addicted to c___

○ Suguru Geto ○

◇ Suguru just wants to get away from whatever's causing him distress, after a certain point. He would appreciate some space, but not distance. After he's decompressed from the initial wave of fear, anger, or sadness, his vulnerable side shows. He'll seek out your touch, and be appreciative of your voice and presence. He'd like it quiet and calm, with few hours to be alone with you

◇ When you need comfort, he's right there to whisk you away in his arms. He takes it a bit serious, but it all stems from a genuine desire to make you feel better. He'll offer heartfelt compliments in soft little whispers to make you feel better, while stroking your hair delicately.

○ Toji Fushiguro ○

◇ He's reaching for you, first thing. Wrapping his arms around you tightly and breathing in the unique combination of perfume and shampoo that smells like you. He'll be wordless for a while, just wanting you close in his arms or perhaps running your skilled hands over his back and shoulders to loosen them up after they were worked into knots

◇ He's a big believer in "They aren't worth getting upset over" about almost everything, but has a little empathy for the things he does not personally care much about. He's excellent about giving you a good hug and letting you cry. Usually winds up with him turning on something sweet and happy for you to watch, like a romcom he knows you like

○ Ryomen Sukuna ○

◇ The day Sukuna displays a need for comfort is about as rare as a total eclipse, but it happens. When it does, he's all over you, searching for a distraction or a remedy in your flesh like you're made of medicine. When the hunger dies down, you'll catch him making vague remarks in distaste that vaguely relate to whatever troubled him (to himself, pointedly within earshot of you)

◇ He's treating you like a mirror of himself and lavishing you with kisses or pulling you close. After enough time spent weeping and morose, he makes you look him in the eye while he tells you all the ways you are above what vexes you, not ceasing until he's sure your confidence is restored

○ Kento Nanami ○

◇ He likes to talk through what's bothering him, point by point, truly appreciating all the minutes that you spend lending him a listening year. After sometimes hours of ranting, he gives you a kiss and his genuine thanks for allowing him to get it off his chest. Frustration and sadness do not last long around you.

◇ Nanami allows you to talk however long you like. While he doesn't always know exactly what to do, he makes you a nice hot bubble bath with scented soaps and a bath bomb, giving you time to soak however long you need. Assures you that your troubles won't last forever

○ Choso Kamo ○

◇ He's not reaching for comfort too often, but when he does it looks like a handful of hours spent cuddling. Likes when you run your hand over his hair or over his back. Especially likes it if you talk softly about your day, or about moments you've shared. Would feel much better after hiding away in your arms

◇ He panics a little when you're in need of comfort, and immediately jumps to reassurance and a tight hug. When you've gotten through your tears and the worst of your mood, he'll check in again and make sure you're feeling better

○ Hiromi Higuruma ○

◇ When Hiromi needs comfort he's hugging you without saying a thing, sometimes on his knees with his face pressed to your stomach. Then, out flow the frustrations and worries in quiet words, until few remain unspoken. He values your advice, and would listen to whatever you had to offer. Gives you quiet thanks later

◇ He orders in from your favorite restaurant, and gets you flowers when he notices you're not doing too well. Encourages you to share, and listens while advising you, when you do. It ends with you falling asleep by his side, and him staying as long as he can

○ Naoya Zenin ○

◇ He's absolutely horrid with feelings and vulnerability, so when he's upset and wants comfort, it starts out with him being mean. But you know him too well, and eventually it gives way to his sadness and needs. He basically wants to be babied- comforted, held close, and given your praises until he feels more like himself

he undresses you the way your kento did—slow and methodical, like he’s got all the time in the world and nowhere else he’d rather be. his fingers work each button, each clasp, with the same careful precision. when your dress pools at your feet, he steps back to look at you, his gaze traveling over your body like he’s memorizing it. your kento used to do that too. like you were something worth studying.

"you’re beautiful," higuruma says, the same words nanami always used. not a compliment. a fact. 

"you sound like him." 

"i know, baby." he reaches out, tracing your collarbone with one finger. "does it hurt?" 

"yes." 

"do you want me to stop?" 

"no."

higuruma kisses you the same way—deep, unhurried, his hand cradling the back of your head like you might break if he’s not careful. you’re on the bed now, your back against the pillows, and he’s hovering over you, his weight familiar and foreign all at once. 

when he pushes inside you, it’s slow and deep, his forehead pressed to yours. you close your eyes. and for a moment—just a moment—you let yourself pretend. the weight of him, the rhythm of his hips, the way he breathes your name against your neck like it’s a prayer. 

it could be your kento. it could be. your hands find higuruma’s back, your nails digging in, and you bite your lip to keep from saying the wrong name.

he notices. of course he does. he always does.

"stay with me," he whispers, his voice rough, his thrusts never faltering. "i know where you go. but i need you here. with me." you open your eyes and he’s looking at you, his face inches from yours, his expression open and raw and so painfully understanding it makes you want to sob. 

"i’m sorry," you breathe. 

he shakes his head, his lips brushing yours. "don’t be. just—stay."

you do. you stay. you let him fuck you gently, his hand finding yours, fingers intertwining above your head. he doesn’t rush, he know how to give you what you need, what you’re willing to take, and when you cum, it’s with his name on your lips—his name, not your kento's, though the ghost of it lingers in the back of your throat like something you can’t quite swallow.

after, he holds you the way he did—your back to his chest, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against your neck. you stare at the wall, your eyes dry now, your heart a complicated tangle of grief and guilt and something that might be love, if you let it.

"i’m not him," higuruma says quietly, his voice already thick with sleep. "i know that. but i’m here. and i’m not going anywhere."

you reach up and press your lips to the mole on his cheek, the same one you used to kiss on nanami. it’s warm beneath your mouth. real and present.

"i know," you whisper against his skin. "i’m trying to remember that."

he kisses your temple, his arm tightening around you. "take your time. i’ll still be here when you do."

babygirl : @sadisticslut666

Higuruma is not a charming man. Charm is a performance, a curated layer meant to please, and he has entirely run out of the desire to perform. Instead, he is compelling, which is far more dangerous because it cannot be turned off. Whatever he does feels entirely structural. It lives in the unwavering way he listens, the way he holds eye contact a half-second longer than social comfort normally allows, and the way he speaks with a quiet precision that makes you feel like the only person in the room whose opinion requires that level of analytical attention. He is not trying to capture your interest. That is the problem.

His memory borders on the prosecutorial, operating with the terrifying efficiency of a man building a permanent record. He doesn’t use it for romantic shorthand; he stores information like a legal brief to be cited in future discussions. If you mention offhandedly that a certain restaurant made you uncomfortable three months ago, he files it away. If you comment that the heavy, damp air of a rainy afternoon makes your shoulder ache, he notes it. The moment you told him, early on, that you despised being interrupted when trying to untangle a thought, the habit vanished from his behavior entirely. He has not cut you off mid-sentence a single time since. He simply builds a case for your comfort, though he would never use a phrase that sentimental. He calls it procedural accuracy.

He calls you strictly by your name. When he is serious, he uses your full name, the syllables pronounced with a heavy, deliberate respect. When he is being dry, he shortens it. He completely avoids pet names. When you asked him about it once, he looked up from his legal papers, his fountain pen hovering, and stated that names carry far more weight when they are not buried under decorative titles. You had to sit with that answer for an entire afternoon.

His apartment is sparse in a way that rejects any modern minimalist aesthetic; it is the physical aftermath of a collapse. It belongs to a man who once organized his entire existence around a career and a system he believed in, and when that belief shattered, the surrounding objects simply did not get replaced. The bookshelves remain entirely full, because his texts survived the disillusionment. The kitchen is functional, and the bed is made every morning with military precision—because discipline is the last thing to go when everything else has fallen away.

The first time you left an item there—a heavy, deep mahogany-colored satin band meant to hold back the dense mass of your black curls—it stayed exactly where you dropped it on the bathroom shelf for a full week. He didn’t throw it away, and he didn’t hide it. On the eighth day, you found it placed in a small, polished ceramic dish by the basin. When you noticed it, a small smile tugging at your lips, you nudged his shoulder where he stood adjusting his tie. “You could have just asked me to take it home, Hiromi.” Higuruma didn’t blink, his face a mask of absolute gravity. “It kept falling.” It had not. It was a dense satin weight resting on a completely flat marble surface. But it was his first, quiet admission that your lived-in textures were officially permitted to occupy his stark, clinical world.

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Cross-Examination as a Love Language

Arguing with Higuruma feels less like interpersonal conflict than a rigorous academic examination. It is not because he is combative or petty; it is because intellectual exchange is his native tongue, and he does not know how to turn it off when he crosses his own threshold. If you say something imprecise during a disagreement, he will immediately ask you to define your terms. If you get overwhelmed and begin speaking in broad, emotional abstractions, he will shake his head slightly. “I need you to be specific,” he will say, his tone entirely even, “so I can understand exactly what I am responding to.”

It is thoroughly maddening. It forces you to slow down, to track your own logic, and to find the exact words for the chaos inside your head. Yet, it is also the most deeply respectful thing anyone has ever done for you during a fight. Underneath the clinical cross-examination is a man who entirely refuses to assume he already knows what you feel. He asks. Every single time.

During one particular evening when the world had been too loud and your frustration boiled over into a sharp comment directed at him, he stopped pacing his polished floor and looked down at you. “You’re not angry at me,” he stated calmly, his posture unyielding. You crossed your arms, the long, rounded edges of your dark plum acrylics digging into the sleeve of your oversized knit sweater. “I am, actually.” “No,” Higuruma countered, his eyes locking onto yours with terrifying clarity, refusing to let you look away. “You’re angry at the parameters of the situation, and I am merely the nearest available entity. There is a distinct difference between the two. I would prefer to respond to the right one.” You hate that he is right. You hate it even more because being correctly identified and pulled out of an emotional spiral by his logic somehow makes it infinitely easier for your lungs to expand.

Patience, with him, is never a performance. He is entirely willing to sit in absolute silence while you struggle to articulate your thoughts, even when it takes you three separate attempts and a long, heavy pause to reach the core of your meaning. He does not fill the gap with his own words. He does not offer you an easier, lazier phrase to speed up the conversation. He lets you find it. And when you finally do, the subtle shift in his expression—the slight relaxation of his brow—tells you that he was tracking every single step of your mental journey, considering none of the time wasted.

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Mapping the Mechanism

Physical affection is not intuitive for Higuruma. He spent a lifetime in a profession where rigid composure was his primary currency, and touch was an action you never initiated without explicit consent and legal cause. He learns the landscape of your body slowly, with an almost agonizing degree of consideration. His hand settling at the small of your back occurred weeks after the first time he actually wanted to place it there—and when his fingers finally made contact through the fabric of your dress, the pressure was deliberate, firm, and unmistakable. Your curls brushed his knuckles where they fell heavy at your collarbones, and his hand did not move. You learned quickly that every touch from him is a conscious decision that had to pass through more internal checkpoints than he will ever admit to you.

The first time he went to kiss you, he stopped precisely two inches from your mouth. His breath was warm against your skin, his dark eyes intensely focused under the dim light. “I want to be entirely clear about what this is,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. Your deep brown eyes didn’t waver. “What is it, Hiromi?” “Not casual,” he said. You closed the remaining distance yourself, pulling his face down to yours. He let you take the lead for a fraction of a second before his large hand came up to cup the side of your neck, his thumb anchoring firmly against your jawline. He kissed you with a deep, consuming focus, like a man who had spent weeks preparing a flawless case for the action and had just received the winning verdict.

Because of this intense observation, he notices your shutdowns long before you have fully registered the collapse yourself. He tracks the precise physical markers: the way your voice flattens into a monotone, the way your polished mahogany nails begin turning the warm, hammered bands of your gold rings too fast, and the way you instinctively pull your sleeves over your palms to hide your hands. He does not diagnose you or make a scene. He simply leans in, his shadow cutting off the crowd, and asks a single question: “Do you want to leave?” His tone carries no hidden judgment, no irritation, and no subsequent follow-up demands.

When you give a tight nod, he stands up immediately, settles the bill with the establishment, and walks you out of the crowded space with his hand firmly against your back, his mouth shut. In the car, he switches the radio off before the engine even turns over, eliminating the auditory static without being asked. By the time you walk through his front door, the harsh overhead lights have already been dimmed to a soft, golden hue. He does not ask if you are okay. He simply adjusts the physical environment to your boundaries and trusts your body to do the remaining work.

Later, when the baseline of your nervous system resets and you have the language for it, you sit on his couch and explain the sensory mechanics of your processing. You tell him how textures suddenly flip on you, how clothing can turn hostile against your skin, and how ambient sound can become an aggressive architecture you cannot escape. Higuruma listens with the absolute focus of a man building a permanent framework he intends to utilize for the rest of his life. When you finish speaking, his thumb traces a slow, deliberate line along the seam of the couch cushion. “Thank you for explaining the mechanism,” he says softly. “That helps me respond correctly.”

He doesn’t offer empty platitudes. He uses words like mechanism and correctly. He treats your nervous system like an entity with its own internal, beautiful logic worth understanding, rather than a broken problem that needs to be soothed into silence. The sheer respect of it makes your throat tight, though you never tell him how close you came to crying.

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The Structural Integrity of Truth

You catch him in the kitchen once, standing before the open cabinet, choosing between two boxes of tea with the intense focus of an attorney reviewing critical evidence. He hears your footsteps but does not turn. His hand moves from the chamomile to the ginger, back to the chamomile, then decisively to the ginger. The city was too loud today; he knows because of the way you held your keys when you walked in—gripped tightly in your palm, not dangling. He does not acknowledge that you witnessed the deliberation. The kettle is on before you even reach the couch. That is Higuruma’s love: logistical, precise, and operating on a dataset he has built from months of watching you live. Your mornings require black tea. Your afternoons call for green. Evenings depend entirely on what the day did to your nervous system, and he reads the verdict directly from your hands.

In the quiet safety of his room, Higuruma reads in bed the way a man reads when it has been his only coping mechanism since childhood—seriously, vertically, with a fountain pen held firmly in his opposite hand for marginalia. His notes in the margins of his texts are devastatingly sharp: clean, precise handwriting, surgical observations, and occasional flashes of dry commentary that make you laugh aloud when you discover them later. He treats books with an old-world reverence. He never dog-ears pages, utilizing actual leather bookmarks instead. The first time he caught you folding the corner of a page to save your place in a dark fantasy novel, he leveled a look of such profound, severe disappointment at you that you felt as if you were being formally sentenced by a magistrate. “That is a book,” he said, his voice entirely deadpan. “It possesses structural integrity.” You rolled your eyes, pulling your legs up against your soft chest. “It’s a cheap paperback, Hiromi.” “Paperbacks have rights,” he stated, without a single muscle in his face twitching.

His dry humor always sneaks up on you like that. It is dry enough to desiccate, delivered with a completely straight face, often embedded so deeply within an otherwise serious sentence that your brain takes five full seconds to catch the irony. But when you finally do burst into a sudden laugh, his mouth doesn’t move. His eyes just warm, the dark irises softening in the lamplight. That specific distinction wrecks your defenses every single time.

He has never once told you that you are overthinking a situation. In a world full of people who treat your depth of processing as an annoying inconvenience, Higuruma treats it as a valid, necessary methodology. “Walk me through the logic,” he will say, leaning back and giving you the floor. And he means it. He listens to every branch of your thoughts. At the end of your explanation, he will either say, “That tracks,” or, “I see it differently—here is why.” Both options make you feel like a person whose mind possesses actual weight.

Jealousy in Higuruma does not look like loud posturing or territorial displays. It looks like a physical sharpening of his presence. If someone speaks to you with an unearned familiarity or assumes access to your space, his posture remains entirely unchanged, but his focus narrows to a point so incredibly fine you can feel the drop in temperature from across the room. He does not intervene or cause a scene because his trust in your choices is absolute. What he distrusts is the sheer audacity of someone who has not earned the right to stand within your circle, and his gaze communicates that reality with the icy efficiency of a closing argument.

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The Weight He Carries

Higuruma’s exhaustion is not the kind that sleep repairs. He is not tired of demands or workload or the ordinary friction of living. He is tired of inconsistency. He built an entire career—an entire self—on the premise that fairness could be enforced through procedure, that the correct application of law would produce the correct result, that the structure would hold if the people inside it simply did their jobs. And then the structure said no. Not loudly, not dramatically, but with the quiet, procedural cruelty of a system that had never intended to be fair and had simply been better at concealing it than he was at believing otherwise.

