The fight starts fast and ends bloody. You don’t remember throwing the first punch, only that Giavanna Guillermo was watching, and you saw your in. You took it. Now your knuckles are split, your lip is cut, and your ribs are singing a song you’d rather not translate. The guards dragged you off the yard like you were some stray dog nipping at ankles. All part of the act, all part of the plan. But now you’re alone in the infirmary closet, breathing through the pain, checking to make sure nothing’s broken, and trying not to think about the eyes that watched you from across the yard, behind mirrored sunglasses and a badge clipped too loose to the hip. Mark fucking Meachum. The door slams open. You don’t have to turn around. “Get out,” you say tightly. The door clicks shut behind him.

“That your strategy?” he says, voice low and dangerous. “Start a fight with someone twice your size and hope Giavanna claps for you like a proud soccer mom?” You glance at him. He’s still in uniform: tan shirt rolled at the elbows, fake name tag flashing under the dim light. His jaw’s clenched hard enough to crack.

“Worked, didn’t it?” you mutter. “She smiled.”

“She smiled,” he repeats, walking toward you like he’s barely keeping something caged. “You took a beating and she smiled. God, that’s your bar?”

“She invited me to eat with her crew. You wanted in? That’s how you get it.”

“You could’ve gotten stabbed.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You think that’s a win?” He’s standing over you now, too close. “You think I liked watching that?”

You push off the table and face him head-on, blood still drying on your skin. “You don’t get to play protective now, Meachum. You wanted me in this-”

“I didn’t want you hurt,” he growls, and it’s the first time his voice breaks. You freeze. His eyes are burning. Dark. Angry. And under all of it, he’s terrified. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You can hear the hum of the hallway, the creak of pipes, the ragged breath he’s barely controlling. “Sit,” he says. Not a request. You sit. He kneels in front of you, pulling a rag from the utility sink and dabbing your lip. Too gently. You flinch. “Hold still,” he mutters, but his hand is shaking.

You glare at him. “You’re acting like I’m some fragile little rookie.”

“You’re acting like you don’t matter,” he snaps. “Like this case is worth bleeding for.”

You meet his eyes. “It is.”

His jaw ticks. “That’s my mindset, not yours.” You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. The silence stretches. Then his hand drops from your jaw, and his mouth twitches in that half-assed smirk he uses when he doesn’t want to feel something real. “Want me to kiss it better?” he asks, nodding at your busted lip. “Could make it a tradition.”

You narrow your eyes. “Try and I’ll bite you.”

His smile widens, but it’s strained now. “You’d like it.” He stands, too fast, too tense, dragging the mask back into place. “We’ve got one week,” he says over his shoulder. “Get Giavanna talking. Then we’re out.”