The air inside the task force’s war room was heavy with tension—red string maps, cartel surveillance stills, a whiteboard full of names you weren’t supposed to know.

And then, there was you.

All sunshine and soft denim. Ponytail swinging, crop top hugging just enough curve to make heads turn. You walked like you belonged there, holding a lunch bag with a handwritten sticky note on top—“Don’t forget to eat 💛”—because why wouldn’t he appreciate that? You were sweet. Thoughtful. And his, right?

So you pushed open the glass door, smile beaming.

“Hi, baby. You forgot your lunch!”

Silence hit the room like a gunshot.

Mark Meachum looked up from the evidence board with the kind of expression that could level cities. His scowl deepened like he was trying to erase you from existence just by glaring hard enough.

“The fuck is this?”

He was already moving toward you, fast and furious.

You blinked, all innocent eyes and lip gloss. “You left before I woke up—so I thought I’d surprise you.”

“You thought?” He hissed it like the word offended him. “Jesus Christ, you have no idea where you are right now.”

“Well, I—”

“I’ve got men chasing cartel ghosts and you’re walking around here like this is a fucking bake sale.”

You shrank, clutching the lunch bag like a shield. Your voice cracked. “I was just trying to do something nice…”

Agent Bell, lounging near the back wall with a half-finished protein bar and no tact, let out a low whistle. “Damn,” he muttered with a grin. “How’d you pull a girl like this, Meachum? She’s cute. Like—real cute. You’ve still got game, old man.”

Oliveras snorted from her chair, not even hiding the laugh. “Yeah, until she figures out who he really is.”

Mark shot Bell a look that could’ve turned bone to ash. “Shut up, Bell.”

But Bell just raised both hands like he meant no harm. “I’m just saying, man—47, grumpy, probably eats drywall for breakfast—and somehow this,” he gestured toward you, “is calling him ‘baby’ in broad daylight.”

Oliveras leaned forward, deadly amused. “Oh, she probably doesn’t know about the fiancée. Or the sister.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Olive—” Mark warned.

But she kept going, venomous and amused. “Two weeks before the wedding. Sister. Bed. Boom. No wedding. No calls. Classic Meachum.”

You turned to Mark, stomach twisting.

“That true?”

He didn’t say anything. Not right away. Just stared at you like you were the biggest mistake in the room.

“Get out,” he said finally. Cold. Brutal. Like ripping off a Band-Aid from a bullet wound.

You flinched. “Mark—”

“Out. Now.”

Bell whistled again, softer this time. “Damn. Guess lunch is canceled.”

The bag slipped from your fingers, hitting the floor with a muffled thud. No one moved.

You turned without a word, the heat of shame crawling up your spine, tears you wouldn’t let fall burning behind your eyes. The door felt heavier when you pulled it open.

Behind you, Oliveras chuckled under her breath. “She thought she was the exception.”

Mark didn’t say anything. Just stood there, jaw tight, fists tighter.

Bell popped the last bit of his bar into his mouth and muttered, “Could’ve at least said thank you for the sandwich.”

And still—Mark didn’t move.