The disillusionment did not make him bitter. That is the part most people get wrong about him. Bitterness would have been easier—it would have given him permission to stop caring. Instead, it made him exacting. If the system will not be fair, then he will be. In every conversation, every choice, every small domestic act of precision. The bed made with military corners. The tea selected by behavioral evidence. The question he never skips: “Do you want to leave?” The discipline is not a personality trait. It is load-bearing architecture. It is the thing that remains standing when the foundation has been removed, held upright by nothing except his refusal to let it fall.

You see this. You see it in the way he reads case law at two in the morning, not because he has an active case but because the habit of believing in structure outlived the belief itself. You see it in the way he folds his clothes with the precision of someone who learned, young and hard, that the things you can control are the only things that don’t betray you. You see it in the way his jaw tightens when the news reports another mistrial, another procedural failure, another quiet confirmation that the machine he trusted was never built for what he needed it to do.

On those nights, he does not talk. He sits at his kitchen island with a glass of water he does not drink, his hands flat on the counter and his eyes fixed on a point somewhere past the wall. You do not fill the silence. You sit on the stool beside him and place your hand—warm, brown, and wrapped in hammered gold—over his, and you feel the rigid tension in his knuckles like a held verdict. He does not look at you immediately. But his hand slowly turns over beneath yours, palm up, and his long fingers close around your hand with the careful, deliberate pressure of a man accepting evidence he did not want to be presented with. You are the first thing he has allowed back into the ruins. He knows what that costs. He knows what it means to rebuild inside a structure that has already proven it can collapse. He does it anyway, brick by brick, with the same terrifying discipline he applies to everything—because Higuruma does not know how to love without building something, and the thing he is building around you is the only architecture he has left that he believes in.

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The Darkness in the Room

There is something Higuruma does not talk about, and it is not his past. His past he will give you—measured, precise, stripped to the bones. The law. The belief. The case that cracked him. The verdict that broke the rest. He rehearsed that narrative until it became evidence rather than wound, and he presented it to you on his floor with his back to your knees and your hand in his. That was honesty. This is different. What he does not talk about is what he became after.

You know because you are who you are—someone who tracks shifts in air pressure, who notices when a man’s hands are steadier than they should be after the kind of night that should leave them shaking. The room is thick with silence when the front door lock clicks. He doesn’t turn on the light. He simply crosses the sparse bedroom, the quiet weight of his body shifting the mattress as he sits heavily on the edge of the bed. You are already awake, shifting beneath the covers, tracking the perfect, undisturbed rhythm of his breathing. When you reach through the dark, your fingers brushing the cuff of his sleeve, your hand finds his. They are completely steady.

That is the tell. No tremor, no lingering adrenaline. Steady hands after midnight mean something happened that required judgment rather than a physical struggle, and judgment is the thing Higuruma does now with a precision that has nothing to do with courtrooms. He has a power. You do not know its full shape—he has not presented that case to you, and you have not asked for discovery—but you know its nature. It is judgment made literal. The man who wanted fairness and watched the system refuse to provide it has been given the authority to provide it himself—not through argument, not through appeal, but through something final, binding, and supernatural.

The irony is not lost on you. The man who loved the law more than anything now operates entirely outside it, enforcing what the law promised and never delivered. He does not need a courtroom. He does not need a jury. He has become the system he once trusted, and the system, when it has teeth, looks exactly like violence. You see this in the absolute stillness that follows his returns. Not guilt—Higuruma does not carry guilt about correct verdicts, and that is the part that sits heaviest in your chest. He believes the judgments are right. He believes this with the same structural certainty he once gave the law.

And you, lying beside him in the dark, tracking the even rhythm of his breathing and the steady hands that hold yours with such careful, deliberate pressure—you have to decide, in the silence of your own perception, whether you believe that a man who is always right about justice is safer or more dangerous than one who doubts. You have not decided. You are not sure you need to. What you know is this: the same man who dims the lights before you ask, who tracks your tea by the way you hold your keys, who told you “not casual” two inches from your mouth and meant it with his entire architecture—that man also carries a power that ends arguments the way his courtroom never could. Both are true. Both live in the same hands. You hold those hands in the dark and feel the paradox settle into your chest beside the warmth, and you do not ask him to explain what he was doing at midnight, and he does not offer, and the silence is its own closing argument.

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The Final Verdict

One evening, sitting on his sparse floor with your back against his knees, he finally told you about the law. He spoke about what it was originally supposed to be, what he believed fairness could achieve, the first case that cracked his faith, and the final, corrupt verdict that broke it entirely. He did not cry. He did not alter the calm cadence of his voice. He spoke with the terrifying precision that only exists when a person has rehearsed a tragedy enough times to strip it down to the bare bones—and the bones are the parts that hurt the most. You reached back, your warm brown fingers sliding into his large palm, holding his hand through the silence that followed. He let you. His grip tightened just once when he hit the end of the narrative.

You didn’t offer him a hollow “I’m sorry.” You looked at his profile and said, “The system failed you, Hiromi.” His jaw tightened, a small muscle jumping in his cheek. He looked down at your intertwined hands, the gold of your rings contrasting against his skin. “Yes,” he said softly. It felt like the first time anyone had ever placed the massive weight of his grief exactly where it belonged, without trying to minimize or soothe it away.

When you sleep beside him, he always faces you. One arm rests under his pillow, while his other hand remains open on the mattress between your bodies—not like an offering, but like a document waiting for a signature he would never rush. When you reach out and slide your fingers into his, his grip closes around yours immediately. He is not fully awake, nor is he fully asleep; he exists in that liminal space where his rigid composure entirely drops and his reflexes tell the absolute truth.

During a rare moment of insecurity, when the weight of your own mind felt too heavy, you looked at him across his kitchen island and muttered, “You don’t have to fix how I feel all the time.” Higuruma didn’t blink. “I am not trying to fix it. I am trying to understand it so I stop responding to the wrong thing.” That sentence lives in your chest like a permanent bruise—tender, deep, and constantly felt.

He will take your side in public without a single shred of hesitation, presenting a unified front to the world. But in private, behind the closed door of his apartment, he will tell you exactly when he thinks you are wrong. He does it gently, specifically, laying out enough evidence that you cannot easily dismiss it, but wrapping it in enough profound care that you don’t even want to. Loyalty, to him, is not blind agreement. Loyalty is honesty with your dignity kept entirely intact. He knows the difference, and that exact distinction is why you trust him implicitly.

He loves you the way he used to love justice—completely, structurally, with his entire internal architecture. The terrifying difference for him is that you love him back, and reciprocity is a concept the law never once offered him. Some days, he doesn’t quite know what to do with that reality. On those days, he simply makes your ginger tea, reads his books beside you in the dim light, and lets his shoulder press firmly against yours. The physical contact says everything his legal training never taught his tongue how to speak.

He will never be the one to tell you he loves you first. But he will build such a meticulous, airtight, and irrefutable case for it through every morning routine, every careful touch, and every single argument he lets you win because your reasoning was simply better, that by the time you finally say the words aloud, you are not making a confession. You are simply delivering a verdict he has already thoroughly proven.

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thank you for reading. comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated.

and as of right now, your relationship with higuruma has felt like the inception of expired milk. granted, when prompted by curious friends and family about your budding relationship with the man, you generally have nothing but good things to say about him. higuruma is a gentleman, and he’s kind, and remembers all the things you’ve told him in the short times you’ve been seeing each other, and altruistic to his very core. he’s also a very generous lover in the bedroom, so your sexual compatibility has never been considered as something to ring alarms about. everything should be great…

but it isn’t.

you see, while you’ve only been together for a few months, give or take, you feel as if many a milestone should have been crossed by now… the most important one (in your eyes, anyway) being that you stay the night at each other’s place.

and yet, it hasn’t happened. you think to all the times where you and higuruma have finished fooling around in the comfort of his bedroom, out of breath and very sated, and the dimming of the sky begins to brush over the horizon — and like clockwork, you sit up, scratching the soft skin of your belly awkwardly as you say, “gosh, it’s getting late.”

the response you’ve so desperately sought out for was a lidded eyed higuruma, who would be looking up at you with so much desire and yearning, his arms outstretched to wrap around your body to pull you in, with barely a word uttered between you two as he says, “i would really like if you could stay.”

unfortunately, that has never been the case during these few months, where he would sit up next to you, nodding owlishly as he helped you collect your clothes, calling a taxi while helping you to the door and kissing your forehead goodbye.

the disappointment in itself feels unfounded and unwarranted. he’s a nice man. he never leaves you high and dry, always pays for your ride home, ensures that you text him when you get there, and he’s sending you a good night text where he asks when you both may see each other again.

the guilt you feel for the rejection that climbs up your throat when he doesn’t offer you respite at his home is insurmountable, to say the least. it’s no different at your place either: by the time you’ve disjointed from his sweaty grasp, he’s already jingling his car keys while looking for his displaced socks.

it doesn’t make any sense to you. did he not see this going beyond a few dates and sex? he had already introduced you to his cat, shifu, and likewise had became acquainted with your own kitten, popo. it felt incredibly serious in your eyes. you had gushed about him to your friends, posted him online via fleeting 24hr story posts, but his existence in your life was there.

so what was going on?

it feels like your day has been dragging on after having spent the morning in your own bed yet again, your mind going back to a few nights ago where you had a nice home cooked dinner with higuruma, with the night — of course — ending in sexual intimacy (you think the few glasses of pinot noir and a seductive carbonara made you a deer in headlights to your boyfriend’s whims, despite all your warring feelings), and, like clockwork, with higuruma picking up your clothes as he dialled for the taxi to come pick you up, much too drunk to drive you home (and apparently too out of his wits to suggest that you stay the night).

your eyes stay glued to the text chain between the both of you, with the last two of your messages having been left on delivered since last night — albeit they’re nothing out of the ordinary, just you tell higuruma you made it home safely and that you couldn’t wait to see him again… and nonetheless, the texts stay unread, taunting you through the screen.

a deep sigh leaves your chest, and you close your phone to look off into the distance (the aforementioned being the sharply lit hallway of your workplace, with patients and nurses going in and out of their respective rooms). just then, one of your colleagues-turned-friends rounds the corner, and you look up to see shoko, hands on her hips when she sees you sulking on the waiting chair outside your office.

“you’re looking especially forlorn today,” she teases and you deadpan at her as she takes a seat next to you, nudging you gently. “what’s up with you, huh?”

you nibble on your bottom lip, shaking your head. “it’s… it’s nothing,” to which shoko scoffs at, this time poking you with her foot.

“are you seriously going to try and lie to me right now?” she says, unimpressed. you shake your head.

“exactly,” she responds, poking your arm. “so i’ll ask again: what’s up with you?”

you huff, looking down at your phone, edging down a fingertip to switch the screen on just to see a whole lot of nothing (save for a the same text messages staring up at you) on the OLED.

shoko snatches the phone from your hand before you can protest, and her eyes glance downwards and her shoulders sag in immediate knowing. “ohhhh… it’s him.”

you don’t even have to answer, nor do you really want to.

she nudges you again, this time with her elbow. “did something terrible happen with him? why is he not answering your texts?”

“it’s… stupid,” you sigh, shrugging to which shoko scoffs.

“it’s obviously not stupid if it has you moping around like a heartbroken, lovesick tween,” she snorts, to which you nudge her this time. “if he’s making you feel like this, then maybe you should talk to him about it.”

you huff, snatching your phone back. “it’s not that simple… we’ve only been dating three months… that’s nothing in the adult world.”

shoko rolls her eyes, unimpressed. “don’t give me that bullshit. you’re a grown ass woman, and i’ve never known you to not communicate your feelings like one either—”

she then pokes your foot with hers. “and who cares if it’s only been three months? it’s not like you’re asking him to get one knee and buy a ring, you’re asking for attention. that’s not exactly a big ask.”

you sigh resoundingly and defeatedly, shoko’s words reminiscent of what you should’ve been thinking if you were a mature, adjusted woman.

“i know, i know… it’s just… when we have sex—” (the word is uttered under your breath, your eyes darting around the near empty hospital hallway), “he knows just what to say and do and everything seems perfect.”

you swallow thickly. “the we finish and he acts like he doesn’t know how to speak to me… then in return, i don’t know how to speak to him.”

you then laugh bitterly. “god, how pathetic does that sound?”

shoko stares at you for five solid seconds before slapping a palm against her forehead, to which you sit up in alarm.

“sho—?!”

she just as quickly responds with an iteration of your name. “you’re not pathetic,” she says, voice firm. “you’re human, and you just happen to be caught up with an emotionally constipated man. it happens to the best of us. either way, none of this is your fault in particular.”

your eyes begin to water slightly, and you have to tuck your thumbs into the sleeves of your jumper to dab at the inner corners of your eyes. you lean your head on shoko’s shoulder, sniffling quietly.

“what do i do? do i break up with him—?”

shoko snorts again, shaking her head. “you don’t have to go to those extremes just yet, silly.”

she then throws an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into a side-hug that has you leaning even further into her hold. “you should definitely talk to him, though. sit his ass down and look him in the eyes and say, “we need to talk,” and if he’s half the man you say he is, he’ll listen. it’s that simple.”

you nod against her. “you’re always right, shoko… that settles it. i’ll talk to him.”

“of course i am,” she teases with a grin, pressing her lips to the crown of your head gently.

just then, her pager goes off with a loud beep and she groans, giving your shoulder a warm squeeze before standing.

“i’m off to finish off my rounds. i’ll find you in your office later, yeah?”

you nod again, smiling up at her. “yeah, i’ll see you then, sho’.”

shoko disappears with a wave over her shoulder, her heels a familiar click clack against the tile as she slides around the corner, and you’re left with your phone and unanswered texts all over again.

your stomach churns, fluttering with anxiety at the idea of confronting him, or worse, upsetting him about something as menial as this (though, clearly not with the way it has consumed you to the point of fatalistic worry that your romance is already over before it could properly blossom into something more).

either way, shoko was right. you deserve to know your place with a man you actually see a future with, no matter how early or budding the prospect is.

you unlock your phone again, fingers padding until higuruma’s contact comes up on the screen: hiromi <3

you ring him without so much a second glance, paying no heed to what he could be doing right now as a man of such a busy and demanding career.

the cell rings once, twice, a third time— then it clicks, higuruma’s warm voice through the speaker.

“hello?”

you can hear the clicking of multiple keyboards in the background, and he’s obviously in the middle of working, that much you do know, so you can’t help but let out a puff of relief at the fact he’s picked up almost instantly.

“hey, hiromi. it’s me,” you breathe, a straying finger playing with a lock of your hair absentmindedly.

your name leaves his lips just as breathlessly, and you have to bite back at smile at the fact you can just hear the corners of his mouth lift up in his voice.

there’s a slight pause with some shuffling, and suddenly it’s a lot quieter. he’s giving you his full attention, which eases some of the pressure in your mind.

“is everything okay? I don’t usually expect to hear from you during a working day.”

you let out a little puff of air, as if to deflate yourself like a balloon and a dirty spoon. “no, no, everything’s fine, i just… wanted to ask if you were busy friday night, since you, uh… never responded to my text.”

his voice catches from beyond the speaker and he sighs, and you can hear him rake a hand through his hair.

“i’m sorry. i got caught up in work, and i meant to open your message but i got caught up in work and it slipped my mind—”

there’s a slight moment where higuruma exhales, mumbling quietly, before he clears his throat. “to answer your question, yes, i’m free on friday. did… you want to do something?”

you pretend to hum thoughtfully, as if you hadn’t been mulling over these date plans for the past few days since you’ve last seen him. “i was thinking dinner at my place? if that’s alright with you, of course.”

higuruma laughs softly, a slightly crackle to the sound. “i’d love that. what should i bring?”

“just yourself,” you say teasingly, a fond smile now lighting up your entire face. “maybe a bottle of wine but that’s not obligatory in the slightest.”

he laughs softly — low and warm, the sound washing over the phone line like liquid honey, so much so that you almost forget that the purpose of this impromptu date is to talk to him about the future of their relationship.

emphasis on almost.

“you sure? i have no trouble picking something up.”

you shake your head, nibbling at the skin of your bottom lip as his words drape over you. “really… i don’t mind.”

“if you insist, my love. i will be there around seven?”

you hum sweetly. “seven is perfect.”

“seven it is,” he responds, and you hear some movement from behind the screen and higuruma coughs. “i should get back to work now but… i will see you on friday?”

