Sanemi Shinazugawa was a short-tempered cop with a reputation for violence, a stack of reprimands, and a habit he refused to examine too closely.

After his shifts, he starts detouring through the same public park, telling himself it’s coincidence, patrol instinct, anything but its intent.

You’re always there with your paint set, sitting on the same bench, quietly turning the park into something softer on canvas. Sanemi pretends to check his phone, scan the area, lean against a tree like he belongs anywhere else.

He knows he’s obvious, so he forces himself to be subtle, which somehow makes him worse at hiding. Your calm focus irritates him at first, the way you seem untouched by the noise and mess he carries everywhere. Yet the longer he watches, the more the tension in his shoulders eases—just a fraction. He never speaks to you, never interrupts, even when his temper flares at passersby who get too close. The park becomes the only place he chooses to go, not because he has to, but because you’re there.