dare i say, divorce lawyer!higuruma who becomes infatuated by you, a client, who hires him to divorce her husbandâ nanami kento. dare i??
the first time you see higuruma, itâs across a polished mahogany table that smells faintly of lemon cleaner and old paper.
the office is too quiet; so quiet, in fact, that it makes you hyperaware of your own breathing, the subtle rustle of fabric when you shift in your chair, the distant hum of traffic filtered through sealed windows.
he sits there in his dark suit, sleeves crisp and precisely cuffed, his tie knotted with geometric perfection, hands folded on the table before him like a man about to pass judgment rather than ask questions. hiromi higuruma isnât smiling. you get the sense he rarely does, you donât expect him to, but you do wonder what he would look like if he did.
his eyes are sharp, dissecting you the way a surgeon studies an incision site before making the first cut. thereâs something in the set of his mouth that suggests heâs already forming conclusions about you, filing them away in that orderly mind of his.
you tell him your name, your voice steadier than you expected. you tell him you want a divorce from nanami kento, your husband of 5 years.
his expression remains perfectly neutral as he writes something down, the scratch of his pen steady and controlled, each letter formed with deliberate precision. when he finally looks up, his gaze meets yours without any change. âand why?â he asks, his voice even and measured. thereâs no judgment in it, no curiosity beyond what the case requires.
why do you want to divorce nanami?
because loving nanami feels like loving something immovable, something solid and dependable that will never surprise you again. because you are exhausted in ways that sleep cannot fix, tired of reaching across a table and finding nothing but polite conversation where passion used to live. because somewhere along the way, marriage transformed into routine and routine hardened into silence, and now you cannot remember the last time you laughed together, really laughed, the kind that leaves you breathless and tear-eyed. because you still love him, god, you do, but it feels like drowning in warm water, too gentle to fight against, too suffocating to survive in much longer.
you donât say any of that, instead, very carefully, you say, âwe grew apart.â
higuruma watches you for a long moment, and in that silence you feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing. he notices the tremor in your fingers where they rest on the arm of the chair. he notices the way your eyes glass over but donât spill, how youâre fighting to maintain composure. he notices, too, the way you donât wear your ring anymore, though thereâs a faint indentation on your skin where it used to sit, a ghost of commitment that hasnât quite faded.
âdoes he know?â he asks quietly. âthat youâre considering this?â
you shake your head, unable to use words.
he nods once, makes another note, and continues with the next question. he is professional, indeed, very detached. the way a good lawyer should be.
nanami finds out a week later.
he doesnât shout when the papers arrive. that would be easier somehow, cleaner, something you could point to as justification. he doesnât accuse you of anything, doesnât beg, not at first anyway.
he just stands there in the living room of the house you picked together three years ago, the one with the windows you both fell in love with and the kitchen you planned to renovate someday, his tie loosened from work, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose the way they always do when heâs tired. he stares at the file like itâs written in a language he doesnât understand, like if he reads it enough times the words might rearrange themselves into something less devastating.
âyou already hired a lawyer,â he says quietly, and itâs not a question.
you canât look at him. you focus instead on the slight crack in the corner of the window frame, the one heâs been meaning to fix for months.
âis there someone else?â he asks after a long pause.
the question is calm, too calm, uttered with the controlled composure that comes from years of practice keeping emotions in check. and it makes something inside you fracture, because you recognize that control, youâve always recognized it, itâs the very thing thatâs been slowly suffocating you. you hated it about him the most.
âno,â you whisper, and your voice breaks on the word. âthere isnât.â
that part, at least, is true.
. . . but there is something else, something you canât quite name, something that begins to grow in the spaces between meetings with higuruma.
because the more time you spend with him, discussing assets and timelines and the cold logistics of dismantling a life you built with someone you still love, the more you notice things about him.
the way he listens without interrupting, letting your words settle before responding. the way his voice drops slightly when you look overwhelmed, softening around the edges without losing its professional quality. the way he pours you tea during consultations like itâs the most natural thing in the world and attending to your comfort is simply part of his responsibility.
he doesnât flirt with you. he never oversteps, never says anything that could be construed as unprofessional. his behavior is impeccable, precisely what youâd expect from someone with his reputation.
but sometimes, when youâre speaking, you catch him staring. not at your body, not at your lips, but at your face, at your eyes, and when you pause, confused, he looks away immediately, returning to his notes with perfect composure that youâve come to hate on anyone.
âyouâre still in love with him,â he says one evening, late in a consultation thatâs run past office hours. youâve just admitted that nanami asked you to reconsider, that heâs been making efforts to change, to see you, to bridge the distance youâve been feeling for a while.
you laugh weakly, surprised by the observation. âthatâs not very helpful legal advice, higuruma-san.â
âiâm not speaking as your lawyer,â he replies, and the less guarded appearance of his voice surprises you.
silence settles between you, thick and charged.
