each movement full of aching tenderness, as if he wanted to memorize the taste and feel of your skin. He never rushed, never took more than you were willing to give, letting you feel cherished and adored in every careful touch.

He kissed every inch he revealed: your collarbone, the soft swell of your breasts, the trembling skin of your stomach, each kiss accompanied by a whispered promise, a gentle reassurance that you were beautiful, wanted, and safe. When his fingers hooked the band of your panties, he paused, gazing up at you through the dim light, his eyes dark with devotion and longing. In that moment, you felt completely seen.

You nodded, biting your lip. “Please.”

He eased you back onto the bed with infinite care, then dropped to his knees before you, as if worshiping the very ground you lay upon. His lips brushed the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, and the soft groan that left him was full of awe at your vulnerability and trust.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice raw. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet, and you’re already trembling for me.”

Your head fell back against the pillows as his mouth found you, his tongue moving in gentle, worshipful circles—first soft and teasing, then deeper, as if he needed to learn all the ways he could bring you pleasure. Each stroke was a vow, each moan a confession of how much he needed you.

“Mark—oh—”

The sound of his name on your lips made him shiver. He moaned into you, tongue moving slowly, savoring the taste of your desire. Your thighs quivered around his shoulders, hands tangling in the sheets as you surrendered to his tenderness.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against you, his voice a velvet promise. “Say it.”

You gasped, breathless. “I’m yours. Always.”

“Again,” he pleaded softly, his mouth never leaving your skin.

“I’m yours—Mark, I’m—” Your voice broke on a trembling moan as he coaxed you higher, his lips and tongue worshipping you until you shattered beneath his touch.

You came like a wave breaking gently but powerfully on the shore—your body arching, shaking, his name torn from your lips. And still, he didn’t stop. He kissed and licked you through every aftershock, his low moans reverent, until you lay trembling, overcome by the depth of his love.

“Mark—please, need you…”

He rose from between your legs, face flushed, mouth glistening with the evidence of you.

“You sure?”

“Please.”

He undressed slowly, every movement reverent, one hand always reaching back for you—brushing your cheek, tracing your jaw, as if he couldn’t bear to lose contact for even a heartbeat. It was as though he wanted you to feel cherished in every lingering touch, to know you were precious, wanted, adored.

You took him in—every muscle, every quiet strength, and all the vulnerable, human parts he’d hidden from the rest of the world. In this moment, he was wholly yours, and your breath caught with the wonder of it.

He stood before you, completely bare, and you saw not just his body, but the love he offered so openly—unshielded, unguarded. The sight of him, so beautiful and so entirely yours, made your heart pound with something deeper than desire.

He lowered himself over you, hands tender in your hair as he pressed soft, lingering kisses along the heated curve of your neck, each one a silent vow.

“I’m going to go slow,” he whispered, voice trembling with emotion. You felt the restraint in him, the way he held himself back, even now, for you. It made your chest ache with love, with gratitude for the care he showed you, even as he came undone in your arms. 

When he entered you—inch by inch, your body stretching to welcome him, drawing him deeper—you felt the fullness of being loved completely, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“God,” he groaned, voice breaking. “You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

Your legs opened to him, welcoming, and your hand found his arm, fingers curling into his skin as if to anchor yourself to this moment.

Your hips met his, rocking together in a slow rhythm, each deep thrust a steady promise—a devotion wordless and true.

You clung to him, pressing trembling kisses to his neck, his jaw, his lips, each one a confession, a prayer, a thank you for all the ways he loved you.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice trembling with awe and certainty.

Mark’s rhythm faltered instantly, his whole body stilling for one breath as his face softened above you. He looked at you like the words had reached straight through him, past every defense he had ever built.

Tears blurred your vision, not from fear, but from the overwhelming tenderness of it all—the trust, the devotion, the terrifying certainty that you would have handed him your heart in any room, in any life, and known he would hold it carefully.

His hand found your face again, his thumb brushing the faint quiver of your bottom lip.

“I love you,” he whispered back, voice low and unsteady.

