Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The stench hit Hanbin the moment he crossed the threshold from the marble-lined hallway into the master suite. There was the familiar sweet pungency of a body beginning its slow descent to decay, but it was corrupted by a cloying scent of a chemical floral bouquet. Roses and rot. Hanbin’s nose crinkled in instinctive distaste.

The room spoke of overt wealth with its cavernous space, a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city’s glittering skyline, and decor that screamed of a curated, impersonal luxury.

“Oh, you’re here.” Gyuvin materialized from beside an abstract sculpture placed off to the side of the room. The younger detective’s relief at the sight of his superior was obvious with the slight slump. Hanbin gave a curt nod, already pulling on a pair of latex gloves with a practiced snap.

“Talk to me,” Hanbin said, his voice low. He moved further into the room, his eyes performing a slow, methodical sweep. He took in the undisturbed plushness of the cream carpets, the pristine glass surfaces, the king-sized bed with its clearly luxurious duvet.

Gyuvin fell into step beside him, handing over a slim tablet displaying the forensic team’s preliminary photographs. “Victim is Park Daehyun, fifty-six, CEO of a major import-export firm. Lives—lived—alone. Housekeeper found him when she arrived for her morning tidy-up. We have no way of knowing when it happened so far, but based on body temp and early liver pooling, we’re guessing anywhere between one to six hours—”

“Make it one to three hours,” Hanbin interrupted, not looking at the tablet. He pushed it gently back into Gyuvin’s hands.

Gyuvin sputtered, hurrying to keep up as Hanbin strode purposefully toward the bed. “How do you know that?”

Hanbin didn’t answer immediately. He finally let his gaze settle on the victim. Park Daehyun lay supine on the bed, dressed in baby blue silk sleepwear, hands folded neatly over his stomach as if in a peaceful sleep. The only immediate signs of death were the crisp, dark line across his throat with blood pooling on the white sheets underneath from the slit and the waxy pallor already settling into his features. His rigor had begun already, Hanbin observed, with the way his fingers were stiff.

But Hanbin’s focus wasn’t on the throat. That slash was a theatrical statement at most. It was meant to be The Headline. An amateur’s idea of a killing blow. The placement was wrong for a guaranteed, swift severance of the arteries; it was too high, too shallow. It would have bled, yes, caused agony and panic, but it wasn’t the quick, silent death it was being clearly masqueraded as. This killer didn’t know how people died. They only knew how it looked in films.

“The air freshener,” Hanbin finally answered, kneeling by the side of the bed, his eyes scanning the carpet fibers, the dust-free gap beneath the bed frame. “It’s still sharp in the air, not settled or muted. It was sprayed recently, and in a hurry. So, either the housekeeper is so focused on her job that she decided to give the room a spritz while entirely ignoring the corpse of her employer, or our killer has a weak stomach and used it while he was busy doing his theatrics. I’m leaning toward the latter.”

Hanbin leaned closer to the body, his eyebrows twisting. The composition was all wrong. The neatness of the pose, the precise placement of the hands, the victim’s head tilted just so on the pillow to display the wound to best effect from the doorway… It was staged. But the staging was sloppy. A single drop of blood had fallen on the dressing gown’s collar, a maroon teardrop on the stark blue. It had been dabbed at, judging by the smear— an attempt to clean it, perhaps, which had ultimately failed.

On the nightstand, a heavy crystal tumbler lay on its side, a small pool of amber liquid soaked into a coaster. Next to it lay a hardcover, first-edition copy of a biography of a Renaissance painter, splayed open, face down. The scene was built like it had been set aside in the middle of a moment of relaxation. The book’s spine was creased in a way that suggested it had been folded back violently, not gently laid aside. The killer had placed it, but hadn’t considered the victim’s actual habits. A man who owned first editions wouldn’t treat them so carelessly.

Hanbin stood up and took a slow turn, perusing the room with his eyes. The art. That was the key. The walls were not just decorated; the whole scene was a carefully assembled gallery. An abstract Kim Whanki dot painting, a minimalist Park Seo-Bo Écriture as well as some more dramatic, swirling abstracts that Hanbin couldn't recognize.

The killer had interacted with the art in this room. Not by taking anything—the pieces were all present, alarm systems undisturbed—but by using them as a backdrop. The body was centered in the room like an installation itself.

The criminal was trying to be artistic. Trying to weave the act of murder into the narrative of the room, to make it mean something beyond mere death. But to Hanbin, it read as the worst kind of plagiarism: unearned, pretentious, and ultimately empty. It was a mockery of the nuanced violence of true monstrosity. This wasn’t a psychopath expressing a twisted vision; this was a child playing dress-up with the garbs of evil, and doing a terrible job of it. The result was neither terrifying nor beautiful. It was, to Hanbin’s finely-tuned sensibilities, distastefully gauche.

He turned sharply back to Gyuvin, who had been watching him with the rapt attention of a student observing a master. “Was the victim interested in art beyond just all this decor?” Hanbin asked, but he already knew the answer.

Gyuvin stood gobsmacked for a second, his mouth slightly agape, before he gave a vigorous nod. “Yeah. Yeah, he was. Big-time collector. There’s a whole file on it. Advisory boards, gallery openings, the works.”

Hanbin gave a small, humorless smile. “Of course he was. Our killer's not just murdering a man; they’re critiquing a collector. Or trying to.” He gestured toward the body. “The pose is funereal, but also mimicking a renaissance painting. The book on the nightstand is a biography of Caravaggio, a painter who knew more than a thing or two about violence in art. The killer is leaving us a breadcrumb trail, wanting us to see how clever they are, how connected to the victim’s world they are. But they’re just a desperate outsider.”

He began pacing. “They knew his habits well enough to catch him alone, in his pajamas, reading. They had access, or they engineered it. The kill was messy, so it’s personal but not professional. They lost their nerve, hence the air freshener. They tried to create a scene, an ‘artistic’ statement, but their own squeamishness and inexperience kept breaking through. They’re educated enough to reference Caravaggio. They’re young. Arrogant. Probably someone in the periphery of his art world—a struggling artist he rejected, a junior consultant he humiliated or a critic he ignored.”

Gyuvin was already tapping notes into his phone, the team around them shifting into higher gear, the scope of their search narrowing with each deduction. “So we focus on his recent art-related disputes? New artists he passed on, gallery staff, curators?”

“Start there,” Hanbin confirmed, his head beginning to pound with a low, insistent throb. The cloying smell, the glaring pretension of the scene, the sheer ineptitude of the killer wrapped in a pretentious cloak of artistry—it was making him irritated. “Check his emails, his gallery appointments from the past month. Look for anyone who’s been overly persistent or who sent him agitated, critique-like messages. Our killer doesn’t just want him dead; they want to be seen as the more sophisticated party. They’ll have tried to communicate that before.”

The room suddenly felt stifling, the fake lily scent coating his sinuses. The whole damn scene with flashing forensic camera lights and murmurs coalesced into a throbbing pressure behind his eyes.

“Where are you going?” Gyuvin asked as Hanbin turned and began walking briskly toward the door, stripping off his latex gloves.

“To get a fucking coffee,” Hanbin said, the words clipped. “This idiot killer gave me a headache.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He moved through the opulent apartment, down the grand hallway, and out into the cool, fresh morning air. He tossed the bundled gloves into a polished stainless-steel bin with an annoyed flick of the wrist.

It took a ten-minute walk through the neighbourhood that oozed wealth to finally find what he was looking for. Tucked between two high-fashion brand stores sat a small coffee shop with a simple awning and prices that, while not cheap, stopped short of outright extortion like the rest of the cafes in the neighbourhood.

The moment he pushed the door open and the little bell above it chimed, announcing his entry, the rich, earthy aroma of freshly ground coffee beans washed over his senses. It worked almost like an antidote to the cloying chemical lilies and decay. Hanbin felt his shoulders drop a fraction. The café was bustling. It was clearly the neighborhood’s not-so-secret spot for those who appreciated good coffee without the performative aesthetics.

He joined the short queue, peering up at the chalkboard menu. His own need was a given—a large Americano. He needed a shock to the system. Then he thought of Gyuvin, who’d probably been running on vending machines since dawn. The kid was earnest, if a little underconfident. He’d appreciate it. Two Americanos, he decided.

He placed his order, paid, and moved to the side to wait, leaning against the counter, next to a shelf of artisan coffee beans for sale. When the two paper cups were finally placed on the counter with a call of “Two Americanos for Hanbin!”. Hanbin offered a curt smile of thanks, gathered them, and turned to leave.

And promptly collided solidly with the person who had moved to stand behind him.

The impact was so sudden that it sent hot liquid cascading over the rim of the cups. Hanbin cursed under his breath, his reflexes firing to steady the cups, but it was too late. A hiss of pain cut through the air.

“Ah—!”

Hanbin’s gaze snapped up from the disaster in his hands, an apology already forming on his lips, and then his brain stuttered to a halt, as did his tongue.

Because standing before him was the most interesting person he’d seen all day. ‘Interesting’, a detached, analytical part of his mind supplied, would be a lie. Hanbin’s type, really, would be more accurate.

The man was as tall as Hanbin, perhaps an inch taller at best. He was leanly built, wearing a beautifully cut brown tweed coat over a fuzzy sweater, an equally fuzzy muffler wound around his neck. He wore thin, wire-framed glasses that sat on a straight roman nose, magnifying sharp, intelligent eyes that were currently wide with surprise and pain. His soft-looking lips were pulled into a grimace. And he had moles. So many of them— under his right left eye, on the bridge of his nose and on his right cheek. In one hand, he held a well-worn violin case. And all down the front of his lovely tweed coat was a spreading, dark stain of Hanbin’s Americano.

“Shit—” Hanbin broke his own reverie. He hastily set his surviving cup on the nearest table and snatched a handful of napkins from a dispenser, his mind racing. Do not contaminate a potential witness/civilian/beautiful man, his training insisted. But you ruined his coat, you idiot.

“I am so, so sorry,” Hanbin said, the words tumbling out. He was torn, hovering with the napkins extended, wanting to dab at the stain but acutely aware of how weird it would be of a stranger to do so. Instead, he managed an awkward flailing of his hands, feeling like a complete fool. “Are you burned? Is your skin—”

The stranger looked from the ruin of his coat to Hanbin’s face, and then slowly, the grimace melted away into a genuine smile. His eyes crinkled at the corners before finally reaching his lips, immediately easing the knot of tension in Hanbin's chest.

“It’s hot but my coat took the brunt of it, I think,” the man said pleasantly. His voice was a melodic baritone. He set his violin case down carefully. “However, it appears to have sacrificed itself for the cause.”

“Please, let me get it cleaned,” Hanbin insisted, finding his footing again. “It’s the least I can do. I was distracted. It’s entirely my fault.”

The man waved a dismissive hand. “Really, it’s fine. These things happen. It’s just coffee.”

