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Mercurial High

Abandon the Ship Pt. III

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, no strings attached/the casual kind, fluff, major angst, hurt/little comfort, set around 1x01–1x03

Word Count: 9.2k

A/N: Man, I crafted this chapter for weeks (yes, "crafted" because I'm feeling artsy with this one), and I'm so happy how it turned out! The cycle repeats itself – fluff, smut, angst. One week, two perspectives. I had tears in my eyes while writing it. My heart clenched while reading it. So truly, good fucking luck to you guys. I expect to fill my bathtub with your tears tonight! 🥲

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Find your soundtrack to this series here: California Nights 🌌

It’s routine by now.

The knock. The food. The sex. The kind of rhythm that slips in through the back door and settles in your bones before you realize you’ve let it.

Mark knocks just after nine most nights. Sometimes later. Never earlier. He never texts first. Doesn’t ask if you’re free – just shows up like this is the deal you made and forgot to sign on the dotted line.

You give him your time. Your body. Your best stories.

He gives you nothing back except his devilish smirk, the scratch of his deep voice in the dark, and his weight in your bed – something hard and fast and never soft.

The rhythm between you isn’t stable – it swings. Fast to faster, quiet to louder, skin to skin to silence. His mouth forgets how to talk unless it’s against your skin. You never ask about his day or why he’s here. He never offers.

You know his voice best when he’s inside you.

On night three, Mark stands on your doormat with paper bags that smell like heaven in his hands, a Coke bottle under his arm, and a boyishly charming grin on his freckled face. It’s later than usual – almost close to midnight this time.

“I come bearing carbs,” he says without fanfare.

“Oh? What’s the occasion?” you tease a little, lifting a brow.

“Fuel.” He smirks and steps inside, brushing past you in an almost deliberate way. “Don’t want you passing out on me mid-fuck. Trying to keep the engine running.”

“Romantic,” you huff a wry laugh.

“Hey, you want flowers, fuck a florist,” he shoots back with a grin that should be classified.

Then it hits you – the smell. There’s something else buried under his cologne this time. Something more than greasy food, gun powder, and his shampoo.

“What’s that smell?” you ask and lift your nose a little, tilting your head with a curious smile.

“Oh.” His eyebrows shoot up, and he takes a whiff of himself. “Still can smell that, huh? Took like three showers when I got home. Think it soaked into my skin. Hoped the spicy food would cover the rest.”

You chuckle, amused, and arch a brow. “And what exactly is ‘it’?”

Mark purses his lips to hide both the smirk and the flush in his cheeks. “Can’t tell you that,” he says as expected but then clicks his tongue. “Out of curiosity, though, what do you think it is?”

You laugh and play along, musing, “I don’t know. Uhm… smells like you attended a barbecue… at a… farm?”

He snorts a loud laugh, then scratches the back of his neck, nods, and shrugs. “Close enough. Let’s go with that.”

He doesn’t offer more than that as an explanation and strolls straight into your kitchen to drop the soaked-through paper bags onto the counter. It’s Mexican – wrapped in foil, heavy with grease, and so hot you can already feel it numbing your lips.

He tells you he had a craving for it. Doesn’t say why.

“Don’t get too excited, though,” he says and starts unpacking containers. “They were out of the good salsa.”

You eye the bag like it’s holy, mouth watering. “If there’s a single al pastor taco in there, I’ll forgive anything.”

He laughs softly. “One al pastor, two carne asada, a questionable burrito, and a thing the guy behind the counter swore was edible. But I got the recommendation from a colleague, so we should be good.”

You hop up to sit on the counter beside the food like a delinquent and hum your approval around the first spicy bite. Mark eats standing, one hand wrapped around a taco, the other braced on the counter beside your thigh. There’s something deliberate in the way he watches you eat – like he’s already planning his next move and imagining how you look after he ruins you.

The rest of the food doesn’t last long.

The sex that night is urgent, impatient, borderline feral. Hands on hips. Mouths on skin. Hot sauce on your lips. Lime on your tongue.

He drags you to the bedroom and kisses you like he’s dared himself to lose control. He presses you into the mattress with your legs thrown over his shoulders and fucks you with the kind of reverent pace that makes your spine arch and your lungs burn. You come so hard and fast you forget what fucking day it is.

You fall asleep tangled in damp sheets and his strong arm across your waist and his warm body against your skin.

He stays. Doesn’t even pretend he might leave this time.

You sleep better than you have in weeks.

On night four, Mark brings burgers and another paper bag full of fries that soak through the bottom before you even get the ketchup open.

You end up eating on the floor, cross-legged on opposite ends of the rug in your living room, back leaning against the couch. He watches you talk with your hands, listens while you ramble about starting your new job tomorrow and about your weird neighbor with the leaf blower and bird feeders.

Meanwhile, Mark slings down two cheeseburgers in five minutes and then kisses you hard enough to make you drop yours, as if that’s the only story he needs to tell.

This time it happens on the couch.

You’re halfway through an episode of Law & Order: SVU when he pulls you into his lap and nibbles at your neck like he’s bored of waiting. You end up straddling him, knees digging into the cushions, shirt bunched around your ribs, his hands hot against your skin underneath.

He keeps his eyes open the whole time, jaw clenched, gaze pinned to your face like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your wreckage. He watches you with reverence as you ride him, back arched, his massive hands locked around your thighs like they’re keeping him tethered to this Earth.

He covers your mouth with his palm when you fall apart and fucks up into you so mercilessly the words fall right out of your head.

Afterward, you stay on the couch and stay up late.

