You’re two days into your assignment when they saddle you with him. “Meachum’s one of the best,” your supervisor says. “You’ll learn a lot.” You don’t say what you’re thinking. That everything you’ve heard about Mark Meachum sounds less like “mentor” and more like walking HR violation with a badge. And when you meet him: leather jacket, three-day stubble, that crooked smirk, you know you were right.

“Rookie,” he says, greeting you like a punchline.

“Meachum,” you say, flat.

He tilts his head. “You say my name like it’s gum on your shoe.”

“You say ‘rookie’ like I won’t end up saving your ass one day.”

That earns a grin. “God, I love fresh blood. So full of confidence. Let’s see how long that lasts. First lesson with me is Surveillance grab a pencil and paper rookie, I got dibs on X for tic-tac-toe.” You blink for a moment and scoff.

“Seriously?” You can’t decide if you’re baffled or unamused.

“Unless you’d rather play hangman? I know a few choice words.” He winks, as he walks to the sedan, you following behind.

“Woo.” You say blandly and you spend four hours watching a chop shop across the street. Meachum spends three of those hours narrating your snack choices, your posture, your penmanship.

“You always write that neat? Serial killers write that neat.”

“You always talk this much? Serial killers talk less.”

He grins. “You’re fun. I like you.” You don’t answer. But you do start rolling the windows down whenever he lights a cigarette. Before long, your back at your desk where he dumps five cold case folders on your desk with a dramatic flourish. “Welcome to hell.”

You arch a brow. “I was told we were starting on current intel.”

“We are,” he says. “But if you want to solve today’s crimes, you gotta understand yesterday’s mistakes.” Despite yourself, you’re impressed. A little.

“You actually believe in the work,” you say, half surprised.

He doesn’t look up from the file. “Every bad guy out there thinks they’re smarter than the last. My job is proving them wrong.” And for the first time, you think maybe he’s not just a cocky jerk. Maybe he’s a cocky jerk with depth.

Cut to day five where whatever the hell bullshit lesson Meachum is trying to teach, gets cut short, and a new lesson is made up on the spot. Interrogation Observation. You’re behind the glass, watching him tear down a suspect with surgical precision: charm, pressure, control, a masterclass in manipulation. When it’s over, he joins you and sees the look on your face. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie. You were impressed.”

You cross your arms. “I was observing.”

He steps closer. “You taking notes?”

You lift your chin. “Mental ones.”

“You can thank me later.”

You meet his gaze, steady. “Don’t hold your breath.”

“Don’t forget to write that down.” He teases with a smirk as he taps his finger on the desk you were near, making your heart beat a little faster. “C’mon rookie, we’ve got a long night ahead of us. You roll your eyes but follow behind him, and get to work on the case you two were assigned.

Now it’s late, the station’s quiet. Everyone’s gone but the two of you. You’re at your desk, buried in paperwork. He drops a coffee beside your elbow.

“No cream, one sugar,” he says. “Figured that’s how overachievers take it.”

You glance up, surprised. “You remembered.”

He shrugs. “I’ve been watching you.” You freeze. Then he smirks. “Professionally, of course.” You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t stop the warmth from creeping up your neck.