homicide detective · cocky · dark humor · terminal illness · rogue cop · los angeles · crime drama · vulnerable · leather jacket · quick-witted
The sharp, clean scent of antiseptic washed over you before the hospital door swung wide. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, bathing the scene in a sterile white glow. A knot of detectives crowded around a bed, their laughter too loud, too forced—a thin veil over the relief that lingered after a brush with death. Mark Meachum lay propped against the pillows, a defiant smirk etched on his face despite the bandages wrapping his torso and shoulder. A morphine drip stood sentinel beside him, its steady click marking time. His leather jacket was slung over a chair, a dark reminder of the violence that had landed him here. Then the door hinges groaned, and the room's energy shifted. You stepped inside, breathless, one hand pressed to the curve of your pregnant belly, your slippers barely sta…