The TV keeps running, and something warmer than the summer heat creeps into your living room as another perp confesses onscreen, tearfully admitting to a twenty-minute monologue about guilt and trauma. Benson gives a solemn nod. The episode fades to black, but the feeling in your belly doesn’t.

You throw your head back with an exaggerated groan. “No way! That twist was bullshit!”

Mark just lifts his beer to his lips, smug as ever. “Called it. Guess it’s three-for-three tonight.”

“Oh, come on! You rigged this,” you accuse him with a playful point of your finger. “You’ve probably already seen all the episodes.”

He snorts a laugh. “You think I pregame SVU behind your back before I come over here?”

“You absolutely would,” you insist but can’t keep the bubbles of laughter from spilling out. “Just to keep your stupid winning streak going.”

“I didn’t even know we’re gonna watch this,” he counters in his defense. “You picked it out.”

“Oh, save it,” you huff in jest and drink more of your wine. “I ain’t falling for that. You probably guessed it with your weird sixth sense or did recon or some other detective bullshit, which is cheating, by the way.”

Mark smirks, both annoying and dangerous somehow. “You know, for someone who watches this religiously, you’re surprisingly bad at guessing the killer.”

You grab the nearest throw pillow and smack him with it. Lightly. Mostly out of pride. “Not all of us have detective intuition,” you mutter, half into your glass of wine.

He catches the pillow and props it behind his head before he infuriatingly stretches out, one arm slung over the back of the couch behind you, shamelessly basking in his small victory. “Clearly. You accused the poor barista ‘cause he had ‘shifty energy.’”

“He did have shifty energy!” you argue like you’ve entered a courtroom. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“Yes, I do. He was a single dad trying to make rent,” Mark says and taps his temple with a sly wiggle of his brows. “Skillset.”

“Ego.”

“Experience.”

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling. “Alright, hotshot. Next episode, I’m getting it right.”

“Sure.” He smirks coolly into his beer bottle. If you had another pillow at your disposal, you’d throw it at him again.

“No, I mean it,” you insist with challenge gleaming in your eyes. “I’m gonna crack the case before you.”

Mark leans in slightly, voice low and amused. “You’ve said that the last three episodes.”

You playfully narrow your eyes. “You’re very cocky for someone who watches procedural crime shows with their situationship.”

He grins – bright and wide. “I’m cocky because I’m undefeated.”

The familiar opening line then kicks in again: “In the criminal justice system…” New case. New victim. New suspects.

And you? You steel yourself and sink deeper into the couch cushions, knee brushing his. You make your pick early this time – boldly, confidently, and completely fucking wrong.

But when Mark catches your eye with that smug little smirk again, you realize it might be worth losing just to see it.

On night five, it’s fried chicken, overtly salted and blessedly perfect, and a six-pack of warm beer.

You sit outside on the steps of your back porch while the sky turns navy and your garden buzzes with cicadas. There’s something comfortable in the way he steals a drumstick from your bucket like it’s allowed and says nothing when you throw a napkin at his face.

The air is hot and heavy. Your legs are bare. His shoulder brushes yours every time he shifts.

You talk about your new job that night – how the mom made you coffee this morning just because, how the three-year-old boy declared himself a dinosaur, and how the five-year-old girl clutched your hand tightly in the driveway and made you pinky swear to never quit.

You don’t realize you’re smiling until he looks at you like he’s trying to decide what to do with that expression.

Later that night, you don’t make it five steps inside before he backs you into the hallway and takes you against the wall, his teeth sinking into your shoulder like he’s trying to ground himself.

Pants halfway down, shirt shoved up, mouth on your collarbone. You bite your lip to keep quiet and end up moaning into his neck anyway. He kisses you like he’s been starving for it – messy, hard, loud.

You come so hard your knees give out. He catches you and doesn’t say a word about it. And when he comes, it’s with your name bitten off between his teeth.

Somehow, you end up on the couch again before crawling into bed. This time with an episode of Unsolved Mysteries flickering across the screen – you really wanted to challenge him for once.

You don’t regret that decision even a little when the episode ends in a dramatic swell of synth music and the camera pans over a grainy photograph of a man last seen outside a bowling alley in 1993 small-town America. You glance over and bite back a grin.

Mark’s got that look again. Brow slightly furrowed, jaw tense, mouth pulled into a thin, skeptical line.

You reach for the remote, half-laughing as the screen fades to black. “You’re doing the face again, Columbo,” you tease, nudging his thigh with your sock-covered foot.

“What face?” he mumbles, green eyes still locked on the screen like he’s trying to solve the cold case through sheer mental force.

“The one that says you’re about to lose sleep over a thirty-year-old murder with no viable suspects.”

Mark doesn’t blink. “No one checked his alibi.”

You snort a teary-eyed laugh, almost toppling over. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” he says, leaning forward like the ghost of the case is about to answer him through the screen. “He said he was at his cousin’s house, but no one ever followed up. Why even mention it?”

“Because it’s Unsolved Mysteries, not LAPD Homicide.”

“It’s sloppy,” he mutters but is clearly far from done. “I’m just saying, if he left the house at 10:42, and the neighbor only saw headlights at 10:55, then there’s a thirteen-minute window no one accounted for. And the ex-wife’s alibi? Sketchy as fuck.”

You stifle a laugh. “Do you want me to get you a corkboard and red yarn?”

He leans back with a low huff and clutches the beer in his lap a little tighter. “Oh, don’t tempt me.”

You gesture at the screen. “Again, it’s Unsolved Mysteries. Not Perfectly Resolved Narratives with Balanced Casework. You knew what you signed up for.”