“It’s not fine,” Hanbin pressed on. “That’s a beautiful coat. And I’ve ruined it. Please. As a matter of principle.” He met the other man’s gaze, holding it. “Let me make it right.”

There was a pause. The man studied him, that intelligent gaze raking over Hanbin’s face, taking in the serious expression. The ambient noise of the café seemed to fade around them.

“You’re very insistent,” the man observed, a new playfulness entering his voice.

“I have a thing about fixing messes,” Hanbin replied, the ghost of a smile touching his own lips.

“Alright,” the man conceded with a graceful shrug. He began to take off the stained coat. “If it will assuage your clearly burdensome sense of honor.” He slid it off, revealing the simple brown sweater underneath. He held the tweed coat out.

“Thank you,” Hanbin said, folding the coat over his arm. Then, before he could overthink it, he added, “I’ll need a way to return it to you. A number, perhaps?”

The man’s eyebrows lifted above the rims of his glasses. A slow smile spread across his face. “Oh,” he drawled, the single syllable rich with implication. “Flirting are we, after spilling coffee all the way down a stranger’s front?”

Hanbin felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment. He knew flirting when he saw it and he wasn’t any stranger to it himself. He decided to play along. Leaning in slightly, he lowered his voice. “Consider it a clumsy opening gambit. I’m usually more suave, I promise.”

The man laughed softly. “Then I’ll have to take your word for it.” He plucked a napkin from Hanbin’s still-held handful, then reached into his own pocket, producing a sleek silver pen. With quick, confident strokes, he scribbled on the napkin and then held it out for Hanbin to take.

“I’ll be waiting, then,” the man murmured conspiratorially. His eyes held Hanbin’s as Hanbin plucked the piece of paper from the beautiful stranger's hands, sparkling with mischief. Then, he reached past Hanbin, leaning over his shoulder. Hanbin froze in place as the scent of roses and vanilla invaded his senses. Now this scent, he liked.

The stranger picked up the remaining, intact Americano from the table and pulled back again before bringing it to his own lips. He took a sip and winked. “Consider this a down payment.” And with that, he turned to collect his violin case and walked out of the café, the bell chiming behind him as the door closed.

Hanbin stood rooted to the spot for a full five seconds. The drumming headache was gone, vanished as if it had never been there at all. In its place was a strange, buoyant lightness. He looked down at his arms. In one hand, he now held a coffee-stained tweed coat that smelled of roses, and in the other, a napkin clutched in his fingers. He smoothed it out between his thumb and index.

In elegant, slightly rushed handwriting, it read: Zhang Hao. And below that, a local phone number.

A stupid smile spread across Hanbin’s face. He carefully folded the napkin and tucked it into his own pocket securely.

❯❯❯❯❯

It took Hanbin three full days to text the number on the napkin.

The dry cleaning had taken two whole days. The coat had been returned to him in a protective plastic bag already. But the evening he’d picked it up, a lead on another case had led to a frantic chase through the back alleys of the city, ending with a sweaty, unsatisfactory arrest of a low-level forger. Texting a beautiful stranger about a coat at 11:30 PM felt absurd.

So, on the morning of the third day, sitting at his cluttered desk at the precinct with a fresh headache brewing (this one from paperwork), he decided enough was enough. He pulled the carefully preserved napkin from his wallet. Unfolding it felt strangely significant.

He opened a new message thread.

Hello
Coat delivery for mister Zhang Hao?
Sung Hanbin on this side

He set the phone down, face-up, and pretended to be deeply interested in a witness statement, although his peripheral vision remained locked on the screen. The seconds ticked by. Thirty. A minute. 

Then, the little ‘typing…’ bubbles appeared. They popped up, disappeared, and popped up again, as if the sender was deliberating. Hanbin leaned back in his chair, a slow, stupid smile threatening to break through. He pressed a fist to his mouth, coughing lightly to disguise it, and glanced around. Gyuvin was fighting for his life on the phone with someone from the accounts department, the poor guy. Taerae was meticulously organizing his desk drawer. Gunwook was snoring softly, head on a pile of files. No one was watching.

His phone vibrated.

[Zhang Hao]
hello
I almost thought my coat got stolen. Or that you’d decided to keep it as a trophy

Hanbin’s smile widened. He typed back.

Tempting. It’s a nice coat
But I have a strict policy against theft. Mostly.
The dry cleaners worked a miracle. It looks brand new.

[Zhang Hao]
A miracle worker, you say? I’ll need their name. My entire wardrobe is in constant peril
So. Delivery. Are you proposing a drop-off?

I’m open to suggestions. I’m free this afternoon. I could bring it to you
Or we could meet somewhere neutral. A public park? Cafe? Your choice

[Zhang Hao]
A cafe sounds good
There’s one near the Seoul Arts Center. ‘kraft’. Do you know it?

I can find it. 3 PM?

[Zhang Hao]
3:30. I have a student until 3.

Student?

[Zhang Hao]
The violin doesn’t teach itself. 3:30 at Kraft
Don’t be late, or I’ll charge you a holding fee

Wouldn’t dream of it :)
See you then, Zhang Hao-ssi

[Zhang Hao]
Looking forward to it.
Hopefully I won't have coffee down my front this time

Hanbin put his phone down, the stupid smile now a full-blown loser-y grin. And right at that moment Gyuvin, finally off the phone, caught his expression.

“Hyung? You look weird.” Gyuvin squinted suspiciously.

"What do you mean 'weird'. I'm just smiling."

"Yeah, but you don't do that when you're stuck to your desk."

"…Just get to work, you brat."

❯❯❯❯❯

Hanbin arrived at Kraft at 3:25 PM, the clean coat hanging neatly over his arm in its garment bag. The cafe was exactly as he expected: warm wood tones, shelves lined with books and a carefully curated classical playlist playing softly. He spotted Zhang Hao immediately.

He was sitting at a small corner table by the window, the afternoon light catching the lenses of his glasses. He was wearing a light blue pin striped shirt layered over with a cozy looking sweater, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was reading a thick, well-worn book. He looked… nice. Better than nice. He looked elegant and completely absorbed. Hanbin felt a strange flutter in his chest, a nervous energy he hadn’t felt in years.

He walked over, the carpet muffling his steps. “Am I late?” he asked, softly.

Zhang Hao looked up, and that same transformative smile appeared, the one that started with his eyes. He closed the book. “Right on time actually. I just arrived a couple of minutes ago. Please, sit.” He gestured to the chair opposite of him.

Hanbin sat, carefully laying the garment bag over the back of the third chair. “Here you go, as promised. Good as new.”

Zhang Hao took the bag and peeked inside, running a hand over the fabric. “Ah, you’re right. They did an excellent job. My hero.” The words were teasing, but his smile was genuine. “Thank you. Really.”

“It was the least I could do,” Hanbin shrugged. A waiter approached and they paused to order. Zhang Hao scanned the menu and ordered something called a ‘Berry blast smoothie'. Hanbin, predictably, ordered an Americano.

Zhang Hao gave him a deeply unimpressed look over the top of his menu as the waiter walked away. “An Americano. Again. Do you hate your taste buds? Or are you just a masochist?”

Hanbin laughed. “It’s coffee. It’s supposed to be bitter and wake you up. What is that thing you ordered? A dessert passing off as a drink?”

"At least it's interesting,” Zhang Hao retorted, leaning back in his chair. “Life is too short for boring coffee. You, of all people, should know that. You’re in a constant state of emergency, aren’t you? Chasing bad guys. You need a little sweetness to balance it out.”

The casual, accurate guess at his profession gave Hanbin a slight pause, but it wasn’t uncommon. He had a certain… bearing. “How did you know?”

“Please,” Zhang Hao said, taking a sip of water. “You were carrying your badge the day we met. And you had that look in your eyes—like you were trying to solve a puzzle that was irritating you. Not a corporate puzzle. And you’re too fit for a desk job. Detective?”

“Senior Inspector, actually,” Hanbin corrected, impressed.

“Even better,” Zhang Hao’s eyes twinkled. “So, Senior Inspector, have you solved your irritating puzzle?”

“Working on it,” Hanbin said, not wanting to bring the grimness of the Park case into this bright, pleasant space. “It’s… ongoing. How about you? The violin lesson went well?”

And so, they talked. The conversation flowed with an easy, natural rhythm that surprised Hanbin. Zhang Hao spoke about teaching, about his own performances with a local chamber ensemble. He was witty, sharp, and opinionated about music in a way that was passionate, not pretentious. Hanbin found himself talking more than he usually did with new people. It ranged from the absurdities of police life to Gyuvin's love for terrible action movies, which made Zhang Hao laugh loudly.

At one point, Hanbin mentioned his failed attempt to get Gyuvin to appreciate classic cinema. “I tried to make it a team-building thing, but he fell asleep. So much for that.”

Zhang Hao giggled. “And you call that team-building? That’s just a sad, lonely movie night. If you want to build rapport, you have to do something. Share an experience.”

“Is that so?” Hanbin leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And what would you suggest, Teacher Zhang?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Something active. Something that requires talking. Not just sitting in the dark.”

“Sounds like you have high standards for outings,” Hanbin said.

“I have standards, period.”

The waiter arrived with their drinks. Zhang Hao’s was a vibrantly colored… monstrosity in a tall glass. Hanbin’s was a boring black Americano in a simple ceramic cup. They both took a sip.

“Well?” Hanbin prompted.

“Delicious,” Zhang Hao declared, licking a bit of whipped cream from his lip in a way that was entirely distracting. “Complex. Sweet, tart. Your turn.”

Hanbin took another sip of his bitter coffee and nodded in satisfaction. “It’s hot. And caffeinated. Mission accomplished.”

“Barbarian,” Zhang Hao said, but he was smiling.

The comfortable banter continued. Hanbin, feeling emboldened by the easy chemistry, gestured between them. “I hope this… is a much better impression than our first meeting. This is nice.”

Zhang Hao tilted his head. “What’s ‘this’?”

“You know,” Hanbin said, smirking a bit confidently. “This. Our… date.”

Zhang Hao immediately scoffed. He put his colorful drink down and fixed Hanbin with a mock disapproving look. “A date? This isn’t a date, Senior Inspector. This is a dry-cleaning return transaction with conversational perks.”

“Ouch,” Hanbin said, pretending to be wounded by clutching his chest, "You wound me, Hao-ssi."

“If you want to take me out on a date,” Zhang Hao continued playfully, “you’d have to do much, much better than a cafe where I’m a regular, following a coffee-spilling incident. You’d have to be creative. You’d have to impress me.”

The gauntlet had been thrown. A direct challenge. Hanbin, who never backed down from a challenge at work, found the same competitive spirit flaring up here. This was more fun than any interrogation.

“Is that right?” Hanbin mirrored his posture, leaning in. “And what, exactly, would impress the illustrious Zhang Hao-ssi? A five-star restaurant? A private box at the opera?”

