MARK MEACHUM / USE ME PT. 2
Sooooo this is the long ass part2 to this one pt.1
Warnings: NSFW! addiction mentioned, Marks sickness mentioned, a lot of arguing, soft smut, oral f/m receiving, p in v, fluff if you squint
The HQ is already humming by the time the elevator opens, and you hear him before you see him — that gravel-dragged voice, cool and unreadable, low in conversation with Blythe, Finau, and Bell as they hover near the whiteboard. You step into the light like someone crossing into enemy territory, and for a second, you don’t breathe. You just scan the room.
There he is. Mark Meachum.
Perfectly relaxed. Perfectly composed. One hand tucked in the pocket of his dark jacket, the other curled around a mug of black coffee like he didn’t spend the night holding your wrists down and dragging moans out of you until your voice cracked. He looks—well— he looks fine.
He laughs at something Bell says, nods along to Blythe’s summary of the surveillance feed, and not once in the minutes that follow does he even flick his eyes in your direction. There’s no glance. No pause. Not even the usual subtle awareness of your presence he used to carry — that quiet, mutual understanding you shared every time you entered the same room. It’s gone now.
And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. Because it wasn’t the sex.
It wasn’t the fact that you kissed him, or touched him, or threw your body at him in a last-ditch effort to bury the truth under sweat and skin and friction. It was what he found. What he saw when you thought you had a handle on it.
That small, crumpled piece of tinfoil left on your bathroom counter in a moment of blind panic and poor judgment. That tiny thing that told him more than you ever said out loud.
It told him you’d relapsed— or that you were dangerously close — and no matter how much heat passed between you, that kind of betrayal cuts a straight line through everything else. All the trust. All the history. All the unspoken things that made you his partner, not just on paper, but in the spaces between protocol and gut instinct.
You drop your phone at your desk without looking up, fingers trembling faintly as you flip open the laptop and pretend to read case files you already know by heart. And then Blythe raises his voice.
“We’ve got movement,” he says, loud enough to cut through the morning shuffle. “Lopez dropped a package five minutes ago—Camrose Street. This is real-time. Let’s go.”
Your hand grabs your gear bag. Your other adjusts the vest strap across your chest. You turn toward him without even thinking, your body remembering what your heart is still trying to deny — that if there’s a field op, you go with Meachum. That’s how it’s always worked. That’s how it’s supposed to work.
But he doesn’t even hesitate.
“Finau,” Meachum says coolly, tossing his keys to the younger agent. “You’re with me.”
Just like that. No explanation. No reason. And worse — still no glance. No acknowledgment that you’re standing right there. That you’ve already moved toward the door. That your body is halfway between following orders and falling apart.
The space between you and him stretches instantly. And you feel it — deep, gnawing, shameful — in the pit of your stomach. Because you get it.
Because you know what he saw.
Because the second his eyes landed on that foil, whatever you had — whatever made you a team — started to rot. And the moment you kissed him, tried to use sex to cover it, to distract him, to deflect that damn look in his eyes?
That was the nail in the coffin.
A soft voice pulls you from the spiral.
“You with me?” Amber Oliveras says from beside you, already halfway to the SUV with her jacket slung over one shoulder. You nod before the words can choke their way out. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
You slide into the passenger seat in silence, and the second the engine kicks on and the doors seal you in, Amber doesn’t waste any time.
“So… not to poke the hornet’s nest, but what the hell’s going on with you and Meachum?”
You keep your eyes on the road.
She continues. “I mean, you two were glued together. Dream team. Everyone saw it. Now he won’t even look at you.”
You bite your lip so hard it almost breaks skin. It’s not that you don’t have an answer. It’s that the answer is so simple, so stupidly obvious, and yet so complicated in the way it’s unraveling you.
“He doesn’t trust me anymore,” you finally say. Amber glances at you, brows furrowed. “What, like on the case?” You exhale a bitter laugh. “At all.” She’s quiet for a beat. “What happened?” You shake your head. “I messed up.”
Because it’s easier to say that than to say: He saw the foil. He knows I’ve still got a stash. He knows I didn’t let go of it—not really— and the second he saw that, something in his face changed. Not fury. Not shock. Just… distance. Cold, sharp, irreversible distance.
And for the first time in a long time, you don’t know who you are in this team anymore. You’re not Meachum’s partner. You’re not the rookie who finally proved herself. You’re just a problem in a tactical vest, being driven to a job she used to lead.