“Didn’t know it’d be this aggravating,” he grumbles into his beer, then throws you a sideways glance. “You seriously don’t care how it ends?”

You shrug and give him a mischievous smile. “I like a little mystery. Keeps things interesting.”

Mark stares at you like you’ve just said you enjoy being left on read and confessed to being the Zodiac Killer at the same time. He doesn’t dignify that with a response, just lifts his beer again and mumbles, “You’re too comfortable with ambiguity.”

Your grin widens. “You’re really not gonna sleep tonight, are you?”

“Well, so far, I’ve already built three theories in my head,” he says. “And none of them explain the dog.”

“The dog is a red herring,” you quip wisely.

“The dog was locked in the basement,” he corrects. “It means someone knew the layout of the house.”

You snort into your glass. “Dude, the writers didn’t even know the layout of the house.”

He points at you. “You’re part of the problem.”

“And yet,” you smirk, “you’re still here.”

He shakes his head and sighs like a man resigned to his fate.

You stretch your legs out and tap his shin with your foot. “You know it’s not actually your case, right?”

He snorts in smug amusement. “Oh, I know. Would’ve been solved if it was.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you laugh, shaking your head.

There’s a short silence as the next episode prompt comes up. Mark doesn’t move. You let your head tilt toward him ever-so slightly, pretending to focus on the TV instead of the soft lines and cinnamon freckles on his face.

You clear your throat subtly and glance at him. “So, are we solving another cold case or are you going to need to pace around the living room for twenty minutes first?”

Mark scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Hit play.”

“You sure?” you tease with a little grin and hold up the remote control like it’s a hostage you’re about to shoot. “Your blood pressure looked a little high when they didn’t mention the tire tracks.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he huffs but doesn’t look at you, just focuses on the flickering screen.

You stretch your legs out even further, your foot bumping his again. “Thought you hated not knowing how it ends.”

He licks his lips and nods softly. “I do.”

“So?”

He finds your eyes then, looks at you for a beat too long with something you can’t decode before he taps the button.

The next episode queues up.

On night six, he brings pizza. Pepperoni. Classic. The grease soaks through the box before you can get it open.

You both eat on the floor with your legs stretched under the coffee table, his foot nudging yours whenever you start to talk too fast. He steals bites from your plate, wipes tomato sauce from your chin with the pad of his thumb, and doesn’t pull his hand away as fast as he usually does. The AC hums and fights the heat off in the background and a movie he picked this time runs across the screen.

Tropic Thunder. He said it was his feel-good movie, and he needed a laugh tonight. And honestly? That’s probably the most you’ve learned about him all week.

But before he even knocks on your door that night, the day has already started different – he texts you for the first time.

Not all day. Not enough to seem clingy. Just enough to sink under your skin.

The first row of messages comes mid-morning, while you’re at the park with the kids and one of them is screaming about ants. You almost choke on your water when you read what pops up on your screen and hope the kids won’t notice the flush in your cheeks.

Lunch and nap time flies by, and by the time you manage to write back, his messages become even bolder. Filthier, too.

You don’t even know what to respond to the last one. You can only bite your lip and slide your phone back into your pocket as heat crawls up your throat. By the time the sun’s down and you kick your shoes off by the door, you’re already wound tight from the slow build of anticipation all day.

The sex is messier tonight. Filthier. Those texts scratched an itch that never really went away. There’s something new behind the green in his eyes this time – tighter, darker.

He kisses you like he’s burning alive and fucks you on your hands and knees with one bruising hand gripping your hip and the other in your hair again. The things he whispers into your ear throughout are obscene:

“Look what you do to me. So hard it fucking hurts. You proud of yourself?”

“I could fuck you for hours and you’d still beg for more, wouldn’t you?”

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this all day – how deep I’d fuck you, how full I’d leave you.”

You do feel him fucking everywhere. It leaves you dizzy. And when you come, it’s with a choked sob into the sheets. When he finishes, he breathes against your shoulder like he’s just outrun hell.

You let him. You ask him if he’s okay afterward. He kisses your shoulder in answer.

You lie awake after he falls asleep, staring at his back and wondering what’s going to snap first – this thing between you, or you. You tell yourself this isn’t becoming something.

And as if he can hear your thoughts, he rolls over and reaches for your waist. Tugs you closer until your spine is pressed to his warm chest.

You wake up in the morning with his hand still on your thigh.

On night seven, he doesn’t bring anything but himself.

No food. No jokes. Just a look that says not tonight but still you. He doesn’t kiss you at first, only rests his forehead against yours in the hallway and exhales like he’s barely holding himself together.

You don’t push. You don’t ask. You don’t talk. You still catch the flickers of distance, though – like he stepped out of the room without leaving.

Later, you climb into his lap on your bed and move like you’ve got all the time in the world. He doesn’t rush. Just holds your waist and lets you set the pace, your name a ghost of a word in his mouth. You press your lips to his jaw, his throat, his collarbone – every damn place he’ll let you.

You’re already sore, but you don’t care. It feels like you’re trying to chase something out of your own chest. He touches you like it’s a habit now – steady, rough, and always in the right places. Your body’s become second nature to him. There’s more focus tonight. More contact. He kisses you deeper. He keeps eye contact longer.

You’re not sure where he ends and you begin anymore.

Afterwards, he stays curled against you instead of pulling away. You lie in the dark with your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady against your cheek. You can feel something shifting under your skin, a current pulling you sideways. You’ve let something in you didn’t mean to.

In the morning, he stays for breakfast and leaves a t-shirt behind this time. You don’t mention it. You put it in a drawer and wash the dishes.

