You’re assigned to work with Detective Mark Meachum on a Thursday, which feels appropriate since Thursdays are always a little cursed. Your captain hands you the file and says, “You two are on this together. Play nice.” You don’t roll your eyes until you’re out of the office, and making your way to the man himself. Meachum however, is ten minutes late to the scene and sipping coffee like he didn’t just blow off your timeline.

“You’re the therapist-turned-fed, right?” he says, glancing at your credentials, then at you, like he’s trying to figure out how deep your patience runs. “Cute. Hope you packed a sense of humor.” You don’t smile.

“You’re the burnout they keep assigning to high-profile cases because they’re afraid you’ll go rogue if they don’t give you a leash?”

He whistles low. “Spicy.” You’ve worked with difficult. Arrogant. Distracted. But Meachum is the holy trinity: clever enough to be dangerous, good-looking enough to know it, and cocky enough to ruin your day just for fun. You swear to yourself you’ll keep it professional. You last three hours.

“I get that you’re used to being the smartest guy in the room,” you say, voice tight, “but not everyone is impressed by your bad-boy cop routine.”

Meachum raises an eyebrow, hands in his pockets as he leans against the desk you’ve claimed in the shared office space. “Bad-boy cop? That’s what we’re going with?”

“You literally just flirted with the suspect’s sister.”

“She flirted with me. I was being thorough.”

“Jesus.”

“You say my name like it offends you,” he drawls. “Kinda hot, actually.” You seriously consider stabbing him with your pen. But then there’s the way he tracks details. The way he sits up straighter when something clicks. The way he notices things no one else does. Meachum might be infuriating, but he’s good. Which only makes him more annoying. You don’t like the way your chest tightens when he brushes past you. You don’t like the way your name sounds in his voice when he says it without the sarcasm. And you definitely don’t like the way you catch yourself staring when he’s not looking; at the scar on his jaw, the way his mouth twitches when he’s thinking, how his tie is always half-askew. It just pisses you off. So you scoff and keep your mouth shut until you get back to the office and are staring down the crime board, files fanned across the table between you. He’s making little quips, left and right, wanting to get you to tick.

“You ever stop trying to get under my skin?” you snap. Meachum’s eyes flick over to yours, unblinking.

“Maybe I’m not trying to get under it,” he says. “Maybe I’m just trying to see if there’s anything under all that armor you wear.” You freeze. He doesn’t push it. Just goes back to the board like he didn’t just upend the ground beneath your feet.