âi can request a different attorney,â he adds after a moment, his tone shifting back toward formality. âif you believe my involvement has become⌠compromised in any way.â
your heart stutters in your chest. you understand what heâs saying, what heâs asking without quite asking.
âhas it?â you ask softly and your voice sounds strange to your own ears. it almost feels like watching yourself from the sidelines.
for the first time since you met him, higuruma hesitates. you watch him war with himself, watch the conflict play out across features usually so controlled and the sight is almost startling in its humanity.
âyes,â he says finally, the word hanging heavy between you.
you mutter something about proceeding with him and he nods, regret flashing in his eyes.
. . . and nanami doesnât make the process easy, despite the papers moving forward.
he begins coming home earlier than usual, leaving work at reasonable hours for the first time in years. he cooks your favorite meals, the ones he learned to make early in your marriage when you were both still figuring out how to share a kitchen. he fixes small things around the house you hadnât even realized were broken, the squeaky hinge on the bathroom cabinet, the loose drawer pull in the kitchen, the light thatâs been flickering in the hallway for months.
he doesnât plead on his knees or make grand romantic gestures; thatâs not who he is, and you both know it. instead he stands tall and composed, going about these small acts of service with quiet determination, but thereâs desperation in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his eyes follow you around rooms. like he longs to say something but he doesnât know what.
âtell me what i did,â he says one night, finding you in the kitchen long after dinner. his voice is low, rougher than usual. âtell me what to fix, and iâll fix it. iâll do anything.â
you want to scream at him that he didnât do anything wrong, thatâs the problem. heâs steady and reliable and safe, and you have felt yourself slowly shrinking inside that safety, like a plant kept in shade too long, still alive but pale, reaching toward light it canât quite find. thereâs no villain in this story, no clear antagonist, and somehow that makes it worse.
âi donât feel seen,â you finally admit, the words escaping before you can stop them.
nanamiâs expression crumbles, an unexpected crack in that carefully maintained composure. âi see you. youâre my wife,â he says, and he sounds genuinely confused, genuinely hurt. you feel bad for him, for hurting him, but you canât bring yourself to stop.
âyou look at me,â you correct, and now the tears are slipping free, hot and humiliating. âbut you donât see me. not anymore. not the way you used to.â
he steps forward, hands hovering at your waist like heâs afraid youâll curl into yourself if he touches you too firmly. you can feel the warmth of his hands almost touching you and it feels like too much.
âi love you,â he says, âi have always loved you. i will always love you.â
the absolute worst part is that you believe him completely, staring firmly onto the place on his shirt where his heart is supposed to be as you let him hold you close and cradle the back of your head like heâs always done when you needed him. itâs a shame that he has to do it in these circumstances.
higuruma shouldnât meet you outside the office.
he knows that. you know that. every professional instinct, every ethical guideline, every rational thought screams that this is a terrible idea.
but when you call him late one night, voice shaking after another devastating conversation with nanami, he comes anyway.
you meet at a quiet bar on the edge of the city, somewhere neither of you is likely to be recognized. dim lights reflect off glassware arranged behind the counter, casting shadows across his face that make him look older, wearier, more human than youâve ever seen him. he sits close to you, closer than appropriate, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, but he doesnât touch you.
you talk and he talks, you drink and he drinks. you donât relax and he doesnât either.
âthis is unethical,â he murmurs after a bit. you can hear the self-recrimination in his voice.
âthen leave,â you whisper. âno oneâs stopping you.â
you donât know who leans in first. maybe itâs mutual, a collision of loneliness and want and tension thatâs been building for months, years, lifetimes.
his hand cups your jaw with surprising gentleness, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like heâs testing whether youâre real, whether this is actually happening. when he kisses you, itâs restrained hunger finally snapping loose, years of discipline crumbling in a single moment. thereâs something desperate in the way his mouth moves against yours, something that speaks of wanting things heâs never allowed himself to want.
it feels different from nanamiâs kisses. nanami kisses like a promise, like a vow renewed each time. higuruma kisses like a confession, like heâs telling you secrets with his mouth that he could never put into words.
you pull away first, breath unsteady, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. everything just feels wrong.
âiâm still married,â it comes out like an apology when you say it, the shame of your realisation flooding you.
âyouâre my lawyer.â or you were. or something. the lines have blurred beyond recognition.
âi know.â he rests his forehead against yours, and you can feel him breathing, can feel the effort it takes for him to maintain control. when he speaks again, his voice drops even lower. âand i have thought about you in ways that are inexcusable. in ways that violate every professional boundary iâve ever maintained.â
your pulse roars in your ears. âthen excuse yourself,â you challenge, though your fingers are gripping his jacket like you might fall without something to hold onto.
he laughs, low and humorless, a sound without any real amusement in it. âif i were a better man,â he says quietly. âif i were the man iâm supposed to be.â
you pull away and let go of his jacket as if burned. that evening you can barely look nanami in the eye and shame still courses through you when you throw your clothes into the washing machine and wash yourself until your skin is irritated, unable to clean away the dirty feeling.
the divorce proceedings become complicated after that.
higuruma requests to formally transfer your case to a colleague, citing a conflict of interest. the transition is seamless on paper, handled with the same precision he brings to everything.
nanami notices the change immediately.