“o-oh yeah, of course,” you stammer, a little shy now for some reason. “don’t let me keep you. yes… i’ll see you then. bye hiromi.”

he murmurs your name with the same adieu, voice terribly soft, as it always is when he’s talking to you.

when the line clicks dead, all you’re left with is silence and the quiet ache in your chest that seems to ebb and flow but never truly go away when it comes to him.

you stare at your phone a moment longer, before stuffing it into your pocket and getting up from the chair.

friday suddenly can’t come quick enough.

ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ

the rest of the week comes and goes, and before you know it, friday evening is just mere minutes away.

you walk around your apartment doing some finishing touches while dinner cooks: fluffing up your couch pillows, making sure your little cat stays tucked in and asleep in the spare bedroom, fixing the angles of your framed photos, and of course, making sure your bedroom is presentable lest you partake in any after meal activities (which, of course, is purely contingent on how the conversation with higuruma goes, and that conversation will be had, you have made sure of it).

you then saunter to your bedroom mirror, hands smoothing over your dark evening dress as you take a mirror selfie, sending it to your friends who insist that you’re not too dressed up, as they respond with a flurry of heart eyes, compliments and gushing words.

with some newfound confidence, you throw your phone onto the bed, admiring yourself in the reflection for a moment, and the thought of higuruma’s reaction to how you look sends your knees into a slight buckle, to which you scold yourself over.

“composure, woman,” you grumble, storming back into the kitchen, your heels clacking alongside you in rhythmic fashion. “it’s not about that right now.”

unbeknownst to you, higuruma stands outside your apartment, glancing at himself through the metal of your numbered door, and he lifts a thumb to brush through his eyebrows and the front of his hair.

with one arm, he tightens his black tie against his crisp white shirt, balancing a bottle of pinot noir and a bouquet of dark orchids and lillies. he checks the time on his wristwatch once more, waiting for the clock to strike at exactly seven when he lifts a finger to press against the doorbell.

you’re back in the kitchen and checking on the starter when you hear it, gasping and muttering a few expletives under your breath as you click and clack to the front door, unlocking it and pulling it open, smiling up and expectantly at higuruma in all his glory.

“hey. right on time.”

a slow, steady curve of a smile spreads across his face as he takes you in — really looks at you — for the first time that week since your last rendezvous.

“you,” he says softly, voice already teetering on ragged, “are killing me.”

he steps forward, eyes scanning you up and down like he wants to permanently etch the image of you right now into his retinas and brain.

as bashful as ever, you bite back a smile, cheeks heating up at his very obvious appreciation. higuruma then gestures to the bottle of wine and bouquet of flowers in his hold. “these are for you. i know you said i didn’t need to bring anything but… it didn’t sit right with my conscience to show up empty handed while you dote on me.”

you awe at him, taking the the gifts into your arms, and stepping backwards into your apartment. “really, hiromi, you shouldn’t have… but please, come on. dinner will be ready in just a moment.”

hiromi steps in from behind you, and you don’t check to see that he’s already close to next to you as you get out a vase and fill it with water to accommodate for the lovely flowers.

he follows you inside, his gaze still roaming appreciatively over the way the smooth fabric of your dress curves over your hips as you walk. you can see his fingers twitch at his side from your periphery and you have to bite back a pleased smile at how well received your current get up is with the man lingering behind you.

“you look absolutely stunning, by the way,” he says, almost exasperated at the fact.

you look at him over your shoulder for a mere second, smiling as humbly as ever.

“thank you… you clean up well yourself,” you jest, with a teasing lilt to your voice.

you take out a vase, filling it up with water. “um, dinner won’t be ready for a little while so feel free to make yourself comfortable.”

all the while, hiromi just watches silently as you put the flowers he brought you into the vase. as if operating on pure instinct, he takes his blazer off, draping it over a dining room chair. his tie has already come a little loose.

he watches you bustle around the kitchen and youre yet to see that he just... stands there, watching you, so obviously taking in the way that you look.

you hum a little tune to yourself, getting out a couple plates as you finish up, eyes darting when it feels like you’re being watched from your peripheral vision.

you spin, wine glasses in your hand as you raise a brow at hiromi, walking over to where he leans by the dining room table.

“when i said make yourself comfortable, i meant make yourself at home. not watch me while i finish dinner.”

the corner of his lips twitches — like he knows he’s been caught.

he holds your gaze when you walk over, his eyes on you like an animal about to pounce on his prey, but when he catches you staring right at him, he has to look away for a moment and clear his throat, as if to signal that he was deep in thought and definitely not checking you out.

you huff, rolling your eyes as you place the glasses on the table. “the starter will be done soon… i just need to make sure that the wellington doesn’t burn and…”

you turn to him again as you trail off, hands moving from your hips to shoo him off. “now go away. snoop if you must. i’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

“snoop?” he echoes, feigning offense as he finally pushes off the table. "i’m just appreciating the view."

hiromi gives you a slow, crooked smile of appreciation coupled with defeat — rare and genuine from a man of his stoic disposition (has that been said before?) as he then turns to wander into your living room.

when you finish up like promised, placing two plates on the table: two identical dishes of shrimp risotto across the table, parallel, you wander off to the living room, and you find hiromi strewn across the couch like he owns the thing, and from where you stand, you see his fingers over the spine of one of your textbooks on the coffee table before pausing at a framed photo: you and your friends, arms all slung around each other, grinning like fools in front of cherry blossoms.

his thumb brushes over it gently, and you almost don’t want to call for him from where you’re greedily eating up the way he fits in your home.

instead, you compromise. you quietly walk back into the dining room, coughing loudly before shouting out.

“hiromi, your presence is wanted!”

“yes, ma'am.”

he’s already there before you know it, his long legs carry him the distance to the dining table in a few strides, pulling out the chair across from you and sitting.

“that smells good.”

“thank you,” you say, sitting down. “please, enjoy.”

he doesn't move right away.

instead, he just... watches you spoon up your food, and it’s only when you look up at him to wipe away some remnants from the corner of your mouth does he smile softly and pick up his spoon.

“then i’ll start before i embarrass myself by staring at you any longer.”

he takes a bite — and genuinely moans in appreciation.

“… this is incredible.”

you smile softly, a little flustered. “thank you… it’s just something i threw together. i’m glad you like it.”

he laughs a little to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

“just something you threw together? bullshit. this is better than most restaurants here in tokyo.”

another bite: this time, a slightly bigger one. he savours it, closing his eyes as he tastes it on his tongue.

“where the hell did you learn to cook like this?”

you shrug, taking another spoonful into your mouth. “cooking’s fun. there’s actually not much to do as a working woman when you don’t have time for anything but work, eat and sleep… might as well make it more tolerable.”

hiromi pauses mid-bite, his eyes narrowing slightly. “are you saying you spend your spare time cooking?"

he stares at you, completely incredulous before a slow, crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“you’re unreal.”

you raise a brow while hiding back a humble smile over the curve of your spoon. “i mean, what else could possibly better suited for my time? plus, i like cooking for people… makes me feel good.”

hiromi can't help the way his eyes rove over you again, lingering on your mouth, your neck, the smooth expanse of skin he can see above the neckline of your dress.

“you enjoy doing it for others, huh?” he teases, though there's a hint of something else in his voice. “and if you're the only person there? who do you cook for then?”

you ponder at that, taken aback at his faithfulness. “hm. i guess i’ve never really thought of it that way.”

you think for a moment, then takes a sip from your wine glass, sweet and red yet bitter and light. “i guess it’s a little different when it’s for myself… but that could be applied to almost everything in my life. i think you have to be slightly masochistic to be a doctor.”

a soft huff of laughter escapes him at that, his eyes warm and bright on yours over the rim of his glass.

“slightly masochistic, huh? is that a requirement for you doctors?”

hiromi takes another sip in tandem, tongue in cheek before he huffs again. “i guess that's how you end up working yourself into the ground for ungrateful patients and shitty hours."

“hey — takes one to know one,” you retort, raising a brow. “swap patients for clients and defendants and that’s basically your life to a t.”

hiromi tilts his head backward as if in thought before nodding in agreement, his shoulders shifting beneath his shirt.

“fair enough,” he concedes, lips curved in a wry smile. “though i get to charge them a hell of a lot more.”

he takes another bite, then:

“that being said... my shitty hours do come with a good salary.”

“oh?” you says, spooning another bite into your mouth. “here i thought that public defenders were one of the more oppressed groups in our judicial system.”

“ah—” he smirks, leaning forward slightly. “careful, doctor. i’m not just a public defender anymore.”

hiromi’s voice drops a notch — smooth, confident and it almost has your spine sitting up straight from the buzz of conduction that tickles up the nerves.

“i’ve got my own practice now. we handle civil litigation and criminal defense — you know, pro bono for those who need it most."

he watches you over his glass as he takes another sip, smacking his lips quietly as if to make a point.

“please don’t let the modest suits fool you. i can afford to take you out for more than just dinner.”

you raise your hands in mock surrender. “forgive me for my preconceived notions… and that’s very good to know.”

he laughs, low and warm that it has you grinning from bask of it, and there's a flicker of something proud in his eyes.

“not going to lie, i like that you didn’t know,” he admits, swirling the wine in his glass. “means you weren't after me for my bank account.”

his gaze lifts to meet yours, suddenly serious.

“...you were after me for me.”

it’s your turn to laugh quietly this time, leaning back in your chair.

“well, while i am glad to have given you that impression, i grew up relatively well off… men with money are a dime a dozen. it means very little to me in the grand scheme of things.”

hiromi’s lips quirk in an amused smile, eyes narrowing slightly. “is that right? have you dated a lot of rich men, doctor?”

you snort, leaning forward onto the palm of your hands as the man in front of you sets his fork down, his wine glass joining it in a quiet, soft thump. his eyes never leave your face. “do i give you that impression?”

“no, not at all,” he jibes, cheeks dimpling ever so faintly, “but i am beginning to wonder if I'm at risk here," he teases, but there's a hint of sincerity in his voice. "you might take one look at my paycheck and dump me for someone richer."

you shake your head, smiling a little. “au contraire, mr lawyer… all i can do is assure you in that—” and you top off his glass of red, before pouring some in your own.

“money just doesn’t impress me quite as much as you may think it does.”

you polish off your plate, looking at him. “now, are you done? the main is almost ready.”

hiromi blinks at you.

right. dinner.

you don’t fail to notice that he’s been sitting, staring at you the entire time. nevertheless, he recovers quickly with a curt nod, flashing you a lazy smile as he finally sets his silverware down.

“yes, i’m done. that was delicious, by the way… not that i expect anything less from you, doctor.”

he grins wider, raising his empty wine glass in a mock toast.

you rolls your eyes at him fondly, playfully brushing past his shoulder with the sway of your hip as you take his plate and your own to the kitchen behind where you eat.

the moment you walk away, hiromi’s eyes follow, lingering like a dedicated flame. he lets out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair and he tries his hardest to stay seated — fingers drumming once against the table — before finally standing and walking into the kitchen behind you.

he leans against the arched doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“let me help.”

you look over at him, putting on your apron and taking out some folded oven gloves. “i would be a terrible hostess if i let my guest help me cook.”

he steps closer, too close; close enough to smell the vanilla in his hair that mingles with the faint citrus of your perfume.

“then consider it a rebellion," he teases, his voice low and gentle, "against good hosting."

his fingers graze yours as he takes the dish from your hands, the heat between them not just from the oven.

“let me do this… please?”

you raise a brow in contemplation before decidedly raising your hands in stark white defeat. “okay… fine. you’ve officially browbeaten me into submission,” and you rest your hands on your hips for a second, before lifting up a tray.

“here. you can take the pot of gravy to the table while i slice the wellington.”

he smiles triumphantly, taking the pot from you easily. he’s a little too smug, the look in those grey eyes justifiably victorious.

“i am good at that, you know," he says as he walks away. the words have a double meaning, and you can’t help think that the both of you know it.

he sets the dish down in the middle of the table, then returns to the kitchen again, finding his way behind you once again.

“i would hope so, mr lawyer,” you say, passing him a pot of potatoes. “now take this and sit down. i’ll be there with our second course of the evening.”

“yes, ma'am.”

the corners of his lips twitch, holding back a smile at the authoritative tone in your voice. you can tell he wants to tease you more, to say something cheeky and infuriating, but the side eye glance you give him makes him hold his tongue, bowing his head as he returns to the dining room.

he takes the potatoes like the committed one he is and sits, hands on his lap, a proper gentleman waiting for his meal.

but his eyes never leave you.

you return, with two plates of beef wellington and tenderstem broccoli (to which you’ve told hiromi that there is a difference and that it is superior to normal broccoli), sliding them onto the table.

you sit across from him once again. “well then… please enjoy.”

he looks down at the meal before him; and then, of course, there's you in front of him.

he has to swallow thickly so as to not give anything away in his voice, dark eyes lifting back to yours.

“thank you,” he says quietly. “this looks amazing.”

you beam at him, (and you subtly notice that you keep doing a lot of that tonight, but can it even be helped when in such gorgeous and suave company?), digging into your own portion.

hiromi chews and swallows, making little to no noise —but then says suddenly, "can i ask you something?"

you look up at him, mid bite, nodding. “of course.”

“why’d you go into neurosurgery?”

his voice is gentle yet serious, which is typical of hiromi’s nature. it’s one of things you like most about him.

he watches you closely as he waits for the answer, to which your lips curl a little at the corners as you think, your eyes flitting down to your plate. “it was the only specialty that didn’t make me want to off myself after every rotation.”

hiromi is surprised into a shocked, choking sort of laugh. his eyes roam over you, a slight smirk on his lips.

“that is... brutally honest.”

you laugh a little sheepishly, shaking your head.

“i’m sorry i don’t have a more politically correct answer… i’m sure if you asked me 4 years ago in the midst of med school, i would’ve said that i just want to help people…but it’s like you said: the people are ungrateful and the hours are long. and the pay always starts out to be downright abysmal.”

hiromi snorts, shaking his head almost ruefully.

“oh, believe me, i know how bad the hours are. and the pay is just a joke, so much so it feels like an insult. you can work yourself to the bone and there's no reward—just a slap on the back and a 'keep up the good work.'”

his fingers drum softly on the tabletop, like he can't stay still. he lets out a sigh, a tired sound, accompanied by the dark circles under his eyes, as if to serve as a physical reminder of their shared relatability.

“i get it. trust me… i get it.”

you nod, eyes softening. “yeah… it’s pretty much exactly that.” you then huffs, shaking your head. “but i don’t know… i like my job for the most part. i work with a lot of kids mostly, so that’s the silver lining. although, maybe not… while they’re a lot more pleasant than the adults i take care of… that makes the suffering oh, so much worse.”

“you..." he pauses, a look on his face you can’t quite name. "...you like kids?"

“mhmm,” you hum behind a sip of wine. “i love them… i especially adore the kids i work with…” and you say it all with a growing smile on your face, unknowing to you but ever so obvious to the man sat opposite you.

“i think someone who dislikes the world’s most innocent would be someone i wouldn’t particularly want to get to know in any capacity… how about you? do you like kids, hiromi?”

he doesn’t hesitate for even a second. “i do.”

the smile on his face is almost boyishly earnest when he says it— and he looks at you, with your soft, pretty features—and all he can picture is the way you'd look, a little swollen with a child in your belly.

he swallows, heat rising in his face. “... i like them a lot.”

this time, it’s your turn to be a little shocked, and you raise a brow. “really?” with blatant disbelief laden in your tone.

“huh. i never got that vibe from you.”

his lips twitch, caught somewhere between a smirk and an honest-to-god blush.

“you don't think i look the type?” he leans forward slightly, voice dropping. "just because i spend my days arguing with assholes in court doesn't mean i don't want to come home to tiny little people who call me daddy.”

he says it casually (too casually) but his eyes flicker to yours for just a second, testing the waters.

“...i have always wanted kids.”

you smile at that, chuckling at his choice of words.

“so, let me get this straight: you’re a 35 year old defence attorney who earns a decent living, loves kids and is dashingly handsome? what exactly were you doing before we met?”

his cheeks flush even warmer at your words, squirming a little in his seat. hiromi ends up just mirroring your own smile, dimple in his right cheek flashing as he does.

“not finding the right woman.” he lets out a mock sort of sigh. “i was starting to think I'd die alone, honestly.”

you let out a genuine laugh at the pure cynicism in his words. “oh? pray tell. what was the dating scene like before i came and saved you?”

