I'm still alive

miguel o’hara who didn’t exactly kick you out of his office when you’d wander in often after your first month at the spider society

“Hey Miguel!” you waltzed in with your usual cheery voice and wide grin

“hey” he mumbled after checking over some reports from other spider people before turning to look at you

“I brought you some chile rojo! Pues es asado, como dice mi mamá pero es lo mismo!” you say and present him a small tupperware of the food you had made for dinner last night

he eyes the container then looks up at you, your eyes not looking like you were fucking with him. He stands up and reaches for it, you gladly pass it to him and he quickly opens it. The instant smell of seasonings and of course, the guajillo chili filling his nostrils. He lets out a chuckle and gives you a small smile, “thank you”

miguel o’hara who told peter b parker that he wasn’t interested in you but then when peter asked what he’d do if he saw someone asking you out on a date he couldn’t exactly hide the vein on his neck from popping out or the way his fangs appeared

”we’ll if you weren’t interested then why is your-“

“fuck off” miguel snarled making peter shake his head and shrug

“hey- not like it’d be a bad thing.” peter mumbled before walking out of his office leaving miguel alone with his thoughts

miguel o’hara who was eventually letting himself laugh at your stupid jokes as well as really start to pay attention to your stories about your day

“so then our professor told him to get the fuck out before he called security to grab him and kick him out.” you explained talking about another mischievous student in one of your lectures. He just scoffed and shook his head while looking at files on his screens

miguel o’hara who started asking you questions about your parents and friends back at your earth, then listening to you very attentively

“how are your parents doing?” he asked and you smiled and leaned against his desk as he looked up at you from his seat

“they’re good, they just planted some new veggies in their backyard!” you say excitedly and he just chuckled and nodded before you rambled on about their garden

miguel o’hara who slowly felt himself smiling and laughing along with you when you’d be in his office when you weren’t off catching anomalies, now two months after you joined

“so you mean to tell me-“

“Yes!”

“Your brother just thought he’d get his way-“

“And it’s not the first time!” you say and bite your lip fighting the urge to burst out laughing

he couldn’t contain himself and let out fits of laughter, his smile being very visible making you grin

miguel o’hara who had a shocked face when you told him you’d made a new and improved version of his serum, just for him, and feeling incredibly impressed with your skills in the lab

“You made this-“

“Well I had some help from lyla with a few components but i’ve worked in a lab before and put together a list then made it to help you out a bit.” you said with a small smile and held the vial up to him, not precisely saying it was for the slight anger issues he’s been having lately

he looked at it, dumbfounded at the nice act but then he took it gently from your hands and smiled, “thank you… I appreciate it.” he said and felt his heart race as you gave him a smile back

miguel o’hara who couldn’t help but ask lyla to help him make a new suit for you, that was like his which made her tease him for the entire duration of the conversation. she left him a flustered and stuttering mess, saying he just wanted to return the nice favor.

lyla popped up next to his face and narrowed her eyes at him making him grumble, “you’re delusional.”

lyla just responded with a sassy “sureeeee.”

“Just help me with this-“ he groaned and rolled his eyes

“And don’t tell anybody about this!” he said quickly and she mocks him before disappearing out of thin air

miguel o’hara who couldn’t help his heart from nearly exploding out of his chest after seeing your reaction to your new suit

you gasped and your eyes had widened at the new suit, almost identical design as your old one, same colors and everything but it just looked so much better. “Miguel-“

you stop and walk up to it and feel the sleeve softly, almost afraid you’d break something so pretty. “I- uh- wanted to thank you. for the serum.” he said standing off to the side, feeling his heart race yet again

“you didn’t have to-“

“I wanted to.” he cuts in and you look to the side and look up at him.

“thank you.” you say looking into his eyes as you walk up wrapping your arms behind his neck, giving him a hug

he nearly froze but then once he felt your head pressed against his chest he couldn’t help but hug you back. “it’s no problem.” he whispered shakily, as he gently wraps his arms around your small figure

miguel o’hara who was beginning to be in denial about his feelings and wanted to talk about it with someone but not wanting it to get back to you

“I just- every time I see her- no- every time she’s near-“ he tried to say and just sighs, sinking into the couch shaking his head in disbelief

“God I didn’t think I’d feel this way towards her-“ he says and lets out another sigh

he heard little giggles and felt some weight on his head, “you’re probably suggesting I let her know huh?” he says as mayday climbs down from his head and onto his shoulder then plops down onto his lap

she looks up at him with a toothy grin and points to him and lets out more giggles. “yeah I probably should.” he whispers and holds out his hand to her which she gladly takes and begins twiddling with his fingers

miguel o’hara who nearly slipped up when ranting to himself not knowing you walked in

“le debo de decir- no- no… it’d ruin everything-“ he muttered and shook his head, unknowing that you just walked in (I should tell her)

you furrow your brows as you walk closer to his platform, wanting to hear what he was going on about. “I just can’t help it-“

“help what?” you butted it and he felt his heart sink and instantly cleared his throat

“nothing don’t worry about it.”

“But-“

“I said don’t worry about it.” he says sternly, almost sounding mad which made you jump a bit considering he’s never shown you any type of hostility or raised his voice at you

“I’m sorry- I just- don’t worry about it.” he apologizes calmly, not meaning to startle you

you gulp and nod, sitting up on his desk and looking up at him. “You alright?”

“Y-yeah- yeah I will be don’t worry.” he whispers and you nod, wanting to believe him

miguel o’hara who was losing his mind and unable to get you out of his head, the younger spiders instantly noticing there was something up in his behavior

“you sure you’re good?” gwen asked looking at miguel suspiciously

“yes I’m fine-“

“then how come you have googly eyes whenever you’re near y/n?” hobie cuts in with a smirk on his face as miguel’s eyes widen

“Ah and ‘ere’s all the confirmation.” hobie teased making miguel groan

“don’t say a word.” he threatens looking at them both

“alright big man we won’t.” hobie says giving him a wink while gwen just laughs

miguel o’hara who really couldn’t keep it together anymore and his mind was going to other places

he really didn’t know when his brain made a switch to thinking of taking you out on a first date and giving you flowers or even helping you catch an anomaly one day to just thinking of him slamming into you while you were underneath him whimpering for him

how badly he wanted to slip inside you and see the face you’d make once you felt him in your entrance, and also the face you’d make when he slowly slipped inside you, knowing full well you’d be tight

he couldn’t help thinking of the sweet noises that’d leave your mouth or how he’d leave you breathless and tired or even how much of a cockdrunk girl he’d leave you, knowing he’d have you begging for more

miguel o’hara who now began to lock his office door to not have you accidentally stumble upon him stroking himself

he groaned and laid his head back against the couch as he stroked himself with both hands, precum dripping down his shaft, as he imagined it were your hands stroking his cock for him

he let out a handful of moans as he thrusted into his hands, feeling his orgasm approach just when he was getting an incoming call from his watch

he bite his lip and his eyes widen as he saw it was you. he hesitantly answered and gulped down a moan, “h-hey- what’s up?” he breaths out, the grip on his cock being a bit tighter as he slowed down his pace not wanting you to hear

“hey I wanted to drop off a report but saw you have your door locked-“

“oh- uh yeah-“ he says and bites his lips to hide a moan as he continued stroking himself, your voice helping him out a lot

“I- just leave it ou- outside the door for me please-“ he said breathless and closes his eyes, feeling sweat beads form on his forehead

“alright sounds good! I’ll catch ya later Miguelito.” you say oh so sweetly and hang up

he let out a loud groan and bucked his hips up, his cum shooting up to his stomach and legs. he sat there shaking his head, shocked he came just from hearing that nickname from you

miguel o’hara who was coming up with a plan with unexpected company to help him reveal his true feelings for you

“Hold on you want us to convince y/n that we’re pranking you, but really it’s a prank on her?” gwen repeats and he nods

“Alright say less.” miles says and sets out a fake evil laugh

“You guys are gonna do this my way-“

“Yeah yeah just tell us what we need to do” gwen says and leans in as miguel quickly begins to explain his master plan

part two

note: this was meant to be short but now I’m gonna fix up a draft, that I worked SO hard on like last month but then stopped and make it a part two for this bc it fits perfectly to this!!

His eyes were transfixed on the box infront of him—or rather the two boxes infront of him. He'd brought extra food to share today, a habit he only picked up lately, mainly because he never had anyone to share food with until recently. The previously warm boxes were now stale and cold, and so were the empanada's inside of them. Doesn't matter. He lost his appetite, and you weren't going to have lunch with him.

He just sat in his chair. Fingernails—or maybe talons, he was unsure— digging into his palm to the point where little scars formed. His thoughs were all mangled up, as he failed to distract himself from the little interaction that led him to be sitting here in the first place.

It was suppose to go so well. He'd even rehearsed it all the night before.

You'd come up to him at his station just before lunch break with ten minutes, asking him if he'd like to sit with you— you did, he agreed.

