higuruma’s puppy-love crush on his intern
normal au long oneshot fluff fem reader workplace/office romance semi oblivious reader jealous higuruma confessing under the snow not proofread sfw 18k words
The clock on the wall of the dimly lit office clicked over to 12:30 AM, its rhythmic ticking swallowed by the heavy, hushed stillness of the Tokyo night. Inside, the only light came from the harsh, blue-white glow of a laptop screen and the amber warmth of a single desk lamp.
Hiromi Higuruma sat behind the cluttered mahogany desk, the steady clack-clack-clack of his typing filling the room. He was drafting the final pretrial motions, meticulously dismantling the prosecutor’s suppressive tactics.
He looked every bit the dedicated, weary defense attorney he was—but beneath the sharp tailoring of his unbuttoned vest, his sheer physical presence was undeniable as the faint smell of old paper, rain-soaked asphalt from the open window, and the bitter, dark coffee he’d been surviving on clung to the air.
As he paused, running a hand through his hair, the distinct streak of grey on his fringe caught the lamplight, a stark contrast to his dark locks.
Suddenly, the heavy oak door burst open as you stumbled into the room, breathless and flushed, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.
You hadn’t even had time to fully put yourself together; your dress jacket was clutched tightly in your arms, wrinkled from your frantic rush across the city as the cool night air you’d brought in with you swirled into the stuffy office, carrying the faint scent of the midnight rain.
Higuruma’s fingers froze over the keyboard. He stopped mid-sentence, the sharp, analytical edge in his dark eyes instantly softening the moment they landed on you as he leaned back into his leather chair, the wood groaning slightly under his weight.
He crossed his lanky arms over his chest, looking up at you with a heavy, lingering glance that held a quiet, unspoken longing. For weeks, the perpetrator of your current case—a corrupt corporate executive who had systematically silenced every whistleblower on his payroll—had been a thorn in his side, stalling the wheels of justice and wearing you both down.
The prosecution had been breathing down your necks, threatening to dismiss the case entirely due to a lack of foundational evidence.
He had taken you under his wing years ago, watching you grow from a green assistant into a fierce, capable partner, and he hated seeing you stressed but you didn’t even give him a chance to speak as a brilliant, triumphant smile broke across your face as you rushed to his side, the soles of your shoes squeaking softly against the polished floorboards.
“I did it, Hiromi,” you breathed out, your voice a mix of exhaustion and pure euphoria. “I actually did it!”
You leaned against the edge of his desk, the cool wood pressing through your clothes as you launched into a passionate, breathless rush. “I tracked down Sato,” you said, dumping your wrinkled jacket onto a stack of legal pads. “The prosecution thought they buried him, but I checked the sub-contracting logs from three years ago!”
“I… huff, found the off-the-books warehouse in Ota district and he was shaking, convinced that if he stepped forward, huff… the firm’s security detail would ruin him.”
“I sat with him for three hours in a dingy diner— huff, I broke down Article 321 of the Code of Criminal Procedure for him! I explained the witness protection clauses, the… exact parameters of judicial immunity, and how we could shield his family from corporate retaliation.”
Higuruma didn’t interrupt you. As you talked, his posture shifted as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, bringing himself closer to you.
He clasped his thick fingers together, pressing them right against the bridge of his nose and mouth, his eyes never leaving yours.
He was staring up at you in absolute awe.
“He gave me everything,” you continued, your eyes flashing with fierce satisfaction. “The dual-ledger accounting records, the encrypted emails ordering the disposal of the toxic waste samples—it’s all there!”
lThe entire chain of custody is unbroken. He’s going to show up at the Tokyo District Court tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM sharp and he’s taking the stand!”
The harsh, cynical world he fought in every day seemed to melt away as his dark pupils dilated, his eyes glistening under the lamplight as he drank in the sight of you—your animation, the flush on your cheeks, the absolute pride radiating from you.
The sheer magnitude of his size was intimidating to most, his thin build making him look more like a man forged from heavy labor than a courtroom, but right now, he felt entirely captivated, humbled by your light.
