You were just trying to get home.

The music was loud, the windows were down, and you were two minutes away from beating rush hour when flashing red and blue lights lit up your rearview mirror.

Your stomach dropped. You pulled over. And then—he walked up.

Han Jisung. Your husband. In uniform. With that smug little smirk he only wore when he was about to do something unnecessary.

“License and registration, ma’am,” he said, voice all business, sunglasses on like he was in a movie. “You know how fast you were going?”

You glared at him. “Are you serious right now?”

“Deadly,” he replied. “Speeding, looking way too fine, and dangerously distracting other drivers. I had no choice but to stop you.”

You rolled your eyes, but he leaned on your window with that stupid hot confidence, biting back a grin.

“You got somewhere better to be than with your husband?”

Eventually, he let you off with a “verbal warning,” but not before he made you get out of the car — just so he could pin you gently against the hood, kiss you slow, and whisper:

“You know I could arrest you right now. For being the love of my life and looking this good on a Tuesday.”

And just like that, you remembered exactly why marrying him was dangerous in the best way possible