“a nightmare,” he deadpans, shaking his head. “i dated this one woman who kept asking me what my net worth was. another one wanted me to choose between her and my career, and that's not even including the ones who just... couldn't handle the long hours, or the demanding work of being with a defence attorney of all people.”

hiromi gives you a rueful smile, but there's a subtle trace of bitterness in his eyes. “i was starting to think my only life partner would be my job.”

you hum sympathetically at that. “i can imagine…” and you trail off, before letting curiosity slip into the conversation.

“did you ever expect to be married by now?” and then you’re backtracking a little, sheepishly waving your hands. “not that there’s anything wrong with being unmarried at your age—!” you add, to which hiromi laughs at your sincerity, leaning backwards into the seat, arms folded.

“and, of course i don’t think you’re old by any means… I’m just… curious, is all.”

he makes a noise of understanding, nodding. “i’ve always thought i would be married before i turned thirty-five,” he admits quietly, taking another sip of the wine in his glass.

hiromi looks down at his hands, a little abashed as he says, “...i know, i know. it doesn't make sense. i’m relatively young; i’m successful. hell, i’ve even been told i’m attractive, which is really strange to say out loud.”

you laugh and so does he, but there's that rueful sort of edge to it again. “i guess i just never met the right woman.”

“did you ever get close to?” you ask, finger dancing over the rim of your cup.

he lets out a humorless sort of huff, scrubbing a hand over his face as he thinks.

“once or twice,” he confesses, “i got close a couple of times. things were going well, and i thought we were on the same page, and then... suddenly, they'd realize the hours were too stressful. or i was too obsessed with my job. or we just wanted... different things.”

hiromi glances at you across the table, grey eyes steady as he says, “it never worked out for one reason or another.”

you hum again, pondering… thinking.

“that’s fair… unfortunately, i can’t fault it. long hours can really make or break a relationship. it’s always that, coupled with miscommunication.”

“miscommunication,” he repeats, almost grimly, the word itself leaving a tart taste in his mouth.

he says your name, shaking his head. “you have no idea. i’ve been told i was too 'emotionally distant', that i don't show enough affection. that i expect people to read my mind. hell, i’ve even had women walk out because they said i was 'too intense'.”

he snorts.

“i’m not that difficult, am i?”

you go noticeabley quiet at that, eyes widening before they dart back to your finger playing with the rim of your wine glass. “difficult?…that’s a loaded word.”

he cocks his head at the hesitance in your voice, as if he can practically see you gearing up to respond with some sort of placating bullshit— you're too nice, too kind —so he speaks before you can.

“please," he says softly. “be honest. i can take it.”

you open and close your mouth, looking at him with pitying eyes for a second before sighing defeatedly, looking down at your half eaten meal.

“i actually think it might be the opposite… you’re not…” and you trail off, nibbling your bottom lip gently.

“i don’t know how to articulate this in a way that doesn’t sound too presumptuous or… insulting.”

“then don't sugarcoat it.”

hiromi’s voice is quiet but steady, eyes locked on yours despite the forlorn look of something… not as hard hitting as agony, but not as unassuming as pain.

"i’m asking because i want to know. not for comfort. so say it—whatever it is."

you sigh again, this time deeply.

“i don’t think you’re intense enough.”

he blinks at that, caught completely off guard by the response. you could see that he was bracing himself for something bad — probably waiting for you to list all the things he was used to hearing from past relationships. this was probably the last thing he was expecting.

hiromi’s lips part, grey eyes widening ever so slightly.

“...say that again?”

you look up at him from your plate, swallowing thickly.

“…i… i like you a lot, hiromi… and i know it’s very early days into this relationship,” and you say that a little quieter than the rest, “but sometimes… sometimes it feels like you don’t… like me all that much, at least, not as much as i do.”

you scoff, face warming a bit under the strobe light of the dining room. “god, i sound like an immature school girl with an unrequited crush.”

hiromi’s throat seemingly goes completely dry, all the air leaving his lungs in a quiet whoosh. “...what makes you think that?”

you shrug, shaking your head, picking up your fork to drag a stray piece of broccolini stem across your plate, back and forth, back and forth.

“it’s silly now that i think about saying it out loud.”

immediately, his expression softens, almost pained by the hesitance in your voice.

he looks at the uncertainty in your eyes and you don’t fail to notice that his arms twitch, as if he wills them to stay by his side.

“please,” he repeats softly. “tell me. why would you think for even a second that i don't like you?”

“it’s not that i think you don’t like me, or that you don’t enjoy my company to a certain degree…” and you trail off, looking up at him, eyes soft and gentle but a little nervous.

“i… just… sometimes, beyond our sexual chemistry… i never know what you’re thinking… you don’t say much, nor do you call, o-or tell me what you’re really thinking. and i know, it’s only been a few months, so i’ve kept most of this to myself in fear of… scaring you away with my own intensity…”

the longer you speak, the more the breath leaves your body, and the more his expression grows solemn in nature.

hearing the quiet insecurity in your own voice makes your chest ache in a way you can’t control, and you’re sure hiromi feels it too, with the way he shakes his head slowly, as if trying to clear it.

“...you can't be serious,” he murmurs. “...of course i like you. more than like you. i thought that was obvious.”

you’re still rendered unable to look him in his warm grey eyes.

“i know you like me, of course i do… but i don’t know…” and you trail off, the vegetables on your plate thoroughly covered in sauce and gravy now.

“i just… i’ve never stayed the night, nor have you offered… and i know, i know it’s immature of me when i could just ask, and you’d more than likely say yes, but…”

the words get stuck again, and you have to swallow the lump in your throat.

“i don’t know. it’s stupid. i’m sorry.”

meanwhile, hiromi is stunned into momentary silence.

almost immediately, he reaches across the table, fingers closing gently around your wrist.

“no,” he breathes, eyes pleading. "it’s not stupid, not at all. look at me.”

you looks at his hand enclosed around your wrist, before meeting his earnest gaze, still waiting… quiet and expectant.

his grip tightens ever so slightly.

"you’re not stupid," he repeats, his voice even more gentle. “don’t apologise. i’m not upset, i just... i can't believe you've been feeling this way and i never knew. i was so worried about scaring you off, i’d never even thought to consider about how you'd view me during all of this.”

his thumb brushes over your pulse point, feeling your racing heart beneath his fingertips.

it’s your turn to look at him in disbelief.

“you’ve been worried about scaring me off?”

his free hand runs anxiously through his hair, frustration clear in his expression.

“of course i have,” he confesses. “you’ve no idea how much i’ve tried to keep myself in check — to keep myself from going too hard, saying too much, going too fast... i didn't want to scare you off or make you think i was clingy.”

his thumb continues to brush circles across your wrist, the motion so soothing, so subconscious, he doesn't even realize he's doing it, but it helps lower your guard nonetheless, as he has you huffing out a laugh now, way more relieved and very sheepish.

“i… i had no idea… now i feel silly for assuming the worst. i’m sorry.”

“don’t say that,” he murmurs, giving your wrist a light squeeze.

“i should have been more straightforward from the very beginning, i just... i didn't want to push you. i figured you'd want to take things slow. that you'd want space. i didn't want to...”

he scoffs, his voice growing thick. “...i didn't want to come on too strong too early on and end up losing you.”

you slide your wrist out of his hand to replace it with your palm instead.

the moment your hand slides into his— warm, steady, and oh so, sure —something inside him cracks open like a gently steamed egg. his breath hitches.

“i really like what we have, hiromi… and i’d like us to be serious. i want you to want me even if you think i’ll reject you… because nine times out of ten, i’m most definitely thinking the same thing as you.”

hiromi looks down at your joined hands, then back up at your face. the softness in your eyes undoes him completely.

“... i want that too," he agrees quietly. “more than anything.”

you nod, smiling at him. “okay, then. it’s settled.”

the both of you just stare at each other, his eyes that bore into yours wordlessly converse with your own weighted gaze, hopeful and filling in the gaps of what doesn’t need to be conveyed.

“so…” you finally voice, “what would you like to do after dessert?”

hiromi’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand this time, absentminded.

his adam’s apple bobs and settles before he clears his throat.

“i have somewhat of an idea," he says, voice low and sultry, “but it might make me a bit of a bastard to suggest it out loud.”

you shrug, your other hand sliding atop their already conjoined ones. “i guess i’ll be the judge of that.”

hiromi’s eyes flicker down to where your hands encompasses his, and he sniffles thickly.

“…how would you feel if i suggested i spend the night at your place?"

you smile, almost showing all of your teeth.

“i’d really, really like that…” but then your face falls in innocent confusion. “though, i fail to see how that would make you look like a bastard.”

his eyes darken at your guileless smile, and he manages to keep his voice steady as he says, “...well. there is one caveat."

you narrow your eyes curiously, lips pouty.

“oh? what is it?”

for a second, hiromi is completely distracted by the pout of your lip, but when you squeeze his hand, he recalibrates, coughing with no cough backed up.

“well,” he says as casually as can be, fingers still brushing softly across your knuckles. “i have one or two... expectations, i suppose you could call them, for the night. if you're amenable, that is.”

you nod, eyes wide, still a little confused and unsure but ready to accommodate to his very preferences.

“i’m all ears— oh,” and realisation washes all over your face. “are you insinuating what i think you’re insinuating?”

seeing you begin to catch on spreads a slow, predatory smile across his lips.

he takes his time before answering, dragging out his words like silk. “that depends. what do you think i’m insinuating?" he asks, head tilting to the side.

you bite your bottom lip, before smiling innocently, shrugging.

“hey, you’re supposed to be the bastard right now. it wouldn’t be ladylike of me to say.”

a low, rumbling laugh escapes him — dark and full of promise.

“then i’ll say it for you.”

he leans across the table just slightly, voice dropping to a velvet murmur.

“i want to stay the night. and not just sleep,” and he says your name even quieter after, “i want to have you, touch you everywhere, taste every inch of your skin.”

hiromi’s hand glosses over your knuckles again and then your palm — slowly and deliberately.

“and if you're lucky... maybe i’ll let you get some sleep afterwards.”

your eyes widen, and after a pregnant pause, you inhale deeply, nodding as you pull your hand out of his grasp, standing abruptly from the table.

hiromi blinks, taken aback by the sudden loss of your touch. the beginning twist of a frown takes over his once keen expression as he watches you stand, his tone confused when he says your name, eyebrows furling. “are you oka—”

“how about we skip dessert for now?” you interject, taking the dishes from the table.

a marauding, lopsided grin spreads across his face once again.

“oh,” he says, standing slowly from the table, dangerous when he walks toward you, closing the distance until he's just behind you against the sink. his hands rest lightly on your hips. “i like that idea.”

he noses at your neck. “i guess dessert will be served,” he murmurs against your ear, lips soft.

you snort, placing the dishes in the sink, as you look behind your shoulder and up at him. “so cheesy.”

“maybe,” he admits unashamedly, his voice a low rumble against your ear. he doesn't move his hands from your hips despite your slight movements around the kitchen jostling him around. he knows it’s impractical, but he can’t seem to let go of you knowing what is yet to occur.

“but you're still standing here. still letting me touch you.”

his lips brush the shell of your ear as he adds, barely above a whisper:

“...and later tonight, when i’ve got you gasping and begging and completely undone, you'll be calling me a lot of things.”

he grins unabashedly against your skin.

“cheesy won't be one of them.”

with an airy sigh, you lean back in his touch, eyes fluttering at his touch and words, before you flicker them open, clearing your throat as you move his hands away.

“at least let me clean up before you try to seduce me, ‘romi,” you retort, opening the dishwasher.

his grip tightens on you instinctively when he hears it, but he has to let go of you when you push his hands away, albeit reluctantly, stepping back to let you clean up.

“you’re no fun,” he complains in a teasing, exasperated voice. "you really are going to make me wait, aren't you?"

“i’m not leaving dirty dishes in the sink because you want to get your dick wet,” you say crudely, turning to face him with folded arms and a smirk on your face.

“besides, aren’t you always telling me that patience is a virtue?”

he laughs tightly, shaking his head at the vulgar words coming out of your mouth, he then closes the distance between you to cage you in against the counter.

“not when the patience has me aching for you,” he maintains, voice low and rough. “you’re making it hard to behave.”

you let your hands slide up his chest, fiddling with the buttons on his dress shirt, a teasing smile on your face.

“are you that insatiable, my dear hiromi?”

his breath stutters in his chest as he watches you toying with the buttons on his dress shirt.

his eyes are hooded, darkened by pure, aching want.

“you have no idea.”

his pelvis dips in, pinning you even further against the kitchen counter.

“it’s taking every ounce of self-control i have to keep from hauling you off to the bedroom this very second. you’re going to drive me absolutely insane.”

you gasp when you feel the very presence of his desire for you — thick and wanting against his slacks, and you slide your hand down to his belt loops, pulling him closer to press a kiss to his jaw.

“is there any way i could incentivise you to wait a little while, at least until my kitchen doesn’t look like such a mess?”

a low, ragged groan escapes him as he feels your kiss on his jaw, the sound coming deep from within his chest.

when you suggest that he wait, he bites the inside of his cheek, hard, and when he speaks, his voice comes out thick.

“define a while.”

“no more than ten minutes,” you insist, your arms going to wrap around his waist.

he has to swallow, closing his eyes to ground himself when you wrap your arms around him. your touch is soft, gentle on purpose, but you’re sure that it is pure torture to him right now — like the sweetest fire engulfing you in its steady flames.

he takes a deep breath, inhaling your scent, before he growls low in his throat. “ten minutes,” he affirms, eyes opening to meet yours.

“you have ten minutes and then I'm having you.”

you smile, kissing his cheek before letting go. “go wait in the bedroom… i’ll be right there.”

he lets out an almost pained-sounding laugh when you kiss his cheek.

hiromi nods only once. “i’ll be waiting,” he says, voice gruff, full of barely-kept-together restraint.

he leaves the kitchen, heading to your bedroom, his thoughts already a mess of fantasies and wanting.

at just around seven and a half minutes, you saunter into your bedroom, your heels clicking and clacking against the hard floor, and you knock teasingly, a sultry smile on your lips as you lean by the doorway.

hiromi stands by the window — deliberately composed — but the moment he hears your heels, his control slips.

the low click-clack-click of your steps sends a thrill straight down his spine. he turns slowly, and there you are: leaning in the doorway like some kind of vision sent to ruin him.

his jaw tightens.

“cutting it close,” he murmurs, voice rough with hunger as his eyes drag over every inch of you. “i was about to come looking for you.”

you roll your eyes, walking up to him and you wrap your arms around his neck.

“i’m two minutes early. what happened to the ever so patient man i know, hmm?”

his hands find your waist instantly, like a pair of magnets fighting against gravitational pull.

“that man,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips are just a breath away from yours, “disappeared the second you kissed my jaw and let me know how badly you want me as i do you.”

a low hum vibrates in his chest as he finally closes the distance: not quite kissing you, but letting his lips ghost over yours with every word.

“you happened. you’re my kryptonite."

“that’s not good,” you pout, eyes flicking from his own to his lips.

“now there’s nothing stopping me from using my powers against you,” you tease, your lips one breath away from his.

a dark, thrilling laugh rumbles in his chest.

“oh, but you already have,” he whispers, lips brushing yours with every word. “every time you look at me like that… every time you touch me… i’m putty in your hands.”

his hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against him so there’s no space left between the both of you.

“but go ahead," he dares, voice low and rough. “use them.”

you roll your eyes. “like i said before… cheesy.”

you don’t let him retort, pulling him down by his loosened tie to kiss him deeply.

hiromi lets out a low, ragged sound the second your mouth touches his, like all the air leaving his lungs in a one swift rush.

he kisses you like a man starving, every kiss heavy and demanding, filled with a need that borders on desperation. he can't get close enough to you; he pulls you up hard against him, fingers slipping into your hair to hold you in place as he slides his tongue against yours.

your head spins, letting him overcrowd your very senses until your knees are buckling, until you're breathless and trembling in his hands.

you can’t help but whine haplessly into his mouth, your tongue gliding against his and you eventually pull apart, moving his hands off of you to hold him by the arm.

“take off your shoes.”

when you pull back, it takes him a moment to collect himself enough to hear your words.

he lets out a low, ragged laugh at your order, though he obeys immediately. his shoes get kicked off his feet and hit the floor with a thump and he looks at you, eyebrow raised.

