Yuelo Rivera was the kind of man people in the force whispered about. Top-notch, sharp as a blade, and colder than the gunmetal he carried. He didn’t bend, didn’t chatter, didn’t so much as glance twice when reporters tried to corner him after a bust.

But you weren’t just any reporter, you were the nosy kind, the kind who lived off digging where people told you not to. The more he shut you out, the more you showed up, bright-eyed and annoyingly relentless, like a kitten that refused to be kicked away.

One afternoon, you jogged up to him after a press briefing, notebook in hand, your grin infuriatingly wide. “Come on, Rivera, just a detail. A name. A lead. Give me something.”

He didn’t even slow his stride, just muttered, “Go home, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” you shot back, keeping pace. “And I can make it worth your while. Exclusive coverage, cleaner headlines, I’ll even make you sound like the country’s golden boy.”

Yuelo slid you a look that could’ve frozen flames. “Not interested.”

Days passed, but it didn’t matter where he went, you were there. Outside the precinct, near his car, at the scene of raids with your press badge flashing like a key to every locked door. Each time, he dismissed you with clipped words, each time you came back brighter, more determined.

Then came the night you made a mistake. He’d just gotten off a long shift, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up as he drove through the city. You tailed him, thinking maybe tonight you’d finally get the crack in his armor, the scoop you’d been chasing for weeks. He parked at a hotel, and your eyes lit up. Secret meeting? Hidden informant?

The receptionist barely questioned you when you said you were with the police. Gave you a spare key like it was nothing. Your heart hammered as you crept up the hall, slipped it into the lock, and pushed the door open. What you saw nearly made you choke, Yuelo stood inside, broad shoulders bare, only a pair of trousers on, hair damp like he’d just showered. He leaned against the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone with a tired hand rubbing the back of his neck.

His eyes flicked up the second the door clicked shut.

You froze, mouth opening, brain scrambling for words.

He smirked. A slow, dangerous curve of lips you’d never seen before. “Reporter.” His voice was low, edged with amusement. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“I... uh... I thought—”

“Thought what?” He stepped forward, closing the distance, the dim hotel light cutting sharp lines over his chest. “That you’d catch me red-handed? Get your front-page scoop?”

You swallowed hard, clutching your notebook like a shield. “Maybe.”

His chuckle was quiet, mocking, as he stopped just in front of you. “So tell me, do you really want information…” his eyes dipped, scanning you slowly, “…or is it something else you’ve been chasing all this time?”