The two of you would walk to the cafeteria, you'd tell him all about your incompetent co-workers trying to sound as nice as you could, it was sweet, but he was blunt, rephrasing your words to make it sound meaner than what you probably intended. You would laugh. He would laugh—He did laugh. He noticed that you didn't have the little tupperwear box you get everyday in your hands, maybe you were in a rush? No problem, he already had your share of food ready.

You'd sit at your usual table, you did.

You'd ask him what he's eating, he told you.

It was then he would push the small box towards you, telling you he got you one too. You'd take it and take a bite, and you'd compliment the taste of it, probably asking where he got them. He'd tell you he made them. And he did. He woke up extra early this morning just to make these. You'd probably say how much of an excellent cook he is, and that's when he'd do it. He'd ask if you'd like to come later today for dinner at his. He'd be delighted to cook for you.

That's how it was suppose to go, and he hoped you'd agree—he spent hours telling himself that you would agree just to encourage himself to finally get to do this.

But when he tried to proceed with his plan, everything he'd built up came crashing down on him.

He was about to push the box towards you when a man approached your table. He was unfamiliar to Miguel, he didn't work there, that was apparent by his casual sport attire. He tapped your shoulder and you stood up when you saw him, the look of surprise on your face quickly replaced with an affectionate one.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" The guy held up a box—your box. "You forgot to pack lunch this morning, packed it for you and thought I'd drop it off." He handed you the box with a grin, and when Miguel looked back at you, you had the widest, prettiest smile he'd ever seen.

Packed it for you? You live with this guy? But he remembers the time you invited him to that party you threw during New Year's, there was no indication you lived with someone—let alone another man.

"That's so sweet, Ned, thank you." You tip-toed and gave him a kiss on the cheek. A kiss on his cheek, your hand on his shoulder. A harsh sensation, undescribable, clawed at Miguel's racing heart.

"Don't mention it—Sorry to intruppt your talk though!" The man—Ned's eyes fell upon Miguel, who was looking at his lap, fiddling with his watch. Trying to rationalise this, never reaching a rational conclusion. "You must be Miguel O'Hara right? I hear alot about you—I mean, alot."

"Ned, don't—" You laughed, putting your hands on his chest as to push him away a little. "He's just embaressing me—Ignore him—" Ned laughed too, putting his hands on yours to prevent you.

"I am Miguel, yes." His voice was hoarse, gruff, it was a miracle anything came out at all with that lump he felt in his throat, suffocating the everloving fuck out of him. "If—If you'll excuse me." He got up, picking up his boxes, and immediately heading to the door.

You didn't even come after him, too occupied with laughing to even notice he was gone.

And here he was, sitting all alone, eyes shut as he tried not to remember the scene of your lips on another man's skin. He grunted, hands tangled in his thick black hair.

"Maybe it's not what it seems," A familiar golden glow appeared by his shoulder. "Maybe you misread the situation—"

"There is nothing here to misread, LYLA." He replied sharply. It was unlike him to not try to even make sense of a situation, but what is there to rationalise? You lived with this guy. He packed you lunch because you forgot it and came all the way to Alchemax's headquarters—which by the way, were on the outskirts of Nueva York—just to give it to you.

How stupid of him to think you'd stay single until he gets the courage to ask you out. How foolish of him to think it was a good idea to get his hopes up for once. How incredibly dumb of him to think this would go in his favor, because when did it ever.

"We don't even know who that is! It could be a friend—"

"LYLA, stop." His head snapped towards the floating hologram of his assistant, "You're the one who encouraged me to do this, and it failed before I even got the chance to try. I am not about to make scenarios up just to be let down again."

She ignored him, of course she did. "—I could always do a quick search. I'm sure I can find out who that is—"

"No," His refusal was immediate. Of course, curiosity and jealousy were eating him from the inside, but with you, he wanted to do this right. He would never breach your privacy like he would any other person. "Enough. We're not discussing this anymore." Miguel tapped his gizmo, and LYLA's hologram immediately dissappeared with a loud protest.

The office was queit again, Miguel wondered if you truly hadn't noticed that he was gone at all. Maybe you did notice and were relieved that he was.

Did he truly misread the situation? Or did he misread what he thought the two of you shared?

The brushing of hands when you walked next to each other, the sweet smile you flashed him everytime you saw him, the way you were so touchy around him, always hugging him and putting your hand on his shoulder to comfort him, the way you caught his stare whenever the two of you were in the same lab, that shy smile that would appear on your face and your reddened cheeks.

Was it just him interpreting it all wrong?

His thoughts were quickly intrupted by a cheery knock on his door, a pattern he knew all too well. Just before he could reply, the door swung open, with you waltzing into his office like you always do.

"Hey, I was looking for you everywhere!" Miguel grunted, shuffling with some paper on his desk to make himself look busy. "You went running off—"

"I have work to do." He replied dryly, not raising his head from the seemingly empty papers. You stopped by the door, and he was sure if he looked up, he'd see that cute pout of yours.

"You're not having lunch?" Miguel glanced at the two boxes he set aside and shook his head. "No, you should though."

"Who am I suppose to have lunch with then?"

"Your boyfriend isn't going to keep you company?" He looked up, anticipating your reaction. Your face contorted between confusion and absolute shock, then your eyes lit up. A wide grin made its way onto your lips, and you took a few steps towards Miguel's desk.

"Ned's my brother." You chuckled, tilting your head. Miguel felt his neck and ears heat up. He could practically hear LYLA in his ears, teasing him endlessly about this. How would he even know? You never mentioned a brother.

"Oh, I thought...because he said you—I guess—"

"Are you nervous, Miguel O'Hara?" You teased, and he grunted, rolling his eyes. "Ned is always busy, and always out of the country, but he's on vacation and currently living with me."

Of course, why didn't he think of that?

"Oh."

You giggled, fucking giggled at him. He was seething for the past 20 minutes, at the possibility that another man that wasn't him had you all to himself, only for it to turn out to be your brother.

"Not used to being wrong, huh?" You placed a hand on his fisted ones, and he immediately relaxed. "I rarely am."

"Awh, were you jealous, Miguel?" A scoff escaped his lips, he refused to let you tease him.

And you decided to play nice for once, deciding to let it go just to salvage his crumbling pride. "Anyways, those empanada's you were telling me about—"

"One of them is for you." He intruppted, "I...made it. In the morning. They're cold now."

"We could microwave them."

"Or you could come over and make a fresh batch with me." The words slipped off his tounge before he could think twice, something he often found himself doing whenever he was around you. He was about to apologise for being too bold, but then he looked at you.

With the prettiest smile and most bright eyes he'd ever seen, you nodded. "I'd love to."

Seems like his plan did work after all.

He sighs, scratches the side of his head with the bud of his pen, then gets back to it.

After all, you're the only reason he has even come to grasp the concept of time as something stretching on for too long rather than forcing his hand at an inhumane pace.

You're the only reason his brain has cleared its disorienting, troublesome fog, the only reason the tension in his neck and upper shoulders has relieved itself. You're the only reason, now, that he can breathe again.

But strangely, you still steal that very breath away when your precious gasp of air against his lips whispers through his ears, breaking the flow of his thick fingers scattering over his keyboard. You still slot yourself into the folds of his mind meant solely for the documentation of his daily work related observations.

You've grounded him, but the consequence of so still remains: your present residence in his head. And if it wasn't bad before, now, it's somehow worse.

Because now, he does not have to imagine what your body feels like beneath his roaming hands. He does not have to imagine you pressing against him for longer than a few seconds of contact caused by a mistaken collision. He does not have to imagine the warmth and desire in your gaze, your tender urge to help free him of some of his stress, your quiet, bashful confession of reciprocation.

He does not have to imagine how perfectly your plump lips fit against his. What noises you'd make when he kisses you. Whether your hands would grip his wrists or lock around his neck, whether your fingers would tangle into his scalp - which they do. They did.

And he feels the ghost of your dainty fingers tugging lightly, experimentally, as though attempting to stifle the eagerness you'd already shown. He’s wrecked.

Instead of his jaw clicking, however, and his eyes blinking hard to rid himself of the images, he finds himself allowing them to consume him. He'll turn mindlessly in his office chair, telephone tucked to his ear to gaze outside of his window past the bold green lettering of his firm. He'd hum in understanding occasionally, offer a few thoughts, detail the risks of various pleas, and then you'd strike him again.

Gentle and sweet like the dot of a snowflake to one's nose. Surprising, a shocking nip at the skin, but welcomed.

He'll go on, turning back and forth on a swivel, lashes fluttering as he looks down and a soft smile graces his lips when he speaks. Not because of anything warming his client has said, but because he's become completely foolish over the thought of you. The breath of you. The touch of you.

And that kiss. 

Would it be shameful of him to seek another after having already asked so much, bore so much to you within the privacy of his office?