The SUV skids to a halt behind a row of decaying palms on Camrose Street, tires grinding to a stop with a puff of gravel. Four sets of boots hit the sidewalk in rhythm—Finau, Meachum, Oliveras, and you—moving toward a weathered two-story apartment building coated in years of smog and neglect.
This was supposed to be a quiet sweep. A quick in-and-out before the drop changed hands. But the second you’re out of the vehicle, the energy shifts.
Mark’s already unholstering his sidearm, muttering under his breath to Finau as they approach the building’s schematic on his tablet. The street is quiet—too quiet—only the faint buzz of a faulty neon beer sign across the lot breaking the stillness.
He doesn’t even look at you as he speaks. “Finau and I take the front. You two circle the rear entrance.”
You take a step forward, your voice sharper than intended. “Why the hell am I taking the back?” Mark doesn’t stop walking. Doesn’t turn around.
He just lifts the bolt cutter in his hand and says, “Because we’ve got the big key.” Dismissive. Cold. Like your voice is background noise. Like this is protocol, not personal.
Even Finau glances between you and him for a beat—mouth twitching like he feels the frost in the air but says nothing, following Mark up the cracked steps toward the rusted front door.
You don’t move right away. You just stand there. Frozen. Heart thudding. Amber brushes your shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s just get it done.”
You follow her down the side of the building, fingers tense around your gun. Every step you take feels heavier, slower, as if the asphalt beneath your boots is trying to drag you down and bury you in it.
You shouldn’t be this distracted.
You know better. But knowing doesn’t help when your thoughts are screaming louder than the silence he left you in.
You and Amber make it to the back door, crouching behind a cement dumpster as she pulls a lock-pick from her belt. You check your sightlines. You double-check them. You think you hear movement inside, but you can’t be sure.
She whispers, “On three.” You nod.
On three, she opens the door—quick, clean—and you both move in fast. The back hallway is narrow, cluttered, dim. You move first, sweeping left, Amber sweeping right. You hit the landing of a stairwell, pulse hammering.
Then a door creaks open above you.
Too fast. You react— too slow.
The shadow lunges. You fire—once, twice—but the figure is already halfway down the stairs before you realize your angle is off.
Amber shouts—“Clear left!”—and you flinch, pivoting too wide, your foot catching on the edge of the stair, throwing off your stance. The suspect barrels past you, and by the time you recover your grip, the guy’s already busted out the side alley gate and vanished into the maze of narrow backlots.
You chase, but Amber’s hand clamps down on your arm. “Too late. He’s gone.” You breathe hard. The adrenaline stings. “You okay?” You nod.But you’re not. You just let the target run. You screwed up. Again.
And when Marks voice crackles through the comms thirty seconds later—low, sharp, controlled—it carves right through your gut.
“We got the package. You two good?”
Amber answers. “We’re clear. Back exit was hot. Suspect bolted.” There’s a pause. Then Meachum’s voice returns, clipped and flat.
No questions. No blame. No emotion. Just… nothing. He’s not surprised. He expected it.
The debrief wraps in record time.
Just a tight-lipped, “We’ll adjust for next time,” before he turns to Finau for the tactical breakdown from the front.
You stand there like your boots are bolted to the floor, heart pounding in your throat. Amber’s beside you, but even her presence feels distant now, like the air between you and everyone else has thickened into something heavy, something smothering.
But it’s not Blythe’s silence that eats at you. It’s his.
Mark hasn’t said a single word to you since you got back. Not during gear unload. Not during the debrief. He stood there, leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, lips pressed into that familiar grim line — watching. Listening. Waiting.
And when Blythe dismisses the room, telling everyone to “get something to eat, reset,” you’re the first to turn and leave.
But his voice stops you cold.
Low. Even. Controlled. Your spine stiffens. You turn.
Mark is still by the wall, gaze locked on you now, and it’s like being thrown under a heat lamp. He jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Walk with me.”
You glance toward the others, but no one’s paying attention. So you follow.
Down the corridor, past the evidence room, past the dim breakroom—until he stops outside the file vault. No windows. No cameras. Just silence and the buzzing hum of the old overhead lights.
He turns to face you. And that’s when you see it—just beneath the calm. The storm.
“What the hell was that today?”
