♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ being loved by higuruma <3
mornings with higuruma are very quiet. just a gentle, settled silence that wraps around the two of you like the rumpled bedsheets tangled around your legs.
he wakes up like he’s surfacing from deep water. slowly, as if consciousness itself is something to be examined and weighed before accepted. his eyelashes flutter first, sometimes, or his fingers twitch against the pillow, but his eyes stay closed, suspended somewhere between sleep and waking.
you always wake up first and take a moment just to look at him.
the morning light filters through the curtains in soft gold streaks, catching the edges of his face, the slope of his nose, the faint shadow along his jaw where he hasn’t shaved since yesterday. his hair is a mess— dark strands falling across his forehead, curling slightly at the ends in a way he would absolutely fix immediately if he were awake, smoothing them back into that composed, professional demeanor he wears like armor. but here, in this bed, with you, the armor is gone. his face, stripped of its usual composure, is softer and younger, delightfully unguarded.
his mouth is relaxed, slightly parted, and one arm is loosely draped over your waist like even in sleep he’s conducting a silent roll call, counting the beats of your heart to make sure you’re still there.
you trace your fingers gently along his wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath his skin, the warmth of him, the fine bones there, the way his hand shifts slightly at your touch, reacting even as he sleeps.
a soft sound escapes him and his brow furrows just slightly.
“…you’re staring,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and warm as honey, eyes still closed.
you grin, unable to resist. “you’re awake.”
“i can tell when you do, you know?” his thumb moves against your skin, a slow, unconscious stroke. “even when i’m sleeping.”
you blink. “that’s unsettling.”
“mm, sure is,” he says faintly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
dark and warm and immediately focused on you like you’re the only thing in the room worth looking at. except there’s no intensity in it this morning, no sharp-edged scrutiny, just affection. soft, unguarded affection that makes your chest feel too full, too warm, too small to contain it all.
“good morning, hiro,” you whisper.
he studies your face like he’s memorizing evidence— the curve of your smile, the sleep in your eyes, the way your hair spills across the pillow. his gaze moves slowly, deliberately, taking in every detail with that focused attention he usually reserves for case files and legal precedents. then his hand slides up from your waist to your cheek, palm warm against your skin, thumb brushing gently under your eye.
“good morning,” he replies and kisses you, like he has all the time in the world and has chosen, deliberately, to spend it right here with you. his lips are soft, still heavy with sleep, and when you smile against his mouth he hums quietly— pleased.
you pull back only slightly. “you taste like sleep.”
his eyes crinkle at the corners, that rare smile appearing. “…is that a complaint?”
“no. just an observation.”
“ah.” his thumb traces your cheekbone. “then i suppose i’m allowed to taste like sleep if you’re allowed to look at me like i’m something worth waking up for.”
your heart stumbles over itself. “hiromi.”
“you can’t just say things like that.”
“why not?” genuine curiosity colors his voice. “they’re true.”
you kiss him again instead of answering, this time a little firmer, pouring into it everything you can’t quite put into words. he makes a soft sound against your mouth, one of surprise, pleasure, that quiet hum again, and his arm tightens around you instinctively. he rolls, guiding you gently onto your back without breaking the kiss, hovering over you with that serious expression he wears when he’s pretending he isn’t absolutely, hopelessly smitten.
his weight settles over you, warm and solid and familiar. one forearm braces beside your head, taking just enough of his weight to keep from crushing you, but you’d pull him closer if you could. you always want him closer.
“hiroo,” you laugh softly, fingers sliding into his hair, pushing those sleep-mussed strands back from his forehead.
“are you trying to silence me?”
“I’m preventing further slander.” he says it so seriously, but his eyes give him away—warm, fond, dancing with quiet amusement. “you were making observations about my taste. i had to mount a defense.”
“it’s a highly effective strategy.”
“incorrect, my sunflower,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then just under your jaw. his lips brush against that tender spot where your pulse beats, and you feel rather than hear his next words. “i’m very much alive. you’re holding me.”
you can’t help the way your chest swells at that. he says things so plainly, so matter-of-factly, it’s very difficult to not be fond of him.
you wrap your legs loosely around his waist and tug him closer, eliminating what little space remains between you. “you’re clingy in the morning.”
“I prefer the term ‘affectionate.’”
“you’re extremely affectionate.”
he noses along your jaw, breath warm against your skin. “is that another complaint?”
you grin, tilting your head to give him better access. “never.”
he lifts his head just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face steals your breath. so soft, so open. utterly, devastatingly in love. his eyes move over your features; he’s still memorizing, still cataloguing, still marveling that you’re here, that you’re his, that this is real.
he presses his forehead to yours, nose brushing against yours gently. and then, he kisses you again. once. twice. three times, each one small and precise.
“what are you doing?” you murmur against his lips.
“ensuring you feel adequately loved before we face society.”
you burst into quiet laughter, the sound muffled by the closeness between you. “adequately loved?”
“yes.” completely serious. “it’s important. foundational, even.”
“how many kisses does that require, counselor?”
he pretends to consider it seriously, brow furrowing in that way it does when he’s reviewing complex arguments. you watch him think, watch him weigh the evidence, and it takes everything in you not to kiss him again just for being so wonderfully, endearingly himself.
“the minimum is ten,” he concludes.
“at least.” his voice drops slightly, taking on that measured, persuasive tone he uses in court. “clinical studies suggest that fewer than ten morning kisses may result in inadequate emotional preparation for the challenges of the day ahead.”