It’s routine by now. But it shouldn’t feel this good.

On night eight, he doesn’t show.

Mid-day, you get a text, however:

That’s it. No explanation. No warmth. No “sorry.” No emoji or joke to soften the blow. Just cold distance typed out in ten words or less. Just gone.

You stare at the message. Reread it multiple times. You don’t text back.

Still, that night, you wait until ten. Then eleven. Then midnight. You check your phone three times, then five, then every half hour.

Nothing.

At the end of the night, you just put your phone face down on the nightstand and lie back in the quiet, the silence suddenly too loud, the sheets too cool without him. You don’t know why it bothers you so much.

He stayed. He stayed. He stayed–

And now he’s not here.

It’s supposed to be over by now.

Night one was a mistake. Night two was indulgence. By night three, Mark’s already made up his mind not to come back. That’s the deal he made with himself. Two nights – enough to take the edge off. To feel something besides bone-deep rot and the countdown ticking behind his eyes.

But then he finds himself here again, knocking on your door with tacos in one hand and a pit blooming behind his right eye that he’s pretending isn’t a warning sign. He tells himself he’s doing this for clarity – for control. That if he can keep you talking, keep you laughing, keep you touching him and riding him with that familiar urgency, he can outrun it.

The scans. The weeks left. The ticking in his skull. That if he has to go out, he might as well go out feeling something.

He knows he doesn’t belong here – not in your bed, not in your life. You’re sunlight and clutter and chipped nail polish. You drink too much caffeine, talk with your hands, and tell stories like you expect someone to care. And for some reason, when you speak, the noise in his head gets quieter.

That’s why he’s back. That’s the fucking excuse.

Not because you smile when you open the door. Not because you talk to him like he’s not already halfway gone. Not because he’s starving for something warm and doesn’t know how to ask for it.

He’s not doing this to feel alive. He’s doing it to disappear. And you’re the only thing making it work.

On night three, he brings food.

Mostly because he doesn’t want you to see how thin he’s gotten. The weight’s coming off him fast – faster than he can hide. That stupid parasite in his brain is leeching off his energy. But if he walks in with food in his hands, maybe you won’t look too hard at the rest.

You open the door barefoot in a goddamn threadbare shirt – the one that’s two sizes too big and falling off your shoulder like a tease he didn’t ask for. You smile like he’s part of your week. He hates how much he likes that.

When he tells you he figured you needed fuel, he almost admits that he does too, but he bites it back at the last second. Sometimes he says a lot of shit that makes him feel like an asshole, but he’s trying to draw boundaries and stick to them – lines in the sand before the tide washes them away.

He feels like shit whenever he looks at you for too long. You deserve better. He knows that.

And yet, he ends up between your thighs hours later.

You make him laugh without trying. When you light up, he pretends not to notice how that lands. He never tells you how much he looks forward to this – the sound of your voice filling the room, the way you talk about the world like it hasn’t already ended. He doesn’t have a version of that anymore. Hasn’t in a long time.

But this? You? It’s the closest he gets to fucking worshiping anything these days.

Later, he fucks you like he’s holding on for dear life. It’s not slow. Not gentle. When he comes, it’s too quiet. He sees stars behind his eyes, but not the good kind. There’s a spike of pressure near his temple.

A warning. A fucking reminder.

Whenever you ask him if he’s okay, he lies and finds an excuse. You buy it – or pretend to. He wonders if you’re smarter than you let on.

He showers with the door open so he can hear you move around the house. You hum sometimes when you think no one’s listening.

But he listens. He always does.

On night four, he plans to stay away once more. Futile, honestly.

He wakes up that morning with blood in his mouth from grinding his teeth. His vision’s blurred for ten minutes straight before it clears. He hopes you don’t notice. He even almost texts you at noon to call the whole thing off. He types out the entire message but doesn’t send it.

Because by noon, he’s thinking about your voice again. The way you described a toddler’s tantrum like it was a Greek tragedy. The way your knee brushed his thigh last night and you didn’t bother to move.

Do good intentions count in the end?

He doesn’t realize he’s parked in your neighborhood until he’s already there. He gets burgers because it gives him something to do with his hands. But he walks up your steps too fast and sees spots for a second. He blinks them away before he knocks once.

When you answer, you grin like he’s right on time. He hates how fucking good that feels.

But you don’t ask him anything real. You never do. He’s not sure if it’s politeness, pity, or self-protection. He’s grateful either way.

Still, he catches the way your eyes narrow slightly when he presses his hand to his temple mid-conversation. He feels like a cracked radiator and the pressure behind his eyes is getting worse. He tells you he’s fine, though.

Lie number seven, probably.

You don’t press. You don’t ask why his body is tense or why he keeps blinking hard like the light’s too bright. He doesn’t know if that makes you kind or reckless. But you do talk a little softer and sit a little closer after that.

That night, he watches you ride him on the couch with something like reverence in his eyes and doesn’t know why. He tries to keep it routine – rough, quiet, transactional – but his goddamn hands won’t behave. They linger and wander and try to claim.

His mouth presses to the soft curve of your jaw just a second too long.

He should leave after, but he ends up curled with you on the couch and reruns of Law & Order flickering across the TV. You talk and talk and talk. He doesn’t say much, but he notices everything.

The way you sit with one leg tucked under you. How your fingers twitch when you’re excited. The little scar on your arm you never mention.

He thinks about how easily this could feel like home if things were different. If he were someone else. If he had goddamn time.

You pause the episode mid-interrogation, remote dangling in your hand like a weapon. “Okay,” you say, pointing at the screen, “what would you have done differently?”

