What If I Told You I'm Back?
Abandon the Ship Pt. II
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 reader
Warnings: +18 due to language and smut, no strings attached/the casual kind, angst, humor, lots of awkwardness
Word Count: 6.9k
A/N: Thanks for all the feedback on Part 1! 🥹 I love writing this little series and this character so far, and it's shaping up to be very smangsty overall lol. Hope you guys enjoy this part as well 🤓🤞
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Find your soundtrack to this series here: California Nights 🌌
A slant of sunlight cuts across his closed eyelids, sharp as a blade. Mark grunts and rolls over, arm stretching out on empty sheets, head burying deeper into the softness of the pillow underneath.
Too cold. Too quiet. And then it begins.
The ache starts as a buzz. The throb behind his forehead pulses like a dull, insistent drum. Familiar in a way he doesn’t want to unpack – not yet and not this morning.
It’s not just the whiskey, though that sure as hell didn’t help – it’s the other thing. The invisible bastard nestled somewhere in the folds of his brain, gnawing at the inside of his skull like it’s knocking against the bone to inform him it’s awake and ready to start the day.
Just him and the fatal sidekick he hasn’t picked.
Mark groans and rubs his eyes before blinking up at the ceiling – only it’s not his ceiling.
It’s too white and too smooth. There are no water stains, no cracks, and no spinning fan held together with a twist of black duct tape. There’s no gun under the pillow, no case files stacked on the nightstand, and no coffee rings on the window sill. The mattress beneath him is too soft and too clean as well. The sheets smell nicer than usual, too. Something floral – maybe lavender or even citrus.
It’s not his usual detergent, and this is definitely not his place.
He turns his head and spies the graveyard of tangled clothes on the floor, the shoes haphazardly kicked off by the door, the dent in the pillow beside him.
Right.
Last night.
You.
His lips twitch as the memories come flooding back in slow, satisfying pieces – your laugh against his throat, your fingers in his hair, the way your breath caught when he slid into you, like maybe you hadn’t expected it to feel that good.
Hell, he hadn’t expected it to feel that good either.
Mark exhales a low breath and sits up, wincing as his head protests some more. The sheet slips down his bare chest, and the clock on the nightstand blinks 6:43 AM in faint red light. He rubs a hand down his face. His boxers are half-draped over one foot, so he yanks them back on, along with yesterday’s jeans from the floor and the rest of his clothes.
There’s a sound then – movement. A mug clinks. A cupboard closes. The scent of coffee drifts down the hall.
Mark finds you in the kitchen, hair up in a messy bun, moving between the fridge and the counter in an old t-shirt that might be yours or someone else’s, judging by the too large size. Maybe an old boyfriend’s – he’s not sure and doesn’t ask.
For a second, just a second, he forgets how temporary this all is.
You glance up when he appears in the doorway, and your lips lift in a quiet, slightly knowing smile. “Morning.”
“Barely,” he rasps, voice shot from sleep and whiskey. “That coffee for me or just a cruel form of torture?”
You giggle and nod toward the second mug already steaming on the counter. “Figured you’d want one. Wasn’t sure how you take it, but I got cream, sugar…”
“Black is good,” Mark murmurs.
“Cops not picky about their coffee, huh?”
His lips twitch with a smile. “Can’t afford to. Wouldn’t make it through the first hour of the day if we did.”
Mark then takes the mug from your hands with a small grunt of appreciation, your fingers brushing just barely, but even that feels like a small electric jolt. You don’t say anything for a beat after, just sip your own coffee and glance out the window, where the morning sun is hitting the side of the sink.
His headache pulses again, but he rides it out. The warmth in your kitchen and the curl of your mouth do a good job of distracting him from the slow, deadly drumbeat in his brain. Still, you seem to take note of the soft groan that leaves his lips.
“Bad hangover?” you ask with a smile that’s a little teasing in nature. “You look like hell.”
“Yeah, uh, just need some Tylenol,” he mutters and forces a smile, rubbing his temples till the sting passes.
As soon as it does, Mark leans against the counter, eyeing you over the rim of the mug. “So, you got plans today?” he asks eventually, just to fill the quiet.
“Scheduled a couple of interviews this morning,” you reply. “Already sorted through a hundred requests. Just gotta convince some new family I’m Mary Poppins without the umbrella now. Might work out.”