He's acted out of line. Hiromi would have never done something like this before meeting you. He's wary. He's cautious.

But clearly not when it comes to you.

No man who honors caution would sweep his secretary from her feet, prop her up on the very desk he works upon, and kiss desires into her that he only discovered had further depths to after the first lock of your lips.

He could get you into so much trouble for this. He could get himself into so much trouble for this. He's already in trouble with himself, with his mind, for he's struggling to balance you into the other things he's meant to care for. Sure, he can work the day away as he always has, but he isn't doing it for the sake of his occupation. At least, he isn't today.

Hiromi's doing it so that he can find a break to see you again, a gap in his crowded time to get you alone once more, to perhaps apologize? To gain a proper understanding of where your head is at? To, possibly, pull you back in by the small of your waist, to look into those lovely eyes, to lose himself in you just one more time?

Is that so wrong? Is that too selfish? To ask for just a few minutes longer? He promises, after that, he'll behave. He promises to try.

When will you return with more contacts? With notes? With excuses to revisit, to step once more into the space where the two of you broke professionality?

Hiromi eyes the door. Waiting. Listening to the echoes of your laughter. The muffled chirp of your breathy voice. You're so close, but so far away. Divided by walls he can not bring down. It would be inappropriate to approach you, wouldn't it? To stall, to temporarily abandon the work he's done so well to stay on top of despite the little angel dancing about in his head.

The second-hand ticks slowly. The minute-hand, even slower.

But then, he hears you. A couple hours after the kiss, he hears the click of your kitten heels that approach his door. Shimizu's busy on the phone, and Hiromi straightens, granting you entry upon hearing your mindful knock, his heart jolting in his chest.

Your eyes connect the very second you step in. Your lips are pressed together, suppressing a small smile, and your cheeks are pinched with a cheery heat. You try to keep yourself composed, your eyes flicking away only for a second out of nerves, from the very intensity of his striking eyes on yours.

Your employer's gaze falls rather soft on you, your presence in his space reminding him of why your perfume still stains the air, why he can't look at his papers without recalling how your thighs looked seated overtop of them.

He lowers a paper to his desk, turning to you expectantly, eyes locked. Your shoulders jump with a little shy laugh, one you can't contain, before you slot yourself next to him and set a few sheets down before him. Hiromi's eyes dart to the papers habitually, then float their way back up to you as you speak.

"These just need your signature by the x whenever you get the chance," you say sweetly, head hovering beside his. Hiromi hears you, but does not give you any indicator that he does. You glance up to see if he's listening, only to find his eyes trailing to your lips, then back up to yours.

You swallow hard, cheeks reddening.

You look down at your position beside him, how close your shoulders brush, and you realize your mistake again. You assume you've stepped to close.

You take a cautious shuffle back, freeing a few inches between you, and you smile apologetically.

Hiromi's eyes cut down immediately to where you've opened space.

What the hell?

"When do these need a signature?" he asks slowly, looking up at you as you straighten yourself up with your hands folded before you.

You're so far. So far away when you're not within his immediate bubble of space.

Now that you're truly respecting his wishes, now that you're cognizant of your lack of boundaries, oh, he doesn't like it.

And yet, you smile at him. Like you've finally understood, finally honored his requests, finally corrected your thoughtlessness.

What has he done?

"By the end of the day,” you tell him.

He sets his fingertips firmly to the papers, sliding them upward. "Come back for them then."

"Oh. Okay!"

He watches you leave with something tight in his chest, catching your eyes again when you turn to look at him one more time on your way out of the door.

Hiromi inhales and exhales slowly, holding his forehead in his hand as he stares at the papers you've given him, wondering why you decide now to step away. Why you've put that barrier between you after it had been deconstructed.

And why is it bothering him so much?

You're only following directions, as the ever-so efficient and reliant information specialist you are. He knows what he said, what he begged of you, but that was before the kiss. Before the intimacy. Before the warmth in your eyes.

He looks at the time. Grinds his teeth together. Gets back to work.

You return to your desk with wide eyes and shrugged shoulders, chastising yourself in your head for your awkward behavior. You can't help the way you crumble under his gaze, the way you go to mush when you step into his presence, approach his hungry, unrelenting, horrifyingly hypnotic eyes.

You didn't want to further work him up by trampling the boundaries he set. You know you're a clingy person, and you're eager to dampen this behavior of yours for his sake. You don't want to mess with his head, or ruin whatever you’ve just sparked, or risk distracting him - though you highly doubt it's possible for Hiromi Higuruma to get distracted by anything...

Well, that's what you thought before he ruggedly pleaded with you to step away, breathlessly voiced his need for you that has muddled his organized brain.

You wince as you slide back into your chair and look up at the clock. Only an hour and a half left of the work day. You truly hope you didn't do anything to disturb him again. You hope he can manage to get through the day without any more hiccups.

Especially after the kiss. After you finally got close enough. After those big hands held yours, those lips dropped pecks to your skin, his matured grace enveloping you in the way he held you, traced over you, lifted you, breathed into you.

You drop your head to your desk with a dazed groan, your heart roaring in your ears and heat bursting through your skin. You can't take much more of this. It's impossible for you to get anything done as long as you know he's only a few paces away from you around that corner, behind that door, thinking of you, wanting you all the same.

The time comes for you to gather his papers, but you enter while he is caught up in an important conversation with Shimizu over her desk. You purse your lips politely, halting at the door. There's only ten more minutes in the work day. "Hi, Mr. Higuruma," you greet rather quietly.

He looks up, pausing his discussion, one of his hands propped up on his assistant's desk, the other tucked in his pocket. "Hi."

"I’m sorry to interrupt. I... was just coming for those signatures."

"Ah." He swiftly leans over to grab the neat stack, turning to meet you as you walk over. He points the papers toward you, holding your gaze. "Here they are."

You nod, fingers brushing his as you take them. You twitch, retracting your hand. "Thank you."

You leave without another word, and Hiromi watches you go with a frown. 

He hates these fleeting moments. These fractions of you.

He looks back at the clock. Ten more minutes.

And suddenly, finally, the rustle of coats, the creaks of chairs, the dull murmur that carries as your coworkers shuffle out one by one, bidding you farewell with a wave, come. You wave back with a grin, watching everyone file through the doorway to head home.

"Good night, (Y/n)!"

You turn to see Hiromi's brunette assistant skip out of their shared office, wiggling her fingers to you with a smile. There's a certain pep in her step you think is thanks to Hiromi letting her off early.

Your heart jolts, the rest of the office left empty behind her, save for you and your boss.

You shiver. "Good night, Shimizu. See you tomorrow!"

The door shuts behind her, and you're left with nothing but the buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights. Your heart is in your throat as you dare to attempt to straighten up your station to prepare to go home as well.

You freeze, however, when you hear the shuffle from around the corner. The sound of a handle turning resonates, the click of a door opening, then creaking wide. Your eyes jump up, and Hiromi emerges slowly, hand tracing the wall with the other still casually tucked away in his pocket.

You stand on instinct, watching like a deer in headlights as he takes his time to walk up to you, swaying with slow strides and lidded eyes, until he's right before you on the other side of your counter, setting his forearms over the surface to lean in to you.

You blink, breath hitching in your throat, a nervous smile twitching on your pretty lips. "Hi," you breathe. "Um... are you...is everything-"

"How are you?" he asks sincerely, chocolate eyes searching yours.

You part your lips, adjusting to his sudden question. "Good," you breathe a laugh, nodding. "I'm good."

He hums. "Yes?"

"Yeah," you grin. "How are you?"

A moment of silence passes, and he smiles, chest warm. "I got a lot of things done," he says lowly.

You nod. "That's good."

"Thanks to you."

"Wh-" you sputter, furrowing your brows cutely. Hiromi blinks slowly, ears warm, lips curved softly. "Me? I don't do nearly as much as you do."

"You do," he says. "You're here."

He says so as though that is all that matters, that your presence in his life is everything, and you relax, tilting your head with a growing beam you struggle to hide. "Okay, well," you shrug, unsure of how to take his sweet words. "I'm happy to be. So. You know, no need to thank me."

Hiromi chuckles. You giggle.

"...Are you staying late tonight?" you eventually ask.

"Most likely," he murmurs. "Are you?"

You look down at your desk, then back up at him. For the first time in hours, you don't look at the clock. "Possibly," you suggest playfully. "If you want me to."

"Forget what I want. You think about what I want too much."

You sway on your feet. "I mean, it's kinda my job to think about what you want. Part of it is, at least."

"Smart. You know what I mean."

You snicker. "I know,” you grin. “You may say I think about your wants too much, but I don't think I do."

"You do. If you want to stay, you should stay. Don't let me dictate your decisions. Outside of what I tell you to do for work."

You blow an amused breath. “Right.” You peer up at him through your lashes. "So if I want to stay...?"

"Please do," he pleads. You bite the inside of your lip, heart buzzing.

