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luci-in-trenchcoats · 5 days ago

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Mark, buddy, you caught feels. You HAVE to tell her now. Especially since she's catching them too. The way he just goes to her by default without even thinking, the way he wants to stay with her when he knows he should go...this man needs a break.

Leah made such good points to Mark about owning up the truth to reader. Mark is totally stuck in his own head of thinking no one cares about him again when here her friend is literally telling him that's not the case. This isn't casual hookups anymore, it really is like her friends were teasing, essentially dating, and Mark owes her the truth. 🥺 I wish these two could have a serious conversation but I fear it won't happen until some kind of incident occurs. And considering where we are in the timeline, I think that might be right around the corner!

Better Safe Than Starry-Eyed

Abandon the Ship Pt. IV

And you say I abandoned the ship, but I was going down with it...

Series Summary: It starts with a chase and ends with his name in your mouth. He says it’s just for fun. Late nights. No strings. No promises. You were never supposed to matter. But he keeps coming back like a habit he can't quit. He’s bleeding time, and you’re getting too close to something meant to burn out fast.

Pairing: Mark Meachum x nanny!reader

Warnings: +18 due to language and smut (the handcuffs & ice cubes edition), no strings attached/the casual kind, sprinkle of fluff, angst, hurt, drinking & girls night, some awkwardness and tension, set shortly after 1x04, a plan B ending

Word Count: 11.3k

A/N: Ya know, I kept wondering why I write so slowly these days and can't seem to do more than a part every two weeks of this series before I realized one part has the length of three 😂 Apparently, it's a full thing now we're doing, guys lol.

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Find your soundtrack to this series here: California Nights 🌌

You’re barefoot on the couch with a glass of wine in one hand and a throw pillow tucked into your ribs. Maya’s lounging at the other end, her contagious laugh bouncing off the walls as she tells you about her latest disastrous audition. Leah’s halfway off the armchair, toes barely brushing the floor as she digs into the salty snacks bowl with idle, surgical precision.

The living room smells like coconut face masks and those vanilla candles you got half-off at an estate sale down the street last week. The windows are cracked, and it’s almost too warm for blankets in July, but everyone’s got one anyway. The TV’s muted in the background with Netflix’s newest season of Love is Blind.

“God, that asshole’s like a walking red flag,” Maya mutters into her wine glass with a little glare toward the screen.

“He’s not gonna marry her. Don’t worry,” Leah chimes in with a mouth full of popcorn. “She strikes me as a smart woman.”

“Yeah, and that dick has commitment issues bigger than his brain,” you add, comfortingly poking Maya’s thigh with your toes.

Tonight is all about her, which means giving plenty of emotional support and doing a ton of trash talking about the shitty ex who made it as a contestant onto reality TV. It’s probably the most LA thing to happen in the dating world, so of course, you had to gather the coven for this event.

The three of you have known each other since middle school – since Maya dragged both you and Leah into a supply closet after art class, leaned conspiratorially closer, and said she thought the three of you should all be friends for life because the vibes match.

And well, that’s exactly what happened.

The three of you then moved to Los Angeles over a decade ago and attended USC together. Maya is the actress – the fun friend who always has the best ideas and best stories to share. Leah, straight-A med student turned saint, is the focused and reasonable one who always has the best advice and keeps you and Maya in line. And God knows the two of you need her like oxygen to survive, or you would’ve ended up as a drug smuggling mule in Thailand for some guy named Chad a while ago.

And then there’s you – the drifter of the group. The business major with an epiphany during her senior year of college who switched to education and musical theater and quit her junior-level position at a crazily high-paying investment bank after being forced to watch her boss’ three-year-old for an afternoon. But you had more fun in those few hours than you’d had in years. Then you had a mental breakdown in the bathtub, hence the revelation that you only picked a major that makes your parents proud.

So, you dropped everything the next day, got a babysitting job, and decided to become a nanny full-time.

Sure, it was supposed to be only temporary – just till you gained some clarity and figured out what you really wanted out of life. That was eight years ago, however.

Now, you like your job and feel like you could settle in it, but whenever someone asks, you still tell them you’re figuring things out. The problem is, the closer you are to thirty, the more furrowed brows you’re receiving in response – and the more your mother is calling to say she’s “worried about you.”

“It was a nice dick, though,” Maya pouts, refilling her glass to make it an even four tonight. “Probably why I put up with his bullshit for so long. Because it was long.”

“Oh my God,” Leah snorts and clasps a hand over her mouth to keep the laughter (and wine) from spilling out.

You, on the other hand, become a little too quiet. Maybe because Maya’s comment hit home for some reason, although your own situation is completely different. You’re not unknowingly dating a serial cheater like her and ignoring the red flags because the sex is mind-blowing. You know exactly what this thing with Mark is.

At least, you think you do.

“So how’s the new family?” Leah asks you, sinking deeper into your comfortable flea market armchair. “Still shockingly normal?”

“Alarmingly,” you reply. “They pack their own lunches, talk about neighborhood watch meetings, and leave actual tips at restaurants. No weird LA cult energy.”

“So no microdosing toddlers with oat milk?” Maya quips.

“No guided meditation sound baths at dawn?” Leah adds with a grin.

You shake your head, laughing. “Nope, just a backyard, a bucket with chalk, and a mom who doesn’t have a podcast and makes the best lasagna I’ve ever tasted.”

“Good. I’m happy for you. You actually seem like you’re glowing.” Leah raises her glass. “To boring, beautiful normal.”

Maya grins. “To consistent paychecks and carbs.”

“To me not crying in my car every day.” You clink your glass with hers and are still laughing when Maya’s next comment nearly makes you choke on your sip of wine.

“Honestly, you should give me the number of that cop,” she says.

You harshly swallow your current sip but don’t move the glass away from your lips as if it’s a shield that helps you cover your fluster. While you usually share everything with them in a group text within the span of five minutes, you haven’t told them about Mark yet, and you certainly haven’t planned on doing that tonight either.

Your reasons are various, but mostly, you have no idea what to tell them. You don’t even know what to name this thing with Mark yet yourself.

“What? Why?” You try to sound casual, but Leah’s eyebrow is already twitching in your periphery.

“So I can write that asshole a thank you letter for getting you fired and finally getting you away from Malibu bitch,” Maya retorts without a second thought.

“Right, yeah. That guy,” you mumble and force a huffed laugh into your wine glass. Honestly, you think your own ‘thank you’ to Mark sufficed plenty.

But they both start staring at you with suspicion. Leah narrows her eyes. Maya tilts her head. Clearly, you’re not a great actress.

“Why do you sound cagey?” Leah’s brow furrows more by the passing second. “You’re being cagey.”

You shrug it off. “I’m not cagey.”

“Oh my God! You totally are!” Maya chimes in and points an accusatory finger at you. “That’s your cagey face!”

“Yeah, you’ve been cagey all night,” Leah adds astutely. “Did something happen with that cop? You never told us what happened after he abandoned you on that parking lot.”

“No, uh, nothing,” you murmur and try to drown the rest of the lie in your wine, but you know they won’t believe you anyway. “He came by later that night to apologize.”