âwhy the switch?â he asks during mediation, his eyes narrowing slightly.
âconflict of interest,â higuruma answers smoothly, not meeting anyoneâs gaze directly.
nanamiâs eyes flick between you and him, and you watch suspicion dawn slowly across his features. nanami is perceptive, always has been. itâs one of the things you loved about him once, the way he noticed small details, the way he could read you without words. now that perceptiveness feels like a threat.
later, outside the building, he corners you gently. heâs never rough with you, never cruel, even now. but heâs firm, insistent, his hand catching your elbow to stop your retreat.
âdid he touch you?â he asks. the question is quiet, almost gentle, but it cuts through you like a blade.
you donât answer. you canât.
nanami exhales sharply. you watch pain flash across his face, raw and immediate before he manages to contain it. âiâm still fighting for you,â he says, his voice cracking uncharacteristically. âi havenât stopped fighting. i wonât stop. but i need to know, are you already gone?â
you donât know the answer to that question.
because with nanami, you have history stretching back years. you have comfort and familiarity and a love that feels like an anchor, heavy and secure and impossible to escape. with higuruma, you have intensity, sharp edges, the terrifying possibility of being understood in ways you didnât even know you needed. one offers safety. the other offers revelation.
that night, nanami doesnât sleep in the bedroom. he sits on the couch instead, lights off, staring into the darkness with the same expression he wore when he first read those divorce papers. you watch him from the hallway, hidden in shadow, and your heart aches with a pain that feels physical.
higuruma stops contacting you after the case transfer.
outside of necessary legal updates forwarded through his colleague, you hear nothing from him. he draws a line, firm and final, and retreats behind it completely.
you miss him immediately, but the realization shames you.
you miss the way he challenged you, the way he never accepted your easy answers without pushing deeper. you miss the way he looked at you like you were something rare and breakable and dangerous all at once. you miss the tension between you, the heat that existed in every room you shared, the knowledge that something unspoken was building between you.
but when you look at nanami, still cooking your favorite meals, still fixing things around the house, still trying so hard to reach you, guilt floods your veins like poison. he doesnât deserve this. he never deserved any of this. you donât deserve any of this.
weeks pass. the days blur together in a haze of paperwork and meetings with the new lawyer and conversations with nanami that circle the same territory without ever reaching resolution.
the papers finalize. the house is to be sold, the assets divided, the life you built together dismantled piece by piece.
and on the last day, when you both sign the final documents in the mediatorâs office, nanamiâs hand trembles just slightly as he sets down the pen. you notice because youâre watching him, because youâve always watched him, because some habits donât die even when everything else does.
âif you walk out that door,â he says quietly, not looking at you, his gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance, âi wonât stop you.â
itâs not a threat. itâs not manipulation, not some last-ditch attempt to guilt you into staying. itâs resignation, pure and simple, the surrender of someone who has fought and fought and finally accepted that fighting isnât enough.
you feel the weight of every shared morning, every quiet night, every soft kiss pressed to your forehead when you were half asleep. you feel the memory of safety, of belonging, of coming home to someone who knew you completely.
and you feel the echo of higurumaâs mouth against yours, the spark, the danger, the way he said he wasnât a better man but looked at you like you might make him want to be one anyway.
you stand there in that sterile office, suspended between past and possibility, between the love youâve known and the love you might still find.
nanami finally looks up at you, and his eyes are raw, exposed, all the carefully constructed composure stripped away. love is still there, painfully, impossibly alive inside them despite everything.
âdo you still love me?â he asks.
your answer catches in your throat, trapped somewhere between truth and fear and the impossibility of the question itself.
because the truth is, you do love him. you love him in ways that will probably never fade, love him like scar tissue, love him like muscle memory.
and you donât know if thatâs enough anymore. you donât know if love alone can bridge the distance thatâs grown between you, if it can fill the silences, if it can make you feel seen instead of simply looked at. you donât know if the kind of love that anchors you can also set you free, or if anchors are meant to hold you in place forever.
outside, beyond the closed door, the world is waiting. somewhere in it, hiromi higuruma is living his careful, controlled life, probably regretting every moment of weakness he showed you, probably rebuilding the walls you helped him tear down.
and here, in this room, nanami is waiting for your answer, still loving you, still hoping, still fighting even as he says he wonât fight anymore.
you open your mouth to speak.
for a long moment, even you donât know whatâs going to come out.
[ an. this could have been a long one shot full of angst but i donât have time or energy so im feeding this bullshit to you guys i hope you dont hate it ]
