Obsessed

Chapter 31

The hospital had cleared Mark by late afternoon. Aside from a few minor cuts on his arms and the lingering sting of smoke in his throat, he was fine. Jackson, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky. He had to stay overnight—his internal bleeding was light, but the doctors wanted to monitor him. He’d protested with grumbling sarcasm, but even he knew better than to ignore a doctor’s orders.

Mark didn’t argue with them. He just wanted out.

Ronnie was waiting outside his room, her arms crossed tight against her chest, her bag slung over one shoulder. She looked up from her phone when the door opened, relief flooding her features as she stood. “Ready?” she asked softly.

Mark nodded and fell into step beside her as they left the hospital.

The ride to Ronnie’s house was quiet. The mood had changed after he showed her the envelope—the photos of them kissing last night, of her sleeping in her bed. Someone had been inside. Someone had gotten that close. Her silence wasn’t cold, it was processing.

When they pulled into her driveway, Ronnie didn’t even hesitate. She moved quickly, determination taking over her features. Mark followed her inside.

Ronnie went room to room, grabbing what she needed with swift efficiency. A couple of outfits, her laptop and notes, her toothbrush and hairbrush, and the book Theo loved that she still hadn't returned to him. She paused once in her bedroom, eyes darting to her bed—the sheets neat and smooth, tucked in perfectly—but all she saw was that envelope. That invasive, perverse violation of safety. She grabbed her things and turned off the light without a word.

Mark loaded her bag into the back of his truck and held the door open for her.

They didn’t speak again until he pulled into the small underground garage of his apartment complex.

“This it?” Ronnie asked as she climbed out and looked around.

“Yeah. Cozy, right?” Mark offered with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He unlocked the door to his studio apartment and pushed it open, letting Ronnie step inside first. She paused in the entryway, her eyes scanning the space. The apartment was dark-toned and minimal—functional but not exactly lived-in. The kitchenette was sleek, modern, and lined with dark-colored cabinets. The stainless steel appliances gleamed under the subtle overhead lights. The sofa and coffee table were both black, giving the space a moody, masculine vibe.

Against one wall sat the entertainment unit with a large TV, beneath it a scattering of police files and manila folders. The bed was flanked by two nightstands, the bedding black and crisp. Even his clothes—visible through the open walk-in closet—were hung in perfect alignment. His cologne and razors were neatly arranged in the bathroom, not a thing out of place.

The air smelled like him—musky, warm, and woodsy.

“This is…” Ronnie blinked, shifting her bag to her other shoulder. “Really clean. Like, serial killer clean.”

Mark shot her a look. “Gee, thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she teased faintly, stepping further inside. “Just... you could’ve warned me it looked like a catalog shoot in here.”

He let out a low chuckle and set her bag near the couch. “What can I say? Military habits die hard.”

She turned in a slow circle, still taking everything in. “You don’t even have a picture on the wall.”

“I know what I look like.”

She gave him a soft, tired smile.

“Hungry?” he asked, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch. “I was thinking Chinese?”

Ronnie nodded immediately. “That sounds amazing. I didn’t eat much at all today… too many butterflies.”

He reached for his phone. “Lo mein, sweet and sour chicken, dumplings—what’s your poison?”

“Dumplings, absolutely. And lo mein. And if they’ve got those weird custard buns, I’m all in.”

Mark smiled. “I like a woman who knows what she wants.”

Ronnie kicked off her shoes with a groan of relief, padding barefoot across the light-wood floor. She pulled her hair over one shoulder and flopped down on the couch, then reached for one of the folders without thinking. “You mind?”

“Nope. Just don’t judge my notes.”

“I make no promises,” she said with a half grin.

Mark placed the order while she browsed the case file, her eyes narrowing. “This is from the West Pine incident, right? You wrote that the footprints outside the back window were smaller than the ones in the front, but the gait spacing suggests—”

“That there were two people,” Mark finished, settling down beside her. “Yeah. I was going to bring it up again with forensics.”

Ronnie nodded, then leaned back against the couch, the tension in her spine slowly unwinding. “It’s always something with this case.”