“Predictable,” Zhang Hao waved a dismissive hand. “Anybody with a credit card can do that. I said creative. I appreciate novelty. I appreciate… thought.”

Hanbin held his gaze, the smirk settling into a determined smile. “Alright then. A proper date. One that will meet your standards.” He made a show of thinking, tapping his fingers on the table. “How about this Friday? I’ll plan everything. You show up. No questions.”

Zhang Hao’s eyebrows shot up. He looked intrigued and a little surprised at Hanbin’s swift, confident response. “That’s a bold claim. ‘No questions’? What if I hate it?”

“Then you can spend the entire evening criticizing my life choices,” Hanbin said. “Including my coffee. But I have a feeling you won’t hate it.”

A long silence as Zhang Hao considered the proposition. He studied Hanbin, as if reassessing. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Only about some things.”

Zhang Hao finally nodded, a new smile appearing—softer, more genuine than the teasing smirks from before. “Okay. Friday. What time?”

“I’ll pick you up at 6 PM. Text me your address.” Hanbin said it as if it were a foregone conclusion.

“Bold again. Assuming I’ll give you my address.”

“You gave me your number on a napkin after I spilled coffee all over you. An address seems like the logical next step.” Hanbin shrugged smugly.

Zhang Hao laughed, shaking his head as if in surrender. He pulled out his phone. “Fine. Fine. You win this round, Inspector.” He tapped his screen, and a moment later, Hanbin’s phone buzzed with a new message containing an address in a quiet neighborhood.

Hanbin looked at the address, then back at Zhang Hao, his heart doing a funny little skip. “Friday. 6 PM. Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Zhang Hao echoed Hanbin’s earlier words, his eyes sparkling.

They finished their drinks, the conversation shifting back to lighter topics. When the bill came, they argued playfully over it until Hanbin firmly placed his card on the tray first. “I spilled coffee on you. I’m paying.”

Outside the cafe, the late afternoon sun was golden. They stood on the sidewalk for an awkward moment before Zhang Hao turned to him. “Well,” he said, carefully hanging his newly reclaimed coat in its bag over his arm. “Thank you for the coat. And the… transaction.”

“My pleasure,” Hanbin said. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

“I’ll be waiting.” With a final smile, Zhang Hao turned and walked away, blending into the stream of pedestrians.

Hanbin stood there for a minute, watching him go. He felt energized and alive in a way the caffeine from his Americano could never achieve.

He pulled out his phone and texted Gyuvin.

On my way back
Bring me the file on Park Daehyun’s art advisors
We’re going through it line by line

❯❯❯❯❯

Friday could not come quickly enough for Hanbin. The week had been a grinding slog of dead ends and frustrating interviews in the Park Daehyun case. Every art advisor, gallery assistant, and disgruntled artist they’d tracked down had an annoyingly tight alibi. Usually, this kind of stagnation dug a pit of irritability in Hanbin's stomach and he would end up with a blinding migraine.

But nothing could bring his mood down, because this Friday, he had a date with Zhang Hao. He found himself praying the day would be quiet, that no new, grotesque crime scene would demand his attention. He didn’t want to walk into Saturday evening smelling of death and disinfectant, his nerves frayed. He especially didn’t want to accidentally snap at Hao, though a small, confident part of him doubted he ever could, even if he tried.

So, when the clock on his computer screen finally blinked to 4:00 PM, Hanbin pushed back from his desk with an exaggerated stretch and a fake yawn he didn’t quite manage to sell.

“Right. Well. I think that’s time for me to… go home,” he announced, the words feeling awkward in his mouth. Immediately, three heads swiveled towards him in near-perfect unison.

Gyuvin, who was wrestling with a jammed printer, blinked. “You never go home at four.”

Gunwook looked up from a dense forensics report, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Yeah, hyung. Your workaholic ass would sleep here on a cot if the Captain allowed it.”

Taerae didn’t even glance up from his monitor. “And you’re, as far as I know, friendless and pathetically single. Where’s the fire?”

Hanbin stared at them, mouth slightly agape in mock indignation. “I have friends! I’ll have you know, Officer Ji—”

“Officer Jiwoong doesn’t count,” Taerae interrupted smoothly, finally looking over. “He’s your gym buddy. That’s a symbiotic relationship based on shared pain in your calves, not friendship.”

Hanbin sputtered, but before he could formulate a defense, Gyuvin’s eyes lit up with sudden, terrifying insight. He leaned forward, a grin spreading across his face. “Wait. Hold on. Do you… do you have a date?”

The word ‘date’ hit Hanbin like a tranquilizer dart. He froze completely. Every thought in his head screeched to a halt. His mouth, which had been open to retort, snapped shut. He could feel the tips of his ears growing warm.

The silence that followed was telling enough.

Gyuvin’s jaw dropped. “No way.”

Gunwook slowly put down his report. “He does. He totally does.”

Taerae swiveled fully in his chair, a look of pure, unholy delight on his face. “The Detective of Violent Crimes who is infamously married to his work has a date? Who is she? Is it that forensic accountant from last month? Please tell me it’s not the forensic accountant. I hate the accountancy department”

“It’s not—there’s no she—” Hanbin managed to sputter out.

“A he?” Gyuvin gasped, as if this was the most shocking revelation of all. “You’re gay? Since when?”

“I’m not—I mean, it’s not—” Hanbin was floundering, and the more he floundered, the wider their grins became.

“Oh my god, he’s blushing,” Gunwook observed, pointing.

“He’s meeting a man! A beautiful, mysterious man who has finally melted our hyung’s frozen heart!” Gyuvin declared, clasping his hands to his chest dramatically.

“Shut up, all of you!” Hanbin finally barked, striding over and delivering a light, harmless thump to the back of Gyuvin’s head. “It’s none of your business! You’re all just jealous because you have no lives outside of this depressing office!”

“He’s deflecting!” Taerae sang.

“We want details tomorrow!” Gunwook called after him.

“Bring him by! We’ll do a background check!” Gyuvin yelled.

Hanbin didn’t look back, grabbing his jacket and storming out of the bullpen, the sound of their laughter trailing him down the hall.

He stood in front of his closet, which was mostly filled with dark, functional clothing—slacks, crisp shirts, sensible jackets— and was met with questions he wasn't very familiar with answering often. Date clothes. What constituted ‘date clothes’ for Sung Hanbin?

After trying on outfits after outfits, he finally settled on a pair of well-fitting dark charcoal trousers and a simple white designer shirt paired with a sleek black tie. It was simple, but it felt nice against his skin, and it hugged his shoulders in a way that was flattering without being obvious. He added the expensive watch he rarely wore—a gift from his sister years ago.

At 5:50 PM, he pulled up outside the address Zhang Hao had sent. It was a handsome, older building with brick-lined walls in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood known for its small studios and artistic residents. Hanbin’s heart was doing a funny, rhythmic thumping against his ribs. He was just about to text to say he’d arrived when the glass doors to the apartment building opened.

Zhang Hao emerged and Hanbin was left staring dumbly.

He was wearing a long, elegant grey wool coat over an all black ensemble, with a pressed black shirt tucked into black slacks that made his legs look impossibly long. He too wore a simple chain around his neck. His hair was styled, the glasses were present, and he looked… breathtaking. Hanbin’s earlier outfit anxiety melted away. Putting way too much thought into his outfit was worth it.

Hanbin quickly got out of the car to open the passenger door with a flourish. Zhang Hao smiled as he approached. “A gentleman. And you’re on time. I’m impressed twice already.”

“I aim to please,” Hanbin said smugly. Once Hanbin was back in the driver’s seat and pulling away from the curb, Hao glanced over. “You clean up nicely, Inspector. The good old white shirt and tie is a good choice. Hopefully, you don't spill anything on it that might ruin it.”

Hanbin laughed. “Thanks. You look… incredible.”

Hao seemed to accept it with a small, pleased nod. “So. The mystery tour begins. Hopefully, you're not taking me to a desolate empty thicket in plans to murder me.”

“Just sit back and enjoy the ride. And I catch murderers for a living Hao-ssi, not commit them myself.”

“A relief,” Hao said dryly, but he settled into his seat with a contented expression.

The rest of the drive was filled with easy conversation. Hao asked about his day which Hanbin answered with “Surprisingly non-homicidal, which is a win”. In turn, Hanbin asked about his students. Hao told a funny, exasperated story about a ten-year-old prodigy who could play Paganini but refused to practice scales.

“He says they’re ‘boring and beneath him’,” Hao said, doing a perfect imitation of a haughty child’s voice. “I told him even Paganini had to learn his scales, and he just looked at me and said, ‘Prove it’.”

Hanbin chuckled. “A future lawyer, not a musician.”

“Don’t say that, it’s too terrifying.”

As they drove into a more bustling commercial district, Hao began to glance around with growing curiosity. When Hanbin signaled and turned into the large, brightly lit parking lot of a particular building, Hao gasped, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“No,” he said, turning to Hanbin, his eyes glittering with genuine excitement. “Haidilao? You’re taking me to Haidilao?”

Hanbin couldn’t stop the proud, slightly cheesy grin that spread across his face as he navigated to a parking spot. “I am.”

“I love this place! The soup bases, the noodles, the—how did you know?” Hao’s usual composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a boyish enthusiasm.

Hanbin put the car in park and turned to him, unable to resist the smug smirk that overtook his lips. “I’m a detective, Hao-ssi. It’s my job to know things.”

Hao burst out laughing, shaking his head. “That was so corny. But effective. Okay, you’ve officially piqued my interest.”

Inside, the air was steamy and fragrant with a dozen different broths and spices. Before Hao could even take in the main dining area, a hostess greeted them. Hanbin gave his name and then two of them were led past the bustling tables down a quieter hallway to a private room.

Hao looked genuinely astonished. “A private room? You went all out.”

“You said to be impressive,” Hanbin shrugged, trying to act nonchalant as he held the door open for him. “No distractions.”

Once they’d shed their coats and settled in around the big table in the center, a waiter presented them with tablets to choose their soup bases and ingredients. “This is dangerous,” Hao murmured, his eyes scanning the endless options. “I want to order one of everything.”

In the end, they decided on a split pot: one side with the famously fiery Sichuan mala broth, and the other with a rich, creamy pork bone soup. Then came the numerous ingredients: thinly sliced marbled beef, shrimp, an assortment of fresh mushrooms, greens, handmade noodles, and a dizzying array of side dishes and sauces.

As the soups began to simmer, Hao’s excitement grew even more. Hanbin watched in fascination as he meticulously crafted his dipping sauce, combining sesame paste, garlic, cilantro, and a daring amount of chili oil.

“You have to try this,” Hao said, once the first batch of beef was cooked. He expertly fished a slice from the mala broth, dipped it in his complex sauce, and blew on it before holding it out across the table on his chopsticks. “Here. Open up.”