“bossy,” he quips, his voice still rough. “you’re lucky i find it sexy.”

you kick off your own heels, tugging him by his arm till he’s at the edge of your expansive bed, and you push him down into the silky sheets and quilted pillows.

he lets himself be pushed back easily, his eyes darkened with desire as he looks up at you.

immediately, he reaches for you, wanting to haul you down on top of him.

“c'mere…" he murmurs, the words both an order and a plea.

you swat his hands away, but you comply anyway, climbing on top of him, your arms wrapping around his neck.

his breath hitches as you settle on top of him — warm, soft, perfect. “you’re killing me," he grunts against your lips, hands sliding up your thighs to grip your hips.

he arches slightly beneath you, silently begging for more.

“do you have any idea what you do to me?

you shake your head, laving wet kisses against his jaw, neck and the corner of his mouth, avoiding his lips that edge towards you.

“no… but i’d really like for you to tell me.”

his fingers dig into your hips as you kiss every inch of skin except his mouth and lets out a low, ragged swear when you drag your lips over his jaw, leaving his skin on fire.

“i ache,” he confesses, voice cracking, “i ache to touch you, to taste you, to be inside you. you’re all i think about sometimes — all i want… you drive me crazy.”

a pleased grin takes over your swollen lips, and you place your hands flat by his head as you look down at him. “good answer.”

you finally decide to take him out of his misery, sliding your arms around his neck again and then slotting your mouth over his.

he groans against your mouth, the sound coming from deep within him, the last thread of his restraint snapping.

without warning, he flips you both over so you're beneath him, his hips pushing between your legs, pinning you down against the bed.

his lips crush yours in a crushing, searing kiss. he parts your lips with his tongue, invading your mouth like a man starving. he kisses all sense of reason from you, his hands gripping your hips almost painfully tight.

you squeak against his lips when he does, your hands holding his face as you lick into his mouth with just as much passion and enthusiasm.

your arm lifts slightly to rest against the back of his neck, eyes rolling back under their lids as you moan into him.

he feels your moan vibrate against his mouth, sending fire through his veins.

his hands slide under your dress — slow at first, then bolder — as they glide up the soft skin of your thighs. a low noise rumbles in his chest when he feels you trembling beneath his touch.

“let me feel all of you,” he pleads, voice ragged with need as he grinds down harder, the heat between you almost unbearable. “please.”

you break the kiss with a wet pop!, pushing him onto his back and into the pillows as you kneel up on the bed.

“since you asked so nicely,” you tease with swollen, shiny lips, your hand pushing a strap down from your shoulder.

his breath comes fast and uneven as he watches you move over him, rasping out your name with a voice thick with desire, hands twitching at his sides like he's fighting not to reach for you.

but when you slowly push the strap down, revealing just a hint of skin, his control frays at the seams.

hiromi surges up suddenly, fast and smooth, flipping you beneath him once again in one swift motion.

“let me," he sighs against your ear. “let me undress you."

you giggle, but it’s only full of desire. “you’re so impatient, today, hiro… but please, be my guest.”

when you give him permission, he doesn't hesitate. his hands fly towards to the zipper behind you, tugging it down agonisingly slowly, letting each inch of skin reveal itself like a gift he's unwrapping with reverence.

“so beautiful," he murmurs raggedly, eyes dark and hungry. “i’ve been aching to see you like this again for days.”

you bite your lip, the straps of your dress falling down your shoulders loosely, the material around your breasts bunching up around you as hiromi pulls down the zip even further. his touch — even the most innocent touch — has your body on fire, your blood singing while every muscle in your body coils tight with aching.

“it hasn’t even been a full week since we last had sex,” you breathes, a little giggly and very infatuated with the man lying on top of you.

“every moment i’m not touching you is a moment too long, as far as I'm concerned,” he contends, leaning in to brush his lips feather-soft against your neck.

as the dress drops away from your top half, he drinks in the sight of you, like a man dying of thirst. “christ, you're gorgeous.”

you open your mouth to retort teasingly, but instead you just sigh when his lips touch your skin, the dress bunching and falling to sit around your waist, inadvertently revealing your bare breasts to him, and surprisingly, a silver bar in your left nipple.

hiromi’s eyes land on that small, shining piece of metal with a sharp intake of breath.

for a moment, all he does is stare, his heart hammering in his chest.

“you got a piercing,” he murmurs, voice coarse. “and you didn't tell me?

he can't help himself; he reaches, calloused fingers tracing lightly over the skin over the shiny metal. it’s like a jolt to his monkey brain receptors, seeing you like this. “when did you get this?”

you bite your lip, a soft groan leaving your throat.

“back during my rebellious university days… took it out once i grew my frontal lobe,” you tell, then your eyelashes flutter to where he thumbs around the hardened peak, “but i put it back in every now and then so it doesn’t close up… i never meant to not tell you, hiro.”

meanwhile, you can tell hiromi is so overwhelmed right now: by you, by the sight of you like this, and all he can do is take a slow, sharp inhale as his fingers runs over the jewelry.

“it’s...holy, it's sexy," he mutters, his eyes still fixed on your chest as his thumb and forefinger run feather-light over the cold titanium. “jesus, i don't think i’ve ever been more turned on by something in my entire life.”

you can only just let out a bubble of laughter, eyes hazy at how fascinated he is with a simple piercing on your body. it soon breaks off into a moan when his fingertip flicks against the skin.

“you sure know how to make a woman feel beautiful.”

“you are beautiful,” he murmurs quicky, voice thick with veneration, with you at the altar. “every inch of you.”

his lips find your neck again, soft, hot kisses trailing down to your collarbone. then lower.

when his mouth hovers just above the silver bar, he looks up at you through his lashes — dark eyes burning with hot desire.

“may i?” he asks, breath ghosting over the sensitive skin.

you keen at his words, the way he’s looking at you right now doing little to quell the flames in your lower belly.

a sharp whine leaves your throat before you can stop yourself, nodding. “of course, hiro.”

his whole body responds to the way you give him consent, shuddering while his groin drags a little against you. he has to take a moment to compose himself, though the moment lasts less than a few seconds because he then he lowers his head, mouth closing around the sensitive, metal-clad nipple. he sucks gently at first, his warm, soft tongue moving in slow, languid licks.

there’s something so oddly intimate about this, despite the obviousness of him almost having you. it can't be described with mere words — you just... feel completely taken with him, and you know he feels the exact same. it has you wanting to slap yourself for ever second guessing how he feels about you.

your eyes flutter shut, a hand weaving into his strands as he sucks the sensitive peak, a flurry of gentle whines and whimpers leaving your lips in succession.

the sound of your whimpers — soft and needy — has him sucking harder, teeth grazing. one hand press further onto your hips, wanting to keep you here like this for as long as possible, while the other slides up to your other less than decorated nipple, fingers pinching and pulling at the skin.

“that’s it, sweetheart," he whispers softly, lips trailing a path up your chest. “let me hear you.”

his hand moves then, tracing down the flat of your stomach, his fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of whatever's still left of your dress.

you hum, helping him pull down the rest of your dress as you shimmy, till you’re fully naked, save for your cotton panties, a cute navy blue with a growing damp spot in the middle of it.

“jesus...” he breathes, voice raw when he says your name as he takes in the sight of you — flushed, trembling, so wet for him already.

hiromi’s fingers trace the damp spot over your panties with agonizing slowness, watching your hips twitch beneath his touch.

“so responsive,” he murmurs. “so perfect.”

he leans down until his mouth hovers just above the fabric. “can i take these off?”

you nod incessantly, watching as his deft fingers curl into the waistband.

you’re a little breathless when you eventually speak while his hands drag down your thighs with your permission, pushing them together slowly. “just for the record, while i think the fact that you ask for my consent is really sexy… i always want you to touch me, hiro.”

his breathing stutters at your words, his fingers now back on the edge of your panties.

a low, ragged sound rumbles from the depth of his chest.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, eyes dark and hazy with need. “i will never forget you said that.”

his fingers slide beneath the fabric, tugging softly. “lift your hips for me, baby.”

you comply obediently, lifting your hips and letting hiromi slide your underwear down your legs, a slight string of your wetness snapping and pooling against the cotton of the panties.

he watches every movement, entranced and breathless as the last scrap of fabric finally falls away, leaving you bare under his ravenous gaze and preying hands.

the glistening heat between your thighs steals his voice completely; all he can do is crawl back up your body, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh… then higher… until his breath fans over you, searing and eager.

“so pretty," he says to himself. “so wet.”

hiromi looks up at you one last time before he leans in:

“let me taste you.”

you bite your lip, eyelashes fluttering when you feel a puff of balmy air over your sensitive folds, your hole clenching over nothing, eyes lidded as you watch just how close he gets to where you want — no — need him.

“are you asking or are you telling?” you breathe out, voice sliced thick with unrepentant desire.

hiromi chuckles softly, eyes still fixed on your core as he edges closer.

“i’m telling,” he says, subdued in its tone. “i just want to make you feel good.”

his mouth is so close that it's almost like he's speaking against you. “can i, sweetheart? please," he mutters, eyes meeting yours in a way he knows you can't resist. “let me taste you.”

you whines at the way he speaks to you, it going straight to your already leaky core while your mind turns to mush even before he can even get his mouth on you. you end up just nodding dumbly.

“o-okay. yes, please.”

“good girl,” he responds, the words barely above a whisper, like a secret just for you and him.

and then his mouth is on you, hot and sure and devastating. he laps at you like he's been starving, slow at first to savor every drop, then deeper, hungrier. his tongue circles your clit with just the right pressure — one hand sliding under your lower back to hold you steady as his lips close around that sensitive nub.

“mmm,” he groans against you, on purpose but also not, feeling how your entire body jolts at the sensation.

you taste sweet and sharp all at once.

your mouth falls slack, your hand weaving into his thick dark strands as a saccharine moan flies out of your mouth.

“oh, hiro—” you sigh breathily, lidded eyes watching the way he devours at you, the way the curve of his nose digs into your puffy little clit, his groans sending little pulses of sharp pleasure through you, your essence flowing out of your tensing hole.

when he hears name on your lips like that, it nearly unravels him.

he growls against your slovenly cunt, drinking in the way you shudder and pulse under his mouth. the more you drip, the deeper he laps at you, chasing every drop. his tongue circles your clit again and again before he pulls back just enough to blow softly over your wet heat.

“so responsive,” he grunts heavily. “do you like it when i eat you out like this?”

he doesn't wait for an answer: he instead just dips two slender fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right as his mouth closes over your clit again with an intense suction.

you cry out, your fingers tugging on his hair a little tighter as he curves two fingers inside your wet cavern. a breathy “oh, fuck Hiro” climbs out of your chest, and you subconsciously raise your hips against him, body like a live wire when the curve of his angular nose digs into your clit in tandem with his soothing yet bullying tongue.

on the other hand, the way you tug on hiromi’s hair makes him shiver, the vibration travelling from his mouth to your body.

pulling his mouth away from your core ever so slowly, his fingers work even deeper, crooking just right as he looks up at you through thick, dark lashes. “say it again,” he demands, his breath fanning against your inner thigh. “my name. i want to hear it again.”

“hi-hiro,” you stutter, a heavy moan tearing out of your esophagus when his blunt fingers catch against that spongy spot inside of you, your back arching. “fuck, ‘m close… slow down… i’m gon’... ‘m gonna make a mess—!”

“yeah?” he double checks, fingers moving in fast, torturous circles.

“you want me to slow down, sweet thing?” he dips his head, kissing your inner thigh with a wet open mouth. “but i thought i was gonna make a mess of you. isn’t that what i promised, sweetheart?”

he sucks a mark into the skin — dark and blooming like the others, a quiet claim in the midst of your harvesting orgasm.

“you’re so close,” he groans in awe. “so pretty when you're about to come all over my fingers, sweetheart.”

you shake your head as if trying to will away the intensity of what’s to come, intaking a sharp breath as your stomach tenses, eyes rolling back, your mouth dropping in a silent scream as you cum all over Hiromi’s fingers and face, squirting clear liquid all over him.

you warble out his name in a sea of “oh fuck Hiro, right there, don’ stop, ‘m cumming, oh Hiro—” riding out your peak against his mouth, nose and fingers.

all the while, hiromi doesn't pull away. he can’t, not does he want to.

the moment you cry out his name, he groans low and deep, fingers still pumping deep inside you, curling them just right as your walls clamp down hard and arduous.

his lips stays locked around your clit — sucking gently, rhythmically — as you sob through your orgasm, and even as your body tenses and spasms into oversensitivity, he doesn’t stop.

he drinks your arousal like a man possessed, and his cock is painfully hard now, straining against his slacks as he grinds into the mattress below.

hiromi drags every last wave from you with slow thrusts of his fingers and soft flicks of his tongue until you’re whimpering, pushing weakly at his shoulders.

when your trembling begins to subside, he pulls back slowly: lips glistening and slick with your release. he looks up at you through hooded satisfied eyes, kissing your inner thigh gently.

you pant breathlessly, looking down at him for a second before collapsing despite already lying down, boneless. when you come to, you cover your face when you see the dampness on the sheets that still drips from your boyfriend’s face.

“please, please don’t tell me i squirted on you,” you say, muffled.

he smiles against the skin of your inner thigh, teeth grazing gently, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your blanched flesh as he watches you try to collect yourself.

“oh, sweet thing,” he coos at you, “is that what you're worried about? that you made a mess?”

he kisses right behind your knee as he pulls his fingers from you slowly, bringing them to his lips and humming in deep, vulgar satisfaction as he sucks each one clean. “i don't mind a little mess.”

you groan behind your hands, shaking your head.

“you don’t understand, hiromi… i’ve literally never done that before… i’m mortified.”

he chuckles quietly against your skin, his hands continuing to move across your body like he can’t keep them still after witnessing you fall from grace, like he just needs to be touching you.

“sweetheart, you have nothing to be embarrassed about, i promise,” he states, matter of fact.

hiromi reaches up to pull your hands away from your face, looking at you with eyes full of a tenderness that nearly burns your skin raw.

“look at me.”

you sigh, opening your bleary eyes to look down at him, letting him pull your hands away.

he looks into your eyes, his gaze locked and intense, still dark and hungry behind his usually warm and sated pupils.

“you don't have to be embarrassed," he repeats, his thumb stroking your thigh. "i liked it.”

his eyes drop to your lips and he wets his own, tongue darting out. “it made me feel so good to make you feel so good, sweetheart," he admits softly.

you can’t help but pout nonetheless. “…really?”

“baby,” he lets out, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your thigh. “i swear i loved it. i love feeling you lose control like that… knowing that i’m the one to make you—” he presses another kiss to your skin. “—feel—” kiss. “—so—”kiss. “—good.”

you sighs as he litters kisses all over your skin, chewing on your bottom lip to wane the noises that want to come pouring out. “hiro…”

the man in question lifts himself over you slowly, bracing on one arm as the other trails up your side. his lips hover just above yours.

“yeah, sweetheart?” he asks, a thick palm sliding up your soft belly, to grope at your breast, before tipping your chin upwards to him. “what do you want?”

you just… shake your head. “nothing… just want you.”

the simplicity of your words have him sighing.

“you have me," his gaze locking with yours as he grinds up his clothed core between your legs, his body settling against yours. he brushes up your cheek, thumb grazing your bottom lip. “all of me. you know that, right?”

you nod sweetly, tongue darting out to lave over his thumb. a cloying mhmm leaves your throat.

hiromi is entranced — absolutely spellbound by the sight of your tongue on his thumb and the little sound that leaves your throat in accompaniment.

“so greedy already," he tuts, sucking through his teeth as he presses his thumb gently against the wet muscle. “can’t keep your mouth off of me, even for a second, huh?”

the words are set to be teasing, and a little humiliating but all you do is shake your head, closing your eyes, sucking on his thumb with more force before blinking them back open, your eyes boring into his own, wide and wet.

the sight of you like this: lips parted, eyes wide, sucking gently on his thumb, has him pushing his thumb deeper between your lips.

“you’re going be the death of me, you know that?” he breathes. “so sweet. so pretty.”

you exhale faintly at his words, your teeth dancing around the digit, refusing to break eye contact for even a second.

hiromi lets out a slow, shaky rumble when your teeth skims his thumb. his eyes darken, jaw tightening as he watches you with barely restrained hunger.

“keep looking at me like that,” he grunts, sotto voce, "and i won't be able to go slow as i want.”

his hips shift forward instinctively, the clothed, hard length of him pressing against your thigh insistently.

