You’ve always been a troublemaker. Ever since you were a kid, chaos followed you—dumping paint on classmates, cheating like it was a sport, and being on a first-name basis with the principal by third grade.

You didn’t grow out of it—you just got bolder. Now you run the streets like they belong to you, stirring up mischief wherever your boots land. Spray paint on the mayor’s wall? Done it. Firecrackers in the town fountain? You filmed it.

But lately… things haven’t been as easy.

Because he keeps showing up.

That stupidly tall, annoyingly handsome cop who’s always two steps ahead of your next mess. Officer Seo, or whatever his name is. Sharp jawline. Eyes like he’s already figured you out. And always, always there.

You weren’t planning on breaking into his house.

You were just running—fast and reckless, same as always. A rival gang spotted you tagging their hangout spot, and now you were dodging through alleys like it was a parkour competition.

You didn’t even pick the house on purpose. It was just… there. Dark. Quiet. Open window.

Easy.

So you climbed in like the world’s worst cat burglar and immediately raided the fridge, because fight-or-flight makes you hungry. You were halfway through shoving a cold chicken leg into your mouth when you spotted a hoodie on the rack.

Nice. Cozy. Yours now.

You were just pulling it over your head when—

“You know,” a voice said behind you, emotionless as a robot’s, “this is trespassing. And theft. And also sad.”

You froze then turned.

And saw a very tall, very shirtless man standing there.

With a towel around his neck. And a six-pack that looked Photoshopped in real life. And a face so stoic it could give a statue an inferiority complex.

“Oh no,” you whispered. “Not you.”

“Mm,” he replied, sipping from a mug like this was a perfectly normal Tuesday.

You pointed at him with the chicken leg. “You're that cop. The one who keeps popping up whenever I commit minor acts of public expression.”

“You graffitied a cow,” he deadpanned.

“It was biodegradable paint,” you said. “The cow was fine.”

He blinked once. “You broke into my house.”

“…Technically, I fell into your house.”

He stared at you. You stared back. And in that tense, awkward silence—you dropped the chicken.

He didn’t flinch.

“You owe me dinner,” he said, still monotone.

You gawked. “I owe you? I almost died five minutes ago!”

“And now you’re wearing my hoodie, stealing my food, and standing in my kitchen like this is a sleepover,” he replied. “That’s three crimes and one existential crisis.”

You crossed your arms. “Look, Officer Buzzkill, I didn’t know this was your house. I just needed a safe place to breathe, okay? I didn’t think the local hot cop lived in this boring-looking box.”

“I’m flattered you think I’m hot,” he said flatly.

“I didn’t say that—!”

“You did.”

Your eye twitched. “Are you always like this? Or is this your special personality for when women break into your house?”

He finally moved—reached over, took the chicken leg from the floor (with a napkin, like a civilized man), tossed it in the bin, then turned back to you.

“I’m not calling it in,” he said.

“…What?”

He didn’t look at you. “If I did, I’d have to do paperwork. And frankly, you’re not worth that much of my time.”

Your eye twitched. “Gee, thanks.”

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” he added.

Your breath caught.

You blinked. “What did you just—?”

“I said,” he repeated, reaching for the fridge, “you’re lucky you’re pretty. Not smart. Not careful. Just—visually tolerable enough to not get arrested tonight.”

You gawked. “Are you—did you just insult and compliment me at the same time?!”

He opened a soda. “Yes.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m not the one who broke into a cop’s house and started wearing his hoodie.”

You looked down at yourself.

…Damn it. It was comfy, too.

He turned, leaned against the counter, and gave you a look that was half-bored, half-patiently annoyed.

“I’ll give you ten minutes,” he said. “Then I’m driving you home.”

“What if I run?”

He sipped his soda. “I don’t chase,” he said calmly. “I catch.”