"Okay. I will."

Hiromi lifts himself from your desk and takes in a slow breath, looking over you again in that pensive you've always admired. "Is that why you stepped away?"

You tilt your head. "Hm?"

"Earlier. When you gave me those papers. You stepped away."

You don't have to do much thinking to know what he's talking about. "Oh. Yeah. I did."

"And that was because you believed I wanted you to? You were acting in my interest?"

Your brows twitch, unsure of what direction this is heading into. "Yeah... I just thought when you told me earlier that I tend to stand to close, you wanted me to be more mindful of that. I don't want you to think I didn't listen or take your wishes into consideration."

The dark haired attorney can't stand to waste another second.

With another weighted exhale, he turns to round your counter, making his way from the side into your desk's interior. He saunters up to you, instantly closing the distance.

Your brows raise as you look down at his chest coming toward you, his woody scent soaking your air. If he listens close enough, you're certain that Hiromi will be able to hear the frantic beat of your heart.

His hands raise to hold your shoulders. They slide down gradually, gliding carefully down the skin of your arms. You relax in his hold, breathing slowly, flickering your eyes up to his face as his hands slip into yours again.

You can tell he likes holding them by the way they squeeze over yours appreciatively, his thumbs moving to caress over your skin once more as he admires you.

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

You frown in confusion. "What for?" you whisper.

"For making you think I don't want you near me." He looks down at your conjoined hands. "I've always wanted you near me."

"Hiromi," his name slips from your mouth, and he responds immediately by curling his arms around you, bringing you closer as your hands slide to his chest.

"Yes," he answers with the crane of his head, foreheads brushing as he follows your eyes, your lips. "Is this okay?" You nod firmly.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you all day," you tell him, fluttering those pretty lashes, (e/c) eyes shining as you are overcome with the urge to pour your heart out to him. Hiromi thinks he could die here and be completely content with where the course of his life has taken him.

He still finds it hard to believe that this is real. That you aren't imaginary. That you won't vanish in his arms. "You'll make a man weak with those words," he mutters. "And those eyes. This face."

"Hiromi Higuruma, you are a complete sap," you tease, gasping as if thrilled. Hiromi rolls his eyes.

"Don't say that. My competitors will have a field day."

"Another joke! I'm impressed."

Hiromi smiles with the shake of his head. "I couldn't stop thinking about you either," his voice mellows out, tone shifting once more. "You got me through the day."

"You give me too much credit."

"I don't give you enough," he argues. His eyes glance at your lips again, his palms pressing tighter to your waist. You smell like heaven, look like happiness. He feels the warmth of your palms against his chest, and wonders if you can feel how his heart hammers for you.

You look down at his lips, then back up at his face longingly.

"You won't step away from me again, will you?" his lids grow heavy over his hues, the air between you growing smaller and smaller. You lean into your tip toes, Hiromi keeping you steady by the small of your back.

"No," you shake your head. "I never wanted to in the first place."

"Good. Don't do it again."

You sigh. "Okay."

Your lips come together in harmony, the very sensation bringing soft moans and hums instantly from your throats. Your head spins as he pulls you in, his body tight to yours as those bowed lips curve. He could practically melt with relief, finally able to think clearly now that your lips are on his again, now that he can feel your heartbeats hammering into one another's as you lock your arms back around his neck, securing him, claiming him.

God, he's so happy to be claimed. To be wanted by you.

The pace of this kiss grows faster than your first, shifting into heated desperation, hunger, passion. Hiromi turns you, walks you back blindly until the back of your legs hit the edge of your desk. You moan, tugging him down into you as lips smack against one another's, parting just long enough and wide enough for your tongues to accidentally nudge.

Your eyes peer open slightly, as do his, the both of you calling attention to the enticing connection. You take a moment to breathe, losing yourself in one another's hazy eyes.

Hiromi cradles your jaw and keeps your gaze as he brings you back into him. Your eyes fall closed once more upon contact of your lips, tongues worming against one another's, slithering exploratively to savor your taste. Hiromi groans, needing more. More. More. More.

His lips are coated in your saliva. Your scent is all over his suit. Your thighs are pressed against his, and he can feel you twitching, hear your beautiful sounds of pleasure and contentness.

How has he lived without you so long? How has he gone thirty something years on this earth without you?

"You are," he sneaks in between messy kisses that echo throughout the space, his hands wandering every part of you they can find, his lips chasing their way back to you every moment they break away, "so beautiful," smack. "so wonderful."

"Mm, so are you," you pant when he breaks away again, pushing in to smush your lips back into his. "I like you," smack. "so much."

He swoons, knitting his brows and parting to look you in the eye. "That makes me the most fortunate man alive."

You whisk each other away in a whirlwind of kisses and affections that seem to meet no end. Time flies in circles, blurring away with infinite conversations. You’re eventually settled in his lap over his office chair, his legs sprawled slightly as you tuck your head against his shoulder, his head knocked against yours. One hand dwarfs the computer mouse as he reads while the other braces your knee, holding securely in between frequent intermissions for the tilt of his head to kiss you.

Your heels lay tossed somewhere in the corner, knocked against the wall and forgotten. Hiromi's suit jacket covers your shoulders, draping down over the armrest.

The inky haired man would like to tell himself that he does not recall the exact day you first arrived at the office to settle into your position as the office receptionist and intake specialist. As a man who practices such precision and observation in daily life, however, he can not deny the fact that he has the exact date and time of day you first walked in and shook his hand tight engrained in his damn brain.

Hiromi is a private attorney, therefore, his office isn't too big. It holds a few cubicles for himself, his assistant, and other clerks and accountants, but otherwise, it is a very intimate space. In contrast to a public attorney's office, funded by the government, his space is more cozy, a little cramped, but close-knitted. 

When he was searching for a new receptionist a year or so back, he needed someone who could serve as the friendly face and voice of his firm that he did not have the ability to present himself. It is not that Hiromi is necessarily unfriendly, but his countenance is tightly wound, cautious, deliberate. 90% of the time, he appears more exhausted and drab than he does enthusiastic and sociable. In moments where he does feel the latter, it only shows in the smallest ghost of a smile formed by the tight pressing of bowed lips.

Despite being a man of the people, he's not really a people person. As in, he's not good with easing clients with tone or presence, but with facts.

His last receptionist had been with him for quite some time, but fell severely ill one day and took permanent leave to heal. Despite Hiromi's loyalty to his team, he admits that her demeanor closely matched his. She was older, maybe mid sixties, and she would pick up the phone with sloth-like urgency and drone into the speaker hoarsely - polite, but oh so emotionless.

Shimizu suggested a brighter replacement, someone to bring back a bit more color to their world. And you fulfilled those requirements with flying... well, colors.

You stepped into his space with an unshakable confidence, a warm smile that does not align with dread that swirls in Hiromi's chest day in and day out, a happiness and implied innocence that rivals the world you inhabit. Hiromi greets all his team members the same, whether new or old. Tight clasps of hands, a nod of acknowledgement and appreciation, a soulless rundown of their responsibilities and expectations. 

Intention.

But when he sees you for the first time, adorned in a navy pencil dress that touches your knees, black heels that click eagerly against the floor, your professionality accentuated with a breathless grin and shining eyes, intentionality staggers. He almost hesitates, buffers, when he reaches to clasp your hand as a formality and your warm palm folds against his, your dainty hand small and sweet in his grasp.

You introduce yourself with a smooth airiness in your syrupy voice, (e/c) hues locked onto his with no trace of anxiety or uncertainty. You show him, within just a few seconds of meeting, that you are where you want to be, and you will enter your role with class, dedication, and a strong desire to support.

Hiromi swallows thickly, shaking your hand a second too long before releasing it, fingers twitching momentarily at his side before sliding into his slacks pocket. Your touch still buzzes throughout his palm. He finds himself giving another short nod again, lips set in a flat line, before he clears his throat and shows you around, giving you the rundown of where everything is located, what he expects of you, and how you will contribute to his small family.

You're a perfect fit. You're perceptive, you listen, you take marvelous notes, but there's one issue Hiromi has with you that he notices from the get go.

He first notices when he's showing you around, and you're waving at the members you pass after Hiromi's curt introductions, heavy eyes staring forward. It starts with the invasion of your perfume. Something sugary, but not vibrant. It's calm, almost suave, buttery and warm and practically luxurious. Hints of vanilla, dashes of cinnamon.

You smell intoxicating.

The scent jumbles his brain, and for the first time in Hiromi's life, he finds himself struggling to remember what he is prepared to say and show you next, stalling to find the forgotten thoughts with a thumb and index finger brushing his chin. In reality, he only stumbles for a split second, but in his mind, it feels and sounds like an eternity.

He finds that you smell so strong because you're standing so damn close to him. He can feel the heat of your chest radiating against the back of his shoulder as you follow him around closely, inches away from clinging to the outer layer of his tailored blazer, which apparently is not thick enough to block out the sensation of you.

