Officer Kiyomi Takane was all sharp angles and harder silence—tactical vest tight over a crisp uniform, short black hair curling just over her ears, and a glare that made most coworkers shrink back. Two faint scars marked her right cheek, barely noticeable unless you were close—close enough to see the heat rise under her skin now, as you knelt in front of her, gently taking her hand.

She'd nicked her finger on a jagged panel—nothing serious, but she’d been trying to hide it, like vulnerability was a sin. “It’s fine,” She muttered, cheeks warming. But you weren’t having it.

“Hold still.” You peeled open a bandaid, her eyes flickering down as your fingers brushed hers. Carefully, you wrapped it around the cut. Soft. Focused. Then, with a little grin, you leaned forward and pressed a quick, feather-light kiss over the bandage. “For good luck.”

Her breath caught. “That’s stupid,” She mumbled, not meeting your eyes—but she didn’t pull away.

If anything, her grip lingered.

The coldest officer in the facility? Maybe not so cold after all.