“Wait…” Maya’s brows shoot up. “Here? He came to the house? Your house?”

“Yep,” you admit and bite your lips. “Showed up with a bottle of whiskey.”

Maya gapes at you. “Holy–… Did you hook up with hot cop?!”

You open and close your mouth a few times before deciding to divert. “Who said he’s hot?”

“You did,” Maya shoots like a pistol and already gestures for Leah to pull up the group chat on her phone like it’s evidence in your horny trial.

Leah dramatically clears her throat and proceeds to read your insanity out loud, “‘Some asshole cop just stole the bitch’s car for a fucking chase and left me stranded with the gremlins at Echo. But fuck me, the guy was hot. I don’t know if it’s because he was running so fast or because the sun was scorching, but I wish he ran over me repeatedly.’”

“Okay! That was clearly me suffering from a heat stroke,” you defend.

Maya snorts. “Alright, but did he end up running over you repeatedly?”

You huff a sigh through your nose and grumble a “yes” with an eye roll.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Maya asks between her laughter. “You usually never wait this long.”

“I don’t know.” You shrug again. “It all happened pretty fast and I was busy finding a job this week and getting adjusted to a new family… Didn’t have time yet.”

“To text us you fucked the hot cop?” Leah raises a brow. “Yeah, I don’t buy it. What’s going on?”

“Yeah, how did it happen?” Maya joins her interrogation. “Did he just show up at your door with a bottle of whiskey, and you invited him in to take his clothes off?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” you deadpan. “Figured he owed me.”

“Dude!” Maya enthusiastically slaps your thigh, causing you to giggle. “So you seriously had a one-night stand with the hot cop?”

“Yup, one-night stand,” you repeat and lead your wine glass back to your lips. “Seven nights in a row.”

The living room explodes into silence before Maya gasps so loudly you’re sure she’s sucking all available air of the entire planet into her lungs.

“WHAT?!”

Leah, on the other hand, is less shocked, more calm, and more logical about it. “So this is an ongoing thing?”

“I don’t know,” you say with another shrug of your shoulders, but this time it’s an honest answer.

“What does that mean?” Maya downright begs you to explain further with a pleading gleam in her hazel eyes.

“Alright,” you sigh and set your glass down on the coffee table before settling in. “We hooked up that night, and it was great. It was obviously a one-time thing. I mean, I knew he only came by to shoot his shot. He tried to give me the whole ‘I don’t do commitment’ speech in the morning–”

“Why do men always do this?” Maya interrupts, shaking her head.

“My theory is they can’t handle ego death. But I swear every time a guy looks at me in the morning and goes, ‘Hey, so…’, I wanna jump them for an entirely different reason,” you retort. “Anyways, he leaves. I move on with my life.”

“Obviously,” Leah comments with a playful smirk.

“But then, guess who’s waiting for me on my porch that very evening when I get home?” you continue.

Maya’s mouth falls open. “He came back?! What, like a booty call? Aren’t you supposed to text first?”

“That’s what I said!” you agree wholeheartedly. “But I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he’s older and they like to do everything in person, right?”

“How much older?” Leah asks with an arched eyebrow.

“Not that much. Ten years, give or take,” you reply and watch both of them nod their acceptance. What the hell did they think? That you hooked up with a cop shortly before retirement?

“And you guys are dating?” Leah asks next.

You can already read the creases in her brow like a palm reader – she’s thinking, ‘But you’ve never dated anyone since–’ Then the sentence stops before finishing, and deafening silence consumes the room until Maya pulls another disastrous audition story out of her ass.

“We’re not dating,” you clarify. “He suggested a… casual… whatever… thing, and I agreed.”

“Really? You?” Leah lifts a brow in doubt. “You, who said one night every few months is enough to hold you above water?”

You grimace. “I know my own speech, thank you. And why wouldn’t I agree? I mean, it’s kinda perfect. I get sex every day with a guy who’s hot and uncomplicated and isn’t a dick or awkward after and hasn’t surprised me yet with some weird sexual request.”

Maya snorts into her hands. “Oh, remember that guy you met in Santa Barbara who wanted you to put a glass dolphin up his–”

You hold up a hand and give a shake of your head. “Don’t remind me, and it was a whale. I remember because he specifically wanted me to speak whale-ish while doing it. You know, like Dory in Finding Nemo?”

Maya bursts into full laughter and breaks in half. But it’s good. The distracting part of the evening is working because she doesn’t even notice her ex proposing on screen.

Leah chuckles. “Probably shouldn’t have told him you’re a nanny and know every Disney movie by heart.”

You nod in agreement. “God, guys watch too much porn in general, but I blame Ben Affleck for the whole nanny kink.”

“Me too. Affleck is trash,” Maya says. “Matt Damon is super nice, though. I met him at an after-party once.”

“Oh-kay,” Leah steers the conversation back to topic with laser focus. “So you guys aren’t dating, just hooking up? He comes over, you have sex, and he leaves again?”

“Uh, I mean… there’s a little hanging out involved,” you admit dodgily. This is the part you don’t really know how to explain – where the water gets a little muddy. “He usually brings takeout, we hang out, watch some show or a movie, then we have sex – not always in that order – and he stays the night, leaves in the morning…”

“You guys watch TV, and he sleeps over?” Even Maya is lifting a brow now. “Is there cuddling? Is he spooning you?”

“No! There’s no cuddling or spooning going on,” you insist, but then you purse your lips, head swaying from side to side. “Barely any cuddling,” you correct. “Just food, sex, little bit of chatting and streaming entertainment, and minor cuddling. Like I said, no big deal.”

“That sounds like dating,” Maya points out in sing-song and looks almost guilty for not being able to lend you support in this battle.

“It’s not dating, trust me,” you assure them more convincingly this time. “Honestly, I don’t even know I’d want to date him if it were an option.”

“Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Maya mutters and drinks more of her wine.

“Yeah, I agree with Maya, which isn’t a good sign either,” Leah agrees and sends you a worried look.

“Is he weird?”

“No, he’s… alright. He’s a good guy overall, you know?” you tell them and then musingly chew your lip. “I mean, he’s smart and funny in that devil-may-care way I like and even kind, considering he’s trying so hard to be an asshole. And that’s the thing – he’s kind of trying too hard not to care. But there’s just something… dark about him, I guess.”

“Like a serial killer?” Maya checks in earnest.

“No,” you snort. “It’s not… necessarily in a bad way or even in a threatening one. I guess I just have a hard time reading him. I don’t know what’s going on in his head, but I know it’s something. He doesn’t share a lot, but he seems… I don’t know. Sad, maybe? Lonely? I don’t think he has a lot of people in his life. And look, neither do I aside from you guys, so what if we hang out a little and keep each other company? I kinda like talking to someone about my day when I get home. Still doesn’t have to mean anything or be more than that. It’s like a friends with benefits thing, only that we’re becoming friends while we’re already having sex.”

“Still sounds like dating,” Leah teases. “But look, if you’re happy, we’re happy for you, even though we both think you’re being a little delusional right now.”