The gesture was surprisingly intimate, but Hanbin leaned forward without hesitation and accepted the offering. The flavors of rich beef and the spicy nutty sauce exploded in his mouth followed by the intense, numbing heat of the Sichuan peppercorns. “Wow,” Hanbin said, his eyes watering slightly from the spice. “Okay. That’s amazing.”

Hao looked triumphant. “My taste is always amazing. Now you have to try the frog legs.” He gestured to a small section of the soup where he had already left the pale meat to simmer.

“Frog legs?” Hanbin eyed them skeptically.

“Don’t be a coward, detective. They taste like chicken, but more delicate.” Hao picked one up with his own chopsticks and held it out. “Come on. For the experience.”

Hanbin had faced down armed suspects with less trepidation, he thought as he stared at the meat accusatorily before meeting Hao’s challenging gaze. He leaned in again and took the frog leg from his chopsticks and chewed. It was… fine. A bit bony. The flavor was mild.

“Well?” Hao prompted, grinning.

“It tastes like… frog, I guess,” Hanbin admitted. “But the texture is interesting.”

Hao chuckled. “An honest review. I’ll take it.”

They cooked and shared food, arguing good-naturedly over whether tofu skin or enoki mushrooms were the superior hotpot ingredient (Hao was fiercely pro-mushroom). Hanbin found himself relaxing completely, the stresses of the week fading away under the combined influence of good food and Hao’s infectious laughter.

Then, as if to mock Hanbin on having even a bit of time off from work, the warm bubble they had created was suddenly pierced by the sharp buzz of Hanbin’s phone from where it vibrated against the wooden table. Both men glanced down at the same time. The screen lit up with the name: GUNWOOK.

Hanbin felt a flicker of annoyance, followed immediately by a twist of guilt. The date was going perfectly. Better than perfectly. He’d even planned the next step—a walk through the nearby lit-up square, finding that little artisan ice cream shop he’d bookmarked. Get something to cool the spicy heat from the hotpot.

His brain tried to rationalize. It wasn’t like he was the only detective in the entire Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency. There were others on duty. And Gyuvin had been under his wing for a while now. The kid was sharp, if a bit impulsive. He could handle most things. Probably.

The phone buzzed again. Three more rings, each one feeling louder in the silence before it finally went quiet. The silence that followed was heavy. Hanbin looked up from the dark screen to find Hao watching him.

“Work?” Hao asked softly. His voice held no accusation, just simple understanding.

Hanbin nodded tightly. “It’s one of my juniors.”

Hao’s face softened. He pushed his bowl aside slightly. “You should take the call. It could be something urgent.”

“But—” Hanbin gestured vaguely at the remains of their feast, at Hao, at the whole lovely evening he didn’t want to end.

“It’s okay,” Hao said, and a small, wry smile touched his lips. “I’m pretty sure addressing crimes is more important than entertaining one violinist on a Friday evening for Detective Sung Hanbin.”

The way he said Detective Sung Hanbin in that melodic, slightly teasing tone sent a wave of heat rushing to Hanbin’s ears. But he had other things than Hao's baritone voice to focus on.

“I’m sorry,” Hanbin mumbled, ducking his head. “Thank you.” He grabbed the phone, his fingers moving quickly to redial Gunwook’s number. “I’ll just be a second,” he said, already rising and heading for the door to the corridor outside their private room. The phone barely had time to ring before it was answered.

“Hello, Gunwoo—”

“Hyung, I think we have our killer.” Gunwook’s tense voice whispered urgently.

Hanbin’s entire body went still. Every other thought evaporated. “What?”

“It’s the junior curator from the Insa gallery. We brought him in for a follow-up interview about his alibi for the Park Daehyun murder. His story was airtight before, but Taerae found a discrepancy in the subway CCTV timestamps he cited—”

Hanbin was already moving, his mind shifting gears with brutal efficiency. He cut Gunwook off. “Keep him in detainment. Do not let him call anyone. I’ll be there. Our murderer is sloppy but egotistic. Play into that. Stroke his ego, then poke holes in his ‘artistic vision.’ Make him confess by making him defend it. Understood?”

“On it,” Gunwook said, his voice firming up with direction.

The call ended. Hanbin stood in the corridor for a second. He took a deep breath, trying to push the case back into a compartment in his mind, but it was too late. The killer was in a box at his precinct. He pushed the door to their private room open again. Hao was sitting calmly, sipping the last of his tea. He looked up, and Hanbin knew his own face must have given everything away.

“I… I have to go,” Hanbin said, the words feeling inadequate. “They’ve brought someone in. For the case I was working on when we… when I spilled the coffee.”

Hao simply nodded, placing his cup down. Then he stopped moving altogether when his eyes fell on Hanbin before scoffing lightly with a smile. “Oh, don’t give me those sad puppy eyes, Sung Hanbin.” He made a shooing motion with his hands, “I get it. You’re an officer. Of course work is important! You've got to go catch your bad guy.”

Hanbin felt his own pout deepen, a childish reaction he couldn’t control. He really, really didn’t want the night to end. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, the words tumbling out with more intensity than he intended as he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.

At the same time, Hao rose, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. Thankfully, they’d eaten most of the food; only a few lonely mushrooms and some broth remained.

“What makes you think I’ll go out on another date with you?” Hao teased as he smoothly shrugged on his coat.

Hanbin’s head snapped up, his eyes going wide in genuine, panicked dismay. There was no way—was Hao actually saying no to a second date?

It took one look at his stricken expression for Hao to burst out laughing, clutching his belly and throwing his head back. “You should have seen your face, Detective Sung Hanbin!” he managed between laughs.

Hanbin stared, confused for a split second, before the realization hit him. He’d been played. A huff of relieved laughter escaped him, and he shook his head, running a hand through his carefully styled hair. “You’re terrible.”

“And you’re far too easy to fluster for a hardened crime fighter,” Hao retorted, still grinning as he gathered his things. “Of course there’ll be another date. This one was… surprisingly good. Until the interruption.”

“I’ll plan an interruption-proof one next time,” Hanbin vowed.

They walked out together, and Hanbin made a beeline for the counter to pay. Hao was right beside him, pulling out his wallet. “No, let me split it,” Hao insisted.

“Absolutely not,” Hanbin said, already handing his card to the cashier. “I invited you. And I’m cutting it short. This is non-negotiable.”

Hao opened his mouth to argue, but Hanbin fixed him with what he hoped was his best ‘stern policeman stare.’ It must have worked, because Hao sighed dramatically and put his wallet away.

Outside, the cool night air felt like a shock after the steamy warmth of the restaurant. Hanbin turned to Hao. “Let me drop you off at home. It’s the least I can do.”

Hao shook his head, buttoning his coat. “Just take me to the station with you. My place isn't far from there; I can easily get a taxi or even walk. It’s a nice night.”

“Are you sure?” Hanbin asked, guilt pricking him again. “It feels wrong to just dump you at a police station.”

“Think of it as a unique experience,” Hao said drily, starting to walk towards the car park. “I’ve never been picked up from a date at a hotpot restaurant and dropped off at a violent crimes unit. It’s très unique.”

The short drive to the precinct was quieter than the ride to the restaurant. “This killer,” Hao ventured after a few minutes, looking out at the passing city lights. “The one from the day we met. Is it… bad?”

“It’s… pretentious,” Hanbin found himself saying, the word spilling out with more venom than he expected. “Trying to make murder into some kind of statement. It’s sloppy and arrogant.” He glanced at Hao. “Sorry, that’s shop talk.”

“No, it’s interesting,” Hao said, turning to look at him with genuinely curious eyes. “You sound personally offended.”

“I am,” Hanbin admitted, surprised by his own honesty. “It’s disrespectful. To the victim. To the job. To…” He trailed off, not wanting to sound pompous.

“To you?” Hao offered.

Hanbin took a sharp breath. He didn't usually admit it to anyone. It would make him sound crazy to anyone else, but for some reason, he felt Zhang Hao wouldn't feel the same. “Yeah. I guess.” he admitted softly.

They pulled into the driveway of the precinct. Just as Hanbin was shifting the car into park, his phone buzzed again on the console. A call from Gyuvin this time.

“For god’s sake,” Hanbin muttered under his breath. He hit the ‘decline’ button sharply and turned off the engine. He needed at least ten seconds to say a proper goodbye. He got out and came around to open Hao’s door. Hao stepped out, looking up at the police building, then back at Hanbin.

“I’m really sorry about this,” Hanbin said, meaning it more than he could express. “Tonight was…”

“It was great,” Hao finished for him, his smile genuine. “Even the abrupt ending has a certain dramatic flair. Go on. Your duty awaits. Maybe we’ll even meet each other sooner than you expect.”

Hanbin’s phone started buzzing again, the screen lighting up with Gyuvin’s name once more. The sound was like an alarm in the quiet of the parking lot.

Hanbin cursed, low and frustrated. He looked from the phone to Hao’s understanding face, torn. With a nod from Hao, he finally turned and practically sprinted for the glass doors of the precinct, yanking his phone to his ear as he went. “Gyuvin, this better be—what? He’s doing what?”

❯❯❯❯❯

By the time Hanbin stumbled out of the interrogation room two hours later, his only desire was to merge with his mattress and forget the world existed. His head was throbbing and his mouth was coated with the taste of too many cheap precinct machine coffees.

The suspect, Hyun-ki, a minor art gallery curator, had been a special kind of annoying. He’d started off insisting his arrest was a “gross misunderstanding” and sneered at Gyuvin’s questions, treating the police like they were beneath him.

It didn't take much for the suspect's carefully constructed facade of intellectual superiority to shatter. With a dose of some Good Cop, Bad Cop, where Gyuvin stroked his fragile ego followed by Hanbin calling his art ‘gross' and 'immature', Hyun-ki quickly turned impulsive and frantic. During a spell of yelling like a madman, he ended up giving away details only the police were privy to, exposing his involvement.

In a final, pathetic act of defiance, he sucked in his cheeks and spat at Hanbin. The spittle landed with a pathetic little splat on the linoleum floor, perfectly between Hanbin’s polished black dress shoes. Hanbin looked down at it, then back at the heaving, red man. He felt nothing but disgust for this pathetic excuse of a man. “Get the asshole his lawyer or whatever,” he grimaced, turning and pushing open the heavy door to leave.

Outside, Taerae was waiting, having monitored the whole thing through the glass. He fell into step beside Hanbin as he stalked down the corridor.

“Can you please get someone else to handle the paperwork tonight?” Hanbin asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think I can tolerate thinking about that idiot for even a second more.”

Taerae nodded, a sympathetic look on his face. “I can do that. I have the night shift anyway. You can go take a break and, oh—by the way, there’s someone waiting for you out front.”

Hanbin grunted, barely processing the words. He just wanted to grab his jacket and flee. He pushed through the door into the main hall of the precinct.

And then froze.

