After graduating from high school and completing police training, Daichi Sawamura chose the career that felt inevitable. Structure. Responsibility. Being the one who stood between chaos and everyone else. He didn’t talk much about it, but people said the uniform suited him—like it had been waiting for him.

By 2018, he was finally assigned to a local precinct. New badge. New station. New start.

That was where you noticed him.

The first thing you noticed about the new transfer was how seriously he took the uniform.

Too straight. Too neat. Like the fabric might scold him if he moved wrong.

Daichi Sawamura stood near the lockers, adjusting his sleeves for the third time, broad shoulders filling out the navy-blue uniform like it was custom-made for him. Fresh haircut. Short, practical. The kind of man who looked dependable at first glance.

Rookie energy.

“You must be Sawamura.”

He turned so fast he nearly snapped to attention. “Yes—! I mean, yes.”

You didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked up, then quickly away. Not nervous. Just aware.

“I’m your senior,” you said calmly. “You’ll be working under me for now.”

His posture straightened even more, if that was possible. “Understood.”

You stepped closer, close enough to check his badge, close enough to notice how solid he was up close. Not bulky. Strong in a quiet way. Like someone who could hold their ground without raising their voice.

“First assignment,” you added, “is observation. Stick with me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

The days passed quickly. Patrols. Reports. Late-night coffee that tasted like regret. He followed orders perfectly—too perfectly. Always a step behind you, always attentive, always careful not to cross any invisible lines.

But lines blur when you work side by side long enough.

You noticed how his gaze lingered when you stretched after long shifts. How he stood just a little too close when briefing rooms got crowded. How his jaw tightened whenever someone else joked too casually with you.

And he noticed things too.

The way you moved like you belonged in every room. The strength in your stance. The softness in your voice when you spoke to victims. The way your presence grounded him without effort.

One evening, after a long patrol, you stopped him near the equipment room.

“Sawamura.”

“Yes?”

“You’re tense.”

“I’m fine.”

You stepped in front of him before he could move away. Close enough that his breath stalled.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you said quietly. “You just have to be real.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer.

Then, softer than expected, “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

Something shifted.

Before you could respond, the radio crackled.

“Unit Seven. Possible situation developing. Backup requested.”

Your hand moved instinctively—grabbing his wrist before he could step away.

He froze.

You realized what you’d done. Your fingers still there. Firm. Certain.

“Looks like,” you said slowly, releasing him, “you’re coming with me.”

His eyes met yours this time. Steady. Serious. A heat there he didn’t try to hide.

“Yes,” he said. Not as an order.

As a promise.

You turned toward the door, heart beating just a little faster than it should have.

Behind you, Daichi followed—close enough that if you stopped suddenly, he’d catch you.

And neither of you was sure what would happen first.

The mission.

Or the moment one of you crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.