Mark chuckles a little and leans back, beer resting on his knee. He’s been waiting for this – your post-scene breakdowns. You’ve got a system now – watch, judge, ask questions. Usually with a snack in one hand and your foot pressed against his thigh like it belongs there.

He doesn’t mind. He never minds.

Because you always listen, absorbing everything like it actually matters – it doesn’t. It’s a fucking show. Bad lighting, worse writing. But you treat his input like it’s gospel. Somehow, you always make him feel like he’s more than just some body showing up at your door with takeout and a cocky smile.

It’s stupid how much that fucking gets to him.

He realizes it’s not just the attention, but the way you pay it – focused and curious. A puzzle someone actually wants to solve. He’s not used to that. Most people either want a shortcut or none of it at all.

“Besides solving it in half the time?” he retorts, smug as hell – mostly because he enjoys the look you always give him whenever he says shit like that.

“Yes.”

He decides to entertain your inner true crime nerd before you start your own podcast. “Alright, rookie, how about you tell me. What did this guy do wrong, huh?”

You purse your lips and perk up. “Besides murder?”

He snorts. “Besides that, yes.”

You think for a second. “He changed his story multiple times.”

“Good. What else?”

“He never looked at Stabler. Just the floor,” you add.

“Better,” he says. “And?”

“He said ‘to be honest’ three times in the same sentence.”

Mark chuckles. “Only liars say ‘to be honest.’”

“That’s comforting,” you huff and nod slowly, chewing on that. “You think like this all the time?”

He takes a sip of beer, eyes stealing glances at you sideways. You’re tucked under a blanket in 80°F weather with your wine glass balanced dangerously on your stomach, eyes sharp and curious like you’re about to go full profiler.

You’ve got no training, no badge, no reason to care. And yet, you still try to solve every damn case before the halfway mark. He finds it adorable. Infuriating sometimes, but mostly adorable.

He shrugs. “Can’t really turn it off.”

“Bet you’re fun at parties.”

He watches the way your mouth twists and has the sudden, stupid urge to press a kiss there. He won’t. Obviously.

He’s good at this – this line he’s not supposed to cross. He knows what this is, and what it isn’t. No promises, no strings. Just shared space and body heat and your cute, crooked smile when he gets you laughing.

Still, he flashes you a smirk. “You keep letting me in.”

You don’t answer that, just tip your head a little closer till it brushes his arm. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to. You don’t even notice you do it, but he does. He notices everything.

And fuck, he shouldn’t. He tells himself that every time. Tells himself to keep it light, casual, surface-level. That was the goddamn deal. That’s the only thing keeping this from becoming something fucking messier.

But then you have to look at him like this – amused, warm, comfortable – and he fucking forgets why the hell he ever thought pretending not to care was supposed to be the better option. You act like any of this is normal.

And God fucking help him, he wishes it was.

So, he clears his throat and grabs the remote. “Wanna watch another one?”

“Duh,” you respond and toss a piece of popcorn at him.

“You’re weirdly into this,” he notes, chuckling.

You grin completely unapologetic. “Well, c’mon, it’s not every day I get commentary from a real-life homicide detective. It’s like my personal Disneyland. And I spent a lot of time at Disneyland. This is way cooler.”

He barks a laugh and rubs a hand down his face. “You make that sound way more glamorous than it is, sweetheart.”

Ugh, cute pet names. He should avoid them.

Boundaries are important, yes. But he still stretches his arm across the back of the couch and lets his fingers reach out to graze your shoulder like it’s nothing – like it’s always been there.

And for the next forty-three minutes, he watches the show – but not really. Not with you right there, half-laughing, muttering about red flags and “douchebag energy” and still somehow getting the killer wrong by the end. He never corrects you too harshly. He likes the way you guess. He likes the way you talk over the commercials. He likes the way these nights feel easy.

Too fucking easy. It feels like a piece of his life finally fits.

And that scares the hell out of him.

On night five, he tells himself it’s the last time. Again.

It’s the lie he repeats like a mantra every damn night. He should stay away. You’re getting too comfortable. He’s getting too goddamn comfortable – too used to the shape of you next to him.

To the sound of your voice filling the quiet.

Mark wakes up sweating that morning, headache already humming behind his eyes. The usual cocktail of Tylenol and denial doesn’t hit the way it fucking used to.

Sadly, neither does food. He throws up twice before noon, wipes his mouth, and jokes around the office like nothing’s wrong. He notices their glances whenever he gets a headache, though. For now, they’re being polite and accepting his weak excuses just like you do.

But he knows if a nanny is already suspicious, DEA and FBI agents will soon be as well. He wonders how long it’ll take them to catch on. If he were a little more sadistic, he’d turn it into a game – see who guesses right first. The winner can hold his eulogy.

On this warm summer night, you then open the door wearing sweat shorts and one yellow sock. He barely notices – or he notices too fucking much. He’s not sure.

He ends up sharing a bucket of fried chicken with you on your back porch, the city buzzing around the two of you, the night sky twinkling above. He spots a shooting star and almost feels tempted to challenge the universe.

That night, you ask him if he believes in fate. He laughs under his breath like the question’s a fucking trick. It feels like it. He never answers. Doesn’t trust himself to without breaking down. Because if he peels away the layers, there’s anger there.

This isn’t fucking fair. None of it is.

The sex that night is impatient because he is. He wants more – more time, more chances, more you. Maybe if he fucks you hard enough, it’ll shake something loose. His soul can leave his body and crawl into yours. He could live there just fine.

He knows it’s not logical, but that’s where he’s at.

His rhythm matches the pounding in his skull, but it’s not just the headache he’s trying to choke – it’s the thoughts that come with it.