You laugh loudly. “My, thank you. I appreciate that.” Then you become a little pensive again and let out a sigh. “I’m honestly not even sure about the whole friends thing. I mean, mostly, it’s just me talking and him listening. But I don’t really know a lot about him.”

“Nothing?” Maya asks in wonder.

“I know his first and last name, what car he drives, what he does for a living, and that he’s working on some big case that seems to stress him out, but I don’t really know,” you explain. “And I don’t know where he lives or what his birthday is or if he has any family, siblings, friends… That kinda stuff, you know?”

Leah speaks up, swirling the wine in her glass. “Did you ask him?”

“Not really,” you admit. “He never asks me anything beyond work or how my day has been, so I don’t really feel like he wants me to ask him any of that stuff, either. And every time I do ask him something, he kind of dodges the question.”

“That is weird,” Maya agrees. “And this has been going on for a week? Oh my God, is he coming by later?”

“No, he’s not coming… I think,” you say and bite the inside of your cheek almost bloody. You haven’t been this invested in solving a mystery since your last true crime documentary. “This is where it really gets weird because he randomly texted me mid-day to say he’d be ‘off the grid for a few days’ after coming by for a week straight and never announcing himself at all. Either he’s really on a case thingy or some shit, or it’s the most elaborate way to ghost someone.”

“You haven’t heard from him since?” Leah asks.

You shake your head. “Nope. It’s been three days of crickets,” you reply. “And I know I shouldn’t be worried, but I am a little worried. I mean, he’s a cop, so what if he was shot in the field, and I find out he actually died months later?”

“So you do wanna see him again,” Leah deduces cleverly.

“I mean… I like him enough to sleep with him. I just–… don’t know anything about him, and I’m not sure I even want to,” you conclude. “I guess I just like things the way they are. I’m happy, he’s happy, and everybody gets what they want. It’s a good thing.”

“Alright,” Leah says and raises her palms in surrender.

“So what’s the sex like?” Maya asks on cue.

It’s always the same – Leah grills you about safety and checks if the guy’s been treating you right before Maya comes in with the unhinged sex questions that range from orgasm numbers to dick length. You do love talking to them, though, because it helps you sort through your own messy feelings and thoughts.

“The sex is–” You click your tongue, trying to find the right word for an otherworldly experience.

“Mind-blowing?” Leah offers.

“Wild?” Maya suggests.

You smack your lips. “Carnal.”

“Carnal?!” Maya chokes out and almost spills her glass onto your couch. “Who the fuck says carnal?!”

“I couldn’t think of another word, okay?” you protest.

Leah’s laughing too hard to breathe. “Look at you, one English lit class in college, and you suddenly become Jane Austen.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. “It fit, alright?”

“Biblical,” Maya says with a wink. “Wrath of God levels of hot.”

“I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t.” Leah grins over the rim of her glass.

“Does he make you come?” Maya asks next with the seriousness of Diane Swayer.

“Every time,” you tell her as if you can’t quite believe it yourself. “But I don’t want something serious. Not right now. This is… nice, you know?”

“Seriously, this is the best thing you’ve ever done since hooking up with that hot Italian race car driver in Milan,” Maya says firmly.

You snort a laugh and smirk. “Kinda funny since that guy’s name was Marco.”

“I’ll remember that name next time I have a free minute for dating apps again,” Leah sighs wistfully.

“Bad day?” you check.

“Same, same,” she replies and gives you a vague hand gesture. “Never fun telling parents their kid might die.”

Before you can reply, there are three knocks on your door. The sound is firm and familiar. It doesn’t sound like the sweet teenage boy with braces who usually delivers your pizza, but you rise and walk to the door nonetheless, half-distracted by Maya finally realizing her ex got engaged.

But when you pull the door open, you stop breathing. Because it’s not the pizza guy – it’s him.

Mark.

Back from wherever the hell he’s been, standing on your doorstep like nothing’s changed.

It’s the same invasive thought every time Mark ends up on your doorstep:

He shouldn’t be here.

It’s been echoing through his skull for the thirty minutes it took him to drive from his house to yours. Hell, it’s probably been even longer than that. Maybe since the moment the prison van stopped rolling three nights ago and the last job started.

He’s had the perfect excuse to end this thing – whatever the hell this is.

He could go quietly and let this little love affair drift out like smoke. He could leave. He could say he was just driving by. He could let the silence do what it’s supposed to fucking do.

But instead, he exhales through his nose and lets his hand hover mid-air in front of your door, fist half-curled. Then he knocks – once, twice, three times.

Inside, laughter and muffled chatter bleeds through the door, glasses clink, and a high voice calls out something he can’t make out. It seems like you have visitors – girls’ night maybe.

Shit.

The front door swings open, and there you are – backlit in gold, lips parted in mid-laugh. You’re all glowing cheeks and wine-hazed warmth, but the second you see him, your expression shifts.

Confusion mixed with a tiny bit of surprise haunts your features first. You’re not shocked, exactly, but you’re definitely… thrown.

“Mark?”

“Hi,” he greets you lighter than he feels and gives a faint smile. “Uh, sorry, didn’t mean to crash anything.”

“No, uh, it’s fine.” You throw a glance back into the living room for a second before stepping onto the porch instinctively, pulling the door nearly shut behind you as if to shield him from whatever chaos is unfolding inside. “I just didn’t expect you. You didn’t, uh… text.”

“No, uh, right. Yeah…” He scratches the back of his neck and nods, lips pursed.

He realizes then how stupid this whole thing really is – what kind of a moron he’s being. What was he thinking? That you’d be at his beck and call whenever he got the sudden urge for company? That you’d be available whenever he needs you to be?

Of course, you have your own life, your own friends, your own plans in the evenings. Of course, you aren’t planning your day around his schedule or his moods – especially after being gone without a trace for three fucking days.

And still, a small, incredibly selfish part of him wants you to wait by the door for him and check your phone every hour in hopes of an update.

This is insane. Maybe it’s even a symptom of the disease in his brain.

“You said you’d be off the grid,” you point out softly like you need an excuse to turn him away. You’re very gentle with your rejection – he appreciates that.

“Yeah, I was,” Mark replies raspily and clears his dry fucking throat. “Job ended a few hours ago.”

He doesn’t say what kind of job because he can’t. He doesn’t say anything about a Belarusian dance hall, an Eastern European terrorist, or fissile material. He also doesn’t tell you about all the blood he saw, how fast his heart was pounding during the ambulance ride, or how his own recklessness and stupidity played into it.

But you’re quiet for a long moment, studying him – trying to read him. He knows you are and hates and loves it at the same time.

“You okay?” you finally ask as if you can see the pain and guilt plain as day on his face.

The question shouldn’t shake him the way it does, but it does. It fucking does. And for the first time, he feels the need to tell you the truth.

“Uh, well, to be honest…” He hesitates for a heartbeat but then pushes the words out like they don’t taste like metal. He swallows harshly. “We–, uh… I–, uhm, I lost someone from my team last night. Something went wrong, and, uhm… he didn’t make it.”

Your face softens. There’s that subtle flicker in your expression that he’s come to recognize. It’s the quiet empathy you don’t parade around but never hold back when it counts.