When you speak, making an observation or asking a question, the vibrations of your voice settle just below his ear, the warmth of your breath fanning the sliver of his neck between the tight cuff of his collar and the wavy strands of silky hair that stop just above there.

He does not plan his bodily reaction, the goosebumps that dash over his skin, the spike in his heart. It all just happens, and he wonders if you notice. He wonders if you're doing it on purpose.

He turns over his shoulder to glance back at you, acting as though he is checking to make sure you are still on track with him and keeping up, but what he is really doing is studying you briefly. Tired eyes fly over your face, searching for any tell of mischief or seduction, but instead, he is met with your eyes again and a calm smile of assurance, showing that you are still engaged, that you aren't at all thinking about how close you are to him.

Hiromi turns back around and goes on, monotonously rambling, and decides to brush it off as your underlying nerves. As a subconscious human desire for closeness and familiarity in a foreign space.

After all, you'll be practically glued to the front desk all day. With your skills, prowess, and kindness, a perfect fit for his firm, your little lack of personal space upon first meeting should not pose as a severe complication in the future.

You should not interfere with his daily life, for nothing is strong enough to deter his efficiency and intentionality. Not even the lacking personal space of his pretty new information specialist.

Consequently, Hiromi is damn near distraught when not only your lack of personal space proves to be a recurring habit of yours, but when it significantly impacts his proficiency.

The distant sound of you picking up the telephone carries through the small office, and the melodious chirp of your voice greeting potential clients falls comfortably on his team's ears.

"Higuruma Law, how may I help you today?" you greet kindly, the smile evident in your voice alone from down the hall. Hiromi is certain that if his life had somehow panned out differently, if he was seeking representation after having been wronged by the legal system, your voice would immediately put him at ease.

The office feels almost safer with your presence. You bring in little treats like donuts and coffee almost every morning, and you're always the first one there to greet everyone with a grin on your beautiful face and the scent of pastries swirling throughout the space, intermingling with your perfect perfume.

And when you see Hiromi, you always light up more. Out of respect or obligation, Hiromi is not sure. For once in his life, he just can't name your intentions, but the way you perk up with the offer of a second black coffee and some notes from early calls, his name sweet on your lips - "Good morning, Mr. Higumura! How are you this morning? Get any sleep last night?" - has him almost forgoing the urge to analyze you, as his first instinct is to just sink into your optimism and sweetness.

And if all of that isn't bad enough, the true complications lie in moments where you have to depart from the front desk to deliver new information to him.

He'll hear your heels clicking for a mile away, your scent wafting into his shared space with Shimizu before you even enter the room. When you do, you're a sight for sore eyes. Hair pinned up, new tight, yet modest dress accentuating the curves of your body, the fabric tightly stretching over your thighs as you walk toward him with a calm smile and arms full of papers. You'll greet his brunette assistant first, the two of you exchanging smiles and a brush of her shoulder as she twirls in her chair, then you head straight to Hiromi. 

His eyes are already on you. They have been since you walked through the door.

And then you come closer with a breathless 'hi' as you settle the papers into a neat stack beside him on his desk. Hiromi fights the twitch of his eye as his hues jump from you down to the stack before him, your hands pressed to the surface. Instead of moving away, you lean in close. You hover directly behind his chair as he shifts to interlace his fingers over his mouth, elbows to his desk as he looks over the notes you present him, your necklace dangling right next to the side of his face. You crane over him, hand gripping the back of his chair, and your voice soothingly details each note you present him as he hunches over, trying so damn hard to concentrate but he just can't.

The words blur on the page as he rereads the same damn line over and over, his mind completely unable to process what you are telling him. It gets even worse when your finger stalls on one specific note, one that you have to take a minute to think about. You consequently lean in further, your head directly next to his. Your brows narrow with concentration, something that has long fled from Hiromi's ordinarily pristinely constructed routine.

He breathes in slowly, silently as you hover. His eyes trail to the side, and swiftly, they find your side profile again. So fucking close, one would think that the two of you are close friends or dating. Chocolate eyes jump to the way you pucker your lips slightly in thought, nose scrunching. Suddenly, you gasp upon recollection, and turn to face him with an apologetic grin as you proceed.

Hiromi holds your gaze for a moment before tearing away, staring harshly back down at your papers as you proceed with your debrief like nothing. Like you aren't within kissing distance. Like he can't smell the peppermint on your breath as your scent traps him. Your voice is softer as well as you speak, the proximity between you leaving little room for any noise above a mumble.

How can you not realize what you're doing? How can you be so spatially and socially unaware? You're practically purring potential clients into his ear, clinging to his space like it's normal. Like you aren't stealing the breath from his lungs as he holds it, afraid to exhale in your company.

He plans to sort back through all of your neatly written notes once you leave, as he is completely unable to retain anything you are saying.

You give him one last smile and ask if there's anything else he needs. He waves you away, shaking his head as he pretends to be too preoccupied with the content in these papers, and you nod and turn to go. Shimizu watches as the dark haired attorney looks back up at your retreating figure, hooded eyes almost tormented, confused, entranced by the vision of you walking away accompanied by that click clack of your cute heels.

His brunette assistant twists her lips playfully, leaning back in her chair as she fiddles with a pen in hand, turning to face him once more. He blinks and looks back down at his desk. "Get back to work, Shimizu," he says calmly, feeling her eyes on him. She stifles a smile, sighs, and obliges.

Then there's all the times he's accidentally bumped into you, the office space often too cramped for multiple people to walk around at once. Leaving his section of the space, his body has collided with yours on numerous occasions. You would either be on your way to the bathroom or into his section as he goes to step out when your body collides with his, chest to chest. You would stumble back in surprise, his hands reaching out to subconsciously catch you by your shoulders to keep you from falling or losing balance. Papers fly from your arms and to the floor in a gentle shower.

You blink up at him in shock, and his large hands linger on your arms a second too long before dropping to his sides. "Mr. Higuruma! I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," you rush out, dropping swiftly to your knees to gather papers.

"No need to apologize," he assures you. "I shouldn't have been so careless.” 

He stops himself, looking down at you from this position. You're on your knees at his feet, peering up at him through your lashes with an anxious smile. Hiromi's eyes widen, this position allowing him a clear angle of your ordinarily hidden cleavage. 

"Let me help you," he blurts suddenly, kneeling down before you in a similar fashion with his gaze downward and a lump in his throat.

Your hands fly about the sheets, and in your haste, you both reach for the same paper. Your fingers brush, grazing, and you both retract like you've been shocked. You sit back on your calves, giggling bashfully. "Sorry."

"It's alright," he murmurs.

His entire body tingles for the rest of the day from your previous point of impact. Your body had felt so soft and warm against his firm chest, the angle of you from above so pretty and sinful that he almost felt the need to take himself to HR for viewing you in such a manner.

There are moments in the break room. You're inside, already fixing yourself some lunch as you hum a gentle tune to yourself. You don't hear Hiromi come in, as you are in your own little world. He swiftly moves to brush behind where you stand at the counter beside the fridge, but as fate would have it, you finish making your sandwich just as he moves behind you. You turn around and collide with him. His hand finds your forearm this time, the collision not as bad as others, and you wince up at your handsome boss.

"God, I don't know why I keep doing that," you laugh, shaking your head at your own clumsiness. Hiromi lowers his hand and shakes his head to dispel your embarrassment, lips pressing together.

"It's my fault. I seem to always be in your way."

"No, it's me who's always in yours!"

He ducks his head with a low, breathy, awkward chuckle, one that stuns himself as much as it stuns you into laughing along with him. "Are you getting lunch?" you ask as he moves to open the fridge, your sandwich clutched tight between your hands.

"Just a drink."

You tilt your head. "Have you eaten at all today?"

You both know the answer to that.

The fridge door closes behind him as he clutches a beverage in his well sculpted hand. "I don't have the time."

"Sure you do. Why don't I order you something?"

"There's no need, (Y/n). I'm okay, but thank you."

"Nonsense," you step toward him. "You can eat while you work."

"I don't like a messy desk."

"Who says it has to be messy? Come on. You can't keep working on an empty stomach. It's not healthy."

You sound just like everyone in his life who cares for Hiromi's wellbeing outside of his occupation. Ordinarily, he'd brush them off, stubbornly refusing help as his mind swarms with more pressing matters, with data and evidence and arguments and hell.

But in your presence, he finds that his mind can't swarm with anything but how charming you look with a sandwich in your hands and hope in your (e/c) eyes. A passion within you that eases his nerves. How can he say no to that face?

Here you are again, disrupting his way of living.

"Something light is fine," he murmurs, starting to walk past you toward the door. You light up, following close on his heel.

"Yeah?"

"And inexpensive."

"Yes sir. I'll bring your food to you when it gets here."