Taerae came to a stop beside him, clearing his throat. “This guy came in right behind you earlier. He insisted on waiting. We said you might be really late, but he said he’d leave at midnight and that he wouldn’t be a disturbance.”

Hanbin’s brain, still fogged with the interrogation, took a moment to catch up. He looked at his watch. 11:07 PM. Then his eyes found the figure sitting patiently on one of the hard metal chairs in the waiting area again.

Zhang Hao sat there, reading a book under the harsh light. He’d waited. For two hours. In a police station.

Hanbin felt his face grow hot. “Not a word about this to Gyuvin,” he whispered fiercely to Taerae, who responded with a poorly suppressed giggle.

Ignoring his junior, Hanbin walked forward. He felt suddenly, acutely aware of his own state. His hair was probably a mess from running his hands through it in frustration, his shirt creased. The grimy feeling of the interrogation room still clung to his skin.

“Hao-ssi?” he asked, his voice softer than he intended. He rubbed his palms against his trousers. “What are you doing here this late?”

Hao looked up from his book, and the moment his eyes met Hanbin’s, a warm smile bloomed on his face, lifting the apples of his cheeks. He marked his page and set the book aside. “I wait for two hours for my date, and that’s the first question I get? Are you not happy to see me?” he pouted dramatically.

Hanbin opened his mouth to answer, but a distinct, poorly muffled snort of laughter came from behind him. He turned his head just enough to throw a withering glare at Taerae and Gunwook, who were now both peeking from behind a filing cabinet, their faces lit with glee.

He turned back to Hao, flustered. “No, no, I just—” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, confirming it was indeed a disaster. He felt sheepish. “Do you mind waiting like—five more minutes for me?”

Hao nodded, his smile turning soft. “Take your time.”

With that, Hanbin practically fled to the men’s bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked exhausted. The careful style he’d started the evening with was gone; his hair was sticking up in places, flattened in others. He cursed under his breath, splashed cold water on his face, and tried to finger-comb the strands into some semblance of order. It was a losing battle. He gave up, dried his face, and took a deep breath.

When he came back out, he saw Hao was no longer alone. He was standing now, talking animatedly to a pink-cheeked Gunwook. Hanbin caught the tail end of the conversation as he approached.

“You’re only 23? That’s super young!” Hao was saying, sounding genuinely impressed.

Gunwook smiled bashfully, shuffling his feet. “I just… skipped a few grades.”

“And your taste in books is so mature, too!” Hao pointed to the book now in Gunwook’s hands—the one Hao had been reading. Hanbin recognized it now; it was one of Gunwook’s beloved classic Russian novels, always sitting on his desk.

“Oh, this? It’s just… something,” Gunwook mumbled, looking even more pleased.

A completely irrational, hot little spike of jealousy shot through Hanbin’s chest. It was ridiculous. Gunwook was his junior, a kid. But seeing Hao’s focused, appreciative attention on someone else, here in his precinct made him feel oddly possessive.

He walked over, his steps a little quicker than necessary. “Gunwook-ah, isn’t there evidence you should be logging?” he asked, his voice a bit tighter than he meant it to be.

Gunwook jumped, the spell broken. “Ah! Yes, hyung! I'll take my leave Hao-nim!” And then with a quick, shy bow, he scurried off.

Hao turned his now-amused gaze to Hanbin, one eyebrow arched over the rim of his glasses. “Not a person to mix work with personal life, huh?”

Hanbin sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders. “No, I mean… okay, yeah, I’ve always maintained that. My line of work isn’t really… savory. I don’t like bringing it home. Or bringing… people into it.” He gestured vaguely at the grim surroundings.

Hao cocked his head to the side. “I find it really interesting, though. I wonder how you solve crimes. How your brain works.”

“Do you want to pick apart my brain or something, Zhang Hao-ssi?” Hanbin mused, a real smile finally returning to his lips as he grabbed his jacket from his chair.

“Just want to see if those crime thrillers do your work justice,” Hao said, falling into step beside him as Hanbin led the way out, shooting a final warning look at his snickering team.

Once they were outside Hanbin laughed. It felt good to laugh. “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. It’s much more paperwork and witness statements, and much less chasing criminals over fences in slow motion.”

“Well, won’t you tell me more about it anyway?” Hao asked, his voice gentle as they started walking away from the brightly lit station.

“I’d do anything you asked me to,” Hanbin said softly, and even though he'd said it as flirtation, he realized a part of him did mean it. Hao let out a fake gasp. “Wow, so easily manipulated. Are you even a good police officer, Detective Sung Hanbin?”

Hanbin chuckled. He stopped walking and turned to face Hao under a streetlamp. “I'm usually the best the department has to offer. It just seems that I turn incredibly weak when it comes to pretty violinists with sharp tongues."

Hao's eyebrows raised at the clear confession as he observed Hanbin for a moment. Then he turned away and started walking. “Walk me home. It’s by the river. It’s a nice night for a stroll, don’t you think?” Hao suggested, already leading the way.

Hanbin fell into step beside him, their shoulders almost brushing. The city sounds faded as they neared the riverwalk. The water was dark, spotted with reflected lights, and the path beside was quiet at this hour.

For a while, they walked in comfortable silence. Then, Hanbin found himself talking. Not about the gruesome details, but about the puzzle—the gaps, the odd clues, the profile of a killer who wanted to be seen as something he wasn’t.

“So he was trying to create a scene,” Hao summarized. “Not just commit a crime, but… direct it.”

“Exactly. And he was terrible at it. The worst kind of hack.” Hanbin shook his head. “It’s just so… insulting.”

Hao hummed. “And you feel it insults you, as well. Because you see the lack of respect for the craft. Even in something horrible, there’s a kind of… terrible professionalism you expect. And he didn’t have it. It was shoddy work.”

Hanbin pursed his lips. Once again, Zhang Hao had very clearly deciphered how exactly Hanbin felt. It's something Hanbin never wanted to admit to himself, but the way Hao said it was devoid of any judgement. It felt like it wouldn't be too bad to confess this part of him to Zhang Hao. “That’s… yeah. That’s it exactly.” No one had ever put it that way before. No one ever understood that particular nuance of his frustration and he’d never expected to be understood either.

But Hao just smiled, as if it were obvious. The comfortable silence fell once again.

“Thank you,” Hanbin said suddenly, coming to a slow stop by the railing overlooking the dark river. The words felt inadequate, but they were all he had.

Hao leaned against the cool metal beside him. “For what?”

“For waiting at the precinct. You didn’t have to do that.” Hanbin stared at the lights dancing on the river’s surface, unable to look at Hao just yet. “Most people would have left. Would have been annoyed, and rightfully so.”

“I know,” Hao said simply. “I wanted to stay though. I wanted to see if you’d look more frazzled when you finally came out. You did not disappoint.” he giggled.

Hanbin groaned, covering his face with a hand. “I must have looked terrible.”

“You looked…” Hao paused, “You looked like you were in your element. Not that the polished dinner date version was too bad, but this was interesting too.”

Hanbin lowered his hand, letting the cool night air brush his now-warm cheeks. He met Hao’s gaze fully. In the dim, golden light from the distant streetlamps, Hao’s eyes were warm. The playful mask was down, replaced by a soft look that made Hanbin’s cheeks blush harder.

“Tonight didn’t go at all how I planned,” Hanbin admitted.

“No,” Hao agreed easily. He shifted slightly, turning his body to face Hanbin more fully. “It was better.”

“Better?”

“More memorable,” Hao clarified with a fond smile. “I’ve had plenty of perfectly planned, boring dates. Dinners at the right restaurants, conversations about safe topics, polite goodnights.” He shrugged. “I’ve never been abandoned at a hotpot restaurant, picked up from a police station two hours later, and then taken for a midnight walk by the river by a detective who just finished putting a murderer in a cell. It has a certain… originality.”

A slow, disbelieving smile spread across Hanbin’s face, starting in his eyes and finally reaching his lips. The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders since the phone rang in the restaurant finally left his body.

“So…” Hanbin started expectantly, leaning in towards Hao slightly, “You’d do it again? Despite the… professional interruptions?”

Hao didn’t move back. Instead, he mirrored Hanbin’s movement, closing the small distance between them until only the bare minimum of respectful first date distance remained.

“Detective Sung Hanbin, I’m already looking forward to the next interruption.”

❯❯❯❯❯

The transition from one date to two, and then to three, felt as natural as breathing. There was no awkward deliberation, no overthinking. The morning after their river walk, a simple text from Hao appeared on Hanbin’s phone: a link to an upcoming exhibition at a small, avant-garde gallery called ‘The Third Eye,’ with the caption: Looks like the kind of thing that would either be genius or make us both feel stupid. Next Saturday?

Hanbin hadn’t needed to ask any questions. He’d just smiled, paid for the exhibition and then typed back: I now somehow possess 2 tickets, would you like to join? Hao’s reply was just a smiling emoji. That was it. The plan was set.

That Saturday, they’d wandered through the white-walled gallery for hours. The art was, as predicted, bewildering. There were sculptures made of tangled wires and broken mirrors, paintings that looked like Rorschach tests in neon colors, and a video installation of a man slowly eating a bowl of noodles that kept on looping.

Instead of trying to decipher the artist’s intent with any seriousness, they made up their own. Standing before a canvas that was essentially a large black square with a single, off-center red dot, Hanbin had deadpanned, “It’s clearly a metaphor for the existential loneliness of a tomato in a void.”

Hao had snorted so loudly an elderly patron across the room had shot them a withering glare. He’d doubled over, trying to stifle his laughter into his scarf. “A tomato?” he’d wheezed.

By the time they stumbled back out onto the street, the winter sun had already dipped below the city skyline, painting the clouds in shades of orange and purple. Hanbin’s cheeks ached from smiling way too much. It seemed as if time moved at a breakneck speed when he was with Hao.

That evening, bundled in their heavy winter coats, they found a small ice cream parlor that was open year-round. They sat at a tiny wrought-iron table by the window, watching the world go by. The conversation flowed easily. At one point, discussing a mutual dislike for a pretentious filmmaker, Hanbin said, “I just don’t get the appeal, Hao.” He said it without thinking, the name slipping out as naturally as if he’d been using it for years. Not Zhang Hao-ssi. Just Hao.

He saw the exact moment it registered. Hao’s eyebrows shot up above the rims of his glasses, his spoon pausing halfway to his mouth. He looked genuinely, comically surprised. Then, slowly, a teasing smile bloomed on his face. “Not even a hyung? You’re quite bold, Hanbin-ah.”

The casual ‘-ah’ suffix sent a little thrill down Hanbin’s spine. He shrugged, trying for nonchalance with a cheeky smile. “We’re just eleven months apart. It feels silly.”

Hao rolled his eyes. “So disrespectful. What if I felt offended by your brashness? My delicate sensibilities?”

“Well, are you?” Hanbin asked but he already knew the answer.