“do you want me to fuck you now, sweetheart?”

your head bobs up and down wordlessly, your lips still pursed around his thumb that still slides against your tongue, eyelashes fluttering when you feel him hard against you despite the layers of all his clothes.

he groans at your silent answer, but it’s simply not enough.

hiromi pulls his thumb from your mouth slowly, pressing a quick, soft kiss to the corner of your lips. “you’re going to have to use your words for me, sweetheart,” he insists, “i want to hear you say it.”

much too pent up to retort or feel any shame about your desire for the man in front of you, you steadily oblige, a deep, warm suspiration of air leaving your chest.

“please fuck me, hiro.”

a guttural, ragged sound rips from his throat at the sound of his name coupled with your words, the wanting in your voice completely unravelling what's left of his control.

he kisses you roughly, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. “since you said that so politely...”

you smile against his lips, wrapping your arms around him as he utters those words against you, your legs spreading to wrap around his hips.

hiromi kisses you even harder now, his tongue delving in deep, his fingers gripping your bare ass as he pulls you against him.

in haste, his hands begin fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to shed the fabric keeping him from you.

he pulls away, fixing you with darkened gaze as he undoes away his tie, flinging it over the edge of the bed before shrugging out of his shirt, his eyes never leaving yours. he’s impatient, almost hurried, like he needed to be inside you yesterday or else he might go insane.

the dark haired men looks like he's barely holding on as he pulls a gold foil wrapper from his trouser pocket, black swallowed pupils watching you tentatively now, waiting to see if you’ll say no to him in any way shape or form (and although he would appease to whatever you wanted at the time, he’s convinced he might actually break right now).

you’re the only thing holding his control together, and he needs to know he can touch you right now.

you lean back, watching with longing filled eyes as hiromi strips, till he’s just as bare as you are.

his body is all lean muscle and sharp lines as he spreads his legs, ripping open the foil packet to pull out the latex.

he looks at you again, and the way you're watching him like you want to devour him alive steals whatever teasing words that he had locked and loaded at that moment.

he says your name with a rasp, clear ing his throat. “are you sure?” while rolling the condom down his pulsing length slowly. “last chance to stop.”

even though they both know there's no going back: not when he's already kneeling between your thighs, and especially not when your legs are already parting for him without his hands intervening.

you blink slowly at him, akin to a sated cat, a saccharine lilt to the sigh that leaves you, giggling breathily.

“i know you mean well, babe, but asking me if i’m sure while you roll a condom over your really hard dick…” and you trail off with a raised brow, opening your arms as you settle further into the sheets.

“just come over here already.”

he hisses out a laugh at your words, before letting rip a deep, guttural groan as his gaze drops down to the shine between your thighs. he quickly obeys, crawling forward until he's sitting up on his haunches over you.

“so bossy, sweetheart,” he sighs, hands roaming over your legs, and simply put: he cannot get enough of you. “i like it.”

you can’t help but quirk up the corner of your lips, your arms wrapping around his back, hands pressed against the planes his shoulders, your legs spreading to wrap around him.

he inhales coarsely as you pull him closer, your legs locking around his waist like a vice now.

hiromi leans down, brushing a soft peck to your lips tenderly, before dragging it to your ear.

“ready?” he rustles, the tip of him nudging against your heat, already slick and welcoming.

you give him the okay with a dip of your head, eyes looking up at him wide eyed and full of anticipation. “ready.”

a slow, steady exhale leaves him as he lines up, observing the rise and fall of your tensing stomach and fluttering eyes, the hand resting between your bodies guiding him to you.

he doesn't look away even as the thick tip of him breaches past the first ring of muscle, to which the both of you moan synchronously.

hiromi takes one of your hands, threading your fingers with his.

it’s so intimate that’s it’s almost heart-stopping.

“you okay?" he asks, every part of him so aware of how vulnerable you look and are right now.

you utter out a delicate, “mhmm,” a docile noise following soon after when you feel the rest of his weighty cock push through your wet cavern.

he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, his fingers binding around your hand.

“you feel so good," he gasps, his voice bumpy with barely tethered restraint.

he then stops for a moment, stilling to let you adjust, not wanting to hurt you.

“you okay, my love?” he whispers and asks again, scanning your face, to which your thumb brushes over the back of his hand that rests over your head.

“yeah… keep going… please.”

he leans down to smooch your forehead. “anything you want, sweetheart," he rumbles, his hips pressing forward slowly, sinking into you inch by inch until he's deep inside you, and you're both completely joined, and that feeling you’ve both never been able to shake finally makes sense.

harmonious groans leave your lips, your pussy stretching to accommodate his girth, and it’s still a struggle even though you’ve been thoroughly prepped.

looking down ever so slightly, your chest rises and falls heavily as you break eye contact to look at where your cunt is wrapped around his cock, folds swallowing up his length and sucking him in further.

the sight of you — glistening and perfect — has hiromi letting out an uncharacteristic moan, loud and brazen.

“jesus—” he hisses, your name coming out wobbly. it’s all too much, yet he can't even look away: but neither can you.

his hips twitch forward on instinct, not pulling out yet —just pressing deeper into you with a slow roll of his pelvis that makes your breath hitch and your thighs didder around him.

“feel that?" he croaks hoarsely. “all of me... for you.”

he leans down until his damp lips brush yours.

“look at me when I'm inside you," he pleads. “please.”

you tilt your head up, locking your lips with his wetly, eyes up at him. your nails dig softly into the scruff of his neck, and you lift a thigh to sit comfortably around his waist.

the way you look at him has him groaning, so he kisses you again, more thorough this time, pouring everything into it. his hips begin to move — slow at first, a gentle roll that draws a whimper from your throat.

“so sweet," he murmurs against your lips. “so damn sweet.”

hiromi’s hand slips between your bodies to touch where you’re joined, and then he’s stroking two fingers gently over your clit in small circles as his cock slides almost bottomless inside you again.

“feel good?”

you choke on a gasp, your hand flying down to hold his wrist, keeping it there as you nod.

“feels so good,” you whine. “more, hiro.”

he growls low in his throat at the sound of those words, his gaze locking onto your eyes.

“more?” he asks, breath hot on your lips. “say please, sweetheart.”

“please,” you whimper obediently and instantaneous, too wound up to retort with any sarcastic witticisms.

he rewards you with a slow, penetrating thrust, just enough to make your back arch and your breath catch, before pulling almost all the way out.

“like that?” he soughs, “or do you want it harder?”

he doesn't wait for a response this time.

with a sharp snap of his hips, he drives into you - deep and sudden - and it has you clenching down on him with every push and pull.

you squeal in ecstasy, each drag of his veiny, thick cock against your sensitive walls sending you reeling. you swear you can feel the beat of his heart inside of you as his length fucks into you, fast, wet and noisy.

one of your legs start to slip from his waist from the sheer force of his thrusts, and without breaking his rhythm, he catches it firmly to drape it over his shoulder.

“there you go, pretty thing,” he chuckles affectionately. “let me take care of you.”

the new angle makes you gasp as he sinks even deeper - each stroke hitting that sweet spot like he was made to fit right here.

he leans in close, brushing a kiss to the inside of your knee, and then up to your thigh.

hiromi’s hands finds yours again, fingers lacing tight and over your head.

your eyes practically roll back into your skull, and there’s nowhere to hide as hiromi forces your arms over your head, masking the desire of wanting to see your face wound up in pleasure with an act of romanticism.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he groans. “so perfect.”

in any other situation, you would make fun of him, teasing him for being such a romantic, but this new position has you speechless, practically sobbing as you feel the head of his cock press so much deeper, heeding the ceiling of your cervix. your eyes begin to water with pleasure, and your fingers tighten around his own, your nails digging into his knuckles.

every whimper and desperate noise that falls from your lips is symphonic, and hiromi cannot get enough.

he needs you closer.

he lets go of your hands to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you up - so you're sitting in his lap, your arms snaking around his neck on instinct, your faces so close, every shaky breath washing over the other's skin.

“there you go.”

he starts to thrust up into you with a renewed fervour, like he was born to do this - to love you like this. each snap of his hips draws a gasping sob from your throat, and he feeds on it. “that’s it… take all of me.”

you cry into his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck tighter as you pull him closer, mouth sloppily slotting over his, all teeth and saliva and tongue — hardly even a kiss at this point, but you’re desperate, wanting to be as close to him as possible.

this new position has him bouncing you up and down his cock, hips thrusting at a pace that starts to get sloppy, and you can tell what that means.

“you close? i…’m close,” you moan, eyes hazy.

hiromi breaks the kiss with a gasp, forehead dropping to yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

“so close,” he groans, voice broken. “you’re killing me, sweetheart — so tight, so wet, fuck.”

his thrusts grow deeper, more uneven; he can't hold back anymore, so one hand slides between your bodies again to rub tight circles over your swollen clit.

“come for me," he grunts against your lips. “please,” and your name comes out half a syllable or two. “…let go.”

he’s barely moving inside you now, with hiromi dragging his cock back nice and slow against that spot deep inside that makes your vision blur with white-hot pleasure.

you grunt a little animalistically when his thumb returns to your overworked love button, your thighs seizing on either side of hiromi, your nails digging into his back, sure to leave red, stinging welts.

“oh god, hiro—” you sob, tongue lolling out of your mouth. “fuck, ‘m—” and you gasp sharply, choking sweetly as you cum, eyes lulling back, vision turning white as you babble nothings that make sense to nobody, throwing your mouth over his to moan onto his tongue, all the while you creams all over his cock.

watching you hit your peak causes hiromi’s hips to stutter, then still deep inside you as the orgasm rips through him, violent and blinding.

“sh-shit—“ he chokes out against your mouth, your name following soon after as his body bows forward, pressing you into the mattress as he empties himself into the condom with a low, shuddering groan.

his breath comes in dilapidated bursts against your skin, sweat-slicked and trembling in your arms. he pants against your cheek, body still shaking, his hand stroking your hair in reverent tenderness.

“that... was incredible,” he gasps, voice still raspy from how badly he fought for breath. “i don’t think i’ve ever —fuck — come that hard.”

he presses his lips on your pout, but softly this time, his breath then hot on your neck as he nuzzles his face against it, leaving a kiss right behind your ear. “feeling okay, sweet thing?” he whispers. “i didn't hurt you, did i…? think i got a little too carried away at the end there.”

you shake your head, eyes fluttering shut as he presses wet kisses onto your moist skin.

“no, fuck no,” you contend. “that was probably the best sex of my life.”

hiromi laughs at that, the sound low and affectionate.

“yeah?” he smirks, pressing another kiss to the junction of your neck and shoulder. “best you've ever had, huh?”

he lifts his head to look at you, a cocky little grin settling on his face.

“guess i did a pretty good job, then," he says, clearly pleased with himself.

you hum, and mirror a smile back at him, nosing his damp hair. “it was more than pretty good, hiro.”

he nuzzles into your post-sex affections, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, then another just below your ear.

“you’re gonna make me fall in love with you,” he jokes quietly.

then he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes full of warmth, yet dark.

“if i haven't already.”

you raise a brow at him, your lips curled up slightly. “i mean… isn’t that the goal?”

he chuckles smoothly, shaking his head with a smirk. “you’re going to get a big head at this rate, sweetheart,”he teases, wrapping you further into his arms .

“can’t help it when the sexy man in my bed thinks my pussy is that good it could make him fall in love,” you tease.

he groans, half-laughing, half-groaning at your words. “what a way with words, my love,” he mutters, pressing his face into your neck, as if to try and hide the way you make him feel.

it’s hapless anyhow, since he can't help the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, the affection so plain and simple even in the way he speaks to you.

“but to answer your previous question… yes," he murmurs earnestly, lips still brushing over your skin like a painter and his most prized canvas. “i hope so.”

there’s a pregnant pause before you hum. “… i hope so too.”

however, he lifts his head after, eyes locking with yours - serious now.

“for the record," he says softly, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "It's not just your…pussy, or how you’d put it—” to which you laugh, and to which he kisses you to shut you up.

“…it’s you.”

you break out into a fit of light giggles anyway, holding his face to kiss all over his sharp and curved angles: from his nose to his cheekbones.

“and, for the record,” you mock teasingly, “it’s not just your gorgeous nose or big di—”

hiromi presses a hand over your mouth before you can finish that sentence, face reddening. “you can't say that,” he protests weakly.

“god, you’re shameless, woman," he grumbles, shaking his head at you.

you snort into his hand, all the while you ever so accidentally clench around hiromi’s softening penis that’s still inside of you.

you wiggle your brows up at him, amused when he jerks at the sudden clench (half-limp, half-alive, it’s hard to tell) and lets out a strangled groan.

“you're evil,” he hisses, eyes squeezing shut as if to hold back the feeling. “absolute nightmare.”

but his pelvis still twitches forward on instinct — he truly can't help it — his cock stirring again inside you with a slow, traitorous throb.

he glares down at you through heavy lashes. "don’t do that again.” his voice cracks halfway through.

“you say that but i can feel you getting hard all over again, baby,” and you whisper the last part like it’s shameful.

you pullshim down by his neck to kiss against the husk of his ear. “what’s the consensus on a round two? i’m thinking that we take a little break before we resume activities.”

he shudders as your words almost drown him from the outright viscosity, his body already responding at the mere suggestion.

“a break... sounds good,” he mumbles against your skin, planting a kiss between your shoulder and neck once more. “i’ll go get something to clean up."

hiromi pulls back, slipping out of you, making you hiss at the removal, stretching your back with a groan as you then wander around the bedroom, throwing on an oversized hoodie and some panties.

when hiro returns from the bathroom, you grin at him, passing him some folded items. “here. i, uh, have some spare men’s clothes,” to which hiromi raises a brow and you gasp in exaggerated offence, shoving his shoulder playfully, “don’t give me that look—! i like the way men’s stuff fits sometimes…” and you drop the articles into his hand. “consider this impromptu sleepover the prequel to so many better, more prepared ones in our future.”

hiromi watches you, dazed and perhaps still a little drunk on you, but he manages to laugh at the defensive grin on your face. he takes the clothes, unfolding them and glancing between them and you.

“and you’re sure you want me to stay the night?" he asks, as if you won't actually want him to.

you can only roll your eyes, deadpanning.

“baby. i am 100% sure… i would’ve liked to have gotten this crossed off of our list sooner but…” you shrug with some diffidence. “next time it can be your place… if you want.”

he’s already tugging on the soft cotton shirt as you speak. “of course i want you at my place,” he says. “anytime. any night. every night, if we can.”

he cups your face gently, his thumb brushes over your cheek. “if that's what you want too.”

you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pull him down for multiple wet smooches. “of course it’s what i want, silly.”

he kisses you back at your pace: romantic and thorough, then teasing and humorously.

“good,” he murmurs against your lips. “really good.”

he envelops his arms around you, pulling you flush against him despite the layers now between your bodies.

“then i’ll hold you to it.”

⚖ Higuruma does not flirt. He engages. The first real conversation between you is an argument, not hostile, not loud, just two people disagreeing about something specific enough to matter, neither willing to concede without cause. You do not remember who started it. You remember the moment he paused mid-sentence, looked at you like he was recalculating something, and said, “That’s a better point than I expected.” You should have been offended. You were flattered.

That was the first warning sign.

⚖ He is not charming. He is compelling, which is worse, because it cannot be turned off. Charm is a performance. Whatever Higuruma does feels structural. It is in the way he listens, the way he holds eye contact a half-second longer than comfort allows, the way he speaks with enough precision to make you feel like the only person in the room whose opinion requires that level of attention.

He is not trying.

That is the problem.

⚖ His memory borders on prosecutorial. Not in a romantic way, in an “I will quote your own words back to you in a future conversation to make a point” way. You said you did not like that restaurant three months ago. You mentioned your shoulder hurts when it rains. You told him once, offhandedly, that you hated being interrupted, and he has not interrupted you since.

Not once.

The man builds a record. He simply does not call it that.

⚖ He calls you by your name. Full name when he is serious. Shortened when he is being dry. Never a pet name. He once told you that names carry more weight when they are not buried under decoration, and you had to sit with that for an entire afternoon.

⚖ His apartment is sparse in a way that is not aesthetic. It is aftermath. It belongs to a man who once had a life organized around a career he believed in, and when that belief collapsed, the objects did not get replaced. Bookshelves still full, because those survived. Kitchen functional. Bed made with the inflexible neatness of a man who has learned that discipline is the last thing to go when everything else has.

The first time you leave something there, a hair tie on the bathroom shelf, it stays exactly where you left it for a week before he moves it to a small dish by the sink.