“They signed the affidavit,” you whispered, finishing your frantic tale, pulling a crisp, blue-inked document from your bag and laying it flat on his keyboard. Your voice dropped as you finally ran out of air, looking down at him.
Your heart was hammering against your ribs—not just from the run, but from the sudden, thick tension that had settled over the space between you as the silence in the office became deafening, heavy with a simmering, heated friction.
Higuruma slowly lowered his hands from his face, unclenching his fingers as he looked at the signature on the affidavit, then up at your hand, which was resting on the desk just inches from his own.
His arms flexed beneath his rolled-up sleeves as he subtly shifted, a deep, rumbling sigh escaping his chest. “You are extraordinary, Y/N,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly timber that vibrated right through you, carrying a formal, deliberate weight. “This is an exceptional piece of legal execution.”
“You have completely dismantled the opposition’s defense; the prosecution will possess no viable grounds to petition for a continuance once this is entered into the record.”
“I never doubted your capabilities, but... you should not have compromised your own safety by pursuing this witness without adequate support.”
He wanted to reach out. You could see the subtle twitch in his wrist, the way his gaze dropped to your bare arm, but he hesitated as Higuruma’s hands were large, and slightly rough from years of hard, physical labor before his life in the law, a stark contrast to his brilliant mind.
He was always fiercely protective of you, and in his mind, those hands were too rugged, too harsh for someone like you. He was terrified of being too rough, of marking you or causing you discomfort with his callouses, so he kept his distance, preserving the agonizing space between you.
Instead, he just looked at you, his breathing deep and synchronized with yours in the quiet office as the heat radiating from his tall frame was palpable, warming the inches of air that separated your bodies.
“You should have seen the prosecutor’s lead counsel’s face when I told him we were still hunting for a missing link yesterday,” you murmured, your voice suddenly softer, caught in the gravity of his intense stare.
You didn’t move away, if anything, you leaned a fraction of an inch closer, daring him to close the gap. “They think they’ve already won tomorrow’s hearing.”
“Let them maintain that illusion until tomorrow morning,” Higuruma replied, his eyes darkening with a profound, simmering emotion as he looked up at you, his tone shifting into something intensely focused and quiet.
“The final verdict is already written in your dedication tonight. That is more than enough to restore my faith in the adversarial system.”
The heavy silence that followed your words stretched, pulling tighter and tighter like a drawn bowstring as you noticed him leaning his heavy frame against the dark wood of the table, his broad shoulders squared, and without even realizing it, you subconsciously mimicked him.
You leaned closer into his space, the warmth radiating from his body washing over your face. Your hands slammed against the polished surface of his desk as the sudden vibration jolted a sleek, heavy fountain pen from its resting place.
It wobbled for a fraction of a second before rolling down the incline of the table and tumbling over the side, “Oh crap— I’m so sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling out as you immediately crouched down to grab it, your knees scraping softly against the low-pile carpet as Higuruma’s instincts kicked in instantly.
The moment you dropped out of his line of sight, his form shifted as he leaned over the desk, his arms flexing hard against the rolled-up fabric of his white sleeve as he stretched his arm out.
He placed his hand flat against the underside of the table, hovering it directly over your head and every single time you moved your head to search the shadows near his boots, his rough palm shifted with you, acting as a protective shield so your head wouldn’t crack against the unforgiving mahogany.
He didn’t touch you—he was far too careful for that—but you could feel the sheer heat radiating from his large hand just inches above your hair as your fingers wrapped around the smooth metal of the pen, and as soon as you stood back up, he smoothly retracted his arm, leaning back.
Your chest felt tight as you delicately placed the pen back into the leather pen holder, your fingers brushing the rim as Higuruma watched your hands, his gaze dark and unreadable, before he finally spoke.
His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in the small office. “You do not need to apologize, Y/N. And... congratulations, managing to convince a witness like Sato under these circumstances. It is no small feat.”
“From a procedural standpoint, your handling of his hesitation was flawlessly executed.” A slow, rare smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the grey patch on his fringe catching the amber lamplight. “Then again, I knew you could do it. I did take you under my wing myself, didn’t I?”