You cross your arms, defensively. “I slipped. I misjudged. It happens.” His brow ticks upward like he’s watching you dig your own grave. “Slipped?” he repeats, voice tightening. “You let a suspect run out the back alley, and you call that a slip?”
You glare back. “It didn’t cost the op.”
“That’s not the goddamn point,” he snaps. The volume isn’t loud, but the weight behind it knocks the breath out of you. “You weren’t paying attention. Your stance was off, your timing was slow, and your head—” he points to your temple, eyes narrowing— “your head was somewhere else.”
You feel your throat close up. Because he’s right. And because you know exactly where your head was.
“You think this is about hurt feelings?” he adds, voice now razor-sharp. “You think I give a shit about a kiss or a fuck or whatever the hell you were trying to pull last night? You had a job to do today, and instead you showed up distracted, sloppy, and dangerous.”
You straighten. “I said I was sorry.”
You lift your chin, stubborn. “You wanna pull me off the next run? Do it.”
He stares at you. Not with anger now. With disgusted disbelief. Then, almost quietly: “You don’t get it, do you?”
You blink. “Get what?” He steps in closer, just enough to make you feel the heat of his voice in your neck. “This isn’t about punishment. This is about trust. I saw what was on your bathroom counter last night. I know what that foil means. I know where your head is. And I’m not about to bet a suspect’s life—or mine—on someone who’s got one foot back in the hole.”
You don’t speak. You can’t. Because it’s not just professional anymore. It’s personal. And not in the way you thought.
You thought you could keep it quiet. Keep it managed. Keep it separate from work. But now you’re looking at a man who used to trust you with a glance—and today, he wouldn’t even let you cover his six.
Because of one piece of foil. Because he knows. “I’m not your fixer,” he says. “And I’m not gonna be your next excuse when this all goes to shit.” You open your mouth, but no words come. He watches you a beat longer—long enough to make sure every word sticks. Then he turns and walks away, footsteps echoing down the hallway until he disappears around the corner, leaving you alone with nothing but the weight of your guilt—and the sharp realization that this isn’t about a mistake anymore.
This is about who you are becoming. And the one man who always had your back? He’s not standing there anymore.
You’re already regretting being here before you knock.
The hallway is quiet, humming with old radiator pipes and the buzz of some neighbor’s TV a few doors down. You stand outside Mark Meachum’s apartment in a hoodie and leggings, no makeup, no defense, no excuses left. Just you and the weight of everything you’ve managed to avoid admitting all damn day.
The door opens before your second knock even lands. And there he is. Mark Meachum, dressed in worn sweats and a faded black T-shirt, barefoot, jaw shadowed with end-of-day stubble, eyes unreadable.
He doesn’t look surprised. He doesn’t look anything.
You try to speak, but all that comes out is a breath. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go.” He leans a shoulder against the doorframe. Doesn’t invite you in. Doesn’t close the door either.
“You want me to say something?” he asks, voice quiet but edged. You shake your head. “No. I mean—yes. I don’t know. I’m not here to fight.” He gives a low, bitter laugh—like that’s rich. “No? That’d be a first.” You swallow. “Can I come in?”
You walk past him into the dim apartment, the smell of clean laundry and bourbon lingering in the air. It’s painfully quiet. One lamp on. No music. No noise. Just his presence trailing behind you like smoke. You turn to face him as he shuts the door.
“I’m not here to beg,” you start.
You pause. “And I’m not high.” He scoffs. “Didn’t say you were.”
“I know what I saw on your bathroom counter,” he snaps, suddenly sharper, stepping forward with that tired kind of fury that doesn’t come from rage—it comes from disappointment. “I saw what you almost did, and I saw what it’s already doing to your head. I saw it in your hands today, your fucking eyes. You think I can trust that in the field?”
You shake your head, voice cracking. “No, I don’t know. I just—Jesus, Mark, I didn’t come here for another goddamn lecture.” His eyes narrow. “Then what did you come for? Huh? What’s left, exactly? You lied. You tried to fuck your way out of it. You let a suspect walk because you weren’t even in your body long enough to keep your gun level, and now what—you want me to pat your head and say it’s all okay?”
You flinch. Not at his tone. At how close to the truth it lands. He stares at you for a moment longer, arms crossed, that infuriating silence slamming into you harder than his voice ever could.
You say it like a scream, like a confession, voice breaking, hands clenched at your sides.