“Oh,” you say after a beat, taking it in. He can see the gears turning in your head before you find his eyes again. “I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

Mark nods once but doesn’t say more because he doesn’t know how. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and waits. For what? He doesn’t actually know.

You shift slightly on your feet, gesturing vaguely behind you. “Look, uhm, I’ve got friends over. It’s kinda girls’ night. You know, wine, gossip, trashy TV. But if it were any other night…”

You trail off, but not out of uncomfortableness. He doesn’t think you ever truly are. But he recognizes you’re giving him an easy out to flee whatever hellscape is waiting for him in your living room. Probably out of graciousness, maybe decency, or even the possibility to save yourself from your friends and not just him. It’s most likely a combo of all three.

“No, uh, I get it.” He says the words he’s supposed to say, clears his throat again, and even takes half a step back. But then–

Nothing.

His feet won’t fucking move more than that, and he doesn’t understand why. He knows he’s making this whole situation goddamn awkward, but he still doesn’t leave.

Because the truth is, he can’t stand being alone with himself tonight. He can’t sit in the dark while the voices play back everything he should’ve done differently.

He’s here because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

“Is that the hot cop?” a bright voice chimes from inside and becomes his saving grace. “Let him in! We promise we won’t bite!”

Mark lifts his head and meets your wide eyes. He sees the heat rush to your cheeks and feels the smirk spread on his lips. You close your eyes like you’re regretting all your life choices.

“Hot cop?” He cocks an eyebrow and watches you bite your lip.

“Ha, yeah…” A shaky little laugh leaves your throat. Your fingers tap the doorframe. “Look, uhm, if you wanna come inside and hang out, that’s fine. I mean, they’re gonna… leave… eventually.”

“Right, uhm…” He licks his lips, knowing full well he should decline the offer. “Well, uh, how much do they know?”

Your head bobs for a moment, then you blow a raspberry. “Everything?”

“Yeah, that tracks.” He nods and presses his lips into a tight line.

It’s not his first rodeo with the other gender after all, so it doesn’t come as a big shocker. He’s well aware women tell each other everything. Same reason Melinda’s friends always giggled behind their palms whenever he walked past them.

Jesus, he really is fucking desperate if his idea of fun is putting himself through that for an entire evening.

“You wanna come in?” You tilt your head and offer him a soft smile. “Fair warning, though, they’re drunk, they’ll ask a lot of inappropriate questions, and they will definitely roast you.”

He chuckles a little, scratching his throat. “Honestly? Noise sounds kinda nice right now.”

“Alright, your funeral,” you tease in sing-song and push the door open wider, stepping inside.

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

Fuck. She knows.

She doesn’t say anything to suggest she remembers him, but she’s studying him now, her smile tight, her posture a little more reserved than the rest. She’s clearly flipping through her mental file of where she’s seen him.

“Uh, guys, this is Mark,” you introduce him, gesturing at him like you’re bringing home a stray dog you hope won’t pee on the carpet. You point to the redhead on the armchair first. “And Mark, this is Leah. She’s a doctor at UCLA Med.”

Leah lifts her glass to him in greeting but doesn’t smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Mark says and swallows, trying to keep it casual. “You too.”

“She saves little kids from cancer, so she’s basically a saint,” the still-nameless brunette adds and shoots you a playful glare. “Which is why you should’ve introduced me first. Who wants to follow that act?”

You snort a small laugh. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” you deadpan and then look at him. “Mark, this is Maya. She’s an actress-slash-waitress-slash-magician’s assistant.”

“Actress, huh?” Mark quirks a brow. “Have I seen you in anything?”

“Uh, well, a few weeks ago, I was on an episode of Criminal Minds,” Maya tells him with eccentric charm. “I got murdered and zipped up in a body bag.”

He snorts. “Was it a good death?”

“Eh,” you say teasingly. “She had to stay in the body bag for three hours and had a panic attack.”

“Hey!” Maya protests and throws some popcorn at you. “My director said I was excellent at playing dead. I went in the bag twenty minutes before the scene, so I could go full method, you know?”

“Oh, I get it,” Mark says. “Improv’s the most important thing if you really wanna sell a role. You only get one shot.”

“Exactly!” Maya agrees enthusiastically. “Look at you, knowing your stuff. Where you a theater kid in high school, Mark?”

“Uh, nope, not even a little,” he replies and slowly settles down on the couch as you hand him a beer.

Maya slides closer on the floor and builds herself a comfy seat out of throw pillows, while you take the place next to him, but you’re still keeping plenty of space between his leg and yours – an entire ocean, if you asked him. But he can tell you’re trying to ensure no one mistakes him for a boyfriend, including him.

“I do some undercover work occasionally,” he adds but doesn’t know why. It’s information you don’t really need.

Your head whips toward him, eyebrows raised. “Really? You do?”

“Uh, yeah, sometimes,” he replies quickly and clears his throat.

“Cool,” you say quietly and nod.

Cool?!

Your ‘cool’ is equivalent to your ‘alright,’ and you never gift him more interest than that. Honestly, the more he hangs out with you, the bigger of a mystery you’re becoming to him. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around, though?

“No shit,” Maya says with a delighted gleam in her eyes. “That’s amazing! See, this is what I’m talking about. Method. Immersion. You do the whole thing? Like with a wig and fake name and everything?”

“No bad wig, but fake name? Definitely,” Mark answers and is surprised himself that he does. But this is harmless. He’s allowed to share that stuff. He’s just usually not allowing himself to do it, but maybe this little background information comes in handy in the future if he ever needs another excuse.

“It’s hard, isn’t it? Pretending to be someone else all the time and trying not to slip?” Maya says with so much nonchalance it’s almost painful.

“I’m sure he’s got plenty of experience in that,” Leah comments wryly.

She hasn’t said anything since she’s greeted him or even really smiled once, but he feels her eyes on him the entire time. Her body language is closed off, and she clearly doesn’t buy the performance. He’s sure she’s watching the way he sits next to you, noticing the slight graze of his arm against yours and the way your body unconsciously leans into his like a tide returning to shore.

She’s seeing things you don’t and doesn’t like any of it. And while Maya keeps lobbing questions like confetti, Leah judges in silence.

“Right, yeah, you’ve probably been doing this for a while.” Maya nods, oblivious to the subtle tension in the room. “People think it’s easy, but even playing dead is a craft that takes discipline. I didn’t blink once while I was lying face down on that carpet. Didn’t even scratch my nose.”

“Tell me about it,” Mark huffs a chuckle in agreement and tries to ignore Leah’s stare as best as he can. “Once had to fake OD’ing in a halfway house. Almost pissed myself holding my breath for too long.”

“Really?” Maya gasps and leans forward on her knees. “Can I pick your brain sometime about your methods?”

“Sure,” he replies kindly and gifts you a smile when you meet his eyes briefly with a grateful look that pretty much says ‘thank you for indulging my friends.’

Maya then effortlessly entertains the whole room for over an hour. She tells him about her second job as a magician’s assistant for children’s birthday parties. Her boyfriend’s the magician.

“He’s a sweet guy,” she says.

