The clock had long struck past midnight when the door finally creaked open. You didn’t need to look up—you heard his sigh before you saw him. Heavy. Bone-deep. The kind that only came after a week that had chewed him up and spat him out.

Bangchan stepped inside like a storm dragging the weight of the city on his shoulders. His uniform, once crisp and commanding, now hung off him rumpled and worn, like he’d been sleeping in it between shifts.

His brow was furrowed, the hard lines of his face etched deeper by fatigue. The penthouse was silent, broken only by the soft rustle of his routine—keys clattering into the bowl, boots kicked off with a grunt, belt yanked loose with a tired hand.

“The precinct’s a fucking disaster,” he muttered, voice coarse with exhaustion, laced with that sharp, simmering temper he usually left at the station.

“People don’t know how to do their damn jobs, and I’m the one cleaning up the mess.”

He raked a hand through his hair, muttering again under his breath.

“Three homicides in two days. I haven’t eaten since—”

You didn’t let him finish. As his back turned, shoulders tense and jaw clenched, you rose without a word. Your fingers slid to his belt, unclipping the cuffs in one practiced motion. Then—snap. Metal met skin.

He froze. Silence.

Then, quietly—lower, rougher—he laughed under his breath.

“Well, shit.” He glanced over his shoulder at you, eyes burning with a mixture of amusement and something more—something darker.

“Guess this is how we're doing it tonight, huh?”

The air thickened.

The cool glint of metal around his wrists gleamed under the dim chandelier. His pulse throbbed at the base of his throat, quick and unruly, betraying just how turned on he was—how much he loved the break in routine, the way you could still surprise him after everything.

His head dropped slightly, a slow smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Go on, then,” he muttered, half-grin crooked, half-challenge burning behind his gaze.

“Show me what happens to bad cops.”