“I didn’t mean to—” Your breath catches, and you blink fast, furious at the sting in your eyes. “I just kept it. Okay? I kept it just in case, because I didn’t trust myself, and I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want it to be real, and I know it was stupid, and I know I fucked up—but I didn’t lie to you.”
Mark doesn’t move. He just watches you. So you keep going. Because now it’s all coming out, all at once.
“You think I don’t know I’m a mess? You think I don’t wake up every morning wondering if I can get through the day without slipping back into it? Do you have any idea what it’s like to have something crawling under your skin all the time, whispering that it’ll be better if you just give in?”
Your voice is shaking now, but you don’t stop. “Do you know what it’s like to be one mistake away from being the person everyone always suspected you were?”
His face doesn’t change. It’s that stillness—his way of not reacting, not comforting, not making it easier—that finally breaks you.
You wipe your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, breath unsteady, chest aching in a way you haven’t let yourself feel in months. “I didn’t come here to fix it,” you whisper. “I just… I came here because I didn’t know where else to go with all of this. And I thought maybe you—”
He cuts you off, his voice sharper now, a low, bitter slice in the quiet. “You thought I’d what? Let it go? Pretend like you didn’t use me as a distraction? Like you didn’t try to screw your way out of an interrogation?”
You flinch. But he’s not done.
“You planted heroin in a suspect’s pocket. You almost relapsed. You’re lying to your team. And then you show up here, dripping guilt like that’s supposed to make it better?”
He stands. Not abruptly. Not with rage. Just… done. He moves toward the door, opens it. Looks back at you.
“I’m not your therapist. I’m not your crutch. And I’m sure as hell not the guy you come crying to after you’ve wrecked your own life.” The cold in his voice isn’t just distance — it’s final.
“If you want help, talk to Blythe. If you want someone to feel bad for you, try Oliveras. But don’t come back here looking for forgiveness just because you finally feel bad.”
You don’t move. You don’t speak. You just stare at the doorframe past his shoulder — the same door you walked through with your heart in your throat and some naïve hope clinging to your ribs.
The next morning the war room was still half-dark when Blythe walked in, tie knotted one-handed, coffee forgotten in his grip.
Mark was already there, leaning over the whiteboard, arms crossed, jaw set in that way he always wore after a long night and an unspoken decision.
“You don’t sleep,” Blythe muttered. Mark didn’t look over. “Didn’t need to.” Blythe sipped his coffee, studying him. “You want to tell me why Finau was with you yesterday?” he asked eventually, voice low but direct. “That wasn’t the rotation.” Mark exhaled through his nose. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
“It matters when protocol shifts without a word,” Blythe said, setting the cup down. A beat passed. Still, Mark didn’t look away from the board.
“She’s not sharp right now,” he said finally. “She’s distracted. She missed a clean shot yesterday and let a runner go. I’m not pairing with someone who’s thinking about anything but the job.”
“And you’re sure it’s not personal?” Blythe asked carefully. Mark’s jaw flexed, eyes cold. “It’s professional.”
Blythe studied him for a long moment.
You were halfway through compiling the Camrose Street debrief notes when Blythe approached. He didn’t knock. He never did. Just stood there at the edge of your desk with that calm, vaguely fatherly presence — all quiet authority and tired eyes.
“You got a minute?” You blinked up at him, pulse kicking up. “Yeah. Of course.” He didn’t speak right away. Just gestured toward the hallway. “Walk with me.”
You followed. Past the bullpen. Past the map wall. Past the part of your brain still whispering that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t what it felt like. But it was. He led you into the small mission prep room — cold, windowless, and quiet — then shut the door gently behind him. He didn’t pace. Didn’t soften. Just looked at you.
“Effective immediately,” Blythe said, “you’re on desk duty.”
“It’s not a punishment,” he added quickly, hands folding in front of him. “But it is a reassignment.”
“Why?” Your voice cracked despite your best effort to stay calm. “Because of yesterday?”
“Because of the pattern,” he said, evenly. “Meachum raised concerns after the op. He said your attention was split. That your judgment was off.” You blinked. “And you just… believed him?” Blythe’s voice remained steady. “I trust Meachum. And I trust you. But I also trust what I saw. You missed a suspect. Your reaction time was slow. You’re not yourself out there.”
You scoffed under your breath. “So that’s it? He makes a call and I’m benched?”