The fucking “what ifs” and “whys” and “what the hells.”

Then comes the quiet – the one he craves the most. Because he’s not chasing the highs of sex. Not really. He’s chasing the afterglow.

The moments with you on the couch – talking, laughing, watching stupid TV. Something that makes him feel like this could go on forever.

Mid-episode of yet another maddeningly unsolved mystery, you stretch your body like a feline. He’s not even really watching anymore. Not the screen, anyway. Your expression’s more interesting – your mouth twitching when the narrator drops a lead, the quick glint in your eye every time you think you’ve cracked it.

Cute as hell.

“Wanna split some ice cream?” you ask suddenly, eyes still on the TV.

“I just watched you eat a whole bowl of popcorn.” He playfully arches an eyebrow at you. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you’re just an endless hole that swallows copious amounts of junk food. I don’t even know where it goes.”

You snort a laugh and smirk devilishly. “Oh, it’s not just junk food. But you already know that.”

He actually fucking stumps this time. Sometimes he unfairly attributes innocence to you because you spend time with tiny humans all day. In reality, though, it seems to be the complete opposite – bloody murder and filthy sex, apparently.

“That’s–, uhm… wow.”

You laugh at him as you sit up, stretching your arms over your head. His eyes follow the edge of your shirt riding up your thighs and hips – pretty much the moment he decides there’ll be another round later. That never happened before.

Usually, it’s a one-and-done. He doesn’t go back for seconds the same night.

It’s not exactly a rule, but it’s something he’s enforcing to keep the lines from blurring. Same reason why he always gets up early and never stays for breakfast. Absolutely no morning sex. No kisses unless they happen during the act. No kiss goodnight, no kiss good morning, no kiss hello, no kiss goodbye. This isn’t a fucking relationship. He’s not making himself at home here.

“Be right back,” you say as you rise. “Have to get it from the garage.”

His brow raises. “Garage?”

You shoot him a little grin. “If I keep it in the kitchen freezer, I eat it instantly. The temptation’s too big. But if I keep it in the garage, the added inconvenience of distance gives me a minute to reconsider my life choices. Nine out of ten times, I think twice about leaving the couch.”

He snorts, shaking his head, but his heart does a weird little jump. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I contain multitudes,” you call over your shoulder, already padding toward the back door.

Mark pushes off the couch and follows you, heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab the–, uh…”

He opens a drawer and pauses.

The word’s there. He knows it’s there. It’s metal. Shaped. Used for digging into cold things. Mouth. Food. Tip of his tongue.

Why the fuck is it not coming?

You halt and lean in the doorway, amused. “Spoons?” you offer with a cocked eyebrow.

He looks up, masking it with a half-laugh. “Yup, that. Jesus, I’m fucking tired. Long day.”

You shrug it off. “Too much murder TV. It’s rotting your synapses, Detective.”

He forces a smile. “Must be it.”

You vanish into the garage, and he grips the edge of the counter a little too tight.

Just a fucking blip, he tells himself. A missed step. Everyone forgets a word now and then. His world is starting to blur. No big deal.

But there’s clarity whenever he looks at you. He suddenly sees the future clearly.

He sees the nights spent arguing with you over fictional cases, sees the smile on your face when he actually takes you out to eat like you deserve.

He sees the ring, the house, and the cradle. Sees himself teaching baseball to a boy who reminds him too much of himself. Sees himself threatening some poor teenager with his badge and gun that’s trying to date a daughter who looks too much like you.

He sees himself still sitting on the porch with you, gray, old, and wrinkled – the way it should be.

He sees fucking everything.

The thing is, he’s not even sure he wants all of that. It’s not something he’s thought a lot about in his life, mostly because he assumed if he ever did want it, he could just have it. Now that it’s out of reach, it seems like it’s all he’s thinking about, though. Now, everything feels heightened and more urgent.

People want what they can’t have. Isn’t it always this way? He’s not even special in his own goddamn mind, just a fucking cliché of a sick and dying man.

There are two parts of him, and both trickle down to the fucking cancer again.

There’s the part that says: “What’s the fucking difference? You haven’t planned to live past sixty, anyways. Hell, past forty is a goddamn miracle. You were always supposed to end up here. You’re not missing out on anything.”

But it’s not the fucking same, is it? That’s what the other part keeps telling him.

Because when he goes this time, it’s not on his fucking terms. It’s not sacrificing his life for a bigger cause. It’s not as himself.

When he was first diagnosed, his doctor talked about palliative care like it’d be a thing he’d actually consider. He didn’t even listen all that carefully to that part or a lot of the other shit that came with it. Probably why they initially told him to “bring someone” – someone to take notes and really listen. He didn’t, even though he could have, but that’s another story.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need anyone. It won’t come that far. He won’t let it. The cancer doesn’t get to fucking win. He does.

He won’t die in a bed, a fucking vegetable, not being able to speak, to move, to fucking think. If he has to go, it won’t be because he became a shadow of his former self. It’ll be because he threw himself into the fucking sun.

He’s promised himself that and holds stubbornly onto it, even though with each passing day, he feels a little more like he’s grasping at straws instead of reaching for the fucking stars.

The worst part about this newfound ache in his chest, though?

He’s not even sure it’s about you or just himself. It’s only been five fucking days. Truthfully, he doesn’t know enough about you yet to dream up any kind of future. He’s even deliberately avoiding asking questions about you that go beyond your job and your little armchair sleuthing. He doesn’t want to know you, but he does.

What a stupid spot to be trapped in.

