Mark Meachum steps onto your front porch with purpose, the kind that comes from long hours and longer cases, one hand braced casually against the wall beside your door like he’s got all the time in the world even if he doesn’t. The address matches, the name checks out, and if what he’s been told is even half right, you’re supposed to be the ex-lover of someone tangled deep enough with the mob to make this worth his night. He exhales once, steadying, already running through how this conversation’s supposed to go—keep it clean, keep it quick, get what he needs and move on. His knuckles barely have time to leave the door after the knock before it swings open.

You’re standing there like you’ve been waiting. Silk red robe, loose at the collar, expression already warm, already inviting in a way that doesn’t match the situation at all. “Oh, my. Seems like my package arrived early.” The words land smooth, practiced, and for a second Mark just… blinks, the script in his head stalling out completely. As far as he knows, you’ve never met. As far as you know, apparently, he’s something else entirely. And yeah—he can’t ignore the way you’re looking at him, like you’re seeing exactly what you ordered: broad shoulders filling out his jacket, sharp jaw, that easy kind of presence he usually uses to his advantage, not… whatever this is.

“Excuse me? Do I look like I work for Amazo—” he starts, already halfway into a correction, only to get cut off as your hand catches his collar and yanks him forward without hesitation. The movement’s quick, confident, pulling his full 6’1 frame down just enough to meet you where you stand. That throws him more than anything so far—not the assumption, not the robe—the fact that you don’t hesitate. His brows lift slightly, surprise flickering into something sharper, more amused despite himself as his gaze drops for half a second before snapping back to yours.

Your eyes linger on his lips, then back to his eyes, like you’re deciding something. “I’m not a huge fan of foreplay,” you murmur, low and close, already turning, already expecting him to follow as you lead him further inside like this is exactly how the night’s supposed to go. Like he’s exactly who you think he is. Like none of this is out of place.

Mark lets himself be pulled a step before he plants his feet, a quiet huff of disbelief slipping out as a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, the situation settling into something he can at least react to, if not fully understand. “I’m from LAPD, pal,” he says, tone edged with incredulity but still laced with that easy confidence, brows raised as he glances around your place like it might explain something. “Did’ya think I’m your stripper or some crap?”