“He’s your partner,” Blythe said firmly. “Or he was. If he says he can’t rely on you in the field, I’d be an idiot not to listen.” You swallowed, hard. “I can fix it,” you said. “Give me one more—”
“It’s not about fixing it,” he cut in gently. “It’s about stabilizing it. You need to get your head right. And until you do? You’re working backend only. Surveillance, logistics, case analysis.”
You stared at him. He didn’t waver. “This isn’t permanent,” he said. “But it is non-negotiable.”
And just like that, the conversation was over. Blythe clapped a hand on your shoulder — not cruel, but firm — and left.
You stood there alone in that sterile little room, your own breath echoing against white walls, with nothing but the echo of the word “desk” pounding in your head.
Not partner. Not field. Just desk. Because Mark Meachum spoke, and Blythe listened. And now, without even looking you in the eye, the man who used to trust you with his life just quietly, coldly made sure you wouldn’t be anywhere near it again.
You were starting to rot in that chair. Another morning at your desk, third cup of burnt breakroom coffee in hand, the sting of bright lights baking the tension into the base of your skull. You hadn’t missed a beat on backend. Case files, recon, real-time tracking, pre-op data — all flawless. Textbook.
And yet Mark still hadn’t said a word to you. Not one. You watched from behind your screen as the field team gathered for another op — Bell double-checking rounds, Oliveras running comms with Finau, and Mark, always early, always silent, stood by the tactical board with his usual grim focus.
You hated that you still watched him. Hated that your eyes were always drawn to him, even now, when he hadn’t so much as looked at you since the night he walked out. But then something shifted. Just for a second.
You saw his fingers twitch — barely perceptible — as he reached for a printed map. He froze. Shoulders tensed. His hand went to his temple. You sat forward, instinct sharpening. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. Hard. Like he was trying to crush the pain out of his own skull. And for one brief moment — one flicker of unguarded weakness — you saw it. Suffering.
Not just exhaustion. Not just stress. Something deeper. Something wrong. “Five minutes,” Blythe called from the ops platform. “Move it.”
Mark straightened, exhaled slowly, and turned to grab his gear. “I’ll take the stairs,” he said, almost offhandedly. No one blinked. But you did. Your spine locked.
Stairs? Mark Meachum didn’t take the stairs.
Not when there was an op clock ticking. Not when there were protocols. That wasn’t habit — that was a retreat. A delay. A man looking for sixty seconds of silence before the pain came back full-force. And you knew it. You watched him slip through the door without another word.
Then, slowly — quiet, steady — you stood up and followed.
You pushed the door open gently. What you expected was to catch him leaned against the wall, breathing hard, rubbing his temple like you’d seen him do in the shadows before. What you expected was another quiet glimpse of denial — the kind of pain he refused to name out loud.
But you didn’t expect this. He was on the ground. Half-sitting, half-slumped against the concrete landing, one knee bent awkwardly, his eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitch. He hadn’t passed out — not fully — but he was losing the battle to stay upright.
You were down the stairs in three strides. “Mark—”
“I said I’m fine,” he hissed, voice sharp, breath labored. “Bullshit.” You crouched beside him, hand already moving toward your comms. “You’re on the floor. That’s the opposite of fine.” He caught your wrist — not strong, but firm enough to stop you. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused, glassy. “I’m going.”
“To the op?” you scoffed, voice incredulous. “You can barely sit up—”
“I’m going,” he growled. “Get out of my way.” You stared at him, chest burning. “You benched me,” you said, your voice shaking with restrained fury. “You pulled me from the field because you didn’t think I could be trusted. Because of one fuck-up. One misstep. One goddamn piece of foil.”
His expression hardened, but you didn’t stop. “And now you’re what—climbing into a van with a team who doesn’t know you’ve got a fucking time bomb in your skull?”
“This isn’t the same,” he muttered. “No, it’s worse,” you snapped. “Because I never passed out in a stairwell five minutes before a mission.”
“I’m not impaired.” You laughed — bitter, breathless. “You’re delusional.” He stood then — slow, but with that stubborn, iron-willed force he used on suspects and subordinates. His hand braced against the wall, the other pushing off his knee.
