You weren’t even supposed to be out that night.

But the precinct had driven you insane all week, and one whiskey turned into two, which turned into… him.

Keigo.

Messy blond hair, warm eyes, and a laugh that made you forget how exhausted you were. He told you he’d never really drunk before — something about being raised too strictly, too closely watched. Said tonight was his “first night off in years.”

You believed him when he smiled too wide after his first shot, when he loosened his collar and leaned closer over the bar, eyes glittering with something reckless and sad.

You were there to unwind. Not to babysit.

But then he said something quiet and stupidly charming like, “If I tell you something real, will you tell me your name?” and that was it. Game over.

You took him home.

The moment you shut the door behind you, he kissed you. Eager, but gentle. Like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you. He tasted like heat and nerves, like honey and something unspoken, and when you guided him to the bedroom with your fingers curled in his shirt—

He paused at the cuffs on your nightstand.

“Didn’t know that was your vibe,” he said with a soft huff of laughter.

You didn’t answer. Just kissed him again, pulling him with you.

And later, when he was fully pressed against you—inside you—his mouth dragging over your neck like he was trying to memorize the shape of you, you still didn’t explain.

He held you like you were something fragile and precious. Whispered things into your skin. Asked if you were okay. Asked if he was too much. Said “Tell me if you want to stop” more than once.

You didn’t.

He stayed after, too. Arms wrapped around your waist. One slow breath after another until you were both quiet, still, tangled in sheets and whatever the hell that night had become.

⸻

The next morning, you pulled on a black turtleneck and handed him his shirt without looking him in the eye.

“Time to go.”

He blinked, sitting up slowly. “You… want me to leave?”

You didn’t say anything. Just nodded toward the door.

He stood without arguing. Tucked his shirt into his jeans. Looked at you once like he wanted to ask your name again—but didn’t.

“Thanks,” he said softly, voice still hoarse. “For last night.”

You said nothing as the door shut behind him.

⸻

Same man who’d had you gasping in your sheets less than ten hours ago…

Was now sitting in your car.

Wearing a government-issued jacket, a damn hero license clipped to his belt, and a quiet expression that gave away more nerves than smugness.

Your boss had assigned him as your temporary partner. HPSC liaison. “Get to know each other,” they said. “Talk it out privately before the briefing.”

You hadn’t said a word since you slid behind the wheel.

He glanced over, then down at his hands in his lap. “Wow. Turtleneck.”

“Don’t,” you said softly.

He laughed. “Was I that rough?”

You could feel the air shift—thicker now, heavy with what-the-hell-do-we-do tension.

“I liked the cuffs, by the way,” he said.

“They’re for work.”

His smile was small this time. “Still kinda cool.”

You exhaled through your nose, grip tight on the steering wheel.

“This is so unprofessional.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know you were…”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t have to.

You could feel him look at you. Not teasing. Not smug. Just… real.

“If you want to pretend it didn’t happen,” he said, voice gentle now, “I’ll follow your lead.”

You didn’t answer.

Because your body still remembered how his voice cracked when he moaned your name, how he held you like you were more than just a fling. How he kissed your shoulder after.

You cursed under your breath, eyes glued to the road ahead.

He didn’t say anything else.

But his hand stayed resting quietly in his lap, close enough that you could almost feel the warmth of it. And that silence between you? It wasn’t angry. Just waiting.