“I’d expect nothing less from my best student.”
“I learned from the best, Counselor,” you replied, your voice carrying a playful yet soft edge that made his dark eyes flicker.
The praise felt warm, settling deep in your chest as Higuruma stood up, his towering, lanky frame casting a long shadow across the room. The scent of old paper and leather followed him as he walked over to the small kitchenette setup in the corner of his office to make coffee—one for you, and one for him.
The quiet sound of water heating and the rich, bitter aroma of fresh coffee grounds filled the room, masking the smell of the midnight rain outside as you watched his broad back as he reached into the cabinet. He didn’t even have to ask as he reached for the sugar bowl and dropped exactly two cubes of sugar into your porcelain cup.
He knew your routine by heart as he stirred the liquid, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic, and with his back still completely turned toward you, he quickly licked the sweet coffee from the spoon so you wouldn’t see the uncharacteristic, boyish gesture.
When he turned back around, the stoic, professional mask was firmly back in place as he walked over and handed you your cup, his fingers carefully avoiding yours.
Even the briefest phantom brush of his knuckles against your skin made him tense; he was always so terrified that the rough, scarred texture of his hands would be too harsh for you as he leaned his hip against the edge of the table, taking a slow sip from his own black coffee, his dark eyes fixed on you as you did the same.
“The prosecution will likely attempt to challenge Sato’s credibility during cross-examination tomorrow morning,” Higuruma stated, his tone thoroughly professional, though his gaze lingered heavily on your lips as you sipped the hot liquid. “They will try to argue that the dual-ledger records were obtained through coercive means or that Sato has a personal vendetta against the executive board. We must ensure our foundational questioning is ironclad.”
“I’ve already cross-referenced the timeline of the encrypted emails with Sato’s employment records,” you replied, setting your cup down and holding his intense gaze. “There’s no overlap that suggests fabrication. If they try to attack his character, we can cite Article 321 to protect the integrity of his written affidavit.”
Higuruma’s eyes darkened with a quiet, profound appreciation. He took another slow sip, the amber lamplight catching the sharp angle of his jaw. “Exemplary work, your grasp of the statutory exceptions is flawless.”
While keeping his eyes locked onto yours, Higuruma reached into his dress jacket’s pocket, pulling out the very fountain pen you had just rescued as he reached for a piece of coarse, brown tissue paper resting on the desk.
With practiced, deliberate movements, his large hand moved across the paper, the scratch of the nib loud in the quiet room as he slid the tissue paper across the dark wood toward you. You immediately grabbed it, the paper crinkling between your fingers. You stared down at the neat, bold handwriting tracing out a specific detail: Le Petit Restaurant @8:00 PM.
A massive, brilliant smile broke across your face, stretching from ear to ear, though a flicker of confusion danced in your eyes. You looked back up at him, tilting your head slightly. “What’s this, Hiromi?” you questioned, your voice soft, even though deep down, a fluttering feeling in your stomach told you exactly what he was trying to say as Higuruma cleared his throat, taking another sip of his coffee to hide the slight tightness in his jaw. “I intended to arrange a proper dinner for us,” he said, his voice maintaining its measured, formal cadence, though the underlying rasp betrayed his composure.
“Following the conclusion of tomorrow’s court session. To celebrate the culmination of your hard work on this case, you have earned a reprieve.”
Your brilliant smile faltered, dropping into an awkward, apologetic curve. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, holding the tissue paper a bit tighter. “Oh... Hiromi, I... I’d love to, really, but...” You tilted your head to the side, looking at him through your lashes, the sudden shift in the air making your pulse jump.
“Another seasoned lawyer—the one from the firm downtown, the senior partner who’s been consulting on the corporate compliance angle with us, he uhh… already offered to take me somewhere tomorrow night. And I... well, I already agreed.”
Higuruma froze as the subtle and relaxed posture he had maintained vanished in an instant. He placed his coffee cup back down on the table with a sharp, heavy clack that echoed like a small explosion in the quiet office.
His dark brows drew together, a sudden, suffocating wave of possessiveness instantly shattering his professional veneer as the careful, polite boundaries he usually guarded so fiercely evaporated.