“Yeah?” he says, a little impressed. “Bouncing back fast.”
You shrug and drink your coffee. “Can’t afford not to.”
His body aches but in the good kind of way now. It’s the sort of pain that makes him feel young again – like he still has time.
Then it gets quiet again – not cold but charged. The kind of silence where the night before still lingers on the skin – that awkward tension that always floats up in the daylight after a night like that.
He watches the golden morning sun catch on the wisps of hair escaping your bun, casting a glowing halo around your still-sleep-creased face. The oversized shirt you’re wearing is long enough to hide your legs but short enough to flash the curve of your thigh when you shift your weight.
His hand aches to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb the edge of your jaw, kiss you again – but he doesn’t. He can’t. Because that’s how things get sticky. Complicated. Emotional.
And God knows he doesn’t have time for emotional right now.
Last night was a lucky detour – an indulgence, one of the very few he allows himself these days. It’s supposed to be nothing. A drink, a warm bed, a distraction from the hellstorm of appointments and scans and the clock ticking louder every day.
And still, he feels it catch low in his gut – that small flicker of… something. The kind of ache that wonders what might’ve happened if he were a different man – one with an abundance of time.
He closes his eyes for a moment and relishes in the memory again.
Your mouth on his. Your legs around his hips. The way you whispered his name – not like you were trying it on, but like you already knew how it fit.
He exhales a sigh and lets himself look at you for another moment. Not just at your body or the way your shirt slips off your shoulder. At your eyes. At the quick mind behind them. At the spark of sharp humor and warmth that makes the air around you feel lighter than the one he usually breathes.
He drags his gaze away and runs a hand through his hair, clearing his throat. “Look, about last night…”
“Oh, here comes the speech,” you tease and grin around your mug, raising a brow.
Mark chuckles lightly. “That obvious, huh?”
You shrug coolly – amused, even. “You’ve got the vibe.”
His eyebrow arches. “The vibe?”
Your lips flash a smirk. “Yeah, great lay but probably won’t call. Emotional walls so high they got barbed wire and a no-fly zone. You know, that vibe.”
“Jesus,” he huffs out a breathy laugh and takes a sip of coffee to wash all that honesty down. “Well, I just wanted to be upfront. I’m not really in a place for… anything serious, y’know? Or even semi-serious. Got a lot going on right now. Messy job, messy life.”
Terminal clock ticking behind my eyes like a fucking bomb –buthe swallows that part back down.
Your teasing smile doesn’t vanish, however. “Kinda cocky of you to assume I’d be picking out wedding china after a night of wild sex.”
He mirrors the little upward twitch of your mouth. “Wild, huh?”
“Don’t make me say mind-blowing out loud,” you quip and finish your coffee, placing the mug down in the sink. “Pretty sure that third round ruined me for civilian men.”
He barks a low laugh into his coffee. “Yeah? Glad to hear I’m leaving a legacy behind.”
“Look, I may not be a detective, but I knew what this was when you showed up at my door last night,” you say, laughing a little. “I’m not looking for anything either, okay? You’re cute, but I just wanted to come.”
He snorts and cocks a brow. “That all?”
“Yup.” You give a shrug of your shoulders. “No offense, but I’m pretty sure you’re just the guy I had great sex with before I meet my husband.”
Something washes over him then, but it’s not exactly relief. It’s a dull thrum in his ribcage that he tells himself to ignore. Disappointment, maybe?
He shakes his head clear and pulls himself away from the counter, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, uh… I should–, uhm, I should get going. Got a case on my desk.”
You nod, leaning back against the counter. “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.” He finishes his coffee and sets the mug down carefully. “And thanks for the coffee. And, uh… everything.”
“You’re welcome, Detective,” you reply with a little grin. “Take care of yourself.”
Mark nods, swallowing past something sharp in his throat. “Yeah, you too.”
He hesitates at the door, car keys in hand. The sunlight outside is brighter and harsher now – too real. The headache’s still there, still ticking in the background and reminding him that time isn’t a luxury he has.
He shouldn’t look back. He fucking knows he shouldn’t. But he still does.
“I’ll see you around.” He smirks, but it fades quickly.
You gift him a smile, gentle and oh-so amused. “No, you won’t.”
And then Mark walks out the door, the annoyingly cheerful sun stabbing straight through his aching skull. But the strange weight in his chest only lodges itself deeper – the one he convinces himself is just the hangover, the caffeine, or maybe even simple post-sex biology.