When you notice, he says, “It kept falling.”

It had not.

⚖ Arguing with him feels less like conflict than examination. Not because he is combative, but because rigorous exchange is his love language and he does not know how to turn it off. Say something imprecise, and he asks what you mean. Get upset and start speaking in abstractions, and he says, “I need you to be specific so I can understand what I’m responding to.”

It is maddening.

It is also the most respectful thing anyone has ever done during a disagreement with you, because underneath the cross-examination is a man who refuses to assume he already knows what you feel.

He asks.

Every time.

⚖ “You’re not angry at me.”

⚖ “I am, actually.”

⚖ “No. You’re angry at the situation, and I’m the nearest person. There’s a difference. I’d like to respond to the right one.”

⚖ You hate that he is right. You hate more that being correctly identified in the middle of an emotional spiral somehow makes it easier to breathe.

⚖ Patience, with him, is not a performance. He is simply willing to wait for you to say what you mean, even when it takes three attempts and a long silence to reach. He does not fill the gap. He does not offer you an easier word. He lets you find it. And when you do, his expression shifts in a way that tells you he was tracking every step of the journey and considering none of it wasted.

⚖ He is not always easy to be loved by. Sometimes he reaches for precision when what you wanted was softness, and you have to tell him, “I am not asking you to solve this yet.”

He goes quiet when you say it.

Not offended. Correcting course.

Then he sits beside you and says, “Then I will stay here until you are ready to define the problem.”

It is still too formal.

It still helps.

⚖ Physical affection is not intuitive for him. Not because he does not want it, but because he spent years in a profession where composure was currency and touch was something you did not initiate without consent and cause. He learns you slowly. His hand at the small of your back comes weeks after the first time he wanted to put it there. When he finally does, his fingers press once, deliberate, firm, unmistakable, and you understand that every touch from him is a decision that passed through more checkpoints than he will ever admit.

⚖ The first time he kisses you, he stops two inches from your mouth and says, “I want to be clear about what this is.”

⚖ “What is it?”

⚖ “Not casual.”

⚖ You close the distance yourself. He lets you. Then his hand comes to the side of your neck, and he kisses you like he has been preparing a case for it and just received the verdict.

⚖ He notices your shutdown before you do. The way your voice flattens, the way your rings start turning too fast, the way you pull your sleeves over your hands. He does not name it the first time. He simply says, “Do you want to leave?” in a tone that carries no judgment and no follow-up question. When you say yes, he stands, settles the bill, and walks you out with his hand at your back and his mouth shut.

In the car, he turns the music off without being asked.

At home, the lights are dimmed before you have taken your shoes off.

He does not ask if you are okay. He adjusts the environment and trusts your body to do the rest.

⚖ Later, when you have the language for it, you explain the sensory thing. How textures flip. How clothing turns hostile. How sound becomes architecture you cannot escape. He listens with the focus of a man building a framework he intends to use for the rest of his life, and when you finish, he says, “Thank you for explaining the mechanism. That helps me respond correctly.”

⚖ Not “I’m sorry.” Not “That must be hard.”

The mechanism.

Correctly.

He treats your nervous system like something with internal logic worth understanding rather than a problem to soothe into silence.

You nearly cry.

You do not tell him that.

⚖ He reads in bed the way a man reads when he has been reading himself to sleep since he was old enough to hold a book: seriously, vertically, with a pen in his other hand for marginalia. His notes are devastating. Clean handwriting, surgical observations, occasional dry commentary that makes you laugh when you find it later. He does not dog-ear pages. He uses actual bookmarks. He once gave you a look of such profound disappointment when you folded a corner that you felt like you were being sentenced.

⚖ “That is a book. It has structural integrity.”

⚖ “It’s a paperback.”

⚖ “Paperbacks have rights.”

⚖ His humor sneaks up on you. It is dry enough to desiccate, delivered without any change in expression, often embedded so deeply in an otherwise serious sentence that you do not catch it for five seconds. When you do laugh, his eyes warm.

Not his mouth.

His eyes.

The distinction wrecks you every single time.

⚖ He has never once told you that you are overthinking something.

Not once.

In a world full of people who treat your depth of processing as an inconvenience, he treats it as methodology.

“Walk me through it,” he says.

And means it.

And listens.

At the end, he says either “That tracks” or “I see it differently. Here’s why,” and both responses make you feel like a person whose thoughts have weight.

⚖ He keeps your tea stocked quietly, logistically, but the intimacy is in the pattern recognition. Morning is black. Afternoon is green. Evening is chamomile when you are winding down, ginger when you are overstimulated. You catch him once in the kitchen, choosing between two boxes with the focus of someone reviewing evidence.

He does not acknowledge that you saw.

⚖ Jealousy, in Higuruma, looks like sharpening. Someone speaks to you with too much familiarity, too much assumed access, and his posture does not change, but his attention narrows to a point so fine you can feel it from across the room.

He does not intervene.

He does not need to.

He trusts you.

What he distrusts is the assumption that proximity equals permission, and his gaze communicates this with the efficiency of a closing argument.

⚖ He told you about the law once. About what it was supposed to be. About what he thought it could do. About the first case that cracked it, and the last case that broke it. He did not cry. He did not raise his voice. He spoke with the kind of precision that only exists when someone has rehearsed the story enough times to strip it of everything except the bones, and the bones are what hurt.

⚖ You held his hand through it.

He let you.

His grip tightened once when he reached the verdict that ended it.

You did not say, “I’m sorry.”

You said, “The system failed you.”

His jaw tightened.

Then he said, “Yes.”

Like it was the first time anyone had put the weight where it actually belonged.

⚖ He sleeps facing you. Arm under the pillow, other hand resting between you on the mattress like a document left open. When you reach for it in the dark, his fingers close around yours immediately.

Not asleep.

Not fully awake.

Somewhere in between, where composure drops and reflex tells the truth.

⚖ “You don’t have to fix how I feel.”

⚖ “I’m not trying to fix it. I’m trying to understand it so I stop responding to the wrong thing.”

⚖ That sentence lives in your chest like a bruise that never stops being tender.

⚖ He will take your side in public without hesitation, but in private, he will tell you when he thinks you are wrong. Gently. Specifically. With enough evidence that you cannot dismiss it and enough care that you do not want to. Loyalty, to him, is not agreement. It is honesty with your dignity intact.

He knows the difference.

That difference is why you trust him.

⚖ His exhaustion is different from other people’s exhaustion. He is not only tired of the world’s demands. He is tired of its inconsistency. He expected it to make sense. It did not. He built a career on the premise that fairness could be enforced, then watched it collapse under the weight of its own corruption.

That disillusionment does not make him careless.

It makes him exacting.

If the system will not be fair, then he will be. In every conversation, every choice, every small domestic act of treating you with the precision the law promised everyone and delivered to almost no one.

⚖ He loves you the way he used to love justice: completely, structurally, with his whole architecture. The difference is that you love him back, and reciprocity is something the law never offered. He does not know what to do with that some days. On those days, he makes your tea and reads beside you in silence and lets his shoulder press against yours, and the contact says everything his training never taught him how to speak.

⚖ He will not tell you he loves you first. But he will build such a meticulous, airtight, irrefutable case for it in every action, every morning, every careful touch, every argument he lets you win because your reasoning was better, that by the time you say it, you are not confessing.

You are delivering a verdict he has already proven.

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and before anyone asks: no, he is not calling you kitten. the defense finds no basis in canon, characterization, or human dignity.

Arriving home, the apartment door clicks shut behind the three of you. Hiromi immediately heads for the kitchen, shedding his jacket over the back of a chair, “Whiskey orrr whiskey?” he calls without turning around. You drop your bag on the entry table with more force than necessary. Nanami stays near the door for a second longer than he needs to, loosening his tie with the same deliberate calm he used to use when he was about to end a long day by ending things with you.

“Whiskey’s fine,” Nanami says. Hiromi pours three glasses without asking if anyone wants ice. He hands one to Nanami first then you. You all sit. You take the couch. Nanami takes the armchair across from you. Hiromi perches on the arm of the couch next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against your shoulder.

“So.” He swirls the glass lazily. “Kento. Still doing the corporate bullshit. “Or did you finally tell them to fuck off like we talked about senior year?” Nanami smiles, “Still employed. Still billing hours. You?”

“Still losing cases I should win and winning ones I shouldn’t.” Hiromi shrugs. “Same shit. You remember that class I had to retake four damn times?” “Oh—yeah,” he says, motioning toward you with a small lift of his chin. “You were in it. Same section. Same professor. You used to finish the hypotheticals before Ikeda even finished reading the facts. I sat behind you every Tuesday and Thursday.”

“Ikeda’s class. The one with the curved grading and the weekly hypotheticals that made half the section cry.” Hiromi clarifies. Nanami nods once. “That one.” Hiromi’s gaze snaps to you disbelieving, “You were in Ikeda’s morning section?”

You swallow. “Yeah.” staring into your whiskey like it might grow a mouth and save you.

Nanami continues, “We dated for a little over a year. Then I graduated early. Corporate offer came in. Timing didn’t work.” ‘GODFCKN DAMNIT KENTO why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut.’

Hiromi goes still. The room is so quiet you can hear the refrigerator hum. Hiromi takes a sip slowly. “You dated,” he repeats. Hiromi looks at you then sets his glass down with a soft clink. “So,” he says casually, “you two have history.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Hiromi—”

Hiromi lets out a short, incredulous laugh that has no humor in it. “I was in the afternoon section. Same professor. Same material. Same fucking hell. And you—” He points at you, then at Nanami, then back at you. “—were in the same goddamn classroom as him. Every Tuesday and Thursday. For a whole semester.” You open your mouth. Nothing helpful comes out. Nanami exhales through his nose—the same sound Hiromi makes. It’s uncanny. Hiromi’s eyes flick to you. “And then you met me.”

You glare. “You’re making this weird.” “I’m making it honest.” He leans back, arms crossed. “I mean, come on. My old college friend—who I haven’t seen in years—happens to be your ex. And neither of you thought to mention it until we’re all three sitting here.”

Nanami looks at you. “I thought you would have told him.” “I thought it was ancient history,” you mutter. Hiromi snorts. “Ancient history, sure. So, which one of us fucks you better?” Kento chokes on his drink, as you shoot your boyfriend a glare, “What has gotten into you?!”

“What’s gotten into me?” he echoes, “I don’t know—maybe the fact that my girlfriend’s ex is sitting in my living room, drinking my whiskey, and apparently sat behind her in the same goddamn Contracts class I used to come home and bitch about every single week. Maybe it’s the part where neither of you thought that was worth mentioning. Ever. Or maybe—” he tilts his head, eyes flicking between you and Nanami, “—it’s the part where I’m sitting here realizing the guy who used to steal my ramen and proofread my briefs is the same guy who used to fuck my girlfriend.”

Nanami sets his glass down carefully. “Hiromi,” he says gently, “That’s enough.” Hiromi’s laugh is bitter, “Is it? Because I’m just getting started.”

You stand up so fast the couch creaks. “Hiromi, stop.” He looks up at you angrily, “I’m not mad at you,” he says, “I am mad that you lied. For pulling this shit tonight. I’m mad that I invited him here like an idiot because I was happy to see an old friend. And I’m mad that—” He gestures vaguely at the three of you. “—this is happening. All of it.”

Nanami stands slowly. “I can go.” Hiromi’s head snaps toward him. “Sit the fuck down, Kento.”

Nanami doesn’t sit. He just stays standing, hands loose at his sides, waiting. Hiromi exhales, “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “That was out of line. The question. All of it.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I just… I don’t know how to process this without sounding like a jealous asshole.”

You soften despite yourself. “You’re not an asshole. You’re just… processing. Loudly.” He huffs a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Nanami goes to turn and leave, “I didn’t come here to cause problems,” he says. “And I’m not here to compete. If you want me to leave, I will. No hard feelings.” Hiromi studies him for a long beat. Then he looks at you again. “I don’t want either of you to leave.” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his already wrecked hair. “You’re really gonna say that right now.”

You shrug, helpless. “It’s the truth.” He looks between you and Nanami like he’s weighing between jealousy, curiosity, maybe both and then his mouth curves into a smirk. “Alright then,” he says, sliding off the arm of the couch, settling properly beside you, one arm draping behind your shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of your neck as his eyes stay locked on Nanami.

“You still think about her?” Hiromi asks bluntly. Kento takes a sip before answering. “I don’t lie to myself about the past,” he says evenly. “Yes. Sometimes.”

Hiromi’s thumb strokes once against you, “And you?” He turns to you, voice dropping. “You still think about him?”

“Sometimes,” you admit softly, “Not like before. But… yeah.” Hiromi nods once, like that’s the permission he needed. He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Then go ahead and fuck him.” Your cough turns into a startled laugh. “Go on, baby. I know you want to.” He urges you again. You hesitate before softly saying, “Ken… come here.”

Hiromi shifts, pulling you back against his chest so you’re half in his lap, legs parting instinctively as Nanami sinks to one knee between them. Kento’s hands settle on your thighs, pushing the fabric of your dress up inch by inch while Hiromi mouths along the side of your neck, “Look at her,” Hiromi murmurs against your skin, “Isn’t she so pretty.”

Nanami’s thumbs trace slow circles higher, higher, until they brush the damp lace between your legs. You arch without meaning to, a soft moan slipping out. Hiromi hums approvingly, one hand sliding down to cup your breast through the dress, thumb flicking over the nipple until it pebbles.

Kento hooks his hand through your wet panties, shoving them aside. The first swipe of his tongue is slow, like he’s relearning every inch. You gasp, hips jerking, but Hiromi bands an arm around your waist, holding you still. “Easy, baby,” he soothes, even as his other hand works the zipper of your dress down. “Let him taste what he’s been missing.”

Nanami groans against you, his tongue circles your clit once, twice, then dips lower, lapping at your pussy. Hiromi’s already hard against your ass through his slacks. His arm tightens around you, holding you open, “Tell him how much you missed this,” Hiromi whispers, “Tell him, baby. He’s listening.”

You start trembling and whimpering, “I—I missed your mouth, Ken. The way you… fuck, the way you always knew exactly—” Nanami doesn’t let you finish—just doubles down, sucking gently on your clit until your thighs tremble. Hiromi finally gets your dress off your shoulders, baring your breasts to the cool air of the apartment. He rolls one nipple between his fingers, pinching just hard enough to make you whine.

“Look at him,” Hiromi orders, “Look at how much he wants this.” You do. Nanami’s eyes are half-lidded and focused, blond hair falling forward as he works you over with devastating patience. When he slides two fingers inside making you whimper, back bowing. Hiromi laughs softly, “There it is. That sound I love.”

He shifts behind you, freeing himself from his pants with one hand while the other keeps you pinned. His cock presses hot and heavy against your lower back as he strokes himself lazily, watching Nanami devour you. “Think you can take both of us?” Hiromi asks, lips at your ear. “Like we talked about that one night. Remember my pretty girl?” Your brain short-circuits. “Yes—fuck, yes.” Nanami pulls back just enough to speak, lips shiny. “Hell yes.”

Hiromi nods in agreenment, before pressing a kiss beneath your ear. “You heard him, sweetheart. He’s in.”

Nanami rises smoothly to his feet, shedding his jacket, The metallic clink is obscenely loud in the quiet room. Hiromi helps you turn, maneuvering you until you’re facing the back of the couch, knees sinking into the cushions, ass presented. “Hands here,” Hiromi murmurs, guiding your palms to the backrest. “Keep them there unless one of us says otherwise.” You nod, breath hitching.

He walks around behind you, slapping your ass as Kento appears in front of you. “Hi, pretty girl.” He tips your chin up with two fingers. “Open.” You do, tongue flat, and he slides in slow—filling your mouth inch by inch until your lips stretch around him. The weight of him on your tongue makes you moan around the shaft; he exhales sharply through his nose, hand sliding into your hair to guide the rhythm.

Behind you, Hiromi lines up, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave prints, the other spreading you open. He pushes in with one long, steady thrust, your back arching with a muffled cry vibrating around Kento's cock.

“Fuck,” Higuruma rasps, “So tight after all that arguing earlier. You were waiting for this, weren’t you?” You can’t answer—mouth full—but you push back against him, clenching deliberately. He groans, hips snapping forward harder, setting a brutal pace that rocks you onto Nanami’s length.