His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking violently beneath his rugged stubble. When he spoke, the formal honorifics and measured vocabulary were entirely gone, replaced by a raw, gravelly edge. “You’re going out with him?” he asked, his voice dropping a dangerous octave, thick with a dark, simmering jealousy.
He took a deliberate step forward, crowding into your space until the sheer mass of his broad chest blocked out the light from the desk lamp. “Tomorrow night? After we close this case together?”
“It was just for networking, Hiromi, and he asked before we even got the witness,” you explained quickly, your breath hitching at his sudden proximity as the thick tension between you twisted tight, making the air feel scarce.
You took a small step closer instead of backing away, your eyes softening as you looked up into his tense, shadowed face. “It’s purely professional. Maybe next time... the both of you—I mean, the both of us—can have dinner together?”
“Just you and me. Next time, I promise.”
Higuruma didn’t answer right away as he stood towering over you, his chest rising and falling heavily as he drank in your expression.
His dilated pupils scanned your face, tracking the slight flush on your cheeks and the sincerity in your eyes as his large hands clenched into fists at his sides, the fabric of his sleeves straining against his arms as he fought the overwhelming urge to reach out, to pull you against him and erase the agonizing inches remaining between you.
“A networking dinner,” he rasped out, the words sounding bitter on his tongue as he forced his breathing to slow, though the jealous fire in his dark gaze didn’t fade in the slightest. “He has no business taking you out, Y/N.”
The heavy silence returned, thick and suffocating, vibrating with the raw energy of his confession as Higuruma’s gaze remained locked on yours, his dark eyes searching your face for any sign of hesitation, any indication that you understood exactly what he was truly saying beneath the guise of professional territory.
For a fleeting second, the sheer proximity of him—the heat radiating from his tall frame, the bitter scent of coffee mingled with the faint musk of rain—made the rest of the world vanish completely.
Then, with a slow, deliberate effort that looked almost painful, Higuruma closed his eyes as he took a deep, steadying breath, his chest expanding against the fabric of his dress shirt. When he opened his eyes again, the fierce, unbridled jealousy had been forcibly pushed back behind his dark irises.
He stepped back, restoring those agonizing, safe inches of distance between your bodies as the rigid, unyielding mask of the seasoned defense attorney slid back over his features, though his voice still carried a residual roughness that he couldn’t quite smooth over.
“Forgive me,” he said, his tone dropping back into a formal, disciplined cadence, though it was quieter now, empty of its usual clinical detachment. “That was... an unprofessional lapse in judgment on my part.”
“Your networking and professional associations outside of this office are entirely your own prerogative.” He reached down, his large, lean hand moving with extreme care as he picked up his coffee cup from the desk, avoiding even the slightest risk of brushing against your fingers.
“However, the reality of our immediate schedule remains unchanged,” he continued, looking down at you with a heavy, lingering glance that still held a quiet, unspoken longing.
“Tomorrow’s hearing will demand the absolute peak of your cognitive faculties. The prosecution will be vindictive, and Judge Iwata will not tolerate a disorganized presentation.”
He walked over to the mahogany desk, closing his laptop with a decisive, soft click that signaled the end of the night work as he turned back to you, his broad shoulders squaring as he gave you a small, definitive nod.
“You have performed an invaluable service for our client tonight, Y/N, and for that, you have my highest professional regard. But your exhaustion is palpable.” He glanced toward the coat rack near the door, his eyes softening just a fraction.
“Go home and gather your notes, review the witness protection clauses one final time, and ensure you get some rest for tomorrow’s court session.”
“We need to be flawless at 10:00 AM.”
The sterile, suffocating atmosphere of the courtroom was a stark contrast to the quiet intimacy of Higuruma’s office from the night before as high ceilings bounced the echo of coughing spectators and the shuffling of legal documents across the mahogany benches.
The sharp, bitter scent of industrial floor wax mingled with the sweat of a tense audience, and the bright, unforgiving fluorescent lights overhead hummed a low, vibrating note that seemed to dig straight into your temples.
