Obsessed

Chapter 58

The day dragged on.

Mark buried himself in paperwork and cold case files, his eyes scanning autopsy reports and scribbled notes while Kyle sat across from him, occasionally muttering observations, asking questions, or tapping a pen against his palm.

But it wasn’t the noise that grated on Mark.

It was the glances.

Kyle wasn’t subtle about it either. Every time Ronnie walked by the glass window of her office or leaned over the coffee machine to refill her mug, Kyle’s gaze would drift—locked in like a kid with his face pressed to a bakery window.

Mark saw every flick of his eyes. Every twitch of his brows. Every little appreciative smirk that he tried to hide when he thought no one was looking.

Mark clenched his jaw for the third time that morning. The fourth when Kyle leaned over to watch her speak with another officer down the hall, her skirt shifting just slightly when she turned to laugh at something the officer said.

“She always this friendly?” Kyle asked, keeping his tone casual.

Mark didn’t look up from his notes. “She’s polite. Comes with the job.”

“She’s got that whole sexy-smart vibe going on,” Kyle added, clearly fishing. “Profiler, huh? You think she reads minds too?”

Mark finally looked up, pinning him with a glare that made Kyle straighten like a soldier on inspection.

“Don’t.”

Kyle blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Whatever this is. Cut it out.”

Kyle raised his hands, surrendering quickly. “Hey, no harm. I was just making conversation.”

Mark didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His glare lingered a beat longer before he returned to the file in his hand.

Kyle shifted in his chair uncomfortably and kept his eyes on the desk after that—for a little while, anyway.

The hours passed with slow momentum. Phone calls. Reports. A short field trip to question a witness. Kyle was capable, smart, even eager to learn—but that didn’t stop Mark from mentally counting down every minute until the day ended.

Ronnie stayed in her office most of the afternoon, but Mark noticed her eyes flick to his desk once or twice through the glass. When they met, her gaze softened. Concern maybe. Or comfort.

By five-thirty, most of the precinct had cleared out. Phones stopped ringing. Keyboards went silent.

Mark was finishing up a report on their most recent case when he heard the familiar click of heels approach.

“Hey,” Ronnie said gently, her voice like chamomile tea. “You ready to go?”

Mark looked up just in time to see Kyle turn around in his seat. He perked up like a puppy that had been waiting for attention all day.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Kyle said smoothly, standing from his desk and extending his hand. “I’m Kyle Peterson. New partner.”

Ronnie, always polite—always warm—offered a soft smile and shook his hand. “Veronica Summers. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Kyle said, holding onto her hand just a second too long. “You’re the profiler, right? Mark mentioned you earlier.”

“Oh,” she replied lightly, still shaking his hand. “Hopefully only good things.”

Kyle chuckled. “Only the best.”

Mark stood slowly, gathering his things in practiced silence. His jaw flexed again as he watched Kyle finally release her hand.

Ronnie didn’t seem to notice.

“We’ve got dinner plans,” she said, turning slightly toward Mark. “Unless you want to pick something up instead?”

Mark slung his jacket over his shoulder, brushing lightly against her arm as he passed Kyle. “Dinner sounds good.”

Ronnie smiled and turned to Kyle again. “It was nice meeting you, Kyle.”

“Likewise,” he said, and Mark could hear the grin behind his voice.

As they headed toward the elevator, Mark didn’t say anything at first. Ronnie glanced up at him as they waited for the doors to open.

“Everything okay?”

Mark gave a small grunt that was neither confirmation nor denial.

“Hmm,” she said, folding her arms as the doors slid open. “You get that look when someone tries to flirt with me.”

“I don’t get a look,” Mark muttered, stepping inside.

“You do,” she teased, bumping her shoulder against his. “It’s cute.”

He raised a brow. “I don’t do cute.”

Ronnie smirked. “Sure you don’t.”

The elevator doors slid shut behind them with a soft ding.