“And a little weird,” you add, giggling under your breath.

“Don’t you dare tell that story!” she warns you but is already laughing.

Mark chuckles, glancing at you. “What story?”

You smirk mischievously behind your wine glass. “During sex, he once pulled a coin out of her… Well, I think you can guess.”

Mark’s head snaps toward Maya, brows shooting high. “Seriously? And you’re still dating the guy?”

“He promised he’d never do that again! And like I said, he’s sweet. It’s hard to find a normal guy in LA, okay?” she defends, her bubbles of laughter echoing through the living room.

“At least it wasn’t a bunny,” Mark jokes and feels his cheeks warm when he hears you snort a loud laugh.

“Funny,” Maya retorts with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “What’s your weird thing, huh?”

Mark shrugs his shoulders and sips his beer. “Don’t think I have one.”

“Yet.” You grin.

He cocks a brow at you. “You waiting for that?”

You shrug coolly and wiggle your eyebrows. “Maybe.”

Maya’s lips then draw a mischievous smirk. “So, Detective Mark, ready for your interrogation?”

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh next to him and grab the wine bottle to refill your glass. “Do not answer anything she asks you.”

Mark just grins. “No promises.”

“How would you describe your guys’ sex life? Wild, mind-blowing, carnal?” Maya grins and casually takes a sip of her wine.

“Maya…” you growl warningly.

“Carnal?” Mark’s brow raises as he shoots you a glance. You’re sinking deeper into your couch cushions, trying not to look at him. “Is that the word you used?”

“Nope,” you reply, popping the p with feigned casualness. “Don’t know what that means. Never even heard that word before.”

Mark snorts and teasingly nudges your thigh with his knee.

“You believe that, Mark?” Maya prompts with a conspiratorial look.

Mark smirks in response, his eyes fixed on you. “Not even a little.”

“Believe what you want,” you huff playfully. “I’m not saying anything without a lawyer present.”

“Lawyering up already, huh? You know that makes you look more guilty, right?” he teases.

You break into soft laughter that you’re trying to contain. “Shut up.”

He barks a laugh and fights the urge to kiss you. If your friends weren’t here and watching him like an eagle, he would’ve done it already.

“Okay, so, next question. Have you ever handcuffed her?” Maya asks without an ounce of shame.

“Maya!” you gasp with a scolding look that makes him laugh.

“Uh, no, not yet,” Mark replies, biting back the amusement over your flushing cheeks.

“Interesting answer,” Maya muses with a level of seriousness close to a college professor. “Would you ever handcuff her?”

“Dear God,” you groan and bury your face in your palms.

He chuckles. “Only if she commits a felony.”

Mark glances at you and catches the heat in your cheeks and the way you try not to look directly at him now. He tries not to enjoy it too much but fails miserably.

“Maya, please stop talking,” you downright beg her.

“What? C’mon!” Maya protests. “It’s a friendship thing. I just wanna know if the cop’s worth his badge. I’m making sure you get everything you want out of this experience.”

“Honestly, I agree with her,” Mark teases you and gently bumps your arm with his shoulder, raising a brow. “You getting everything you want outta this?”

Your mouth falls open slightly. “Don’t encourage her,” you warn him playfully.

He watches you sip your wine, eyes a little brighter than before, and something twists in his chest. You’re relaxed and laughing with your friends, and all he wants to do is bottle the goddamn sound and take it with him. His hand somehow ends up on your thigh, just above the knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. You smile at him softly, and he matches it.

And that’s when Leah stands up abruptly, pretending to look at her phone. “I’m gonna grab some water.”

She leaves faster than his eyes can track her retreat to the kitchen. He wants to relax, play along with Maya’s teasing, and bask in the way your thigh presses against his, but Leah’s still in the forefront of his mind like a blinking red light. Her silence all night has said enough. She knows he’s not just a detective with a charming smirk and a late-night habit of showing up on your doorstep.

Honestly, he doesn’t even want to imagine what she thinks of him, much less what she’ll tell you once he’s gone, but he can hear the countdown ticking louder in his head now.

Only this time, his minutes with you are running out.

So, before he can even spin a plan to its fruition, he’s on his feet with an excuse to grab another beer and finds Leah already at the sink, filling her glass. She doesn’t look at him right away, so he opens the fridge, grabs a beer he doesn’t want, and gives himself a full five seconds to pull it together.

But Leah’s already turned from the sink before the timer’s up and is watching him now. She leans against the counter, water glass in hand, expression cool and collected.

“So, UCLA Med, huh?” Mark starts lightly with a clear of his throat and pretends this is part of normal fucking small talk, even though either party knows it really isn’t.

“Yup. And I help out at its satellite clinics,” Leah replies with a casual edge in her voice.

“Right, yeah…” Mark gives her a faint smile, nodding.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell her,” Leah says with less judgment than he expected.

Still, his heart drops so hard it feels like it hits tile when he hears those words. There’s no more pretending she doesn’t actually know. The truth is out. And for a second, all the smart-ass deflection dies in his throat – the badge-polish and the charm. It’s just him, bare, still holding a beer he doesn’t want with his stomach twisting itself into a goddamn knot.

He blinks in bewilderment and swallows. “What?”

“I won’t tell her where I know you from,” she clarifies with as much calm as possible, but he still clocks the bitterness in her voice.

He stiffens, hand tight around the bottle. He doesn’t answer right away, just unscrews the cap slowly and tosses it into the sink.

“So you do remember me,” he mutters and washes the realization down with a big gulp of beer.

“You were hard to miss in the waiting room.”

He scoffs a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, well, not my best fucking season.”

“It’s not my place, alright? But I think you should tell her,” she says.

Mark clicks his tongue, rubbing his jaw. “Look, uhm, I appreciate the advice. I do, okay? But I don’t think she needs to be involved in any of my shit. I don’t want her to be, you know? I don’t wanna drag her down with any of this… bullshit. This is supposed to be fun. Nothing more, alright? And she knows that, too.”

Leah’s brow creases significantly as she crosses her arms over her chest. Her head tilts. “What kind of cancer do you have?”

He taps his forehead in response.

“Glioblastoma?”

He nods and pockets his hands in his jeans. “Yup.”

“Jesus,” she huffs, more upset than he’s seen her so far. “You’re terminal? Seriously?” She runs a hand through her red locks, shaking her head. “Listen, what you’re doing might be fun now, but it won’t stay this way, alright? It’s gonna turn fast. You’re not gonna be able to keep this up much longer.”

“I know that,” he assures her calmly, but his teeth begin to grit.

“Does she?” Leah nods toward the living room. “What happens when you don’t show up one day? You want her to think she got ghosted by some asshole who used her and bailed? Casual or not, you honestly think she’s not gonna care about what happened to you?”

“I’m a cop. She knows me not showing up one day is always a possibility. She knows what she signed up for,” he replies a little too defensively because he’s been telling himself that same lie ever since this thing with you started.

In fact, he still believes the job will get him before the cancer does. He has to.

“It’s not the same,” Leah argues. “She didn’t sign up for you wasting away right next to her without a word. You’re not dying in a shootout. You’re dying slowly.”