“clinical studies,” you repeat, fighting a smile. “you’re making this up.”
“i’m adapting existing research to fit our specific circumstances.”
you gasp softly in mock offense. “only ten? that seems… insufficient, mr. counselor.”
his eyes soften, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “i can be persuaded to increase the number. i’m always open to negotiation.”
“within reason.” his thumb traces your lower lip, feather-light. “i have a very reasonable client.”
so you kiss him first this time— quick and playful, a bright brush of lips— and then again, slower. you trail your lips across his cheek, his temple, down to the corner of his mouth. he closes his eyes briefly, just feeling it, one hand sliding under your shirt to rest warm and steady against your lower back. his palm is calloused in places, soft in others, and the contrast makes you shiver.
“that’s three,” he murmurs.
“always.” his eyes open, dark and warm. “i’m keeping a record. for evidentiary purposes.”
“what evidence are you gathering?”
“evidence that i’m the luckiest man in this city.” he says it so simply, so sincerely, like it’s just another fact. “evidence that you love me. evidence that i should never, ever take this for granted.”
your heart clenches. “hiromi.”
“i’m serious.” his hand presses more firmly against your back, drawing you closer. “every morning, i wake up and you’re here. and every morning, i think— this is what i was missing.”
you sit up suddenly, pulling him with you until he’s seated and you’re straddling his lap properly. the blanket slips down around your hips but neither of you care. you cradle his face in your hands and pepper his entire face with kisses—forehead, eyebrows, nose, cheeks, chin, the corner of his jaw, the spot just below his ear that makes him shiver— until he’s blinking up at you in stunned silence, cheeks flushed, lips parted, looking utterly wrecked in the best possible way.
“that was at least twelve,” you say triumphantly.
he stares at you for a second more. his hands come up to hold your wrists gently, thumbs brushing over your pulse points. his expression shifts, something deeper flickering underneath. something tender and vast and almost overwhelming in its intensity.
“biased counting,” he says quietly.
“you didn’t give me time to tally properly. the rapid succession of kisses—” he swallows, and you watch his throat move. “—made accurate assessment difficult.”
“sounds like a personal problem.”
“it’s a procedural issue.” but he’s smiling now, that rare full smile that transforms his entire face. “i may need to request a recount.”
he leans forward and kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding up to the back of your neck. his fingers tangle gently in your hair, tilting your head just so, and the kiss goes from playful to something else entirely— something slow and sweet and so full of honeyed warmth it almost makes your chest ache.
he pulls back and when he speaks his voice is rough.
your heart does a flip every single time like it’s the first confession.
“I love you too,” you whisper back, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone.
he closes his eyes briefly at that, like the words physically soothe him. his breath shudders out of him, slow and uneven, and when he opens his eyes again they’re bright.
“say it again,” he murmurs.
his hand tightens in your hair, gentle but desperate. “again.”
you laugh softly, pressing your forehead harder against his. “i love you, hiro. i love you. i love you.”
he kisses you after each one— quick, soft presses of lips— until you’re both breathless and laughing, tangled together in the warm morning light.
you stay like that for a while.
the world outside slowly wakes up— traffic sounds filtering through the window, distant voices, the neighbor’s dog barking— but neither of you move to join it yet. instead, you shift, settling more comfortably in his lap, and he adjusts immediately, pulling you closer, wrapping both arms securely around your waist until you’re flush against him. you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his chest, the quiet contentment in the way he holds you like you are something precious and irreplaceable.
his head drops to your shoulder, face pressed into the curve of your neck. his breath warms your skin.
“five more minutes,” he murmurs into your neck.
his arms tighten. “ten more minutes.”
you hum, stroking his hair, working through the faint tangles with gentle fingers. “you’re terrible at leaving bed.”
“I have excellent motivation to stay.” he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “compelling evidence supports remaining exactly where i am.”
“and what evidence is that?”
he lifts his head just enough to look at you. his eyes are soft, his hair a disaster, his lips slightly swollen from kissing. he looks rumpled and warm and utterly, completely yours.
“you,” he says simply. “you’re the evidence.”
you press a kiss into his hair, breathing him in—sleep and warmth and that clean, subtle scent that’s just him.
in the quiet of the room, wrapped in warmth and lazy kisses and whispered reassurances, hiromi is nothing more than a man hopelessly, completely in love with you.
his hand slides up your back, slow and soothing. his lips find your throat again, pressing feather-light kisses along your pulse. he murmurs something against your skin— too soft to hear, but you feel the vibration of it, the warmth of it.
“what was that?” you ask.
he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “i said i’m going to kiss you at least ten more times before breakfast.”
“only ten?” you tilt your head teasingly to the side.
his smile is slow to widen. “that’s the minimum.” his hand cups your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. “i can always be persuaded to increase the number.”
you lean into his touch, heart full to bursting.
“i’ll persuade you, baby,” you whisper, but he is already kissing you; once, twice, three times— and full of everything he is, everything he feels, everything he’s become since you came into his life. and you kiss him back, matching him kiss for kiss, heart for heart, love for love.
outside, the world keeps turning. there are cases to prepare, arguments to craft, a city full of people waiting for him to put his armor back on and step into that courtroom. but here, it’s only him and you.
and when you finally do leave bed— an hour later, after far more than ten kisses— he holds your hand all the way to the kitchen, and kisses your knuckles before he lets go to make coffee, and looks at you across the table like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever asked.
[ an. idk if this was too ooc but i needed something fluffy with him ]
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