Hao stared at him for a long moment, as if examining a fascinating new species. Finally, he shook his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “So cocky. Lucky for you, I’m into that.”

The third date was Hao’s idea, born from a passing comment in a late-night text exchange. Hanbin had mentioned the sterile, pounding noise of the clubs he’d occasionally been dragged to by the youngsters. Hao had texted back: That’s not music, that’s auditory assault. Have you ever been to a proper jazz club?

Can’t say I have, Hanbin had replied. My life is more ‘stakeout silence’ and ‘angry suspect yelling’ than smooth saxophone.

Hao’s response was immediate. We’re fixing that. Wednesday. My treat.

So, that Wednesday, Hanbin found himself driving to a different, rich-looking neighborhood to pick Hao up after his evening classes. When Hao emerged from the doorway of a sleek modern music school building, Hanbin had to consciously tell himself not to stare.

Hao was wearing a pair of dark, perfectly fitted jeans and a simple black top with a neckline that dipped just low enough to be intriguing. Over it, he wore a crisp white collared shirt, left unbuttoned, and a tailored black blazer. A delicate silver necklace with a small, abstract pendant lay against his skin. He looked effortlessly cool, a balanced mix of elegant and relaxed. And his lips, glossed just slightly, looked distractingly kissable under the streetlight.

As Hao approached, a slow, appreciative smile on his face, Hanbin realized he was also being studied. Hao’s eyes raked over him, starting at his polished shoes, moving up his tailored black trousers, lingering on the cut of his own blazer, and then his gaze snagged. Hao’s eyes widened as he stared at the sliver of Hanbin’s chest visible above the line of his double-breasted blazer.

Hanbin felt self-consciousness war with pride. He had made an effort. His usual wardrobe of functional shirts and sweaters had felt inadequate for a jazz club. He’d dug to the back of his closet and pulled out a black, double-breasted blazer that cut in a sharp, modest ‘V’ at his chest. It revealed the sun, star, and moon tattoo that sat over his collarbone—a whimsical little thing he’d gotten on a rare impulsive trip years ago. He’d layered a couple of thin silver chains over it, something he almost never did. Seeing Hao’s reaction made the extra twenty minutes of indecision in front of the mirror completely worth it.

Trying to play it cool, Hanbin pushed himself off the car and opened the passenger door with a flourish. “Your chariot awaits,” he said, gesturing for Hao to get in.

Hao didn’t move immediately. His intense gaze finally lifted from Hanbin’s collarbone to meet his eyes. “I did not know you had tattoos, Detective,” he said appreciatively.

The title ‘Detective’ coming from him in that tone, while looking at his skin, did something dangerous to Hanbin’s composure. He fought the urge to blush. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he said, aiming for a confident smirk. He thought he mostly succeeded.

Hao finally slid into the car, and Hanbin closed the door before circling around to the driver’s side. When he got in and started the engine, he could feel Hao’s eyes on him again. It made the skin on his neck and arms prickle with hyper-awareness.

As Hanbin navigated out of the parking spot and into the evening traffic, Hao broke the silence. “So, do you have more tattoos you’re hiding?”

Hanbin glanced over, catching the way the city lights flashed across Hao’s glasses. A playful, cocky feeling settled in his chest. He liked this. He liked teasing Hao, liked surprising him. He gave a one-shouldered shrug, keeping his eyes on the road. “Well,” he said, drawing the word out. “You’ll just have to stick around to find out, won’t you?”

He risked a quick glance and saw Hao shaking his head before scoffing softly, and looking out the window. But Hanbin didn’t miss the pleased curve of his smile reflected in the glass.

The jazz bar was everything Hanbin had imagined and more. The moment he pushed open the heavy door, a wave of warm, smoky air, rich with the scent of aged whiskey and polished wood, washed over them. The lighting was low and golden, pooling on small, round tables and glinting off the brass of instruments on the small, raised stage at the back. A trio of a pianist, bassist and a saxophonist played a soft jazz number.

Zhang Hao fit into this world like he was born to be there. As he led Hanbin to a small, secluded booth near the back, Hanbin couldn't help but notice how the low light seemed to love him, accentuating both his soft and sharp features into definition. He shrugged off his blazer, draping it over the back of the plush velvet seat and slid into the booth. A server appeared almost immediately to take their orders. The drinks arrived soon after.

They listened to the set for a while, before Hanbin found his attention being dragged towards the sight of Hao watching the musicians. He looked appreciatively focused, his fingers tapping the whimsical rhythm against the side of his glass, completely in sync with the bass line.

“So, you come to places like this often?” Hanbin asked during a lull between songs.

Hao nodded, turning his attention back to Hanbin. The intensity he’d directed at the music was now focused entirely on him. “When I can. It’s… necessary. After a day of teaching scales to children who would rather be playing video games, or rehearsing the same passage for the hundredth time, I need this. Real, living music. Imperfect and unpredictable.”

“It’s very different from classical, then?” Hanbin asked, genuinely curious. The world of music was as foreign to him as the world of homicide was to most people.

“Completely," Hao nodded. “Classical is about precision, interpretation within a strict framework, reproducing genius. Jazz… it’s about conversation in the moment. It’s spontaneous. The saxophonist makes a statement, the pianist answers, the bassist lays down the foundation of the argument. It can be messy, it can go to unexpected places, but when it clicks…” He gestured vaguely towards the stage where the musicians were now launching into a new, faster tune, trading solos with smiles. “It’s pure magic. It feels alive.”

Hanbin listened, captivated less by the explanation of jazz itself and more by the passion in Hao’s voice, the way his hands moved emphatically as he spoke. “What’s your favorite jazz song?” he asked.

Hao tilted his head, thinking. “That’s like asking a parent to pick a favorite child,” he teased. “‘My Favorite Things’ by John Coltrane. It takes the sweet and familiar tune from 'Sound of Music' and… transforms it into something entirely new, something so interesting and adventurous. It’s breathtaking.”

Hanbin made a mental note to look it up later. He wanted to understand the things that made Hao’s eyes light up like that.

Their second set of drinks disappeared as the current set ended. As the new glass was set before him, Hanbin looked at Hao, so at ease in this bar and suddenly, he wondered if he'd been with other people in this bar before. A question born from that same irrational jealousy he’d felt at the precinct, rose to his lips before he could stop it.

“So… Do you bring a lot of dates here?”

The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to grab them out of the air and shove them back in. It sounded possessive. So insecure and stupid.

Hao slowly lifted his gaze from his Scotch to meet Hanbin’s eyes. “My, my,” Hao purred playfully, making Hanbin's ears burn. “Is the good detective feeling a little jealous? Worried you’re not the first to have the pleasure of my company in this fine establishment?”

Hanbin’s composure shattered. He sputtered, shaking his head too quickly. “What? No! Of course not. I was just—curious. Making conversation. It’s a natural question.” The denial tumbled out rashly.

Hao's smile immediately turned into a playful, exaggerated pout. “Oh. A shame, really. I do like a bit of jealousy in a man. Shows they’re paying attention. That they… care,” he sighed.

The words, the pout, the entire performance, broke through Hanbin’s panic. He stopped trying to backpedal. “Fine,” Hanbin relented, “Yes. Maybe a little. The thought of other people sitting here with you, listening to you talk about Coltrane…” He shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t like it.”

Immediately, the theatrical pout vanished, replaced by smug satisfaction at the confession. “Well then, in the interest of putting that brilliant detective mind at ease… the answer is no.”

Hanbin blinked. “No?”

“No, I don’t bring a lot of dates here. I don’t bring any dates here. You’re the first.”

Hanbin stared, his brain struggling to compute. “No way,” he finally said with blunt disbelief. “That’s… impossible.” He gestured vaguely at Hao, at his face, his style, the easy confidence. “You’re… you. People must ask. All the time.”

Hao waved a dismissive hand. “They ask. Sure. But no one was… interesting enough.” He said it simply, as if stating a fact. “Coffee dates, dinner dates… they were all so predictable. So boring. I’d rather come here alone than waste an evening making polite conversation with someone who doesn’t make me… think. Or laugh. Or make me want to spill their drink just to get their attention.”

Hanbin felt his own face heat up slowly as he tried but failed to tamp down the overwhelming gratification that threatened to rise. He chuckled breathlessly. “So you were just waiting for someone to come along and spill coffee all over your favorite coat, huh?”

Hao didn’t laugh. He set his glass down carefully and then tilted his head, his gaze locking onto Hanbin’s. All the playful teasing melted away. His eyes were half-lidded, the warm brown looking bottomless in the dim light. The look was so direct and intense that Hanbin felt that familiar prickly sensation erupt over his skin like static electricity, raising the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.

“Mmm,” Hao hummed, a slow smile growing on his face. “I guess, one could even say I was waiting for you to find me.”

❯❯❯❯❯

"What song would you give our... relationship, Zhang Hao?"

The drive back was mostly silent but comfortable. The windows were half down, the cool air coursing through their hair, throwing the strands back in a frenzy. Hao looked serene with his eyes closed.

"My funny valentine," he said softly. "By Chet Baker."

❯❯❯❯❯

By the fourth date, Hanbin was forced to admit the undeniable, somewhat embarrassing truth: he was completely whipped for Zhang Hao. Who wouldn’t be? The man was a walking magnet for attention, beautiful in a way that was both elegant and sharp. He was witty. He always knew just how to tease Hanbin to the edge of flustered without ever tipping him over into annoyance. He challenged Hanbin intellectually, asking questions about his work that weren’t just polite curiosity but genuine, insightful queries. He laughed at Hanbin’s dry jokes, and his own laughter was a sound Hanbin found himself trying to elicit more and more.

For this fourth outing, the tables were turned. Hao was picking him up from the precinct. Hanbin had tried to protest, suggesting a neutral meeting point, but Hao had been insistent. “I want to meet Gunwook again. He was so fun to talk to when I last came. Plus, it's always fascinating to see where all your magic happens, you know?”

The magic, when Hao arrived, was more like a three-ring circus.

Hanbin was at his desk, finishing up a report, when he felt the energy in the room shift. He looked up to see Gyuvin, who was facing the entrance, freeze with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth, his eyes widening to comical proportions.

Zhang Hao stood just inside the doorway, looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread about ‘urban chic meets classic charm.’ He was wearing a beautifully tailored charcoal grey coat over a soft pink turtleneck. He scanned the chaotic room with an expression of mild, curious interest until his eyes landed on Hanbin and immediately, a warm smile bloomed on his face.

Before Hanbin could even stand up, Gyuvin had sprung into action. He gave Hao an enthusiastic, double-handed thumbs-up, his own face split in a grin so wide it looked painful, his eyes literally sparkling. Taerae and Gunwook, from behind their monitors, were less obvious but no less invested. Taerae mimed wiping a tear from his eye, while Gunwook silently mouthed the words ‘Fancy date!’ with exaggerated eyebrow waggles.