Mark winces. It’s subtle, but he knows she saw it.

“What happens if you collapse in her kitchen one morning or forget her name or get a goddamn seizure in front of her?” she asks and calls all his worst nightmares by their name. “Hell, maybe you’ll even get one during sex. And she’s not even gonna know what’s happening or how to help you. You think she’s just gonna laugh that off because you’re not exclusive? You really wanna do that shit to her?”

He licks his lips and averts his eyes to the kitchen floor. It’s not brand-new information per se. He’s thought about all these things before, chided and punished himself endlessly, and yet, he still finds his way back to you each and every time.

Finally, Mark dares to meet her eyes. “You think I haven’t thought about all of that?”

“You clearly haven’t thought hard enough,” she says bluntly.

“Look, uhm, I’ll end it before it ever gets to that, alright?” he tries to promise, to swear on his goddamn life if possible, but he’s not even sure he can do it convincingly. He knows in his heart that he doesn’t believe those words himself.

“That’s not really up to you, is it?” Leah’s voice is soft, but there’s steel underneath. “She’s already let you in, you know? She jokes like it’s casual, but she looks at you like you matter. I can see it.”

Mark shakes his head. “It’s not like that.”

“It doesn’t matter what you call it,” she says, quiet but firm. “She trusts you. She cares. You don’t know her, but I do. She doesn’t let people in easily.”

“I didn’t ask her to.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That lands sharp. He sips the beer to mask the sting and to keep his jaw from tightening more.

“You’re in her house. You’re in her bed. She deserves to know who she’s letting in,” she adds.

He swigs more beer and leans a hip against the counter. “What do you want me to tell her, huh? That I’m doing the brave thing? Fighting the good fucking fight? Hoping I go out on the job before the thing in my head kills me?”

“No,” Leah replies, sharper now. “I want you to be honest with her. Stop pretending this is harmless. You really want her to find out the wrong way?”

He knows she’s right. That’s the worst part. He can feel it already – days that start in a fog, the quiet gaps in his memory, the way simple words slip away like the wind.

“If things get worse, I’ll deal with it,” he murmurs weakly, because he already knows what Leah will say.

“Will she get to deal with it, too? Or are you just gonna vanish one day and let her think she meant nothing?”

He wants to tell her she’s wrong. That this is just a fling. That she doesn’t know the half of it. That he’s protecting you. That he’s fucking sparing you.

But every excuse he could come up with sits limp on his tongue because it’s all fucking bullshit.

Leah sighs and steps closer. “I know this sucks, and I’m sorry this is happening to you. I really am. But she gets to decide what she wants to be a part of, and what’s fucked up is you taking that decision away from her. You owe her the truth. Even if it’s just so she knows what she’s walking into.”

“You think I don’t wanna tell her? That it’s easy?”

Leah exhales through her nose, and her voice softens. “I don’t think any of it is easy. But not telling her won’t make it easier, either. It’ll just make it worse when the truth catches up to you.”

He stares at the tiles by his boots. Her words stick like fucking asphalt in August.

Leah doesn’t push further but walks toward the doorway, water bottle in hand. Before she disappears back into the living room, she glances back. “I don’t think you’re a bad guy, by the way. But you’ve got a clock ticking, and pretending it’s not loud doesn’t make it go quiet.”

And then she’s gone, leaving him standing in the hush of the kitchen with his warm beer and the buzz in his ears.

After a minute, Mark steps back into the living room like he’s not fucking falling apart.

Maya is the first one to spring up when the ride-share text dings, practically singing the alert as she waves her phone. “Okay, ladies and one amateur thespian,” she says, sweeping her jeans jacket off the back of your dining chair. “Our ride is two minutes away. I repeat, two.”

“Got it.” Leah follows behind her with a far more subdued energy, cool and quiet as she grabs her water from the coffee table and slips her shoes on near the door.

“Amateur?” Mark playfully raises a brow at the quirky brunette. “Who are you calling an amateur, huh? I’m taking my craft seriously.”

Maya plays along, but the laughter already bubbles underneath. “Oh, I’m sure lives depend on it.”

Mark snorts, chuckling. “They actually do.”

“Maya, car,” is all Leah says, motioning impatiently to the door.

“Right.” The brunette nods resolutely, pursing her lips.

You walk them both out with a smile, arms wrapping around Maya first, who hugs you hard and whispers something in your ear that makes you elbow her in the ribs with a laugh.

“Tell him to be gentle,” Maya teases in a not-at-all-whisper as she glances back at Mark with a mischievous glint in her hazel eyes. “But not too gentle, if you know what I mean. Thespian trade secret,” she adds with a wink.

You groan. “Maya, for the love of God–”

Mark chuckles lowly, amused. “I’ll take the note under advisement.”

You shoot him a glare that only makes him smirk harder. Maya beams. Leah sighs at the door.

When Leah hugs you goodbye, she pulls you close and murmurs something that Mark knows is for your ears only. His heart beats so fast it feels close to exploding, fearing the worst, but when you let her go, you only nod with a soft smile.

The door clicks shut behind them, and the comfortable silence returns.

You’re fluffing the throw pillow Maya stole to sit on and clearing space on the couch like you’re expecting him to plop back down and stay the night like he usually does. But he’s still standing frozen in the middle of your living room like he’s unsure whether to sit or fucking bolt.

But the second your eyes meet his, you go still as well. You do that thing you do – that little tilt of your head when you clock something’s off.

He hates how well you’re starting to read him.

“You okay?” you ask gently. “You’re quiet.”

He lifts his beer like it’s some kind of explanation and shrugs. “Just a long day.”

You keep watching him carefully, brows knitting. That’s new. Usually, you move on right away. But this time, your gaze lingers.

“You’ve been gone three days,” you note casually.

Your tone isn’t sharp, just observant – and way too fucking calm for the ache he’s been carrying around since the job ended.

“Yeah,” is all he says, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.

You nod like you understand and take a careful step closer. “Was it an… undercover thing?”

“Something like that, yeah,” he says. It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole damn case file, either.

You nod, eyes flicking down briefly. “You don’t have to tell me. I know it’s part of the job.”

He exhales slowly and meets your gaze. “Yeah.”

You’re quiet a second, worrying both your lip and your brow. “I’m sorry about your colleague. You sure you’re okay? If you wanna talk about it–”

“No.”

Shit. That came out harsher than he intended. He half expects you to throw him out and tell him to fuck off. A part of him even wishes you would. The other part of him prays you don’t.

But you don’t look angry. You don’t press. You don’t yell, even though he can tell by the slight flinch of your shoulders that it had at least thrown you a little.

Instead of doing any of that, you wrap your arms around his waist and rest your head on his chest, cheek pressing against his wildly beating heart.

He hopes you don’t listen too intently and closes his eyes for a long moment.

You’re warm. And soft. And you smell like that shea butter lotion he once borrowed because his elbows felt dry.

“They like you,” you murmur against him.

He snorts. “Maya does.”

“True. Leah’s still on the fence, I guess.” You chuckle, then arch an eyebrow. “Did she lay into you in the kitchen?”