He kissed you with aching softness, and fucked with you slowly, completely, one hand cradling your face while the other held your hip, grounding you to him. 

Every touch felt like a promise, his palms running slow and deliberate over the curve of your back, tracing fire along your spine. His breath warmed your neck, the scruff of his jaw brushing your sensitive skin as he pressed close. 

Your skin prickled with sensation when his thumb circled just beneath your breast, careful, reverent, lingering as he mapped every inch of you with his hands. The scent of him—clean soap, sharp cologne, the faint salt of sweat—filled the softness between your bodies, anchoring you in the moment. 

Every breath between you felt like surrender. The slide of his body against yours made you keen quietly, the friction dizzying, your thighs trembling around his hips as you rocked together. He asked for nothing you did not give willingly, and you gave it all to him gladly, arching into his touch, trusting the tenderness in his hands as much as the love in his voice.

Your moans filled the room—his low and guttural, yours high and desperate. This was him being careful with you.

Your fingers brushed through his hair, and he leaned into the touch like he had been starving for it longer than either of you knew.

“You’re okay?” he whispered against your mouth.

The question cracked something open inside you.

You nodded, though your eyes burned again. “More than okay.”

His expression softened so deeply it almost hurt to look at him. You pulled him down and kissed him before the ache in his voice could ruin you completely.

His hand laced with yours against the pillow, fingers tightening as if he needed something to hold onto. His body was warm over yours, every movement steady and consuming, drawing you deeper into the aching heat building low inside you. 

The pleasure rose slowly at first, then all at once, sharp and overwhelming, until that desperate, unmistakable want filled your chest and pulled you closer to the edge with every breath.

“Mark,” you gasped, his name breaking from you like a plea.

His lips brushed your skin, voice rough and breathless.

“I know,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You whimpered his name, soft and trembling.

“Please, Mark—”

He answered by pressing his forehead to yours, breath breaking as he held you close. Every movement slowed into something deeper, more tender, less like hunger and more like surrender. 

With a broken moan and a final, achingly deep thrust, and when he finally came apart with you, he spilled inside you, flooding you with warmth, every muscle in his body trembling as he surrendered to the pleasure. He let out a quiet, shattering moan that spoke of love as much as longing, leaving you both utterly undone.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Your bodies stayed tangled beneath the sheets, hearts still racing, warmth settling slowly between you as the room softened around the edges. You held him, and he let himself be held.

Soft.

Safe.

Curled together beneath the dim apartment light, Mark kept you pressed against his chest in complete silence for a long time. His fingers moved lazily through your hair, gentle and absent, like he needed to remind himself you were still there.

You traced gentle, sleepy patterns across his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips—a rhythm you already knew by heart. “You know…”

Mark hummed quietly, his warmth surrounding you in the hush of the room.

“You were right about one thing.”

His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer, as if he could tuck you even deeper into his embrace. “That’s rare. Continue.”

You smiled softly against his skin, letting the affection in you spill over.

“You are complicated.”

A low, fond laugh rumbled through his chest, and you felt it vibrate against your cheek. “Yeah?”

You tilted your head up, meeting his eyes in the dim light, searching for all the things you couldn’t say out loud.

“But you’re worth it every minute of it.”

Mark went very still, something shining in his eyes that made your breath catch.

He pressed his forehead gently to yours in the darkness, a silent promise echoing between you.

When he kissed you again, it felt less like falling and more like coming home to the place your heart had always been searching for.

Later, as dawn pressed quietly at the edges of the blinds and the first sounds of the city rose from the street below, you woke tangled together, warmth and comfort anchoring you to the moment.

Mark was still asleep beside you, his arm draped over your waist, breath slow and soft against your shoulder. For the first time in a long while, you realized there was no rush to untangle yourself, no urge to put any distance between you. 

You thought of the day ahead—coffee shared in the kitchen, long hours at the courthouse, lunches snatched between hearings—but this time, you faced it as a team.

When Mark blinked awake and smiled, you both knew you’d keep choosing each other, not just tonight, not just in this room, but in all the mornings still to come.