The restaurant they picked was small, tucked between a bookstore and a florist shop. Cozy lighting glowed from antique sconces, casting gold hues across the wood-paneled walls and linen-draped tables. It smelled of roasted garlic and fresh herbs, and the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen gave the whole place an intimate pulse.

Mark sat across from Ronnie at their usual corner table, back to the wall like always. He hadn’t said much since they arrived. His body was relaxed on the surface, but Ronnie could read beneath skin and bone. The slight furrow in his brow. The way he kept rolling his shoulders every few minutes. The fact that he hadn’t even touched the breadbasket.

She watched him for a moment, chin resting on her knuckles, her blue eyes thoughtful.

“What?” he asked, sensing her gaze.

Ronnie tilted her head, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Just profiling you.”

Mark let out a soft snort, picking up his water glass. “You do that more than you admit.”

“I do it all the time,” she said, unapologetic. “You're twitchy tonight. Your posture is closed off. Your jaw’s been locked since the precinct.”

He gave her a long look over the rim of his glass before setting it down.

“Don’t say it,” he warned.

Ronnie leaned in, that teasing glint in her eyes softening into something sweeter. “You don’t have to be jealous, Mark.”

He blinked. “I’m not jealous.”

“You’re territorial,” she amended. “It’s kind of hot. But unnecessary.”

Mark leaned back in his seat, trying—and failing—not to smile.

Ronnie's voice softened, more sincere now. “You know I’m yours, right?”

His eyes met hers, and something in his chest finally unclenched.

She continued, her tone quiet but steady. “No matter how many puppy-eyed rookies whistle at me in pencil skirts, none of them know how I take my coffee. None of them have seen me count backward in six languages at three a.m. None of them know how to pull me out of a panic attack. None of them pulled me from a frozen lake.”

Mark chuckled under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“You’ve got nothing to prove,” she finished. “I love you. And I choose you. Every day. Every time.”

He looked at her—really looked at her—and the hardness in his gaze melted.

“Noted,” he murmured, reaching across the table to brush his fingers against hers. “And for the record, I do not get twitchy.”

She arched a brow. “You absolutely do.”

The server arrived then, placing their plates on the table—grilled salmon for Ronnie, a steak for Mark—and the conversation drifted into more casual waters. The comfortable rhythm of their dynamic returned, like a tide rolling in after a storm.

But after a few bites, Ronnie stirred her mashed potatoes absently with her fork and glanced up at him.

“So,” she said carefully, “how’s Kyle?”

Mark’s expression soured a little, though he tried to play it off with a shrug.

“He’s… fine.”

Ronnie gave him a look that said try again.

Mark sighed and set his fork down. “He’s smart. Good with procedure. Fast on his feet. Military background, Marine Corps. Got all the credentials.”

“But?” she prompted, picking up her water.

“There’s something about him that doesn’t feel right.”

Ronnie lowered her glass. “Elaborate.”

Mark shifted in his seat, glancing out the window beside them before answering.

“He’s too polished. Too eager. Like he’s trying to blend in perfectly—but I catch moments. Flashes. Where something slips through.”

Ronnie frowned, her posture shifting subtly. “Like what?”

“Earlier today,” Mark said slowly, “he rattled off a list of the precinct’s unsolved homicide cases. Didn’t even glance at a file. Just… knew them. Names, dates, crime scenes.”

Ronnie narrowed her eyes. “That’s oddly specific.”

Mark nodded. “He said he’d read up on everything before he started—but even I don’t remember half that crap off the top of my head. He’s either got a photographic memory or he’s been obsessing over us before he ever got assigned.”

Ronnie tapped her thumb against her knee, her mind already moving in patterns.

“You think he’s connected to something?”

“I don’t know yet,” Mark admitted. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid. Or maybe it’s just weird having anyone sitting in Jackson’s chair.”

Ronnie reached across the table and placed her hand on his.

“I trust your instincts,” she said. “Even if it turns out to be nothing, you’re allowed to question it.”

Mark didn’t reply right away. He squeezed her hand gently and nodded, the small gesture speaking louder than words.