His control slips a fraction. Hiromi’s thrusts drive you forward forcing more of Nanami’s cock past your lips until the head bumps the back of your throat. You gag softly, eyes watering, swirling your tongue under the ridge just the way you remember he liked. The two of them find rhythm without speaking: one pulls out as the other pushes in, seesawing you between them until your whole body is shaking.

“Goddamn,” Hiromi growls, fingers digging deeper into your hips as he watches the way your throat works around Nanami. “Look at that. Taking him like you never forgot how.” He begins thrusting deeper, balls slapping against you with every snap. You whine around Nanami’s cock—drool slipping down your chin—as Higuruma angles just right. Kento tightens his grip in your hair, fucking your mouth while Higuruma rails you. Nanami pulls out just enough to let you gasp, strings of spit connecting your lips to his tip. “Words,” he says calmly. “Tell us how it feels, baby.”

You manage a whimpered, “F-fuck—full—don’t stop—” Higuruma’s rhythm stutters at your voice. They sync up—Higuruma slamming deep from behind, Nanami sliding back into your mouth. The position holds: you bridged between them, body rocking with every thrust, throat and cunt stuffed. Nanami’s thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away a stray tear that slipped free when you took him especially deep. “Still so good at this. Always were.”

Hiromi laughs possessively, “Yeah? Tell me something I don’t know, Kento.”

Nanami’s eyes flick to Hiromi over the top of your head, “She used to come untouched just from sucking me off,” he says, “First time it happened she cried—thought something was wrong with her. Took me half an hour of coaxing to get her to admit how close she was.”

Hiromi’s thrusts turned punishing, that comment clearly hit a nerve. “Is that right?” Hiromi rasps, one hand sliding up your spine to fist lightly in your hair, tilting your head back so Nanami can sink even deeper. “You never told me that, baby. Keeping secrets from me now?”

You can’t answer—mouth too full, throat working frantically—but your body does: a fresh gush of wetness before you come first shaking hard, muffled screams around Kento as your walls flutter and clamp down on Hiromi as his pace turns erratic. “Fuck—fuck, that’s it—squeeze me just like that—”

Nanami pulls out of your mouth with a wet pop, hand stroking himself fast, eyes locked on your wrecked expression. “Where do you want it?” he asks, voice strained. You don’t even have to think. “On me,” you rasp, voice hoarse. “Both of you.”

Hiromi swears viciously as he pulls out at the last second, flips you onto your back so fast the room spins, then straddles your hips. They stroke themselves in tandem—Hiromi’s hand flying over his cock, Nanami’s slower but no less desperate—until they both come.

Hiromi comes first, hot stripes painting your stomach, your breasts, one pulse landing across your nipple. Nanami follows seconds later, spilling over your chest, your collarbone, a few drops catching your chin when you tilt your head back for him. Hiromi exhales roughly, dropping down beside you, pulling you half into his lap before reaches for the throw blanket on the back of the couch and drapes it gently over your lower half.

Hiromi snorts softly. “Ever the gentleman even when he’s fucked my girlfriend. Classic Kento.” Nanami’s mouth quirks—just the tiniest hint of a smile. “Someone has to be.”

You laugh, weak and shaky, head lolling against Hiromi’s shoulder. “You two are ridiculous.”

Nanami disappears into the hallway without a word, returning a minute later with a damp washcloth and a glass of water. Classic fuckin’ Kento, what a sweetie. He hands you the glass first. You take it with trembling fingers, sip slowly, grateful for the cool slide down your raw throat. Then he kneels again between your spread thighs and gently wipes the mess from your stomach, your breasts, your collarbones with slow careful strokes.

Hiromi watches the whole thing with half-lidded eyes, one arm still slung around your shoulders. “You always this sweet after you come on someone else’s girl, Kento?” Nanami doesn’t look up from his task. “Only when she asks nicely.”

You choke on a laugh that turns into a soft groan when the cloth brushes a particularly sensitive spot. “Stop. Both of you.” Hiromi smirks, reaches over to take the washcloth from Kento’s hand, and finishes the job himself dragging the damp fabric across your nipple until it pebbles again under the attention.

You look back up at Kento, about to ask him not to leave before Hiromi beats you to it. “You should stay,” he says, “Since it’s already so late y’know.”

Kento looks up, eyes flicking from Hiromi to you. You reach out before you can overthink it, fingers curling loosely around Nanami’s wrist. “Please,” you add softly. “Stay.” He brushes your hair to the side of your face, “Alright, of course. I’ll stay.”

Hiromi smirks lazily, already reaching for the half-empty whiskey glasses on the table. “Good. Because we’re not done catching up.” You bury your face in Hiromi’s neck to hide your blushing.

Whatta small world, indeed.

You whimpered, digging your nails into his shoulders. You swallowed, trembling in anticipation.

"Is...is it, uh...in yet--"

Kento slammed into you again, creamy white lube squelching out of you onto the bed as you muffled your cries into the pillow, swearing you could feel him in your ribs.

Kento continued this for three, five, seven, nine, eleven minutes, until you were forced to admit, begrudgingly, that he and his seed were definitely in.

Higuruma:

Hiromi's eyes fluttered open. Having just released a sinful whimper from you sinking down onto his length, his brain suddenly short-circuited in fractious self-doubt and hyper analysis. In the end, nothing he could think took precedence, apart from a dumb:

"I'm-- I'm sorry? Is it...?"

Hiromi grasped your hips, pulling his shirt up and gripping it between his teeth so he could see where you were joined in his lap. He bucked up, just once, pausing for just long enough to shiver and moan at the slick, wet velvet of you. His head tipped back again with a weary sigh.

"You know," Hiromi chastised, grasping your hips to roll you over his cock, his hands strong, confident, "I'm so fucking tired, I'd have believed you. That I wasn't in."

You smirked above him, eliciting hushed whimpers and groans as you started to ride him. Hiromi allowed you to settle into your rhythm, before he berated you again.

"But also," he bickered, "how dare you, you cheeky cow, 'is it in yet', like I don't rail you blind every night with my 'is it in yet'--

You laughed, his chastisement turned punishing as he bounced you on him with glee, comedy turned feral.

"Oooo-ooohhh fuck-- love it when you-- when you think you're being funny-- love it--" Hiromi groaned, his voice muffled, his shirt hem between his teeth again as his eyes fixated on your stretched pussy sliding down his cock. You laughed, whimpering, breathless.

"I--I am funny--"

"--yeah yeah, alright, sweetheart-- keep telling yourself that--"

Toji:

Intending to hold onto your hair just a bit, Toji instead pulled you up fully, from your hands and knees. With your back to his chest, speared upon him, you squealed. You felt the bulbous tip of him bully against your cervix, and squirmed, gasping his name.

"The fuck you mean, 'is it in yet?"?"

You groaned, regretting your decision already. Toji reached up and gently slapped your cheek, until your eyes opened, and he pointed to the mirror in front of you. You could see him smirking over your shoulder.

When he saw your eyes drift to the base of his cock, slick with your arousal, deep inside you, and angled upwards so you could see the bulging underside, he smirked again, twitching his erection once, twice, three times so you could see.

Snapping your moan in half, Toji fucked upwards once, hard.

"Is it in yet?" He mocked, his breaths heavy as he fucked, and you squealed, and he fucked, laughing.

"Is it in yet? Come on baby, tell me. Is it in yet? Is it? Shit, kid. I dunno, I need you to tell me. Is it in yet? Is it in yet?"

If only he'd stop impaling you on him for long enough for you to answer.

True!Form Sukuna:

He laughed. He actually laughed. He only stopped laughing when you, sweating with fearful uncertainty, started laughing too. Then, he grabbed your face, rough in one long-nailed hand.

"What do they teach girls these days?" Sukuna rumbled, tsk-ing, batting your cheek from side to side with his palm and the back of his hand; a cat with a mouse.

"Whatever they teach you," he sighed, with your thighs spread upon his, sat on his throne, "I will offer you the chance to be untaught."

You nodded, panting as he let go of your body, and you choked out and whimpered as you slid further and further down his lower length. You felt the heavy, thickening weight of his upper length, resting against your back.

Sukuna left you like this, hands-free, to be slowly impaled as he watched, almost bored. He seemed to be waiting for something.

"Well, come on then," he drawled, his jaw leaned on one hand, with one finger lazily circling your clit, just to feel your cunt flutter around him, "beg me."

Your brain stuttered, your pussy so stuffed you could hardly think; "Beg--b-beg for...for what...my Lord?"

"Beg me to unteach you whatever drivel it is they taught you, that you should think it funny to ask your master 'is it in yet?'"

You didn't hesitate, babbling, one of his hands circling round to grasp you by the throat as you did. "P-please unteach me, my Lord, I was just being silly, just--just--forgive me--"

Sukuna hummed, his half-smile almost gentle as he began to lift you off him again, enjoying the way your pussy clenched around his lower cock as you choked.

"Lovely manners." He purred. You jolted, gasping as you felt the thick tip of his upper cock begin to squeeze into your ass. You saw stars, blinded by the enormity of him, made dumb by your own stupid attempt at comedy.

◆ He calls you by your name. Full name when he is serious. Shortened when he is being dry. Never a pet name. He once told you that names carry more weight when they are not buried under decoration, and you had to sit with that for an entire afternoon.

◆ His apartment is sparse in a way that is not aesthetic — it is aftermath. It belongs to a man who once had a life organized around a career he believed in, and when that belief collapsed, the objects did not get replaced. Bookshelves still full, because those survived. Kitchen functional. Bed made with military precision, because discipline is the last thing to go when everything else has. The first time you leave something there — a hair tie on the bathroom shelf — it stays exactly where you left it for a week before he moves it to a small dish by the sink. When you notice, he says, “It kept falling.” It had not.

◆ Arguing with him feels less like conflict than examination. Not because he is combative, but because rigorous exchange is his love language and he does not know how to turn it off. Say something imprecise, and he asks what you mean. Get upset and start speaking in abstractions, and he says, “I need you to be specific so I can understand what I’m responding to.” It is maddening. It is also the most respectful thing anyone has ever done during a disagreement with you, because underneath the cross-examination is a man who refuses to assume he already knows what you feel. He asks. Every time.

◆ “You’re not angry at me.”

◆ “I am, actually.”

◆ “No. You’re angry at the situation, and I’m the nearest person. There’s a difference. I’d like to respond to the right one.”

◆ You hate that he is right. You hate more that being correctly identified in the middle of an emotional spiral somehow makes it easier to breathe.

◆ Patience, with him, is not a performance. He is simply willing to wait for you to say what you mean, even when it takes three attempts and a long silence to reach. He does not fill the gap. He does not offer you an easier word. He lets you find it. And when you do, his expression shifts in a way that tells you he was tracking every step of the journey and considering none of it wasted.

◆ Physical affection is not intuitive for him. Not because he does not want it, but because he spent years in a profession where composure was currency and touch was something you did not initiate without consent and cause. He learns you slowly. His hand at the small of your back comes weeks after the first time he wanted to put it there. When he finally does, his fingers press once — deliberate, firm, unmistakable — and you understand that every touch from him is a decision that passed through more checkpoints than he will ever admit.

◆ The first time he kisses you, he stops two inches from your mouth and says, “I want to be clear about what this is.”

◆ “What is it?”

◆ “Not casual.”

◆ You close the distance yourself. He lets you. Then his hand comes to the side of your neck, and he kisses you like he has been preparing a case for it and just received the verdict.

◆ He notices your shutdown before you do. The way your voice flattens, the way your rings start turning too fast, the way you pull your sleeves over your hands. He does not name it the first time. He simply says, “Do you want to leave?” in a tone that carries no judgment and no follow-up question. When you say yes, he stands, settles the bill, and walks you out with his hand at your back and his mouth shut. In the car, he turns the music off without being asked. At home, the lights are dimmed before you have taken your shoes off. He does not ask if you are okay. He adjusts the environment and trusts your body to do the rest.

◆ Later, when you have the language for it, you explain the sensory thing. How textures flip. How clothing turns hostile. How sound becomes architecture you cannot escape. He listens with the focus of a man building a framework he intends to use for the rest of his life, and when you finish, he says, “Thank you for explaining the mechanism. That helps me respond correctly.”

◆ Not “I’m sorry.” Not “That must be hard.” The mechanism. Correctly. He treats your nervous system like something with internal logic worth understanding rather than a problem to soothe into silence. You nearly cry. You do not tell him that.

◆ He reads in bed the way a man reads when he has been reading himself to sleep since he was old enough to hold a book — seriously, vertically, with a pen in his other hand for marginalia. His notes are devastating. Clean handwriting, surgical observations, occasional dry commentary that makes you laugh when you find it later. He does not dog-ear pages. He uses actual bookmarks. He once gave you a look of such profound disappointment when you folded a corner that you felt like you were being sentenced.

◆ “That is a book. It has structural integrity.”

◆ “It’s a paperback.”

◆ “Paperbacks have rights.”

◆ His humor sneaks up on you. It is dry enough to desiccate, delivered without any change in expression, often embedded so deeply in an otherwise serious sentence that you do not catch it for five seconds. When you do laugh, his eyes warm. Not his mouth. His eyes. The distinction wrecks you every single time.

◆ He has never once told you that you are overthinking something. Not once. In a world full of people who treat your depth of processing as an inconvenience, he treats it as methodology. “Walk me through it,” he says. And means it. And listens. At the end, he says either “That tracks” or “I see it differently — here’s why,” and both responses make you feel like a person whose thoughts have weight.

◆ He keeps your tea stocked with a specificity that borders on archival. Not just your brand — your schedule. Morning is black. Afternoon is green. Evening is chamomile when you’re winding down, ginger when you’re overstimulated. You catch him once, standing in the kitchen, choosing between two boxes with the focus of someone reviewing evidence. He does not acknowledge that you saw.

◆ Jealousy, in Higuruma, looks like sharpening. Someone speaks to you with too much familiarity, too much assumed access, and his posture does not change, but his attention narrows to a point so fine you can feel it from across the room. He does not intervene. He does not need to. He trusts you. What he distrusts is the audacity of someone who has not earned the right to stand that close, and his gaze communicates this with the efficiency of a closing argument.

◆ He told you about the law once. About what it was supposed to be. About what he thought it could do. About the first case that cracked it, and the last case that broke it. He did not cry. He did not raise his voice. He spoke with the kind of precision that only exists when someone has rehearsed the story enough times to strip it of everything except the bones, and the bones are what hurt.

◆ You held his hand through it. He let you. His grip tightened once when he reached the verdict that ended it. You did not say, “I’m sorry.” You said, “The system failed you.” His jaw tightened. Then he said, “Yes.” Like it was the first time anyone had put the weight where it actually belonged.

◆ He sleeps facing you. Arm under the pillow, other hand resting between you on the mattress like a document left open. When you reach for it in the dark, his fingers close around yours immediately. Not asleep. Not fully awake. Somewhere in between, where composure drops and reflex tells the truth.

◆ “You don’t have to fix how I feel.”

◆ “I’m not trying to fix it. I’m trying to understand it so I stop responding to the wrong thing.”

◆ That sentence lives in your chest like a bruise that never stops being tender.

◆ He will take your side in public without hesitation, but in private, he will tell you when he thinks you are wrong — gently, specifically, with enough evidence that you cannot dismiss it and enough care that you do not want to. Loyalty, to him, is not agreement. It is honesty with your dignity intact. He knows the difference, and that difference is why you trust him.

◆ He is tired, but not in the way people usually mean. Not overworked. Not burned out. Disillusioned — which is quieter, and cuts deeper. He expected the world to make sense. It didn’t. He built a career on the premise that fairness could be enforced, then watched it collapse under the weight of its own corruption. That disillusionment doesn’t make him bitter. It makes him exacting. If the system won’t be fair, then he will be — in every conversation, every choice, every small domestic act of treating you with the precision and care that the law promised everyone and delivered to almost no one.

◆ He loves you the way he used to love justice — completely, structurally, with his whole architecture. The difference is that you love him back, and reciprocity is something the law never offered. He does not know what to do with that some days. On those days, he makes your tea and reads beside you in silence and lets his shoulder press against yours, and the contact says everything his training never taught him how to speak.

◆ He will not tell you he loves you first. But he will build such a meticulous, airtight, irrefutable case for it in every action, every morning, every careful touch, every argument he lets you win because your reasoning was better, that by the time you say it, you are not confessing. You are delivering a verdict he has already proven.

a/n — higuruma is a disillusioned defense attorney whose belief in justice was so fundamental it became his cursed technique. he is not going to call you “kitten.” 🥴