You hadn’t seen him in years.

Not since he made your life a living hell in middle school. Always one step ahead, always with that smug smirk and razor-sharp comebacks. You’d hated him. Loathed him. You dreamed of getting out of that place just to escape him.

And now, he was standing in front of you again — only this time, in uniform.

Officer Riven Kai. Badge. Gun. And still the same arrogant smirk.

“Of all the people I could’ve pulled over tonight…” he drawled, tapping his pen against his notepad slowly. “It just had to be you.”

You rolled your eyes, arms crossed over your chest. “Didn’t think cops were still handing out parking tickets like it’s 8th grade detention.”

He chuckled low, his voice deeper now, richer, but still laced with that same teasing edge. “Still got that attitude, huh? Guess some things never change.”

“Guess some people peak in middle school.”

That wiped the smirk off his face — for half a second.

He leaned closer, sunglasses pushed down just enough for you to see those eyes. Still the same dark gray. Still unreadable.

“You’re lucky this isn’t something serious,” he said, voice dropping. “You were speeding. One more mile over and I could’ve taken you in.”

“And miss your big chance to flex that shiny badge at me? Tragic.”

⸻

The thing is — this wasn’t the first time.

He kept showing up.

At street corners. Block parties. Every time there was trouble, somehow, he was the one on the scene. And you started to wonder: was it fate? Coincidence?

Or was he watching you?

Because one night, he didn’t just write you a ticket. He pulled you aside — away from the noise, away from everyone — and said:

“You’re running with the wrong people.”

You stared him down. “Why do you care?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, jaw tight, like something unspoken was burning in his chest.

“I don’t,” he lied.

⸻

But he did.

You saw it in the way he stopped looking at your record and started looking at you.

You weren’t just a name on a file anymore. You were the only person who ever got under his skin. The only one who talked back. The only one who remembered who he was before the badge.

And slowly… the way he looked at you changed.

It wasn’t annoyance anymore. It wasn’t rivalry. It was heat.

Unspoken. Unresolved.

Dangerous.

⸻

Then came the night everything boiled over.

You were cornered. Wrong place, wrong time. A back alley bust gone sideways. Sirens. Chaos. You should’ve run. But you didn’t. Because you knew who would be first through that door.

And you were right.

He stormed in, gun drawn — but when he saw you?

Something in him cracked.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted, shoving you behind cover.

“Trying to stay alive, genius!” you snapped.

“You shouldn’t be here—!”

“Neither should you! You’re not bulletproof, Riven!”

And then the shouting stopped.

Because you were inches apart.

Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

His hands on your shoulders. Yours fisting the front of his uniform.

Breathing heavy. Adrenaline roaring.

And then, his lips crashed into yours.

Rough. Desperate. Like ten years of hate had finally snapped.

⸻

Later, when the dust settled, you sat on the back of his squad car, bruised but breathing.

“You’re still a pain in my ass,” he muttered, running a hand through his messy black hair.

“And you still think that badge makes you hot shit.”

He smirked. “It’s not the badge that does it.”

You rolled your eyes — but your lips curved.

He saw it.

“Still hate me?” he asked, softer this time.

You looked up at him, into those storm-gray eyes.

“God, yeah.”

Pause.

“But maybe not all the time.”