Still, that phantom pull in his ribcage? That magnetic little ache that wasn’t there yesterday?
Yeah, he feels it – hard. And he bets the next guy you’ll invite into your home falls even harder.
He envies that guy a little.
It’s early evening when you finally turn onto your street in Altadena, the June heat starting to break but still clinging to the asphalt. The windows are cracked open in your car, but the breeze is more of a warm breath than a relief. The AC wheezes with exhaustion.
It’s been a long day. You’re sweaty, undercaffeinated, your cheeks are sticky with today’s makeup, and your feet hurt from cheap sandals.
Five interviews back-to-back across different parts of the city – one of them in a house that reeked of cat piss and desperation, another with a mom who kept calling her toddler a “tiny CEO” without irony, and one with hyper-scheduled parents with dead eyes and Pinterest expectations. Some of the kids were sweet, some borderline feral, and all of them were starting to blend together.
You’re so tired you can’t even tell which song’s playing on the radio – something soft, maybe Fleetwood Mac. It’s that beautiful, dusky in-between hour when LA starts to change colors – the light going lavender, pink, and copper at the edges of the sky, the streets all golden haze and flickering headlights. Through the window, the scent of jasmine, watered grass, distant grills, and warm pavement hits your nose.
You love your job, but it’s exhausting to sell yourself all day. All you crave now is a cold shower and something even colder in your hand.
Weirdly, your mind hasn’t drifted back much to last night. To him.
Okay – maybe once or twice. A flicker of a memory when your thighs shifted in the driver’s seat, or when you heard that laugh of his again in your head at a café.
But it’s fine.
It was a one-time thing. Good sex with a handsome stranger. A moment. A distraction. A hot, borderline reckless one-night stand with a guy who kissed like he meant it and fucked like he needed it.
Yes, it was good. Better than good. But it was also over. That’s how these things go.
You get out of the car, and the porch creaks under your feet as you climb the last step to your house, keys already in hand, eyes focused on the lock. You’re half on autopilot, your brain fried from interviews, LA traffic, and summer heat, when a deep voice cuts through the suburban quiet.
“Hey.”
You flinch so hard you let out a very undignified yelp, keys clattering to the floor. Your head snaps toward the sound, and there he is:
Mark.
He’s sitting on the bench to the left of your front door, half in shadow, one arm resting loosely on his thigh like he’s been waiting there for a while. The other hand, however, rubs the back of his neck like he already regrets being here.
“Jesus,” you breathe, one hand flying to your chest, heart pounding fast underneath your palm. “You scared the shit out of me.”
He stands instantly, clearly aware of how bad this looks – tall and awkward and handsome in the last light of day, offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
You glance at the door, then back at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the area,” he says, which you both know is a lie. He clears his throat a little. “And honestly? Being a bit of a dick.”
You lift a brow and fold your arms over your chest. “Yeah? You wanna clarify that?”
Mark shifts on his feet like he’s getting ready to bolt. For the most part, he’s dressed the same as this morning – plain t-shirt, leather jacket, jeans, dark shadows under his green eyes. Still hot, still unfairly broad-shouldered and arresting. But he’s not cocky. Not smooth. Not here with swagger or expectation. He looks, for lack of a better word, uncertain.
There’s something about him now that feels different. Edgy. Heavy. Restless – like he’s been carrying something all day and can’t put it down. A mirage of a man who’s coming apart at the seams and trying not to show it.
“I know this is weird,” he says then, gesturing vaguely around the porch, as if it might explain the whole situation. “I just… had a day. A bad one. And I kept thinking about last night. And this morning. And… you.” A flicker of embarrassment crosses his freckle-dusted face as he rubs his jaw. “Look, I know I said this wasn’t anything… that I’m not looking for anything. And I meant it. I do.”
You tilt your head, not sure yet if you’re intrigued or annoyed. “But?”
“But,” he adds with flushed cheeks and a clear of his throat, “I don’t know. Guess I was hoping… maybe… if you aren’t busy… that maybe you wouldn’t mind the company.”
You bite back a snort. “Oh, so this is a booty call? On my doorstep?”
He purses his lips, head bobbing and hands shoved into his pockets. “Sounds worse when you say it out loud.”
“You’re not denying it,” you point out.
