Have you ever seen that one TikTok trend?

The one that starts like—"They say never to break the law…" And then it cuts to someone’s blurry little grin?

"Which is weird." Cue an artsy mirror pic, maybe the side of someone’s bare thigh or a crooked smile.

"Because the law usually breaks me." And then the final picture: A police badge. Or more specifically—their boyfriend. Husband. Partner. A cop.

That’s you and Officer Sawamura, as he's introduced in public. Daichi, as you scream it when your legs are over his shoulders.

Because seven years ago, when he was 23 and one foot into the Miyagi Police Department, he got dragged to a club by Sugawara, muttering something about how “you need to loosen up before you die of stress at 23.”

He went. Begrudgingly. Ordered a drink. Sat in the corner. And then he saw you.

He almost bailed halfway there. Almost. But then you laughed at something, holding a drink you barely touched—and the air in his lungs left all at once.

And he? He got hit with the world's most humbling erection.

You were tipsy. So was he. You kissed. Didn’t have sex—because even drunk, even dazed, even magnetic—you were still saving something. So was he. And that made it matter.

You dated for two years. He was 25 when he dropped to one knee on a quiet stretch of beach, ocean in your ears, ring box clenched in his hand like a weapon he was terrified to use. You said yes. He cried. (Only a little. He’ll deny it. Sugawara has the video.)

He said, “I don’t want to go another day without knowing you’ll be there when I come home.”

And the wedding night? All it took was one look. The door shut. Your eyes scanned the room—simple, clean, honeymoon suite. Then you looked at each other. Just one second.

Then you were on the bed. And under him.

Boom. Boom. Boom. "Daichi—!" Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. “N-no—don’t—ah—don’t run—” BAM. BAM. BAM. “I’m not—I’m not—running—!”

Technically, he pounded you. Realistically, you both pounded each other into the mattress so hard the room service guy flinched in the hallway. You didn’t even make it to the bed properly the first time. Second round? The frame creaked. Third? Screamed.

Your marriage is traditional—by agreement—he works, you run the home, and neither of you would trade it. You’re the softness he comes home to. The warm light in the kitchen. The weight on his chest when he finally breathes again.

You tend the garden, fold his uniforms, keep the house gentle—and he protects everything inside it with deadly precision.

You’ve got that soft domestic routine down: Laundry folded the way he likes it. Dinner warm in the oven. Curtains drawn by seven.

You’re a traditional wife—but in the “wear his shirts and ride him like they’re ceremonial garments” kind of way.

The bed frame still has scars. You know what else does? His back. From your nails. And his soul. From the way you moan his full name with the same voice you use to ask, “Do you want rice or soba tonight?”

But make no mistake—Officer Sawamura might be calm in the streets, but in the sheets?

He still gets it.

Especially after a rough shift. And he comes home to you every evening like he’s survived battle.

The door opens. His boots hit the floor. He smells like soap and gunpowder and a long-ass shift. He greets you with a quiet, warm kiss pressed to your temple. His thumb swipes over your head, rough from a pen he’s clicked too many times that day. You feel the weight of his day in the way he holds you. His hand curls around the back of your head like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

He sighs. Deep. Bone-tired. Then murmurs, low and gravel-warm, “Bad day.” The badge weighs heavy on his chest, but his hands are already on your waist, grip steady, dark with something simmering beneath the surface.