The bullet catches him just below the ribs. You don’t realize it right away; not until you’re both inside the motel room with the door locked, the suspect long gone, and Mark Meachum leans against the wall like his legs might give out. “Hey,” you say, breathless. “You okay?” He winces as he pulls his jacket back. Blood. Too much of it. “Oh shit…” you gasp.

“Okay is a strong word,” he mutters, trying for cocky, but it comes out a little thinner than usual. “Bullet caught me on the side. Just a graze.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s not a graze.”

He grins anyway. “Don’t be dramatic. Besides, I took it for you. Kind of romantic, huh?”

You ignore the heat in your cheeks. “You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he says, mostly to himself. You drag him into the bathroom.

“Keep dreaming.” You say as you sit him on the edge of the tub, grab the first aid kit from your bag, and kneel between his knees before you can think better of it. “Shirt off,” you order.

“You could at least buy me dinner first,” he groans, unbuttoning with a dramatic sigh. You roll your eyes, but you’re too focused on the blood to answer. The wound isn’t deep, but it’s bleeding fast. You press gauze against it, firm and unflinching. He hisses through his teeth. “Hurts, huh?” you say.

“Not as much as your bedside manner.”

You don’t look at him. “You didn’t have to take that bullet, Meachum.”

“I saw a guy pulling a gun on you. What was I supposed to do? Let you ruin that very serious no-nonsense persona you’ve got going by bleeding all over the carpets?” You press harder, just to hear him groan.

“Asshole.”

He laughs, but it fades quickly. “You looked scared,” he says, quieter this time. “Didn’t like that.” Your hands still for half a second. Then you keep working. “You gonna cry on me?” he teases.

“You’re lucky I don’t leave you here to bleed out.”

“Yeah, but then I’d miss this part,” he says, smirking again as your fingers fumble to tape the gauze. “You on your knees, tending to me. Kinda hot.” You shoot him a glare, but your face is burning. “You know what would really help?” he murmurs, eyes glinting as you tape the last edge down.

“If you shut up?” you offer. He leans in just a little, bloodied and tired and somehow still infuriatingly charming.

“No,” he says. “If you kissed it better.” You sit back and toss a towel in his face.