Mark studied her for a moment—how the stress lingered behind her eyes, how the sharp intelligence in her gaze never seemed to dim no matter how tired she was. She was in his space now, not just professionally, but personally. And she looked like she belonged there, even if just for tonight.

The intercom buzzed, signaling the food delivery.

“I’ll grab it,” Mark said, pushing up from the couch. Ronnie watched him walk away, her mind drifting as her stomach growled. The weight of everything—the explosion, the envelope, the threat—still lingered, but for the first time in a while, she felt a sliver of safety.

And she was with him.

Mark returned with the food in two brown paper bags, the smell of garlic, soy sauce, and something sweet instantly filling the space.

“Bless you,” Ronnie said, sitting up straighter on the couch as he placed the bags on the coffee table.

“I live to serve,” he said dryly, unpacking cartons and grabbing two pairs of chopsticks from the bag.

Ronnie reached for the dumplings first and popped the lid open, steam rising from the neatly folded pockets. “You know what’s the worst thing about trauma?”

Mark arched a brow as he passed her a napkin. “That’s a hell of a dinner conversation starter.”

She shrugged. “You get this craving for normal. Like, desperately. Something stupid, like dumplings on a couch or binge-watching something bad while wearing someone else’s hoodie.”

Mark settled beside her, setting out cartons of lo mein, fried rice, and sweet and sour chicken. “You want a hoodie too? I think I’ve got one that smells like laundry detergent and existential dread.”

Ronnie laughed—actually laughed—and it loosened something inside both of them. She reached over and grabbed some lo mein, twirling the noodles expertly with her chopsticks. “Thanks,” she said after a few bites. “For… all this.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do. You didn’t have to offer. I could’ve just driven to Gale and Marvin’s, I have a key for emergencies.”

“Nope,” Mark said firmly. “He got into your house. He took pictures of you sleeping. I’m not risking it.”

Ronnie went quiet, chewing slower. “You think he’s watching me? Right now?”

Mark didn’t answer immediately. “I think whoever it is… they’re always watching. At least now, they’re going to have to get through me to do it.”

She glanced at him then, eyes wide and guarded. “That’s not something you say lightly, Mark.”

“I’m not saying it lightly.”

She looked away, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the man sitting beside her. The way his voice had dropped, low and serious. The way he meant every word.

They ate in silence for a while, the soft hum of the fridge filling the air between them.

“You’re quiet,” he finally said.

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

She gave him a look. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” Mark leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I know you’re scared. You have every right to be. But I meant what I said. I’ll keep you safe, Ronnie. You, and Theo.”

Her chest ached. “It’s not just that. It’s… I keep replaying last night. The kiss. The way I touched you. And now this, everything’s happening so fast.”

“You regret it?”

She blinked. “No. That’s the problem.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice low. “It wasn’t just some heat-of-the-moment thing for me either. If you’re worried it was one-sided—don’t be.”

Her pulse skipped. “I just… I don’t know how to do this. The last time I trusted someone, he vanished. They all do.”

“I'm not going anywhere, Veronica. You don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” he said gently. “Just… be here. Let me keep you safe.”

Ronnie nodded, eyes stinging. “Okay.”

Mark stood and started clearing the empty cartons. “You can have the bed?”

“I can take the couch.”

“You’re not taking the couch.”

She looked up at him. “You’re injured.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were in an explosion.”

“You cried on me earlier,” he deadpanned. “I think I’ve earned the couch.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re annoyingly stubborn, you know that?”

“I’m aware.”

Ronnie smiled softly, reluctantly. “Okay. I’ll take the bed.”

He gave her a nod. “Bathroom’s there if you wanna change.”

She disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes. When she came back, she wore a long gray T-shirt that came to her thighs, her hair pulled into a messy braid. Her face was free of makeup, and for a moment, Mark just stared.

“Thanks again,” she said softly, moving to the bed.

“Night, Ronnie.”

“Night, Mark.”

She slipped under the covers, and he clicked the lights off before settling on the couch with a blanket. He lay there in the dark, listening to the soft rustle of the sheets as she turned over.

She didn’t feel safe. Not really. But she felt safer here. With him.