“Wasn’t trying to,” he mutters and lifts a shoulder. The honesty is strangely charming. He looks guilty as hell, but not ashamed.
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to call first? Probably would’ve been less weird, creepy, and embarrassing, too,” you tease wryly. “I mean, you found out my address. I’m sure you have my number, too.”
Mark huffs a laugh, short and mirthless. “Maybe. Figured the face time and forced proximity would help convince you. Shitty move, I know.” His eyes find yours, his expression more sincere than you expected. “But if I’m outta line, just say the word and I’ll leave. No pressure.”
You hesitate. There’s a part of you that wants to send him packing. Draw a clear line. Shut the door – metaphorically and literally. Tell him that showing up on a woman’s porch after a one-night stand is inappropriate and maybe even a little insulting and probably something he should unpack with a therapist.
You let the silence stretch for a beat too long, still standing by the door, key halfway to the lock, trying to process what this is. What he is.
“I’m not looking for anything either,” you say slowly. “In case you forgot, I wasn’t exactly begging you to stay this morning.”
He gives a small, crooked smile. “No, you were very chill about it. Which, for the record, I appreciated.”
There’s a pause then. His mouth presses into a tight line, gaze drifting toward your driveway and the Ford Bronco parked by the curb.
“Uh, you know what? This was a bad idea,” he mutters, almost to himself, and brushes swiftly past you down the steps. “Forget I was here, alright?”
You can read it on him – the way he’s kicking himself for showing up here, for turning his problems into your awkward situation. But you also see the tension in his jaw, the exhaustion in his shoulders, the way his green eyes flick to you like he’s trying to memorize the way you look in this soft porch light.
Your grip on your keys loosens, the day’s exhaustion giving way to something else – something low in your belly.
Stupidly, your body remembers him. The press of his mouth. The weight of his hands. The way he whispered fuck like a prayer when you slid down onto him. That devilish smirk in the dark when you both knew just how good it was.
You breathe out a deep sigh.
“Mark?”
He stops in his tracks past the last porch step and glances at you over his shoulder.
“You want a beer?”
That faint line between his brows softens, a smile rising at the corner of his mouth. He exhales like you just handed him oxygen.
“Yeah,” he says softly, almost grateful. “I’d like that.”
Mark sits stiffly on the edge of your couch, still beerless, slightly clammy from the sweat that’s dried under his shirt, and very aware of the fact that he’s doing a shitty thing. His spine is aching from how upright he’s holding himself – like posture might make this any less goddamn weird.
The couch isn’t uncomfortable, though. In fact, it’s the softest fucking thing he’s sat on in months – it’s just not his. He tries not to look like he’s casing the place, but it’s a habit. His eyes snag on every detail – the things that tell him who you are.
The living room is cozy in a way that makes his chest ache. Throw pillows that don’t match. A battered but well-loved coffee table. A single sneaker by the armchair and no sign of the other. A beat-up crime novel splayed open on the side table, spine broken in half from too many reads. The framed photo on the mantle – you, laughing, wind in your hair, some coastline behind you and a dog next to you, happy and golden. Maybe gone now or not yours since he doesn’t see it around the house.
You live in this house. You laugh here. You dream here.
And Mark? He shouldn’t be here.
The smart thing would be to thank you again, take the beer when you hand it over, and head out the door. He told you this wasn’t anything this very morning – made it goddamn clear. And still he showed up again like a fucking stray, knocking on your door with that same gnawing, restless sting in his ribcage he can’t seem to shut off.
He shifts in his seat and rubs a hand over his face. This was a dumb fucking idea.
He’s not sure what he was expecting. That you’d open the door in a robe and say ‘Come on in, stranger’ before pulling him inside by the belt loops? That you’d be fucking flattered?
Sure, he’s cocky, but he’s not that arrogant. Truthfully, this is just a new brand of selfish.
He told himself it was just for sex. But sitting here now, waiting for you to come back from the kitchen, he knows that’s not all of it. You make him forget things. Bad things. Scary things. Things growing in his brain and stealing time he’s not ready to lose.
You make him feel normal. Human.
The tumor pulses behind his eyes again, a low, static reminder. Not bad enough for meds yet, but it’s coming. He knows the signs.
The sound of your footsteps approaching snaps him out of his thoughts. He meets your eyes and murmurs a “thanks” when you hand him a beer, fingers brushing his.