"...Thank you." He halts in the door, turning to look down at you, as you are - of course - directly behind him. "You don't need to call me sir."

"Oh," you furrow your brows. "I didn't even realize I did. Sorry, Mr. Higuruma."

Hell, the way you say his name like that is no better than the former. It is his title, the way everyone in the office or any of his clients address him, but fluttering from your lips, the title feels intimate, a very contradiction within itself.

Yet somehow, you make everything feel informal. Like you're more than an employee. Like you're someone more.

Late nights in the office are worse. Ordinarily, the wee hours of the morning are reserved for him alone or him and Shimizu, who often struggles to keep up with his pace and insomnia. He once realized that you tend to stay late with him from time to time when he walks out of his office, having shed off his suit jacket with sleeves rolled to his elbows and tie loose, to retrieve some extra paper from your desk, and you're there. Face lit by the dim light of your computer, circles tracing under your eyes, yet peace evident on your expression.

"What are you still doing here?" he asks, approaching your desk slowly. You perk up, meeting his gaze with a tired smile.

"Oh, hi Mr. Higuruma," you hum, your voice soft enough to sound like a lullaby at this time of night. Sleepiness glimmers in your eyes, but you remain engaged. "I saw that you were staying late to finish some stuff up so I stayed to catch up on some things too. In case you needed anything from me."

He checks the clock behind you. "(Y/n), it's two in the morning. Go home."

"I don't mind, really. Honestly, it's kind of cozy here and I didn't really feel like going home yet, anyway."

"Why is that?"

You shrug. "It gets too quiet. I feel better sometimes knowing I'm in a space with other people."

"Mmm."

You watch as Hiromi rubs at his eyes, blinking harshly. Your paired exhaustion breeches some kind of boundary. He does not have the energy to exude professionalism, nor do you, so in the silence of the empty, dark office, you share an unspoken, weary connection.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" you ask kindly.

He looks at you for a long moment before speaking. "I just need some paper. I'll get it."

He moves to round your desk, but you are already scootching out of your chair to assist. "No, it's okay. I've got it."

Despite both of your claims, you end up reaching for the same drawer at the same time, the two of you now behind your desk together. He looks down at you out of the corner of his eye, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "You don't quit," he says lowly, pulling the drawer open the moment he distracts you. "I told you I'd get it. Sit back down."

Your brows curve, something toying in your expression as you smile. "What sense does that make if I'm already behind the desk, next to the paper?"

"Enough sense if it's coming from your boss."

You laugh slightly, raising your hands, but not stepping away as Hiromi gathers a fresh stack. He closes the drawer and lifts himself back up, his shoulder bumping yours. He looks down where the contact occurred, then back at your face.

"Seriously. I think you should go home. You shouldn't stay just because I'm here. There's no telling when I'll leave."

"I appreciate the concern, Mr. Higuruma. Really, but I told you. I prefer being here."

"You very well may be the first, then."

"I can't be. Not if you're here more than anyone else."

"That's different. I don't have a choice."

"But you like what you do, don't you?" you ask. "I mean, as much as anyone can in this field. When you're able to help people, it makes you happy. Right?"

He turns, setting his forearm against the surface of your desk as you stand before him, your voices hushed. "I think relieved is a better word for what I feel. I can't fully be happy knowing that things could change any second."

"Still. It seems like you were made for what you do. You do your job so well."

His shoulders jump with an amused breath. "I'd hope so."

"You do! You're the main reason why coming to work doesn't feel like a chore. It pays to have a passionate and talented employer."

Unceremoniously and unexpectedly, heat burns at the tip of Hiromi's ears. "Flattery won't get you a raise, you know."

You gape with a smile on your lips. "Was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?"

"I make jokes all the time."

"You do not."

"I do. It's true," he challenges. "Maybe you're just not paying close enough attention."

You know he's joking again, because your entire position revolves around you paying attention to every little detail of potential cases brought to your office's lap. You laugh, the very sound carrying through the space like the symphony of birds chirping melodiously. Hiromi's eyes are heavy, they burn each time they blink, but they're soft on you. His smile is gentle, barely there.

"I'll have to step it up then if you think that's the case," you counter.

"No," he denies, amusement fading. "You're doing wonderful work."

You smile warmly with a slow blink and a nod. "Thank you," you grin.

The air stalls between the two of you for a few seconds as you look at one another, unsure of what more to say, your closeness keeping him grounded there.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Higuruma?" you ask, the computer screen light shining in your glassy eyes.

He shakes his head, swallowing. "No. Just get some rest."

He does not leave without you reaching a hand out to hold his upper arm, a gesture of gratitude and departure, yet the very thing that spikes Hiromi's heart rate. "You too," you smile.

He nods one more time, pursing his lips, before turning away from your light.

You are a huge problem.

Hiromi can't get you out of his mind. A brain once too crowded with the details of his work now struggles to balance the intrusion of your face, your smile, your body, your energy, your touch.

You haunt him. You wreck his mind, destroying all that he has sorted into organization for the sake of a sliver of his wellbeing and all of his legal ambition.

Hiromi tries to observe you around others, tries to see if you act with the same lack of personal space with your coworkers. Sure enough, he's caught you invading Shimizu's personal bubble as well as his accountant's multiple times, but it looks much more casual on the outside looking in. Others do not appear as affected by it as he feels deep within, and he wonders if he is reading too much into it. If his mind has finally turned on him and he's mentally snapped. Maybe it's all just a figment of his imagination.

But how could it be, when images of you sneak into his head when he's trying to focus, the butt of his pen rubbing against his temple? He feels the phantom of your body hovering close when the night drags along, a subconscious effort his mind and body make to comfort itself. And it's you. It's always you he goes back to.

It's more than your touch and your closeness. It's the impact you've had on his office from the moment you stepped into it. It's the life you breathe into moments of helplessness and frustration. It's the motivation you inspire with your grins and those bright eyes, still free of trauma, still full of promise.

You bring Hiromi back down to earth, and you throw him off kilter all the same.

Higuruma storms in one day, unfathomably tense. He swoops past your desk without greeting, mind running, and you look up upon feeling the wind of his pace that flickers papers upward. He keeps his door closed all morning, and you ruminate in the suspicions, concerned. You know Hiromi carries the world itself on his shoulders and he consistently works himself into the ground without fail.

You're sure today he's stressed about a big case he just decided to take - another one where the evidence seems damn near impossible to point into the direction of his defendant's innocence. You hear much speculation about the seemingly unreasonable choices he makes every now and then, how he seeks to challenge himself with the absolute worst possible cases. Some say he's crazy, others say he's a masochist.

But you say that he's just a man yearning for a better world, a man who knows not what it means to make easy money, but to prioritize the person over the pay, the truth over duplicity.

He just wants to make a difference. And he's willing to kill himself to do so.

You wonder if he's eaten. You wonder if he's slept. You wonder if he's alright.

You rap at his door during lunch, a muffled ‘come in’ greeting you from behind it. You turn the handle with your elbow, arms full of a lunch order and some other papers.

You peek your head in cautiously. You see Hiromi at his desk with his cheek propped on his fist and his brows tightly angled. His jaw is set, and his dull eyes bore into his computer screen as if it is plaguing him. Shimizu is out to lunch, you assume by her empty desk, and you slowly proceed.

"Hi Mr. Higuruma," you sing. His eyes dart up to you, sharp and intense. You remain unfazed, keeping your smile as you step into his space. You're wearing a black pencil skirt today with a frilly white blouse tucked into your belt. Worn down, his eyes flicker over you rather knowingly, but you don't seem to notice. You never seem to notice anything within the realm of how crazy you've been driving Hiromi for the better half of a year.

You kick the door closed behind you with your heel, and strut your happy ass over to him. His eyes don't leave your figure, and like routine, you settle just beside him, organizing the things you brought onto his desk neatly. You know he hates clutter.

"I hope you don't mind me bringing you lunch again. I ordered your usual from the place across the street. Light and inexpensive," you quote him from some time in the past. He remains silent, looking over the container of food you sit at the right corner of his desk, followed by some new notes you've brought him on big index cards.

You go on to explain everything else you have for him. Your hip hits the arm rest of his chair, your back slightly arches as you bend over beside him to drag your finger over everything with expert memory. Your perfume wafts into his face, circling through his room and through his nostrils. 

His jaw clenches, the crick in his neck tight today, and he leans back into his chair, pen tapping against the table as you talk.

He sees your lips moving, but does not hear what you're saying. He studies that gentle way your lashes brush against your cheek when you blink, the indentations at the corners of your mouth when you speak. Your necklace dangles again, swaying over the peek of your collarbone and around the dainty stretch of your neck.

You're all up in his space. As usual. Breathing his air, brushing his arm, staining the atmosphere.

Hiromi has had a horrible past two days. He's drained. Irate. Sleep deprived. Every little thing has been working his last nerve as of late, and here you come along, looking the way you look, talking the way you talk, acting the way you act.

