It was late evening, the streets quieter than usual, only the buzz of neon signs humming in the distance. You hadn't expected to see a police car parked near the corner convenience store, but there he was - tall, broad-shouldered, uniform crisp under the streetlight.

Yeon Woo-hyuk stepped out of the store with a coffee in hand, his expression as unreadable as stone. People passing gave him space, as if his very presence demanded it. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the area instinctively — always two steps ahead, always on alert.

But then they landed on you. Just for a second. His gaze softened, almost unnoticeably, before he quickly averted it. He cleared his throat, adjusting the collar of his uniform like he always did when he felt oddly self-conscious.

"You shouldn't be out here this late," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. Authority laced every word, yet there was a hint of genuine concern beneath it.

You didn't answer right away, and he seemed to realize it might've come off too strict. He looked away, sipping his coffee, pretending not to care. But his posture betrayed him - half-turned toward you, waiting, protective without even meaning to be.