Hanbin wanted the floor to swallow him. He stood, hastily grabbing his own jacket. “Ignore them,” he muttered as he reached Hao. “They have no social skills. They’ve been institutionalized by paperwork.”

“Have a wonderful evening,” Gunwook called out from his table.

Hao chuckled. “We will! Don't worry, your officer is in excellent hands!” he yelled back and then turned his smile back to Hanbin, who was pointedly not making eye contact with his juniors. “Shall we?”

“Please,” Hanbin said, all but pushing Hao back out the door, the sound of poorly suppressed giggles following them into the hallway.

Once outside, Hanbin groaned, running a hand down his face. “I am so, so sorry. They’re like overexcited puppies.”

“They adore you,” Hao said simply, linking his arm through Hanbin’s casually as they walked, as if it was the most natural thing to do. “It’s sweet. And they’re not wrong. It is a fancy date.”

Tonight’s plan was the opera. Or, more specifically, a modern opera that was a psychological murder mystery. When Hao had first suggested it, Hanbin had laughed. “So you’re taking me to watch a fictionalized, sung version of my job?”

“Exactly. I want to see you critique it. Point out all the procedural inaccuracies. It’ll be my own private commentary track.” Hao had replied.

The opera, titled The Cinder Heart, was not what Hanbin expected. It wasn’t a whodunit in the traditional sense. It told the story of a young man, Leo, growing up in the brutal poverty of a fictional city’s slums. The audience witnessed a drunken, abusive father, a mother who passed away with no treatment, a system that offered no escape; the sad reality of Leo's formative years. The music swelled with his anguish and became more ominous with his growing detachment. The murder itself, when it came halfway through, felt almost expected and even vindicated by the audience—a cold, calculated killing of a predatory loan shark who represented the uncaring world that had crushed him. The second half of the opera followed not the police investigation, but Leo’s own descent into madness as he constructed an elaborate, artistic persona around his crime, trying to frame it as a grand, righteous statement, all while his childhood trauma played in haunting flashbacks.

Hanbin found himself drawn in, despite himself. The operatic style was alien to him, but the core story of the making of a monster through relentless breaking, was familiar from case files, if rarely so poetically rendered.

Throughout the performance, he kept glancing at Hao. His date’s reaction was fascinating. Hao didn’t gasp at the dramatic moments, didn’t sigh at the tragic arias. He watched with an almost unnervingly calm intensity. His only movements were the occasional slow blink, or a slight tilt of his head. He was absorbing it, analyzing it, his mind working behind those impassive eyes.

When the final, haunting note faded and the lights came up for the curtain call, the audience erupted into applause. Hao clapped politely, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Well?” Hanbin asked as they filed out with the crowd. “Private commentary track, activate. You first?”

Hao was silent for a long moment as they began walking towards Hao's house, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. “The music was brilliant. The use of the cello to represent his mother’s ghost… devastating.” He paused. “The psychology was… simplified, but emotionally effective. He wasn’t a born psychopath. He was manufactured.”

Hanbin nodded, giving his own bit of insight, “Yeah. The ‘artistic killer’ trope at the end felt a bit… much, though. Most people who’ve been through that kind of trauma don’t have the energy for elaborate staging. They just… break.”

“Hmm,” Hao murmured. “But if they did have the energy and the intelligence… that’s when they become your problem, isn’t it? Not just a sad story in a file, but an active puzzle.”

Hanbin shot him a look. “You’re eerily good at this.”

Hao just smiled faintly. “Do you come across cases like that often?” Hao asked. “The… manufactured monsters?”

Hanbin considered it, his breath making small clouds in the air. “You know, I used to think I would when I first joined Violent Crimes. That it would be all serial killers and criminal masterminds.” He laughed dryly. “I was naive of course. It would be more interesting if it was. But no. Most murders are… stupid. Sad. Done by a desperate person in a moment of panic, or by a jealous partner, or during a robbery gone wrong. They’re messy, obvious, and solved within 48 hours.” He caught himself, realizing how callous that might sound. “Sorry, that’s a weird, depressing thing to say.”

But Hao shook his head, interrupting his apology. “No, I understand what you mean.” He glanced at Hanbin. “A true sociopath, someone like the opera tried to portray in its final act, has no motives a normal person can easily grasp. Or at least, no motives that feel… proportionate. That’s what makes them a difficult criminal to catch, isn’t it? A more interesting, if terrifying, puzzle to solve.”

Hanbin stopped walking, staring at Hao. A slow sense of awe spread through him. It wasn’t just that Hao was repeating something Hanbin had thought himself a hundred times. It was the way he’d cut precisely to the heart of the distinction. “You’re… right,” Hanbin said, his voice soft with surprise. “That’s exactly it. The puzzles without the usual pieces. They’re rare, but they’re the ones that… get under your skin.”

They resumed walking, the conversation flowing into a deeper, more philosophical vein. Hanbin talked about his old cases and Hao asked questions that showed he wasn’t just humoring him but genuinely engaging with the mechanics of Hanbin’s world. It was intoxicating. Hanbin had never talked about his work like this with anyone outside of it. It never felt right. But with Hao, it felt natural.

Without realizing it, their meandering walk had led them to the familiar, handsome brick facade of Hao’s building. They came to a stop at the base of the steps and stood to face each other. Hanbin felt there was more to say, a hundred more things he wanted to ask, to tell him, but, unfortunately, their time together tonight had come to an end.

Hao searched Hanbin’s face for a long moment, his own expression unreadable. “Do you perhaps…” he began softly, “Want to come in? For a glass of wine?”

Hanbin didn’t even need to think.

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

The inside of Hao’s apartment was a surprise. After knowing the man for a month, Hanbin had expected something as layered and interesting as he was—eclectic art, shelves overflowing with books and scores, maybe a touch of charming clutter and warm browns. Instead, it was a minimalist, empty-looking space.

The flat, on the third floor, was bigger than Hanbin’s own functional home, but it didn’t scream of wealth. The floors were pale, polished wood and the walls were painted warm white. The furniture was all modern, a large, comfortable-looking grey sofa, a low wooden coffee table, a sleek sound system. The most eye-catching feature was the large window on the far wall, overlooking the quiet street below. On the wide sill and on a set of staggered shelves beside it, a small jungle thrived. Lush green plants with split leaves, slender ones with white foliage, and trailing vines created a vibrant contrast against the neutral backdrop. Hanbin wasn’t well-versed in plant language but anyone could tell Hao loved plants.

He shrugged off his jacket as Hao did the same, both draping them over the back of the sofa.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back,” Hao said, gesturing vaguely before disappearing through an archway that presumably led to a kitchen.

Left alone, Hanbin didn’t sit. He drifted towards the wall opposite the window, drawn to the few personal touches. There were only a handful of framed pictures. One showed a teenage Hao, looking fierce and focused, clutching a violin case after what looked like a competition. Another was of him in his early twenties, accepting a certificate on a stage. The most recent was a candid shot of him laughing with a group of people outside a concert hall, his arm slung around an older man with a cello. They charted the journey of the accomplished man he’d become.

Among them, one picture stood out. It was older, the colors slightly faded. A young Hao, maybe ten years old, dressed in an impeccable little suit, his hair neatly combed. He stood stiffly beside a woman, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. She was elegant, with a kind, intelligent face. Her eyes and the shape of her lips were unmistakably Hao’s. His mother. Hanbin felt a flicker of curiosity. He’d never asked about Hao’s family.

“Do you prefer red or white?” Hao’s voice floated from the kitchen, accompanied by the soft clink of glass.

Hanbin stepped away from the pictures. “Red sounds good,” he said as he finally settled on the sofa.

Hao returned a moment later with a bottle of red wine and two wine glasses. He poured a generous measure into each before handing a glass to Hanbin. He then settled on the opposite end of the large sofa, tucking one leg beneath him, cradling his own glass.

For a few minutes, they simply drank in comfortable silence. The wine was smooth and rich, far better than anything Hanbin kept in his own apartment. He let his gaze wander again, finally landing on the verdant display by the window.

“You have a lot of plants,” he observed. “They’re very… green.”

Hao gave him an exasperated look over the rim of his glass. “Astute observation, Detective. Yes, chlorophyll tends to have that effect.” He gestured with his glass. “That big one with the holes is a Monstera. The trailing one is a Pothos. They’re not just ‘green’; they’re living things. They require attention, care, the right amount of light.”

“So you’re a plant dad, too,” Hanbin noted, taking another sip.

Hao hummed. “They’re good company. Quieter than students, less demanding than a violin. And they don’t argue with me.”

“Unlike some people,” Hanbin said pointedly, grinning.

“Exactly.” Hao’s eyes sparkled playfully. He took a slow sip, studying Hanbin. “You know, you’re in my space now. The inner sanctum. As a detective, you must be profiling it. Analyzing the clues. What does Zhang Hao’s apartment tell you about him?” He gestured around the room with his free hand. “Go on. Amuse me.”

Hanbin raised his eyebrows, setting his glass down on the coffee table. He leaned back, letting his eyes do another slow sweep of the room, his professional habits kicking in even in this utterly benign setting.

“Alright,” he began, his voice taking on a mock-serious tone. “Subject’s dwelling indicates a high value placed on order and control. The minimalist aesthetic suggests a dislike for visual clutter, which could correlate to a mind that prefers to compartmentalize. The plants are the obvious outlier—an attempt to introduce controlled, manageable chaos. Life, but on very specific terms.”

Hao listened with an amused smile on his face.

“The sound system is high-quality but not flashy,” Hanbin continued, pointing. “Practical investment in his primary passion. The books on the shelf over there…” He squinted. “…are mostly music theory and biographies of composers, with a few well-worn novels—Dostoevsky, Murakami. Suggests a person who engages deeply with complex, structured systems, both in art and in thought.”

“Not bad,” Hao murmured.

Hanbin's gaze returned to Hao, who was watching him with intense interest. “The sofa is large and comfortable, but you’re sitting all the way over there. Suggests a person who is welcoming but maintains careful boundaries. Or,” Hanbin added with a smirk, “someone who’s afraid if they get too close to their date, they might do something irresponsible.”

Hao let out a soft laugh. “Irresponsible like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You tell me.” He smiled teasingly before concluding his assessment. “But seriously… it tells me you’re a person who thinks before they act. Who values his own space, both physically and mentally. Who appears composed and in control at all times. It’s very… you.” The playful edge left his voice at the end, replaced by simple, honest observation.

Hao held his gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable before he spoke. “You’d be surprised, Detective Sung Hanbin,” he murmured softly. “I haven’t felt in control at all since a certain detective crashed into me and ruined a very good coat.”

The air left Hanbin’s lungs in a rush. All the witty retorts, the teasing lines he’d been mentally preparing, evaporated. The room seemed to shrink, the focus narrowing to the space between them on the sofa, to Hao’s face, the magnetic pull between them that Hanbin had been trying to ignore all evening.