Seeing the potential hurts more than anything else, he supposes. Maybe that’s why he broke it off with Melinda as well. It wasn’t just about protecting her, but protecting himself, too. After all, he could’ve had all of that a year ago already if he’d really wanted to – someone to hold him, keep him company, actually care for him. So, he tells himself these thoughts and feelings aren’t really about you.

But every time he looks at you, he thinks he knows the truth.

On night six, it’s the worst yet.

He’s addicted. He knows that now. And like any junky, there’s no stopping – only more.

Last night loops on repeat through his mind. He thinks about the sound you made when he pushed deep. How you always sigh his goddamn name and not just anyone’s.

And it all starts by accident. Well, sort of.

He’s trapped in an SUV with Finau, and the guy’s not giving him anything back. The least he could do is provide entertainment when stuck on the freeway, but Mark can tell by the faraway look in Finau’s eyes that he’s probably thinking about his wife and kids again, wishing to be anywhere but here.

Mark kind of admires that. He’s never been able to do that. Not even before. Work always came first. Still does.

And yet, waiting out LA traffic on his way to his next lead is a gray zone – just like texting.

Part of the rules he’s imposing on himself is no daylight activities with you. He’s keeping you in the dark – personally, emotionally, physically, spatially, and even chronologically.

All of that translates to no plans during the day that could be mistaken for dates. It’s simple. Black and white.

But texting? Total fucking gray zone.

Because yes, it’s bright and Cali-fucking-fornia-sunny out, but he’s not taking a stroll with you through the park or inviting you to brunch at a fucking restaurant. He’s only talking with you about the things he’ll do to you once it’s dark again.

Loophole.

Believe it or not, but those three little texts take him eight failed attempts and a half hour to craft. And as if to prove to himself he still doesn’t care all that much, he doesn’t waste another thought before hitting send.

However, all that truly proves is that he’s full of shit, because he doesn’t breathe until you reply.

Your first response comes within minutes. He can tell you’re playing hard to get – or maybe you’re just shy. Probably a little confused why he’s suddenly texting you filth in the middle of the day, too. Either way, he fucking likes it.

But then he gets bolder, and you don’t respond for hours. Drives him fucking nuts. Did he go too fucking far? He didn’t think sexting you was crossing a boundary. Maybe it is.

However, relief comes on his way back from his last lead – stuck in yet another car. This time with Oliveras, which is arguably worse. While Finau didn’t even blink at him, Oliveras isn’t doing him the same courtesy. The woman is fucking nosy.

He smirks like a goddamn idiot at the last message that comes through and already sees Amber’s brow lifting in the corner of his eye. She catches it right away.

“What the hell are you grinning at? You look like a lovesick Golden Retriever,” she quips.

Mark gives an amused huff but doesn’t look up from the screen. “Nothin’. Just something funny.”

“Oh, yeah?” Amber’s brow hitches higher. “Snacktime’s got a lot of jokes? You seriously got zero shame, huh?”

He pockets his phone with a subtle sigh and smirks at her – broad and smug and unapologetic. “Aww, you jealous? That why you’re sneaking peeks at my screen?”

Offense is the best defense.

As predicted, she scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You held it up like a fucking middle-schooler showing nudes, man! Just figured I might as well get a contact for this girl, so at least someone can warn her about you.”

Mark exhales slowly and glances out the window, the traffic jam suddenly feeling a lot heavier. No use arguing when she was half right.

Her fucking words roll around his head all afternoon.

He tells himself it’s bullshit. Noise. Standard Oliveras judgment with a side of moral superiority. But it sits there anyway – wedged under his skin like a splinter. That tone she used. The way she said warn her, like he was a walking red flag with a kill count.

He isn’t. Not really.

Oliveras doesn’t know the full story, so all she’s really got is being half-right and knowing a half-truth, which cancels each other out and equals down to zero again. So in reality, she’s got fucking zero points.

Still, he thinks about not coming tonight. Thinks about just driving to his empty home, eating half a protein bar, falling asleep with the TV on and waking up to something cold and quiet and uncomplicated.

Because maybe you should be warned.

Maybe he’s not the kind of problem you laugh off in the morning. Maybe you’re too sharp, too kind, too mouthy in a way that sticks. Maybe it’s already getting harder to pretend that those few hours every night mean nothing.

Maybe.

But instead of backing off, he doubles down.

He brings pizza and fucks you even harder that night. He picks the movie and laughs too loud at your commentary. He plays footsie under the coffee table with you and steals bites of garlic bread from your plate. He wipes sauce from your mouth and lingers too long after.

You pause for half a second, meet his eyes, but don’t say anything.

And maybe that’s fucking worse.

Maybe it’s worse that you don’t flinch or make a joke to soften it. Because it means you took note of it. It means you’re paying attention. And you’re fucking curious. You don’t even seem to notice the way he watches you – like he’s memorizing every goddamn inch of you in case it disappears.

So he decides to get ahead of it.

He kisses you too hard when the credits roll. Doesn’t give you a second to ask if he’s okay or what this is or if the texts meant something. If he can just get deep enough, fast enough, maybe you’ll stop pulling away and the rest doesn’t catch up with him.

Because tonight, he can feel it prickling under the surface, slowly simmering to a boil – you are pulling away.

There’s an inch more distance now than there was last night. A slight shift in your posture. A flicker behind your eyes.

He’s not stupid. He sees it. He knows what it is.

You’re guarding something. Probably your heart. Which means you’re thinking and starting to wonder if this thing with him was a good idea to begin with.

And shit, it should make him feel relieved. It’s a good thing you’re pulling away and won’t let him in further. He wants that. He should want that. It’s a gift, honestly.