Hiromi can't take it anymore.

"(Y/n)."

He calls your name gravelly, his voice firmer and lower than usual. You hum, turning to look back at him from your current position. Your smile diminishes ever so subtly when you catch his expression. He's slouched back into his seat, fingers shielding his nose and mouth with his elbow propped on the armrest, his other hand still tapping his pen restlessly. Those sunken eyes of his bore into your soul and carry something weighted that you do not recognize, something dark and testing.

Tendrils of his hair fly from his messy slickback, and his jaw clicks every two seconds as he watches you, calm yet daring.

"Is something the matter?" you ask, smile completely dropping now. Your brows pull together with worry, the stress very evident in his composure. "I know you've had a rough couple days. Is there anything I can do to help?"

His lack of urgency to respond starts to make you nervous, as you raise yourself from your bent position to frown at him.

"Mr. Higuruma?"

"Stop," he orders. Not loud. Not aggressive. 

Stern. Strained. 

You blink, tilting your head. "I'm sorry, sir, did I do something wrong?"

"I thought I told you not to call me sir."

"I-" you realize your mistake and clasp your hands before you humbly. "Right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"(Y/n)," he inhales slowly, closing his eyes as he runs his hands over his face, shifting to lean forward and set his elbows back onto his desk. "I need you to step back."

"Step... back?"

"Yes," his chocolate eyes snap back up at you. "Now. Please."

You take a moment to process what he is asking of you, therefore, you do not do as he says right away. You're too busy trying to piece together what you did to annoy him and how you can fix it. Do you smell bad? Did you come in at a bad time? You did knock.

Your lips part to further pry, missing the way his eyes drop to your lips. "Mr. Higuruma, what-"

"I'm asking you nicely as your boss to give me some breathing room before I act inappropriately and do something I will surely regret."

Your eyes go wide, and his are steely as they search yours. He is deadly serious.

Dazed, you take a cautious, tiny step backward, freeing up an inch of space. Hiromi inhales, shaking his head. "That's not far enough."

"Mr. Higuruma, I'm really sorry but I'm very confused. If you could explain where this is coming from... I mean, I didn't mean to offend you. Was I too close to you?"

"You're always too close," he cuts in, and your lips clamp shut. "Do you realize that?"

Your mouth runs dry. "...No, I... I didn't know."

"You didn't know," he repeats. You watch as he sets his veiny hands flat to his desk, settling there momentarily before he pushes himself up. His chair rolls back as he rises. Slowly he turns to you, one hand tucked into his pocket, blazer flapped over it. "It would be much easier for me if I didn't know you were telling the truth. You don't even think about what you're doing, and somehow it's all I can think about."

His free hand reaches out to methodically straighten a manilla folder in front of his keyboard. It stalls there as he ponders. "Every day. You wear the same perfume, and you stand so close to me that I can't think straight. Our arms touch. Our hands touch. You're never more than a few centimeters away. Do you realize the predicament that puts me in? As your superior?"

Your heart pounds into your chest, your posture suddenly rigid. Hiromi can see the gears turning in your head. He realizes this conversation in itself is extremely inappropriate, as you've been nothing but polite. It really isn't your fault that you lack so much spatial awareness, but Hiromi is at the end of his rope.

You've come in at a very bad time. Hiromi's so stressed that he's willing to refrain from excessive thought for one second and give into the desire that has been consuming his entire being.

He sees the dumbstruck look on your face and starts to feel remorse and shame, for he's never seen you in such a state. He sighs heavily. "You should leave."

You snap out of it. "What?"

"Thank you. For the food and for the extensive notes. But you should leave now."

"But I-"

"I don't want to make you any more uncomfortable. I apologize. I shouldn't have said any of that. Please. Just leave."

"You haven't even let me say anything, though."

"(Y/n)," your name comes as a warning this time. The tension thickens between you as his chest stutters with a shaky breath. He eases his hand out, as if that's enough to cut through the thickness, to keep you away. "Leave."

He's begging you at this point. Like he is unsure of what he'll do if you stay any longer. You know that, by the look on his face, you should listen to him and walk out of the door, but every bone in your body keeps you stationary. You don't want to go.

You respect Hiromi. You admire Hiromi. You really like Hiromi. He's your boss, but he makes work feel breathable, like you are accomplishing big things, doing life changing work. Despite his calculated countenance, Hiromi is thoughtful. He's passionate. He's dedicated. He's an inspiration. You've come to truly appreciate him, as an employer and as a man.

It doesn't hurt that he looks the way he does either. Dark inky strands of cropped hair. A heavenly sculpted nose. Haunting, shrunken eyes that send a pit to your stomach each time they lock with yours. The moments of freedom in which he allows himself to smile, the way his shoulders sag.

He’s a beautiful specimen, inside and out.

You truly did not know that you had such an impact on him. You've been told in the past that you tend to linger close to people, but you thought you'd gotten better. You thought that you weren't being too bad about it.

But, apparently not. It's been so bad that your boss now has to physically bar himself from you, kick you out of his office before he...

Before he what exactly?

And would that what be so terrible?

You twist your fingers around, nervous, jittery. "What if..." you start carefully, walking over eggshells. "...I don't leave?"

You can see the pattern of his breathing in the distinct rise and fall of his chest, his tight work clothes expanding. His eyes flick to the closed door, then back at you.

Your expression is blank as you await his response, the silence within the office blaring in your ears. You can’t read him. You can’t pick up on anything but his intensity, and how he’s mulling over all the possibilities and consequences in his head.

Suddenly, he moves out from his desk, taking two slow steps into your direction.

You watch him patiently, anxiously, excitedly, until he’s hovering mere centimeters away, heat to heat, chest just barely away from chest. You breathe in slowly, eyes trailing up.

You see his jaw clench as he thinks this over again and again, until you see the very moment his resolve crumbles. "Then you're giving me permission to..."

"To what?" you ask eagerly.

His eyes soften. He inches the curve of his knuckle forward, grazing it over your shoulder experimentally. You tense, breath hitched. "To touch you," he eventually says.

You nod as if entranced. "You can," you assure him. "I mean it. If it'll help with your stress."

His hand freezes on you. "Just for my stress?" he murmurs. "Not for you in any way?"

"That's not what I meant," you defend quickly. "I mean - I want you to."

"To what?" he resumes the graze of his knuckles over the curve of your shoulder, down the expanse of your arm. Chills sprout across your skin in the wake of his hand's trail, and warmth swirls over your cheeks. "To need you? To want you so badly you distract me from the one thing in this world I'm good at?"

His hand slips down to clasp yours. You look down, following his movements as he brings the back of your hand upward to his lips, all while his eyes remain on you. Your brows curl, a hum catching in the back of your throat as his bowed lips brush your skin, pressing a kiss gingerly there. 

He monitors you to ensure that you are okay with this, that he isn't pushing any limits. He could already get himself into a world of trouble for even being seen this close to you in such a manner, but the world be damned for one second. All Hiromi has ever thought about is this godforsaken planet, and time and time again, it has chewed him up and spit him back out like a stale piece of gum.

Through the hell he calls his life, he thinks he should be awarded at least this one little treat. This one pleasure, this treasure that is his secretary. That is you, efficient, kind, beautiful in more ways than he can count. You're the only thing his aching body deems as a remedy for his inner turmoil.

"I already do," he tells you, tugging you gently by your hand, bringing you unfathomably close with a hand sliding over your cheek to cradle you. Sharp eyes look over your face, detailing everything from your forehead to your chin, you brows to your enticing lips. "Tell me, do you feel the same? More than just an obligation to me as your boss?”

You nod slowly and look at him with a neediness in your breathtaking (e/c) eyes, and your lips part to answer. "Yes."

He hums, neck and ears blooming with heat. "You want to help me?"

"Yes, Mr. Higuruma."

"Hiromi," he corrects.

"Hiromi," you try it on your tongue, and the said man feels himself shudder.

He exhales, releasing your hand to cup your other cheek. He cranes his neck slightly to look directly into your eyes. "Thank you," he breathes, desperately appreciative.

He ducks in to kiss you with a delicacy you can't put into words. The journey to your lips is slow, as if he wants to savor every second of what leads to the gentle connection of your lips.

He's soft, cautious, like he does not want to harm you or push you away. Your hands raise to his sides, your eyes fluttering closed as you hum softly into his lips. You feel the dark haired man relax into you, shoulders dropping and groan bubbling from his chest, long and sustained. Your scent practically molds with his, encapsulating the two of you in its own bubble.

He pulls back to breathe, tilting his head to push back in. Fingers thread into the back of your hair and gradually bring your face close, his shoulders bunching and brows arching as he melts into you like a dream. He hums again, a wrecked sound of relief that you catch with ease, lips slowly swimming in gentle unison.