You sit down next to him then – not too close, not too far, keeping just enough space between your bodies to make it clear that this isn’t whatever the hell he might be hoping it is. It’s the kind of polite, cautious distance you’d keep from a stranger, which, technically, he still is.
He takes a long sip of his beer and exhales. “So…”
You arch an eyebrow and study him – curious, skeptical, maybe a little amused. “So?”
He clears his throat and tries for lightness. “So… interview gauntlet. You survive?”
Your brow only lifts higher over the rim of your bottle. “You seriously drove all the way over here to ask me how my interviews went?”
Mark curls his lips, nodding. “Yeah, okay, I deserved that.”
A soft sigh leaves your lips before you haul a folder from your bag, opening it across your lap.
“Fine,” you say and pull out a stack of family photos, laying them down side by side on the coffee table. “Since you’re here, you get to hear all about these five lovely parents and help me decide who gets my final rose.”
Mark huffs a laugh, the edge of awkwardness softening. “Like on Bachelor? Are any of these people gonna jump out of a limousine at some point during the night?”
You laugh, sweet and warm like honey. “Who knows? It’s LA.”
“Maybe if they confuse your ripped jeans for a ball gown,” he teases you with a smirk.
“Oh, look who knows their reality show lore,” you shoot right back with a little grin.
He chuckles lightly. “Might have caught an episode or two.”
“Uh-huh. Right,” you snort and nurse your beer. “Pretty sure that’s code for ‘an ex-girlfriend made me watch it.’”
His cheeks catch some heat. “Maybe.”
“Alright, you ready?”
He leans back into the couch cushions with a smile, legs spreading a little wider, relaxing. “Hit me.”
You launch into it easily – effortlessly. It’s a rhythm he falls into like listening to an indie song on the PCH. It’s the distraction he needed – the one he’s hoped for.
No criminals, no terrorists, no tumors – just you, your voice, and funny anecdotes about toddlers who scream bloody murder, their neurotic moms, and their emotionally absent dads.
You tell him about the Santa Monica couple who insisted their child speak only French despite neither of them knowing a word of it. About the Brentwood family who expected a full nanny-slash-housekeeper-slash-dog-trainer for less than minimum wage. About the nosy mother in West Hollywood who asked if you were planning to have kids of your own soon, as if that somehow would’ve been a dealbreaker.
Mark listens, sips his beer, the corner of his mouth twitching up as you act out voices and roll your eyes in the perfect spots. He watches the way your face lights up when you’re telling a story. The way you talk with your hands. The way you lean closer when you get into it.
The hours blur. One beer turns into two. The sky outside shifts from golden to dark blue. He’s no longer sure what time it is, and it’s the best feeling in the world.
At some point, he forgets to keep his distance. Your knees are brushing his, your shoulders soon are as well.
“I don’t know if I can pick someone,” you sigh and stare down at the five choices in front of you, chewing your lip almost bloody.
“You kidding, right?” Mark cocks a brow and leans forward on his knees a little. “C’mon! Beverly Hills couple has to go first. They named their kid fucking Ghengis. You really wanna run around all day and scream that?”
“Good point,” you agree, nodding. “Plus, he threw a shoe at me.”
“There you go.” Mark grabs the matching picture from the table, ceremoniously rips it in half, tosses the pieces somewhere behind the couch, and grins.
You throw him a raised look. “Well, that was a bit dramatic.”
He huffs a laugh. “C’mon, you’re the one who turned this into a game.” He eagerly rubs his palms together and encourages you with a nod. “Alright, who’s next on the hit list? What about single dad, two kids, from Pasadena?”
You grimace. You’ve done it before too when you first told him about it. He still doesn’t quite know what it means. On paper, the guy looks good.
“Uh… I don’t know,” is all you say.
It triggers a furrow of his brow. “You’ve said that before. What does it mean?”
“Well…” You purse your lips, then sigh a little. “I guess I’m not sure if he’s looking for a nanny or a wife.”
“Ah.”
Mark doesn’t say more. He just snatches the single dad’s picture, crumples it into a ball, and throws it over his shoulder.
You laugh a little and lean back into the couch. “Alright, since you clearly seem to have a grasp on this, why don’t you just tell me who I should pick?”
He chuckles, then nods. “Alright. Easy. Long Beach family. You said they were normal… nice. Cute house just right off the beach,” he lists. “C’mon, can’t beat that.”