You stepped in front of him. He glared down at you. “You’re making this personal,” he warned. “It is personal,” you bit back. “You made it personal when you used my past against me. When you took my badge off the field and gave it to someone else without a single conversation. You did it because you said I was distracted. Because you said I was a risk.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. You leaned in, furious now. “But you think this isn’t a risk?” you hissed. “You think passing out in a stairwell before an op doesn’t count as a red flag because no one else saw it? You gonna tell Blythe? Tell Finau? Or are you just gonna keep walking into buildings you might not walk out of?”
“Enough,” he snapped. You didn’t flinch. “Why?” you demanded. “Because I hit a nerve? Or because I saw what no one else has the clearance to see?” His eyes flicked away. Just for a breath. But it was enough.
“You don’t trust me,” you said quietly. “But you expect everyone to trust you. Even when your hands shake. Even when you’re one blackout away from dropping your sidearm. You think I’m dangerous?” You stepped closer.
“You’re a fucking liability, Mark.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at you — cold, unreadable, like you’d just crossed a line he didn’t know he’d drawn.
And maybe you had. But you weren’t backing down. Not this time.
Faast entry, no resistance, package secured, no civilians harmed, no one clipped. Textbook. You watched it all unfold from behind the surveillance wall. Eyes locked on the grid of body cams and thermal scans, ears tuned to every word Mark said into comms — calm, focused, tactical. No one else suspected a thing.
But you saw it. The moments between movement. The beats where he touched his forehead for just a second too long. Blinked twice to clear the haze. Walked slower than he used to. You said nothing. But you saw it.
You knock once. Soft. But firm enough that he knows it’s you. The door creaks open a few seconds later, and there he is — Mark Meachum, in sweats and a plain grey t-shirt, barefoot, a beer half-drunk on the side table and a look on his face that isn’t quite annoyance… but it’s close.
“What now?” he mutters. You give a breath of a smile. No fight in your tone. Just something quieter. “I’m not here to argue.”
He leans against the doorframe, exhaling slowly. “You’re the only person who keeps knocking with a mirror in your hand.”
“And yet you keep answering,” you say gently. That earns a faint twitch of his mouth — not a smile, but not not one either. He steps aside. You walk in. The space is dim, quiet, smelling faintly of bourbon, old coffee, and soap. You don’t take your coat off. Not yet. Just drop your purse on the couch, unzip it slowly.
“I read something,” you say as you rummage. “Said certain headaches — especially cluster headaches, neural trauma — respond to specific pressure points.” Mark sinks onto the couch, brow raised. “Let me guess. Lavender oil and Pinterest wisdom?” You pull the bottle out, hold it up. “And hands of a magician.”
He scoffs. “No thanks.” You tilt your head. “Mark.” He looks at you. Tired. Defensive.
“You’re still trying to run a task force with a fuse in your skull,” you say softly. “I can’t fix it. But I can help. Just… let me do something.”
He hesitates — pride wrestling pain in the lines of his face — and then, finally, with the quiet frustration of a man who’s just too fucking tired to keep swatting your concern away, he leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees.
You move behind him on the couch, kneeling on the cushion, and warm a few drops of lavender oil between your palms. Your fingers hover for a second — reverent, steady — and then you begin.
First his temples. Then the base of his skull. He doesn’t speak at first. He just exhales — low, slow — the kind of breath that only leaves a body when something inside it’s been clenched for too long. You press with care — fingers slow, controlled, tracing over muscle knots and tight nerve lines with something closer to devotion than duty.
“This shouldn’t work,” he mutters after a minute. You smile, voice low. “Then why aren’t you stopping me?”
You move to his neck, thumbs sweeping under his jaw, trailing down to the ridge of his shoulders. You catch it — that sunburn along the back of his neck. Fresh. Subtle. Like he stood outside too long last op without thinking. “You need SPF,” you murmur, half-joking, fingers ghosting over the faint pink skin. “Your age is showing.” He huffs. “Glad to be your cautionary tale.”
You don’t respond. Not with sarcasm. Instead, your voice softens.
“You know… I used to think 47 was ancient,” you say quietly, fingertips kneading behind his ears now. “But looking at you now… I don’t know. There’s something about it. The lines, the stubbornness. It’s like… surviving actually shows on you. And somehow that makes it more real.”
He goes still under your hands. You keep working.
“The past week,” you say slowly, “I kept thinking you were punishing me. For lying. For nearly relapsing. For trying to use sex as a smokescreen.” His voice is barely audible. “You did.”
