The thing about you and Mark was… you weren’t close. Not really. But you weren’t strangers, either. You’d spent months butting heads in the field, throwing jabs that always skirted the line between irritation and flirtation. He’d roll his eyes when you questioned his plans, you’d mutter something sarcastic under your breath, and somehow you always ended up working side by side anyway. The rest of the squad had a name for it: weird chemistry. You’d deny it, of course. He probably would, too.

That night, the squad decided to blow off steam at a bar downtown. The place was loud, neon lights bouncing off every surface, the music just shy of too much bass. Everyone was hammered, laughing and slamming shot glasses against sticky wood tables. You were leaning against Mark, not intentionally, but drunk enough not to care that your shoulder brushed his arm every so often. He didn’t say anything, but you caught the twitch of a smirk when you laughed too hard at someone else’s joke.

And then, without thinking, with your voice just loud enough to rise above the noise, you let it slip.

“Mark Meachum? More like… make me c*m—”

The table went silent for a second, then exploded into roaring laughter. Half the squad was doubled over, wheezing. A few drinks spilled. Someone actually whistled.

Mark didn’t laugh. He just stared at you, brows raised, jaw tight like he was trying to process if you’d really just said that. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth curved upward — not into a smile, but into something sharper. Something that promised you’d never live this down.

“...Huh,” he drawled over the noise, eyes still locked on you. “Is that a request or a demand?”