Hanbin gulped, his throat suddenly dry. He reached for his wine glass just to have something to do with his hands, taking a fortifying sip. The warmth of the alcohol did nothing to steady the frantic beating of his heart.

“And pray tell,” Hanbin finally managed to say, “what has this detective done to make you feel so… out of control?”

A small smile touched Hao's lips. “Oh, I don’t know. He has a terrible habit of turning up at inopportune moments. In my head.” He leaned forward just a fraction. “He talks a lot. Argues about the most trivial things. He has terrible taste in coffee and surprisingly good taste in hotpot restaurants.”

Hanbin chuckled shakily, “he sounds charming.”

“Extremely,” Hao agreed, his smile widening. “And I keep wondering…” He paused, the air so thick with anticipation Hanbin could barely breathe. “… if he feels even a fraction of the way I do.”

“And how do you feel?” Hanbin whispered.

“Like kissing you,” Hao admitted softly. “I’ve been thinking about it for the past hour. Probably longer, if I’m being honest.”

Hanbin didn’t speak. He placed his wine glass carefully back on the table and then, movinged as if drawn by an invisible force, he closed the distance on the sofa. He shifted from his end, crossing the neutral territory of the cushions until he was right beside Hao, their knees almost touching.

Then he reached out and gently removed the wine glass from Hao’s loose grip, setting it beside his own. His eyes never left Hao’s. He saw the slight hitch in Hao’s breath, the dilation of his pupils behind his glasses.

“Good,” Hanbin murmured, leaning in until their lips were just a mere inch apart, “bBecause I haven’t been able to think about much else either.”

The moment their lips met, Hanbin felt the world narrow to that the single point of contact. Hao's mouth was surprisingly soft and warm, tasting faintly of sweet red wine. Hanbin's nerves, which had been screaming, suddenly fell silent, replaced by a singular focus.

He drew back after a moment, just enough to see Hao’s reaction. Hao’s eyes were half-lidded, dark pools behind his glasses, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. A slow, dazed smile was spreading across lips, making Hanbin’s blood run hot and reckless. Wordlessly, Hanbin slid his palm from where it had been braced on the sofa to rest on Hao’s knee, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fine wool of his trousers. In turn, Hao’s arm came up to rest on Hanbin’s shoulder, his fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

This time when Hanbin leaned in again, Hao met him halfway. As their lips met again, Hao let out a soft, shuddering sigh that ghosted directly into Hanbin’s mouth. Hanbin’s free hand came up to cradle the side of Hao’s face, his thumb stroking the soft skin of his cheek. He could feel the warmth of Hao’s skin seeping into his palm. He angled Hao’s head just so, tilting it to get a better fit. The moment Hanbin’s tongue traced the seam of Hao’s lips, asking for entry, Hao’s composure finally shattered. His lips parted on a gasp, and Hanbin didn’t hesitate, tasting him fully.

A low, ragged sound vibrated in Hao’s throat. The hand on Hanbin’s shoulder clenched, fisting the material of his shirt, pulling him closer with a desperate strength that belied his slender frame. The kiss turned hot, messy, and deep. Hanbin responded in kind, his own control fraying at the edges. The hand on Hao’s knee slid up his thigh, then around his waist, hauling him even nearer until there was no more space left between them on the sofa.

Just as Hanbin felt like he was losing himself completely, drowning in the taste and feel of Hao, two hands planted firmly on his chest and pushed. Hanbin was forced to break the kiss. He only hardly managed to choke back a pitiful, involuntary whine.

With one hand still resting on Hanbin’s chest, keeping that agonizing inch of space between them, Hao brought his other hand up, and in one smooth, unhurried motion, he slid his glasses off his face and dropped them carelessly onto the cushion beside him. And the moment the glasses left Hao's face, his hand fisted in his shirt again and pulled Hanbin in, closing the distance he’d just created as if he couldn't bear to stay even one moment away from Hanbin.

Without the glasses in the way, Hao could press even closer, his mouth slanting over Hanbin’s with a new, fierce hunger. It was messy and perfect. Hanbin met him with equal fervor, a groan rumbling deep in his chest. His arms tightened around Hao’s waist, lifting him slightly to adjust their position, pulling him halfway into his lap until Hao was straddling his thighs.

The sounds in the quiet apartment were almost obscene: the wet slide of their mouths, their ragged breathing, the soft rustle of fabric as they moved against each other. A sharp, breathy whine escaped Hao when Hanbin nipped gently at his bottom lip, and the sound went straight to Hanbin’s core, coiling heat low in his stomach.

Hanbin was drowning in sensation—the feel of Hao’s solid weight against him, the scent of his cologne and skin, the taste of him, the desperate little sounds he was making. Hanbin’s hand slid back into Hao’s hair, fingers tangling in the soft, now-mussed strands.

Only when Hanbin could no longer breathe did he break the kiss, panting harshly. Hao’s eyes flew open, blinking down at him, dazed and unfocused without his glasses. His swollen lips were parted as he fought for air. He looked beautifully undone, and it was the most incredible thing Hanbin had ever seen.

A disbelieving chuckle escaped Hanbin. He shook his head, his thumb brushing over Hao’s wet, kiss-bruised lower lip. “God,” he breathed, “You’re so beautiful.”

Hao didn’t get a chance to reply. Hanbin dove back in, capturing his mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing the soft, surprised moan that greeted him. Hao melted into it, his arms winding tightly around Hanbin’s neck and once again the outside world was completely forgotten.

A week later, Hanbin was still floating.

He’d spent the last few days in a state of suspended, giddy disbelief, replaying the memory of Hao’s lips, his hands, the way he'd felt in Hanbin's lap. Work had been blessedly quiet—mostly paperwork and follow-ups—which only gave his mind more time to wander back to Hao.

But right now, in the gym, he was attempting to focus. He was mid-set on the bench press when he became aware of a stare boring into the side of his head.

He finished his reps, racked the bar with a clang, and sat up, wiping his face with a towel. Officer Jiwoong, his gym buddy and sometimes-unwanted life coach, was leaning against the squat rack a few feet away, arms crossed, squinting at him as if trying to solve a complex equation.

Hanbin finally met the man’s unnervingly focused gaze. “Why are you… looking at me like that?”

Jiwoong’s expression didn’t change. “You’re… weird.”

Hanbin sighed, tossing the towel aside. Not this again. His team had been making comments all week. “Weird how, exactly?”

“You look too happy.” Jiwoong gestured vaguely at Hanbin’s entire face. “Too… smiley. It’s unsettling.”

“Why does everyone suddenly think I’m not capable of smiling?” Hanbin said, exasperated. He stood up and moved towards his bottle, taking a swig of his water.

“Not when you’re lifting,” Jiwoong clarified, following him. “Usually, you cry and whine way too much. ‘Hyung, it’s too heavy. Hyung, my back hurts. Hyung, I hate leg day.’” He did a surprisingly accurate imitation of Hanbin’s complaining groans. “Today you’re just… humming. And smiling. At the weights. It’s creepy.”

Hanbin scoffed and walked to the treadmills, “Whatever. You’re all exaggerating. Can’t a man have a good week?”

To Hanbin’s chagrin, Jiwoong simply stared some more, refusing to drop it. After a minute of silent, judgmental observation, he followed Hanbin over to the treadmills. Hanbin hit the buttons, setting a brisk pace, and stepped onto the moving belt, starting a steady jog. Jiwoong mounted the one beside him, starting at a slow walk.

“So,” Jiwoong said after a moment of companionable whirring from the machines. His tone was casual, but Hanbin knew him too well. “Did something good happen?”

Well. Something good had happened. Better than good. In fact, Hanbin still couldn’t quite believe it was real. He’d met a beautiful, fascinating man almost by accident. He’d gotten to know him, argued with him, made him laugh. And against all odds, the man liked him back. The memory of their kiss sent a fresh wave of warmth through him that had nothing to do with his workout.

After the kiss, they hadn’t rushed. They’d spent another hour on that sofa, tangled together, talking about everything and nothing, stealing soft, lingering kisses in between discussions about city politics and the superior merits of mango over durian(???). When the wine was gone, Hanbin, with immense willpower, had decided it was time to leave. Hao had offered the spare bedroom, but Hanbin had refused. It felt important to take it slow with someone like Hao. He wanted to do it right.

So even now, the residual glow of that night was like a personal sun, making the fluorescent gym lights seem dim in comparison. Nothing could bring him down.

“I just met someone,” he finally answered Jiwoong, keeping his eyes on the digital display in front of him.

Jiwoong’s eyebrows shot up. He increased his treadmill speed to a light jog to match Hanbin’s pace. “Yeah? Tell me about them.”

“He’s a violinist,” Hanbin said, smiling involuntarily, “Teaches, performs. Around a year older. Really… handsome.” The word felt inadequate. Hao was more than handsome in his eyes.

“Better than this?” Jiwoong asked, a playful smirk on his face as he gestured at his own admittedly chiseled features. Hanbin immediately shot Jiwoong a withering glare that was so devoid of amusement it made the older man bark out a loud laugh.

“Okay, okay! Touchy!” Jiwoong conceded, still chuckling. “He must be something special.”

Hanbin’s expression softened as he turned back ahead. “He is. He’s… sharp. Funny. Passionate about his work. And he…” Hanbin paused, searching for the right words. “He understands me in a way no one else has been able to, hyung.”

Jiwoong was quiet for a few strides before he spoke again. “Understands you, huh?” he mused. “So he understands that… particular freakish streak of yours. Maybe we should be cautious of him after all.” He said it half-playfully.

Hanbin’s head snapped towards him. “My freakish streak?” he repeated indignantly, “I don’t have a freakish streak.”

Jiwoong rolled his eyes, not bothered by Hanbin’s tone. “Come on, Bin-ah. You know what I mean. The way you look at a murder scene. It’s not like other cops. You’re not just horrified or angry. You’re… fascinated. You see it as a giant puzzle. You get irritated when the pieces are sloppy, like someone insulted your intelligence. Most people see a victim; you see a broken system, a story with a flaw in the plot. It’s not… normal. It’s a little devoid of the usual human empathy, you know? In a really useful way, but still.”

Hanbin opened his mouth, a hot defense already on his tongue. He wanted to argue that he did feel empathy, that he cared about the victims, that it was precisely because he cared that he needed to solve the said puzzle. But before he could form the words, the familiar, jarring buzz of his work phone cut through the gym’s ambient noise.

For what felt like the hundredth time since he’d met Hao, Hanbin sighed. The real world, with all its grim demands, was calling again. He grabbed his phone from the cup holder and took the call.

“Hello, Taerae?”

The voice on the other end was tense, stripped of its usual dry humor. “Hyung. You need to get here. Now. It’s urgent.”

Hanbin’s body went on autopilot. He hit the stop button on the treadmill, the belt slowing beneath his feet. “What is it?”

“We have a murder on our hands. A really, really weird one.”