“I know.” You pause. “But I also think you benched me because it scared you. Because you saw something in me you recognized. Something you’re fighting too.”
He says nothing. So you go on. “You didn’t tell anyone about the headaches. The blackout. The diagnosis. You didn’t tell me either — not until I guessed.” Your fingers slow on his scalp. Then stop. Just resting there. “You don’t trust me. Not with that.”
He leans back slightly, not quite looking at you, his eyes fixed on some far-off crack in the wall. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he says eventually. “It’s that I don’t trust what this job does to us when we stop drawing lines.”
You breathe in, steady. “Then let’s draw one now,” you whisper. “Right here. Tonight. No favors. No power plays. Just this.”
He tilts his head back against your thigh, eyes closed, expression blank. And you know he won’t say thank you — that’s not how he’s built.
But he doesn’t stop you when your hands find his temples again, smoothing the tension from his forehead, down to his jaw. He doesn’t flinch when you push your fingers into the pressure points beneath his ears. Doesn’t pull away when your voice drops to a hush.
“You’re not bulletproof, Mark,” you whisper. “And I don’t need you to be. You keep massaging in silence after that — your touch gentle, reverent, anchored. And for the first time in what feels like weeks, he lets himself rest. Not because he trusts the pain. But because—for now—he trusts you.
Your hands are still on him. The lavender’s faded now, soaked into the lines of his skin, but your fingertips linger — kneading, sweeping, grounding. His head is tipped back against your thigh, lashes low, mouth slack with exhaustion.
He’s let himself go quiet in a way he never does. Not in the field. Not even off the clock. But here? Now?
He’s still. And you’re the one keeping him that way.
Your fingers move slowly across his forehead, thumbs tracing over his temples, smoothing the tension he won’t admit is there. He hasn’t spoken in minutes. You feel the moment shift — subtle, but unmistakable. A breath held too long. The faint twitch of his hand against his thigh. The quiet hum in the space between bodies that haven’t touched like this before but are so close to doing it now.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “You can tell me when it hurts.” He doesn’t open his eyes. But his voice — hoarse, low — cuts through the air like gravel. “If I did that,” he murmurs, “you’d never stop touching me.”
You pause. The weight of that lands hard. You let your fingers trail down, brushing along his jaw — slow, careful — and he tilts his face just slightly into your hand.
Like he’s chasing it. Like he needs it. You shift, wordless, slipping from behind the couch to sit beside him now. Close. Your knees brush. He watches you from the side of his eye — tired, guarded, something unreadable burning behind it.
But he doesn’t stop you when your hand cups the side of his face. You speak again, softer now. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“I don’t either,” he says, too quickly. “But it’s the only language we both speak.” You smile — small, sad. “Then maybe we need a translation.”
You lean in. You kiss him. Not with heat. Not with urgency. Just… a slow, quiet press of your lips to his. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence you’ve both been writing for too long.
He doesn’t respond at first. Doesn’t deepen it. Doesn’t pull away either. Just breathes.
And then, finally — like a dam breaking beneath pressure he couldn’t name — he kisses you back. It’s not polished. It’s not perfect. It’s raw.
His hand rises to your jaw, rough thumb brushing your cheekbone. His mouth opens slightly, deepens the kiss just enough to make your pulse spike. When he pulls back, he stays close — forehead resting against yours. You speak into the space between your mouths.
“I’m not here to fix you.”
“I just want to be where you are.”
He swallows hard. Then leans in again. This time, it’s different. More. His hand finds your hip, pulls you closer — slow, steady. You shift onto his lap, straddling him on the couch, your thighs bracketing his, the heat between you coiling tighter with every breath.
Still, it’s slow. This isn’t a firestorm. It’s gravity. You roll your hips forward, testing, and his breath hitches — hands clutching your sides now, fingertips digging in like he’s anchoring himself.
Your mouth brushes his again. “Let me take care of you.” His voice is low. A rasp. “I don’t deserve it.”
“You do,” you say, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You really do.”
Your hands slide under his shirt — palms against warm skin, scars and muscle and tension. You feel the slight tremor in his core, the shallow rise and fall of breath. He’s holding back. Like he’s waiting for the regret to come. But it doesn’t. So when you push his shirt up, he lifts his arms. Lets you take it off. He doesn’t touch you yet. Just watches you — eyes dark, focused, burning with everything he won’t say out loud. The years. The pain. The way he’s spent the last week pretending you don’t exist to keep his heart out of it.
