You didn’t need him. You’d made that clear from the very beginning. To him and the rest of the task force. You were sharp. Smart. The kind of woman who didn’t wait around for permission or rescue. You knew how to handle yourself in the field, how to fight your own battles, how to hold your ground in rooms full of men who’d underestimated you. But Mark never underestimated you. No, he protected you.

The way his jaw clenches when someone raises their voice in your direction. The way his stance shifts when a suspect got too close. The way he never interrupted you, just stood beside you like armor. You didn’t need saving. You didn’t need him. But that didn’t stop him. Not when a perp grabbed your wrist during an interrogation and Mark had the guy by the neck before you could blink. Not when he stepped between you and a bullet, no hesitation. Not when he showed up at your apartment after a late case, bruised and bloodied, and handed you your favorite takeout without a word, just that quiet look, the one he only ever gave you. And God, you hated how you softened when he did that. The others got the version of you that didn’t flinch, didn’t beg, didn’t bend. But Mark? Mark got the version of you that leaned into his palm when he touched your face. That curled up against his side without thinking. That let out a shaky breath when he whispered, “I’ve got you,” like it was a promise. Because you could take care of yourself. But it didn’t mean you didn’t want to be taken care of sometimes, by him. Just him. And he never threw it in your face. Never made you feel like less. He just gave and gave, and waited for the day you’d stop pretending you weren’t afraid of losing him. “Why do you do that?” you asked once, quiet, as he cleaned the cut on your forehead after a messy sting. He didn’t look up. “Do what?” “Protect me like that. I’m not fragile, Mark.” His hands stilled for a second. Then he met your eyes, voice low and steady. “I know exactly how tough you are. That’s why I protect you.” You should’ve argued. Should’ve told him again how you didn’t need anyone. But instead, you let your hand slip into his. Let yourself lean into his side. Because the truth was this you were strong. You were built from grit and scars and fire. But around Mark Meachum? You didn’t have to be. Not all the time. You didn’t need him. You’d told him that once, early on. Straight to his face. Chin up, voice calm, hands crossed in front of you like a challenge. “I can take care of myself, Meachum.” He’d just nodded. “I know.” And he did. That was the thing about Mark. He knew. Knew you were capable, lethal even. Knew you didn’t need saving. Didn’t stop him, though. Not when a guy twice your size got too close and Mark had his hand around the guy’s collar before you could blink. Not when he always, always, made sure you walked ahead of him, never behind. Not when he’d take a hit for you and act like it didn’t sting. He was your equal in the field, your partner in the thick of it. But outside of it? He became something else entirely. A shield. And maybe that’s what scared you most, that you liked it. That when he stood close, when his voice dropped low with concern only meant for you, when he brushed his fingers against the back of your hand just to make sure you were still there you felt safe in a way you hadn’t let yourself need in years. “I don’t get it,” you murmured once, late, after a long day, when your body was sore and your defenses were lower than usual. “Why you go out of your way. Why you look at me like I’m something breakable when you know I’m not.” He was quiet for a second. Looked at you, slow and deliberate, like he was deciding whether to tell you the truth. “Because you’re the only thing in this world I’d never risk losing.”