You smile softly. “Yeah, they were really great. Chillest people I’ve met in weeks. Two kids, third on the way – good job security, for sure. And the mom baked me banana bread.”
Mark watches the way your eyes drift, remembering. The fondness in your voice. Something warm and steady pools low in his gut.
“See? Banana bread lady sounds like your people,” he says. “Pick them.”
“Yeah?” You grin as you give a nod. “I think so, too.”
There’s a pause then, but it’s the good kind. You’re smiling into your bottle before you speak again.
“What about you?” you ask. “Wanna tell me about your day?”
He shutters just slightly before swallowing it down. “Not much to say. Can’t really talk about it, you know?”
A good excuse, sure, but not the entire truth. Your eyes linger on him – thoughtful, skeptical, maybe even a little worried. You don’t press, though, so maybe it’s just his imagination.
“Want another beer?” you ask instead.
“Uh…” He hesitates, reminds himself he already should’ve left after the last one, but a part of him apparently wants to push his luck. “Yeah, sure.”
You rise and stretch, the fabric of your tank top riding up, flashing just a sliver of skin at your waist. He doesn’t mean to look, but he still does. You don’t notice.
You saunter into the kitchen.
He sits there, looking at the spot you just vacated. He could leave now. He should. This was supposed to be a one-time thing. You were kind enough not to make it weird this morning – kind enough to invite him in when he showed up again like a jackass tonight. He could just finish his beer, thank you for your time, and be gone.
Instead, he watches you the whole way – the sway of your hips, the ease of your body, the way you hum softly like someone who isn’t weighed down by something rotting inside their skull.
It’s a moment so domestic it guts him.
He stays on the couch at first, gripping the neck of his empty bottle a little too tightly, jaw tense, heart drumming behind his ribs.
And then your silhouette shifts as you bend at the fridge. The arch of your spine. The way your jeans hug your curves.
A second too long. A moment too much. Something breaks.
Just go home, he tells himself again. Don’t fucking do this.
But he’s already on his feet. The tension in his spine is electric. The kind that eats its way up through his chest and refuses to stay quiet. Each step is slow. Heavy. Deliberate. His boots don’t make a sound on the hardwood, like he’s hunting something he doesn’t want to scare off.
You’re still rummaging in the fridge, still casual, still thinking you’re just grabbing another round. “They’re cold, but not fridge-cold. Hope that’s okay–”
You shut the fridge and turn. He’s closer than he should be. Your eyes meet, and you see it in him now – the raw, dark hunger.
Your breath catches, no time to ask what this is.
He grabs you. One hand at your waist, the other sliding behind your neck, pulling you in as his lips claim yours in a kiss – hard, possessive, zero hesitation. He grips you like he’s trying to steady something inside himself. You gasp – surprised, caught off guard – but you don’t push him away.
Two beer bottles clash to the floor – broken, spilled, forgotten. Neither of you flinches.
His tongue slips between your lips with the kind of desperation that says he waited as long as he could, and now he’s done waiting. The hours of pretending he wasn’t going to do this finally broke him.
Your back hits the counter, and all he can feel is the warm crush of your body and the dizzy rush of your breath against his lips, and the relief of finally, finally touching you again.
Your mouth parts for him – breathless, instinctual – and Mark swallows every sound you make. He fists your shirt at the waist, shoving it up without breaking the kiss, groaning into you when his fingers meet skin. You drag his jacket down his arms, barely get it to the floor before he’s pulling you closer by the hips and lifting you onto the counter.
Cold granite. Hot skin. His hands on your thighs – tight grip, spreading you open like he already owns the space between.
Your head tips back as he kisses along your jaw, down your neck. “Took your time,” you manage to tease.
“Won’t now,” he mutters against your skin. “Could barely think straight the second you got outta your damn car.”
He yanks your jeans and underwear down in one rough pull, swallowing the excessive spit in his mouth when he sees how wet you already are. His thumb runs through it, slow and fucking filthy, and he watches the way your body jerks – responds.
He doesn’t kiss you sweet or slow. He devours you like he needs to erase the taste of anything else. You gasp as his hips press into yours, cock hard and pulsing through his jeans, grinding into your center like he’s making it a point.
