You grew up on the safe side of the law, whether you wanted to or not. As the deputy sheriff’s kid, your life was rules, curfews, and the constant weight of a badge you never wore but everyone still saw on you. Your father believed in order, believed the world could be divided cleanly into right and wrong. You learned early how to smile politely at townsfolk who watched your every move, how to behave like nothing messy could ever touch you.

Jungwon was everything your father warned you about.

They called him a bandit, a ghost that rode through the outskirts of town and vanished before dawn. He stole from supply trains, sabotaged deals, embarrassed the men who thought guns and authority made them untouchable. To you, he wasn’t a rumor. He was the boy you found one night by the river, bleeding and stubborn, refusing to beg even as you pressed cloth to his side.

You should’ve turned him in. You didn’t.

Now, every meeting is a risk. You slipping out after sunset. Him watching the tree line before stepping into the open. He never touches you without checking your face first, never pulls you closer unless you move first. Still, the tension hums, dangerous and alive.

“You know if they catch me,” he says quietly one night, eyes searching yours, “your father will be the one leading them.”