Your body feels fuzzy from the way he kisses you, like you are a glass doll he does not wish to break, one he cherishes with all his soul, one he wants to shower with care and affection the right way, the gentlemanly way, the earned way. Yet he's hungry, unraveling at the seams with each passing second your lips remain locked. You taste like a dream Hiromi once believed he could not achieve. Like a pastry he told himself was too good to eat.

Like you. Soft and delicious and... and not close enough.

The kiss proceeds between short breaks away, intensifying as his hands move to wrap under your arms, sliding over the fabric of your work clothes, tucking safely around your waist. Your arms move accordingly, raising into the air before falling to his shoulders, wrapping snugly around his neck.

He pulls you flush to him, encircling you tight between languid kisses. Slow and meticulous like the way he works, capturing every element, failing to let any of you go to waste.

The two of you are practically molded, heads angled with the deepening of your kiss. Hiromi groans, lifting you up carefully and effortlessly to twirl you around and set you on the middle of his desk. His hands fly to your face again, pressing soft, thoughtful pecks to your plush lips, the bridge of his nose bumping yours occasionally.

He smoothes some of your hair over your shoulders, only pulling away to peel his lidded eyes open and admire you tenderly. You can't think. You just lock eyes, searching within one another for the deeper thing you felt in your kiss.

He kisses you once more, a bit firmer this time, sliding a palm up your thigh, gripping your hip, rolling a thumb back and forth. You moan sweetly, and Hiromi grunts.

"That's lunch," he breathes hotly into you, a thin string of saliva snapping as you chase his lips.

"Huh?" you furrow your brows, following the warmth of him blindly. He pecks your lips again, then your cheek sweetly.

"That's lunch, sweetness."

You blink. Upon processing his words, you tilt your head to look up at the clock. He takes the opportunity to plant a kiss on your jaw. 

Sure enough, lunch ended a minute ago. You assume Hiromi knows the routine by heart, as he does not even have to look at the time to know that break has ended, and therefore, his assistant will be returning any minute now.

You look back at him to find that he's smiling. Not something barely detectable, but something real and relaxed. You ogle him openly, looking over the crease at his hooded eyes and the color on his pale skin.

"You have to get back to work now,” he says affectionately.

You nod slowly. "Okay. Right. Oh, right!" The realization finally comes to you that there is a risk of you getting caught, and you go to fix your hair and straighten your clothes.

Higuruma chuckles, assisting you by adjusting the collar of your shirt and the clasp of your necklace. "Are you alright?"

You flush, going to jump off of the desk when he lifts you from under your arms instead, setting you down on your feet where you first resided upon intrusion. You giggle nervously, brushing yourself off and chewing on the inside of your lip. "Yes, I'm more than alright," you say. "...Are you? Did that… help any?"

He smirks. "You have no idea."

Just then, the door clicks open revealing Shimizu, who steps in casually, unfazed by the two of you standing next to one another. 

You jump, clearing your throat. "Okay, so I'll be back to - to bring you those last contacts in about an hour, Mr. Higuruma."

Hiromi watches you knowingly, greedily. "I'll be waiting."

You nod curtly before turning on your heel, brushing past Shimizu with a quick wave and out of the door.

The brunette turns to look back at her boss as he settles stiffly into his seat with a lingering smile. "Mr. Higuruma! You're smiling! Did you get some good news about the case?"

"No," he breathes, reaching to sort through the things you brought him, then stopping himself when his eyes catch the food you so kindly brought out of concern for his wellbeing. His smile softens as he goes to eat first.

Shimizu puzzles. "Then what's with the attitude shift? You were just so upset."

The topic came up innocently enough while the two of you were draped together in bed on one of his rare days away from the office. Curtains half drawn, sunlight peeking in pale stripes across the comforter.

His head rested against your shoulder, one hand absentmindedly placed on your thigh, thumb lazily tracing slow circles against the skin there. You were combing your fingers through his dark hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp in a way that made his eyes grow heavier.

The strangest quiet settled over him. In his chest and mind. It was subconsciously that he pressed a brief kiss to your skin, just above your shoulder. You hummed at the gesture without even glancing over.

“Sometimes I wonder how touch-starved you are, Hiro.”

The words had been said so casually he almost missed them.

His brows knitted together faintly, lifting his head just enough to glance at you. “Touch-starved?” he repeated, the phrase tasting unfamiliar on his tongue. And only mildly offended.

You only shrugged, still threading your fingers through his hair like the action was just as subconscious as his kiss. “You’re always touching me,” you said, voice soft and matter-of-fact. “Not in a weird way. Just…small things.” Your fingers tapped his shoulder once, like you were pointing out evidence in a case. “Your hand on my leg. Holding my hand when we walk. Leaning on me when you read. You even grab my sleeve sometimes when you’re thinking.”

Higuruma blinked slowly. Words turning over in his brain. He hadn’t noticed that.

Or rather- he had, but it had never occurred to him that those actions meant anything. “I doubt it’s that deep,” he replied after a moment, tone calm but slightly dismissive. “It’s probably just habit.”

You hummed again, though this time the sound carried something akin to quiet amusement. “Maybe”

He expected you to leave it at that. You didn’t stop playing with his hair that lulled him towards sleep.

And he didn’t move his hand from your thigh.

At the time, Higuruma had written the comment off almost immediately.

Touch-staved. The phrase lingered in the back of his mind for about an hour before dissolving into the usual clutter of legal matters and paperwork. People used those sorts of psychological terms loosely all the time. Half-formed theories dressed up as observations. It didn’t mean anything.

Expect…

Later that week, he caught himself reaching for you again.

You were sitting across from him at the dining table, laptop open, quietly reviewing something for work while he sifted through case files. Without thinking, his foot nudged against yours under the table.

No reactions. You just shifted slightly so your feet stayed touching. The contact stayed there for the next hour.

Higuruma didn’t comment on it. But the thought from earlier crept faintly into the back of his mind.

There were other moments, of course. Small ones. Things he never really noticed before. When you stood beside him while he washed dishes, hip bumping against yours and staying there.

Or, when he leaned against you on the couch while reading- sometimes even lying down in your lap.

He noticed those things now.

And once the thought existed, it refused to disappear. So he finally thought about it, leaning back in his seat and staring at the ceiling of his office.

Higuruma had never been a particularly affectionate person growing up. Not in the physical sense.

His family hadn’t been cold, exactly, but they hadn’t been demonstrative either. Life had always revolved around responsibility, expectations, and quietly holding problems in. Physical affection simply wasn’t something that occurred often enough to leave an impression.

Then adulthood came. University. Law school. Work.

And suddenly, years passed where the closest thing to human contact was the occasional handshake in a courtroom.

It hadn’t bothered him.

At least…he didn’t think it had.

The realization didn’t happen at all once. It came slowly, like pieces of a case forming a pattern. A night where you fell asleep against his chest and he stayed still for nearly two hours because he didn’t want to wake you.

The way he instinctively reached for your hand when you laughed at something.

How his mood noticeably improved when you leaned into him after a long day. None of it felt like desperation. It didn’t feel like craving. It just felt natural. Necessary in a way he couldn’t explain.

Months had passed after that original conversation. The topic never came up again. You probably assumed he had forgotten it, but Higuruma remembered; he just hadn’t found the right words yet.

When it happened one evening without warning.

Sitting together on the couch after dinner, your legs draped over his lap while he absentmindedly traced patterns along your calf. The television played quietly in the background, though neither of you was really paying attention.

It was a comfortable and calm silence when he suddenly spoke up.

“I figured it out.”

You glanced at him, confused. “Figured what out?”

His fingers paused for a moment before resuming their slow movements along your leg. “That thing you said,” he replied.

Your brow furrowed slightly. “You’re gonna have to narrow that down.”

He exhaled softly through his nose. “About me being touch-starved.”

By the shocked look that crossed your face, he had surprised you with that. “You’re still thinking about that?”

“Yes.”

The answer was immediate. He didn’t feel embarrassed about it. If anything, the topic only made him more thoughtful, like someone presenting a new finding after poking at old evidence.

“I don’t think that’s what it is,” he continued.

You tilted your head slightly. “No?”

He shook his head once. His hand slid from your calf to your ankle, thumb resting there absentmindedly.

“I think…” he paused, briefly searching for the right phrasing. “I think it’s because I’m at peace with you.”

The words were said simply. Like a statement of fact. There was no stopping your expression from softening immediately.

Higuruma rarely spoke so openly about emotions.

“With me?” you asked quietly.

“Yes.” He glanced down at you then, like he was seeing you for the first time again. “When I’m with you, my mind is quieter,” he said. “I’m not thinking about arguments or evidence or the next meeting.” His thumb traced a slow circle around your ankle again. “So I notice things more. Like the fact that you’re here."

There was nothing you could say in that moment, but listen.

“So maybe I touch you a lot,” he admitted. “Not because I’m lacking something.” His gaze softened slightly. “It’s because you make it easy to want to be close.”

And for a man like Hiromi Higuruma-