One of your hands slides under his shirt and finds warm muscle, the other undoing his belt with a practiced tug. He groans low in his throat when you cup him through the denim, then push his pants down far enough to free him. He hisses as your fingers wrap around his cock – thick, heavy, and already leaking.
He reaches back, pulls the condom from his back pocket before his jeans pool around his ankles. He rips the foil with his teeth like he’s done this before. You don’t even look – just grin against his jaw.
You give him one stroke just to hear him groan, then lean back on your elbows and watch him roll the condom on with one hand, the other still on your thigh, fingers flexing and holding you steady like you’re his anchor.
He drags his cock through your slick once before pressing in. No teasing – just one hard thrust, and he’s buried deep between your legs.
You cling to his shoulders as he begins to move, unforgiving and fast, each thrust sending your hips into the edge of the counter. Your nails dig into his back. His forehead presses to yours. You lock eyes in the dark kitchen, panting each other’s names like confessions.
One look is enough. You’re both in it – hot, wild, and messy.
Mark’s teeth scrape your jaw as he drives in harder, one hand cupping your ass to pull you closer, the other gripping your hip so hard you’ll wear the bruise tomorrow.
“Fuck, look at you,” he rasps through clenched teeth. “Feel so fucking good.”
You bite his shoulder, desperate to muffle your own moan. You can’t look at anything. Your head’s spinning, your body already tightening, every slap of skin against skin driving you closer. The counter’s shifting beneath you. The sounds are obscene.
He fucks you like there’s nothing after this.
Your legs tighten, fingers clawing at his back. His hips stutter. You’re both right there.
You come fast, sudden, with a stuttering breath and a moan you barely hold down. Your mouth falls open against his own, eyes fixed on him. The second you start to shake, he follows – hips jerking, breath breaking, his entire body tensing as he buries himself deep with one last thrust.
He stays pressed to you. Just breathing. Just still.
You’re still wrapped around him when it hits.
Not sharp – yet. Just that low, sick pulse behind his eyes again. A sudden throb, right temple first, then left. Fast. Familiar.
His breath stutters.
He closes his eyes for half a second, drops his head to your shoulder like it’s just exhaustion – nothing more than the crash after coming too hard, too fast.
You shift beneath him, legs loosening around his hips, hands sliding down his back.
“You okay?” you check.
“Yeah,” he mutters with a dry throat. He lifts his head just enough to look at you, lets a smirk pull at his mouth even though the edges of his vision have started to prickle. “Just got a little hot, I guess.”
Believable – June, summer heat, you.
You huff a soft laugh, not buying it fully but not pushing either.
Mark steadies himself with one hand on the counter, the other brushing your thigh as he slowly pulls out. His jaw locks tight against the burn blooming behind his eyes.
Don’t stumble. Don’t show it.
He disposes of the condom, barely looks if it made it to the trash.
“Uh… mind if I take a quick shower?” he asks, already pretending like nothing’s wrong and probably crossing several lines again.
You nod and give him a smile. “Go ahead. I’ll deal with the mess.”
His gaze flicks to the beer bottle shards scattered across the tile. “Right. Forgot about that part.”
You hop down from the counter, already reaching for a towel and the dustpan. The sight of you moving like that – careless, bare, unbothered – twists something in his chest, but he forces it down.
“I–, uh, I can help–”
He reaches for the broom, but you’re already shaking your head with a kind smile.
“No, it’s fine,” you assure him and look toward the bathroom. “Just try not to die in there.”
He grins like it’s nothing. “Easier said than done.”
Then he turns down the hall, and once he’s out of sight, his hand comes up fast, fingers digging into his temple as he leans hard into the doorframe inside your bathroom.
Throb. Throb. Throb.
Fucking hell.
He breathes in once and out slow.
Not now. Not yet. Not again.
The sound of water masks the rest. He steps into the spray, jaw tight, heart ticking too loud in his ears. You’re still in the kitchen, barefoot and cleaning up after the fucking mess he made.
A rush of cooler air hits him as he opens the bathroom door. He’d kept the water just above cold – enough to rinse off, not enough to think.
He’s dressed again as he steps into the living room – jeans, t-shirt, boots back on. No trace of what just happened except the slight stiffness in his back and the dull throb behind his right eye that hasn’t quite left.
Mark finds you curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, the TV flickering soft crime-scene blue across your skin. Some half-awake true crime episode is playing – bad voiceover, even worse reenactments.