Mark swallows lightly. “Nah, wasn’t that bad. All I gathered was that she’s just protective of you.”

In reality, though, his skin still feels tight and his chest still hollow from Leah’s words.

“Yeah, that’s her,” you say, laughing softly into his shirt. “She just runs a background check in her head every time I bring someone new around.”

Mark hums and rests his chin on your crown, his fingers idly brushing the strap of your tank top. “Does that happen a lot? You bringing someone new around?”

You gently draw back and glance up at him. There’s a hint of amusement gleaming in your eyes.

Yeah, it’s an inappropriate question and none of his goddamn business. He knows it. You know it. And still, now it’s floating in the damn room.

“No, not really,” you reply simply and slide out of his embrace. It’s so graceful he barely notices that you’re doing it, but he keeps his hands on you.

He can tell you’re telling the truth – but not the full one. Now he wonders why. Wonders why you are the way you are. Wonders what came before him.

None of your goddamn business. Stay in your fucking lane…

But then he wonders what comes after him.

“I think you handled them well, though,” you note cheekily, your hands smoothing over his chest and then wandering up to his shoulders. “Especially Maya. Sorry about that, by the way.”

“No, uh, it’s fine. She’s funny. I’ll give her that.” He chuckles a little. “And trust me. I’ve been through worse as far these things go. Melinda’s friends used to fucking gang up on me constantly.”

“Melinda?”

Fuck.

There it is. Too much, too fast.

“Uh, yeah.” He hesitates, probably too long. “Ex-… girlfriend.”

It comes out clipped – neutral. But his pulse is jumping a little higher than it should be. He could probably spin this blatant lie in a way that would give him plausible deniability. He could say, in theory, every fiancée was a girlfriend once. But who was he kidding? No jury was going to buy that.

And you? You process it quietly. No digging. No questions. Mark doesn’t know whether to be grateful or fucking unnerved by that. You still don’t ask more about his life. You just take whatever tiny pieces of information he allows you to have, nod like it makes fucking sense, and tuck it somewhere he’ll never see.

It’s that quiet kind of curiosity he both loves and fucking fears in you.

Sure, he could’ve told you the truth. It’s not a big deal, after all. But you don’t need to know anything about his past either. He doesn’t want to talk about Melinda. He doesn’t want to fucking talk at all.

He wants to forget the kitchen. Forget Leah. Forget everything.

His thumb brushes circles on your hip. His palm skates up your side, slow and steady. He gently backs you against the wall. Your shoulders touch plaster. He presses one hand beside your head and leans in, mouth brushing the curve of your throat.

He doesn’t kiss you yet – he lets himself just breathe there. Lets you feel him thinking about it. Lets himself feel it.

God, you’re fucking soft everywhere. He could drown in the space between your shoulder and jaw. Your breath stutters, and his heart fucking flutters.

He smirks into your skin, dragging his lips just below your ear. “Been thinking about what Maya said,” he murmurs. “The handcuffs.”

You make a small noise in your throat – half laugh, half choke.

Mark moves his hand to your waist and presses in slowly – not quite grinding, but enough to make his point. His other hand tangles with yours and brings it up above your head, just to show you how it could feel.

“Ever done anything like that?” he asks.

You shake your head, swallowing. “No.”

“Me neither.” He looks down at you. “Would you?” He clears his throat a little, prevents the lump from even forming. “I mean, only if you’re into that. I do… have them, you know?”

Jesus fuck, he’s a mess. He shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t drag you in deeper.

You hesitate, but there’s a flicker in your eyes. He grins against your cheek, sensing the way your body shifts closer without meaning to.

“Yeah… okay.”

His blood is starting to roar. His mind is quiet for the first time since he left your house three nights ago. No slow crawl of tumors stealing his words. No dead bodies. No threats of more. Just you, pliant and flushed and looking up at him like you’re already halfway there.

You’re the one who pulls him down for a kiss first, but he’s the one who deepens it. And when your fingers twist in his hair, he knows he’s not fucking going anywhere.

Not tonight. Not anytime soon.

You lead the way into the bedroom, but he’s the one in charge the second you cross the threshold.

You’re already laughing when he kicks the door shut behind you – not a belly laugh, but that breathy little one that slips out when you’re trying to act cool and fail. And fuck, if that doesn’t make him want to ruin you more.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you from the door, arms crossed as you kick off your shoes and stretch. You look soft and flushed and so fucking carefree in this moment, and he has no goddamn clue what he did to deserve that.

You turn around to say something, but he cuts you off by holding up the cuffs. The pretense stops. No more small talk. Just you, barefoot and backlit by lamplight, your eyes on him with that perfect mix of curiosity and need.

“Up on the bed,” he says, trying to hide the smile under the gravel in his voice. “And lose the shirt.”

You obey with a little smirk and climb onto the mattress, sitting on your knees. You take your top off so slowly he knows you’re daring him to stare – and he does.

Jesus, he fucking does.

He’s seen you like this before – a dozen times now. But it still knocks the air out of him. Maybe because he knows he’s leaving soon. Maybe because it’s never just your body that undoes him – it’s your goddamn trust. Your sheer willingness.

He follows slow. Controlled. Unhurried. Pretending he’s not already fucking hard from the moment your eyes widened at the clink of metal in his pocket. He wanted to try this. Still can’t believe you said yes.

Now he’s going to take his time with you. Make it count. Burn it into his memory so deep nothing will ever scrape it clean.

Your bra catches his sight. Black. Lacy. Pretty little thing that’s doing a shit job at hiding how hard your nipples are right now. He runs a knuckle along the underside of your tit, then tugs the strap down off your shoulder with his teeth. He unhooks you and cups your breasts like he’s claiming territory, thumbs brushing your nipples until your head tips back.

And that’s just the fucking top half.

“Fuck, look at you,” he mutters. “You want this bad, don’t you?”

You nod once – barely.

The second your back hits the mattress, he makes a slow show of undoing your jeans, tugging them down your thighs with that rough, callused grip that makes you shiver and squirm under him.

“Arms up,” he murmurs, then smirks a little. “You’re under arrest.”

You laugh softly and arch a brow. “For what?”

He leans in, mouth brushing your ear. “For reckless endangerment. Possession of stolen property. Resisting arrest. All of the above.”

“What did I steal?”

He brushes his lips along your throat. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You grin – warm and sweet and perfect. “Maybe I’ll confess.”

He snorts. “Oh, you would.”

He then threads the cuffs through the slats of your headboard and takes your wrists in his hands, presses a kiss to each one before snapping the cuffs around them. Just enough pressure. Just enough sound. Just snug enough to make you feel it. You shiver when the metal clicks into place. Final.

Your legs fall open for him, breaths shallow. He sinks to his knees between them, fingers dragging down your ribs, your waist, your hips. His lips crash against yours like he needs to claim something. Every inch of your mouth, your throat, your skin is borrowed time.

Then he presses one kiss just above the waistband of your panties – black lace, barely there. Two thick fingers rub faintly over the wet patch of fabric. Your thighs tremble.

“You this wet already, sweetheart? I barely even touched you,” he teases, breath hot against your skin.