You lean down and press your mouth to his neck. That sunburn spot. A kiss so gentle it makes his grip on your hips tighten.
Then another kiss. And another. Trailing down the side of his throat, across his collarbone, until he groans — low and guttural — and pulls you flush against him.
“Say it again,” he breathes, mouth against your shoulder. “What?”
“That you want to be here.” You lift your head. Look him in the eyes. “I want to be here.” He kisses you like that breaks something open.
Hands in your hair. Mouth on your jaw. A hunger that feels more like ache than lust. It’s not desperate — it’s deliberate. The way someone holds a thing they thought they’d already lost. You don’t know where this night ends. But for the first time in a long time, you’re not thinking about the foil. Or the mistakes. Or the version of yourself you’ve been running from.
He lays you back slowly, like he’s not just taking off your clothes — he’s unwrapping something delicate, something breakable. You watch him from under your lashes, chest rising and falling as he lowers himself between your legs, and the silence between you isn’t heavy anymore.
The last time you did this — that night in your apartment, slammed into the wall, your mouth on his like a fuse, his hands pinning yours down, both of you trying to fuck your way around the truth — it was heat without light. A cover. A smokescreen. But this? This is something else entirely.
He kisses your inner thigh like he’s apologizing. Not for what happened — but for how long it took to get here. His fingers stroke your hips slowly, reverently, and then his mouth finds you. You gasp. Not because it’s too much. But because it’s just right.
He licks you with care — tongue gentle, slow, tracing you like a man savoring his last meal. No hunger, no dominance. Just devotion. Your fingers slide into his hair, and he groans at the contact, deep and low in his chest.
“Mark…” you whisper, thighs shaking as he circles your clit with his tongue, licking into you like he means it.
“Let me make you feel good,” he murmurs, voice rough against your skin. “Just let me have this.”
You come on his mouth with a soft cry, your hand fisting in the sheets, every muscle tightening. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, breathing hard, and trying to pull him back up.
When he finally does — face flushed, mouth glistening — he looks down at you like you’re the only thing keeping him sane.
“You’re unreal,” he whispers.
You tug him in for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips, your fingers working at the waistband of his sweats.
“My turn,” you murmur against his mouth.
He groans as you slide down his body, pressing kisses across his chest, his stomach, nuzzling the trail of hair that leads down to the thick, already-weeping head of his cock.
You look up at him — and this time, he’s watching. Not just the motion of your mouth, but you. Your eyes, your hands, the tenderness in your touch. You wrap your lips around him, slowly sinking down until he fills your mouth, and his whole body tenses.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, hips twitching. “You’re gonna break me.” You hum softly, letting your tongue glide under the ridge, your hand stroking the base as you take him deeper. You want to ruin him, yes — but you also want him to feel loved.
When he pulls you off gently, it’s not because he wants to stop. It’s because he wants you again.
He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize you — slow, messy, lingering — and then he slides between your legs, cock thick and warm against your entrance.
He looks into your eyes. And pauses.
“Last time,” he says, voice low, “we didn’t do this right.” You nod. “No. We didn’t.” He leans down, nose brushing yours.
And when he pushes into you — slow, deep, stretching you open inch by inch — the breath you both let out feels like a release neither of you knew you needed.
Your legs wrap around his waist. His forehead presses to yours. Your bodies fit — not just physically, but in the rhythm, in the weight, in the way you cling to each other like it finally means something. “You feel so good,” he breathes, voice breaking. “So fucking perfect.”
He moves slowly — long, grinding thrusts that have your back arching, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, not to pull him closer but to stay present. To feel everything. His hands trail over your ribs, your hips, the side of your throat like he’s memorizing you in pieces.
And when you whisper, “Mark, I love this—God, I love this,” his rhythm falters. Because it’s not just about sex now. It’s about being seen. He presses kisses to your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.
“I’ve wanted this,” he says. “Not the anger. Not the shame. Just… you. Like this.”
You come around him again, legs trembling, voice cracking on his name — and he follows a breath later, buried deep, groaning against your shoulder as he releases inside you with slow, trembling thrusts.
Neither of you moves. Not for a long time. Your fingers stroke the back of his neck, down to that fading sunburn. His hand rubs your side, absently, gently, anchoring both of you in this one quiet, earned moment.
No one is hiding anything.
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