But instead, it makes him completely fucking reckless.

It becomes dangerous because he stops thinking about all the things he can’t have and starts pretending like he absolutely fucking can.

He grips your hips like he owns them and you’ll slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold tight enough. He breathes your name like it’s the last tether to this life that still makes sense. He stays in you longer than necessary. He says things he shouldn’t, whispers filth like he’s trying to claim some part of you that hasn’t already turned cold.

You whimper under him, and he wants to say he’s sorry for all of it.

For the silence. For the pretending. For needing you more than he ever intended.

But he doesn’t. He just buries his face between your shoulder blades when he comes, gasping like he’s breaking apart. And when you ask if he’s okay, he kisses your shoulder and doesn’t answer.

What the fuck is he supposed to say? No?

He’s not okay. He’s dying. He’s lying. He’s dragging you into something you didn’t sign up for, and he doesn’t know how to stop.

He won’t tell you the truth – that every time you ask, it cuts a little deeper. Because he wants to answer. He just can’t. Not when you’re the one thing he doesn’t want to ruin.

And you? You just lie there with him, quiet and still, your hand trailing across his ribs like a peace offering. You don’t push. You never do.

But he can still feel it – you’re starting to see him. Not the reckless guy who fucked up your job or the cop who brings junk food and bad movies. You see the real version. The frayed one. The version who doesn’t sleep well. The one who hears too much and speaks too little and forgets how to say spoon in your kitchen.

Later, when he’s drifted off and the world’s finally stopped spinning, he blinks his eyes open to find you still awake, watching him. He doesn’t say anything, just reaches for you and pulls you closer, like proximity is suddenly protection.

He’s not sure how many nights he’s got left like this. You’re slipping, and it should make him want to let go. But all it does is make him want to hold on harder.

Because even if you don’t belong to him, not really, he wants you to feel like you do.

On night seven, Mark knows he’s leaving soon.

Tomorrow morning, prisoner transfer, undercover. Three days. Maybe four. No phone. No contact. No safety net.

Easy.

Except for the part where it means disappearing. You won’t hear from him. He thinks about telling you.

He doesn’t.

He even considers not coming at all tonight – ghosting quietly, just leaving a dumb little note under your mat: ‘Thanks for everything, but you’re better off.’

Then he remembers how you looked last night when you came – eyes glazed, mouth open, body clinging to him like he’s gravity – and he knows he’s too much of a selfish coward to let go.

He doesn’t know if you’ll wait. Doesn’t even know if he wants you to.

You don’t know what this is. He doesn’t either. But for a few hours every night, it feels real.

So tonight, he lets it.

He lets you take your time. Lets you climb into his lap and kiss his throat like it means something. Lets you move at your own rhythm, slow and unhurried, as if neither of you is going anywhere. As if he’s not going anywhere.

He doesn’t flip you over or take control the way he usually does. Doesn’t try to chase release or command the rhythm. He just keeps his hands on your waist, lets you ride him slow and sweet and devastating, and watches you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to memorize. And maybe it fucking is.

Tonight, he wants to remember.

How your hands feel on him. How your hips roll over his. How your breath ghosts across his jaw like a promise.

Your fingers trail over his chest like a map, and he lets them. He lets you chase whatever it is you need to find. He lets himself feel you.

Every sound you make is something he files away. Every breath against his skin is something he knows he’ll try to remember later when it’s cold and quiet.

You press your forehead to his and kiss the edge of his jaw, and he swallows something thick and sharp that tastes too much like goodbye.

Later, when he splashes cold water on his face to wake himself up from something that feels too much like a dream, he stares at himself in the mirror and doesn’t recognize the man looking back.

You offer him a toothbrush.

He doesn’t take it, but he should. It’s the seventh night in a row he’s spending here. But if he takes it, he’s staying, and he’s not staying, he’s dying. So, he thanks you like it’s a joke and kisses you like it’s not.

It’s a weird hill to die on, especially since his phone charger is plugged in beside your bed.

He could end it tonight. Clean break. Walk out and not come back. You wouldn’t chase him. You’d let him go. You’d get over him. You’d move on. Probably be better off for it. That’s the smart thing to do. The kind thing.

But instead, he finds himself shifting closer again under the covers, pulling you tighter against his chest. His arm curls around your waist automatically. It’s muscle memory now. Touching you. Reaching. Staying.

You fall asleep with your cheek pressed against his chest, and he waits until you’re fully out before letting the smile fall off his face.

In the morning, he even stays for fucking breakfast. He listens too closely to your stories and smiles too long. He leaves his shirt behind. He could pretend it’s a mistake, an accident, but it’s on purpose. A placeholder. Let it mean something.

When he leaves your house and walks to the car, he wonders what you’ll think when he doesn’t show later.

On night eight, he’s already long gone by the time darkness spreads across the sky.

He has the decency to send you a text before they cuff him and throw him into a van, though. He stares at the screen. Doesn’t say more. Doesn’t let himself. He hits send before he can edit it – before he can make it softer or messier or say what he really means:

Don’t forget me. I don’t want this to be over. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop.

He closes his eyes and tells himself it’s better this way – and maybe it is.

Maybe you’ll forget. Maybe he won’t.

▶️ Better Safe Than Starry-Eyed

Should we do the mental health check-in again? How are you guys holding up? Feel a little dizzy like you ingested mercury? (It's in retrograde.) 😝

I might have spent a little too much time on those texts, but I found doing it in graphics so fitting for this series lol. Next time we have the same dose of emotional angst, but your first twist is coming up 😉

Coming Up:

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.