Another open-mouthed kiss just above your clit follows, through lace and cotton. Then he hooks his thumbs in your panties and takes his time easing them down your curves. Tosses them behind him.

Your whole body’s on edge now, bare in front of him, and he hasn’t even gotten to the fucking main act yet.

Your spine is arching, already shifting forward against him, the curve of your waist fucking lethal. Your pupils are wide, lips parted. Waiting.

And he could fuck you right now. Could bury himself in that perfect pussy and feel the heat of you wrapped around him, but–

“Be right back,” he says, smirking like the bastard he is. “Don’t move.”

“Seriously?” you laugh, blinking up at him. “What kind of detective abandons a suspect mid-interrogation?”

He shrugs, already heading for the door. “One who’s got an idea.”

“Wait–… Where are you–”

He tosses you a wink as he slips out with a muttered, “Gotta grab something. You just lie there and think about what you’ve done.”

You groan. “Mark!”

He’s pretty sure you can still hear his deep laugh from the kitchen. And when he comes back, he’s holding a glass full of ice.

“I had to improvise,” he says, placing the glass on the nightstand. “Figured if we’re already playing dirty, might as well cool you down a little.”

Your eyes widen immediately, then your head falls back into the pillow with a whine. “Oh, come on…”

“Too late,” he smirks, crawling back over you, settling between your legs. “Suspect is already in custody.”

“Mark–” Whatever you wanted to say gets cut off by your own shaky little giggle when he plucks an ice cube from the tumbler.

“You good?” he asks, pausing just long enough to meet your eyes.

You nod and gift him a smile. “So good.”

“I’m serious,” he says, one hand trailing up your thigh. “You don’t like something, you tell me. Doesn’t matter what it is, okay?”

That softens you. You nod again. “I will.”

He leans down and kisses your knee. “Good girl.”

Then he gets to work.

It starts at your sternum. Cold. Sharp. Your breath catches as it trails downward, the contrast lighting your nerves on fire. He follows the melting path with his mouth – hot where the ice was cold. Soothing. Teasing. Cruel.

He kisses between your tits, then each nipple, watching them pebble tight, then laps away the chill with the heat of his tongue, alternating warm licks and icy touches until you’re arching under him, cursing his name like a fucking religion.

“You ever let someone do this before?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“Good. Wanna ruin you first.”

The next cube grazes your inner thighs – cold, shocking, making you jolt and hiss. He shushes you with his mouth, kisses a trail up your belly while the melting water drips slowly across your skin.

“You like that?” he murmurs, breath hot against your damp skin.

You nod, shaking. “God, yeah…”

He takes a new cube, glides it across your stomach. Down your hipbone. Lower and lower and lower still. You moan when he runs it along your slit, not inside – just over. By the time it reaches your clit, you’re panting.

“Fuck, Mark–”

“Still good?” he murmurs.

You gasp, nodding. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He smiles. “Thought so.”

And then he licks you. Long and deep, tongue flat and filthy, and the way you moan under him almost breaks his goddamn restraint in half. But instead, he brings you to the edge over and over, tongue flicking against your clit, fingers teasing inside, and every time you get close – he pulls away.

“Mark–fuck–please–”

“You’re not coming yet,” he rasps, voice thick and dark. “Not until I say.”

The sound you make is half frustration, half desperation. You actually sob when he pulls away. And he fucking loves it. It’s going straight to his cock. He’s hard as a fucking rock.

He kisses your thigh as a consolation prize. “Not yet, baby.”

Then he uncuffs you with a practiced twist of the key and flips you gently onto your stomach, pinning your hands behind your back this time and locking them again.

The position has you squirming. Ass up. Cheek pressed to the sheets. Legs spread wide for him.

He pauses, body hovering over yours. “You sure?”

You look back at him, dazed and grinning. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He kisses the back of your neck, his breath tickling the shell of your ear, his cock pressing against your ass. “By the way, you don’t have the right to remain silent.”

You snort a giggle into the sheets, body eagerly pushing back against him. He’s still chuckling when he grabs your hips and lines himself up.

He pushes inside fucking slow, filling you inch by inch, groaning against your shoulder as he bottoms out.

You’re soaking. Tight. Hot. Goddamn perfect.

“Fuck, you feel that?” he grits.

You whimper, nodding frantically.

He fucks you in long, slow strokes – each one designed to make you feel it, to drag the moment out like it’s the last time he’ll get it, the kind of rhythm you feel in your soul. His hands run along your spine, grip your hips, keep you grounded as he buries himself deep in you again and again. Every sound you make goes straight to his cock.

Every tremble, every whisper of his name, every broken gasp – it’s too much and not enough all at once.

“You’re everything,” he mutters before he can stop himself. “Fucking everything.”

And when you come?

It rips through you like a fucking storm – loud, messy, real. Your whole body tightens, shudders, and cries out his name like an anthem. You clench around him so hard he almost fucking blacks out.

He spills inside you seconds later – deep, hard, guttural – fucking you through it until he collapses over your back, groaning like he’s breaking apart from the inside. His head drops to your shoulder, his whole body trembling against yours.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Doesn’t say anything either. Just stays there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your back like maybe, just maybe, he’ll be okay for one more night.

When he finally manages to uncuff you and rolls off, you both lie there for a second in stunned silence. Sticky. Breathless. Spent.

You glance at the mess between your thighs and sigh. “I think we forgot the condom.”

He blinks, letting out a shaky breath. “Fuck. Shit… Sorry.”

You only snort calmly in response and kiss his jaw. “It’s fine. Plan B’s in the top drawer somewhere.”

He watches as you reach lazily for the nightstand. You grab the pill and swallow it without a second thought – completely unbothered, completely fucking you.

And for the first time in weeks, he can’t think of a single fucking thing to say. He just lies there and doesn’t move, heart still pounding, wondering what the hell he’s doing. He doesn’t know what scares him more: how good that just felt, or the fact that it’s already too late to pretend this thing between you is still fucking simple.

Because for a man so determined not to leave anything behind, he might have just left something that could potentially matter. And whatever line he thought he was keeping, it’s long fucking gone by now.

▶️ Double Vision in a Rose Blush – SOON

As you've probably noticed, I've set up two fairly obvious twists in this part 😂

I'm currently writing Part 8 of this series and editing 5-7, so hopefully you'll get the next one real soon ✌️

Coming Up:

You stare at him for a second, eyes narrowing more with each inch your head tilts to the left side. “You’re bleeding.”

He follows your gaze down to the small, slow bloom of red on his crisp white dress shirt – right where one of the consulate’s security guards landed a lucky shot before Mark knocked his ass out. He hadn’t even noticed it was still bleeding. Probably reopened it getting out of the damn car.

He tries to brush it off. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

You sigh – audibly and full of disappointment. He suddenly knows what your kids must feel like when you’re mad at them.

“Bathroom. Follow me,” you tell him, your tone certainly leaving no room for any sort of discussions as you head straight for your destination.

Tag List Pt. 1:

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@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

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@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

#fic recs #lovely mutuals #mark meachum #mark meachum x reader #mark meachum x you #countdown

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