You glance up and find his eyes. No words, just a small nod – like nothing about tonight needs explaining.
He exhales through his nose, hand already sliding into his back pocket for his keys. This was supposed to be the end of it. This was the part where he’d walk out – no goodbye, no follow-up, no second thoughts.
“I should head out,” he says, voice rough, thumb tracing the edge of his keys. “Got an early one tomorrow.”
You nod once more. No argument. “Alright.”
No guilt. No expectation. Just fucking alright.
He crosses the room but hesitates at the door again, hand lingering on the knob a second too long. His fingers tap the metal. His lips purse. His eyes flick back to you.
It’s easy – too easy. He could walk out, be back in his car, and halfway home in fifteen minutes. No awkward conversation. No pressure. No second layer.
But his hand doesn’t fucking move. He clicks his tongue.
“Uh, you know what? Probably shouldn’t drive after two beers,” he says with a clear of his throat and lets go of the doorknob. “Wouldn’t set a good example for the civilians. Mind if I crash here?”
You don’t even glance at him when you reply, tone bone-dry, “Thought you had an early morning.”
He bites back a smile. He knows he deserves all the teasing.
“You can stay,” you say finally and gesture with your chin to the empty spot beside you on the couch.
That’s all he needs.
He plops down next to you, keeping a careful distance. Your leg brushes his for a moment when you shift, but neither of you move after that.
“So,” your voice breaks over the quiet. You throw him a sideways glance. “You planning on swinging by tomorrow as well? Make a habit out of this? You know, just so I can plan my nights and hide the good booze.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Would it piss you off if I did?”
“I don’t know,” you reply honestly. “Would depend on your habits, I guess.”
He shifts slightly, turning to face you more fully, resting an arm across the back of the couch behind your shoulders. “Look, I’m not trying to make anything complicated. But if this–” he gestures lightly between you, “–keeps happening, I don’t exactly see a problem. You?”
You tilt your head slightly, not quite smiling. “You mean, like… casual? What, we just hang out and have sex?”
He shrugs once. “Sure, why not? No strings. No weird check-ins. We do this when we want to. No pressure when we don’t.”
You go quiet for a moment, thoughtful, and look back toward the TV screen. “This thing… it’s not really my usual.”
“Figured.” He nods once, then looks at you. “I don’t usually do this either. But… maybe we make an exception, you know?”
“What makes you think I’d be cool with that?”
He smirks a little then and meets your scrutinizing gaze. “Guess I’m just good at reading the room.”
“What if I change my mind?”
“Then you tell me. We walk away. No drama,” he responds.
You hum softly. You study him for a second, looking for the part where he cracks, but he doesn’t. He just looks back, solid and unfazed.
You nod once. “Alright.”
There it is. That word again.
“You hungry?” you then ask all of a sudden.
He blinks in surprise, then nods. “I could eat.”
Your lips hike to a smile. “Great. I’ve got white bread and four different kinds of cheese.”
He chuckles a little and lifts a brow. “Why do you have so much cheese?”
“It’s the best part of every meal,” you argue playfully.
“Yeah? You tell your kids that, too?” he teases.
“Hey, you’d be surprised how many I got to eat broccoli by melting cheese over it,” you retort as you stand up. “You want a tomato in your grilled cheese?”
He snorts a laugh. “Don’t push it.”
You disappear into the kitchen, still barefoot, still humming under your breath like none of this means anything.
Mark leans back into the couch, closes his eyes, and just breathes for a moment. The dull throb in his head hasn’t left, but it’s faded just enough to pretend it’s nothing.
This is fine. It’s easy. It’s exactly what he said it would be.
And yet, he can feel it – the start of something soft around the edges. A routine. A comfort.
He shouldn’t fucking want that.
His fingers tap restlessly against his knee. He doesn’t look toward the kitchen. Instead, he stares at the blank corner of your living room and tries not to wonder how many nights he can get away with this before it stops feeling like control and starts feeling like dependence.
He hates himself a little for staying – for doing this to you.
Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he already knows how it all fucking ends.
▶️ Mercurial High
Oh Mark… I think he really does need therapy lol.
So far, the show is feeding into my vision for this series, so we're still good. I have two endings in mind, and I'm still not sure which one I'll pick in the end. We might need a poll at some point 😝
Coming Up:
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.
Tag List Pt. 1:
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