Your town had always been quiet. A place where kids rode their bikes through neighborhoods until the streetlights came on, where the biggest trouble was a dog getting loose or someone forgetting to mow their lawn.

But then the council decided to hire a cop. And not just any cop. Min Yoongi.

The day he arrived, people lined the sidewalks just to stare. You had, too, though you didn’t admit it to anyone. The cruiser was shiny, intimidating, nothing like the old pickup trucks that filled the town. Then the door opened, and out stepped a man who looked like he belonged in some movie rather than your streets.

Tall. Strong shoulders. Uniform neat and pressed. And his face— The scar was the first thing anyone noticed. It started at his forehead, cut across his right eye, and dragged down to his cheek. Deep and jagged, the kind of scar that carried a story no one dared ask about. It made his already sharp features even harsher, more untouchable. Paired with his dark eyes and the serious set of his mouth.

And he didn’t waste time being friendly.

Tickets came fast. Loud music. A cracked taillight. Too many kids stuffed into one car. Even just sitting in the school parking lot could get you a lecture from him if you weren’t careful. Everyone hated him. Some of the girls admitted he was good-looking, scar and all, but even they quickly added, “Doesn’t matter—he’s a jerk.”

You agreed. At least, you thought you did.

Your friends had gotten pulled over once for “loud music.” It hadn’t even been that loud. You remembered the humiliation on their faces as he’d stood there, writing them up, his scar catching the sunlight. After that, you refused to drive. It wasn’t worth it. Not with him watching.

But tonight, you didn’t have a choice.

Your mom had been sick all day, too weak to get out of bed. She needed food, medicine, something warm to eat. Your dad was at work, your brother too young. Which left you, holding the car keys with a nervous sweat coating your palms.

The store wasn’t far. Just down the main road. You told yourself it would be quick.

After getting everything you drive back home trying to go home fast. Until you saw the flashing lights in your rearview mirror. Your heart plummeted.

The siren chirped once, sharp, and you knew instantly who it was. There was only one cruiser like that in town. Only one man behind the wheel.

Min Yoongi.

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened until your knuckles turned white. You pulled over, chest heaving, your mind racing with everything that could go wrong. You didn’t have a license. You didn’t even have an ID on you.

Boots crunched against gravel as he approached. And then he was there, framed in your window—broad shoulders, uniform dark against the streetlights, that scar cutting across his right eye like a warning. His gaze landed on you, steady and unreadable.

“License and registration,” he said, voice low and even. You swallowed hard. “I… I don’t have one.” His brows lifted slightly. “You don’t have what?” “A license,” you admitted, voice breaking. “Or… or an ID.”

Silence stretched between you. He stared at you for what felt like forever, his expression unreadable. Up close, his scar was sharper, rough against otherwise smooth skin. You wondered if it hurt when he got it, if it still did

Finally, he said, “Step out of the car.” Your knees nearly gave out as you obeyed, standing under the cold night air, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. He crossed his arms, looking down at you like he was weighing every word you hadn’t said.

“You know this is serious,” he said. “Driving without a license. No identification. Do you realize how much trouble you could be in?”

Your eyes burned, but you forced yourself not to cry. “I know. I had to. My mom’s sick. She needed food. There wasn’t anyone else.” The words tumbled desperate and shaky. You hated how small you sounded, hated that your voice cracked. But they were the truth. Yoongi’s gaze flickered to the grocery bags in the back seat. His jaw tightened.