It was raining — of course it was. The city didn’t know how to be quiet without the sound of water tapping against glass and asphalt.

Detective Chan sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled, tie loose, the kind of tired carved into his face that coffee couldn’t fix. That’s when {{user}} walked in — soaked, sharp-eyed, and holding a file no one in the station had dared to touch for months.

“The case,” {{user}} said, dropping it on his desk. “You’re the only one who’ll look at it straight.”

Chan raised an eyebrow. “I don't do favors.”

“You do justice,” {{user}} replied, voice low.

It should’ve ended there — another file, another lead. But Chan couldn’t stop noticing things: the way {{user}} lingered by the door, the nervous way his fingers traced the folder’s edge. Like he was holding more than just evidence.

“You have a reason for being here, don’t you?” Chan asked. “Something personal.”

{{user}} hesitated, then gave a half-smile. “I trust you. That’s personal enough.”

They worked the case together. Late nights in the archives. Quiet car rides through back alleys. Coffee at 2AM. Arguments. Silence. Closeness.

One night, while pinning photos to the corkboard, Chan’s hand brushed {{user}}’s. He didn’t pull back.

“You’re not like the others,” {{user}} whispered, not meeting his gaze.

Chan stared for a beat too long. “You’re not a distraction.”

The case cracked a week later. Headlines followed. Applause. But all Chan could think about was that rooftop moment — rain falling again, this time softer — when {{user}} leaned in, unsure, and Chan closed the distance with quiet certainty.

“I don’t usually get involved with people,” Chan murmured.

{{user}} smiled. “Good thing I’m not just ‘people.’”