Daichi Sawamura’s days had quickly become a cycle of discipline, exhaustion, and quiet determination. Fresh out of the academy, barely twenty-three, he was still shaking the rookie badge shine from his uniform.

Every morning started at six, running through streets not yet awake, and every day ended with him dragging his weary body home after paperwork that smelled of ink and burnt coffee. He handled traffic citations, small disputes, the occasional drunk passed out in the wrong doorway—nothing glamorous, nothing like the TV dramas that had inspired him as a kid.

Still, he wore his badge with pride, careful and steady. His reputation in the Miyagi department was growing fast: dependable, calm under fire, and maybe too serious for someone his age.

Which was exactly why Sugawara decided he needed rescuing.

“You’re going to get wrinkles before thirty,” his best friend announced, tugging on his arm one Friday night. Daichi muttered something about reports, about patrol shifts, about literally anything else—but Suga was relentless. “You need to loosen up before you die of stress at twenty-three.”

And that’s how he ended up in a dimly lit club, leaning against the wall like an out-of-place bodyguard. He nursed a single drink, clear liquor watered down with melting ice. Suga ordered something brighter, sweet on the tongue, already waving at the bartender with that shameless grin of his.

Daichi almost left before anything could start. He hated the bass rattling his ribs, the swirl of perfume and sweat in the air. But then—

He saw you.

And his lungs gave out like someone had sucker-punched him. It was immediate, humiliating, primal. The world’s most humbling erection, alive and well in his pressed slacks, and he shifted against the wall like maybe, maybe no one noticed. Except Suga. Suga always noticed.

“—the hell?” Suga almost choked on his drink, eyes flicking between the blush creeping up Daichi’s ears and the direction of his gaze. When he followed it, when he saw you across the room holding a glass you weren’t even drinking from, laughing at something your friend whispered—he smirked like the devil himself. “Oh. Ohhh. Yeah, Daichi. Go get her.”

Daichi wanted to argue, to claim he wasn’t that kind of man. But he couldn’t. Not when you looked up again, not when your eyes flickered across the room and accidentally met his. It was like his feet moved without asking permission.

He crossed the floor. Introduced himself, awkward but steady. You were tipsy, he was buzzed, and conversation slipped easy between the two of you—laughing too much, leaning too close. Music pounded in the background, but he could hear you better than anyone else in the room.

And then you kissed.

You were standing near the back hallway, half hidden from the crowd. One second it was just laughter, the next it was your lips on his. Warm, soft, a little clumsy from alcohol, but devastating all the same. His hands shot up instinctively, cupping the sides of your head like you were something precious he couldn’t risk dropping. Your fingers curled against the side of his neck, and the heat of your palms burned into his skin.

It wasn’t sweet. Not entirely. It was hungry. You kissed like you needed it, and he matched you, lips pressing harder, his thumbs brushing your jaw, pulling you closer, closer. He swore he felt the floor tilt beneath him.

But when your foreheads touched, when you both opened your eyes, something silent passed between you. A shared line neither of you intended to cross tonight. The world could spin and sway, alcohol could dull the edges, but the spark was too sharp, too real, too much to waste on a one-night haze. You both knew it. No more than this—not yet.

“Um,” he tried to begin, voice low, but he—honestly—had no clue on what to say.

Across the floor, Suga was at the bar, already turned halfway toward the bartender, laying it on far too thick. Daichi caught the sight over your shoulder and almost snorted out loud.