The trial was in full swing, and it was a masterpiece of legal warfare as you and Higuruma sat side-by-side at the defense table, a united front defending your client. All those weeks of sleepless nights, the tireless dead-ends, and the witness you had triumphantly secured the night before were finally paying off.
You had laid the groundwork flawlessly, but it was Higuruma who was truly carrying the heavy weight of the case on his broad shoulders. Every time he spoke, his deep, gravelly voice commanded the entire room, cutting through the prosecution’s flimsy arguments like a blade.
“If the prosecution intends to introduce the defendant’s past employment termination as a reflection of character,” Higuruma stated, his tone cool, precise, and rigorously formal, “they must first establish relevance under Article 317 of the Code of Criminal Procedure. Thus far, they have offered nothing but conjecture.”
You watched him from your seat, your fingers tightly gripping the edge of a manila folder. Even in his neatly pressed three-piece suit, his lean, slender build was imposing as his broad back stretched the fabric of his vest, and his arms flexed against his sleeves every time he reached for a document.
The distinctive grey patch on his fringe stood out starkly against his dark hair under the courtroom lights, giving him the look of a seasoned, weathered wolf. Slowly, surely, the tide was turning. Up on the bench, Judge Iwata was leaning forward, nodding slowly as he listened to Higuruma’s meticulous breakdown of the facts.
The Judge was taking his side—taking your side as the sweet taste of victory was right there, lingering just out of reach, but the prosecution, desperate and cornered, suddenly threw out a venomous, uncalled-for insinuation about your client’s character, completely disregarding the rules of evidence.
“Your Honor,” the prosecutor interjected sharply, “the defense’s sudden acquisition of an uncorroborated witness overnight speaks less to legal diligence and more to a desperate, late-night manipulation of the facts.”
You felt the shift in Higuruma before you even saw it as the air around him grew instantly heavy, thick with a suffocating, sudden heat as the prosecutor’s barbed mention of a ‘late-night manipulation’ struck a dangerously raw nerve, instantly dragging Higuruma’s mind back to the agonizing jealousy of the previous night—to the thought of you leaving him for another man’s company.
His righteous fury flared up instantly as his jaw clenched so hard the muscles ticked violently beneath his rugged stubble. Higuruma stood up to present the definitive piece of counter-evidence, his towering frame casting a long, intimidating shadow over the defense table.
His hands slammed down hard against the polished wood of the table, the sharp, thunderous sound echoing off the high walls of the courtroom and causing a few people in the gallery to gasp. The sheer force of his movement shook the microphone on the podium.
He was pushing past his usual stoic composure, his dark eyes flashing with a dangerous, embers-and-ash anger as he prepared to dismantle the prosecutor entirely.
In his blind frustration, he hadn’t realized just how close he had positioned himself to you as his hand had come down right beside your notes, his thick thumb resting flat against the dark wood.
Without thinking, driven entirely by an instinct to protect him from letting his temper flare in front of the Judge, you reached out as your hand was small against the desk, and you deliberately slid your pinky finger over, resting it gently on top of his thumb.
The contrast was immediate and jarring. Your skin was smooth and cool against his hand as his hands were forged from years of brutal, physical labor before he ever touched a law book, scarred and rugged, which was exactly why he always kept his distance from you—he was terrified that his rough touch would somehow hurt or ruin you.
But you didn’t pull away, instead, your pinky finger began to gently, rhythmically rub against his skin, a silent, secret caress beneath the level of the podium where no one else could see. “Calm down…” your gentle touch pleaded as Higuruma froze mid-breath.
The fiery tirade that had been building in his throat died instantly as a sudden, dizzying wave of heated tension flooded the small space between you two, completely separate from the courtroom battle raging around you.
The lingering friction from the night before—the jealousy, the unspoken longing, the agonizing proximity—snapped back into sharp focus. You could feel the intense heat radiating from his large frame, his breathing turning shallow.
Underneath your finger, his thumb twitched. He didn’t move away, but he didn’t lean into it either, paralyzed by the sheer sensation of your soft skin intentionally pressing against his hand.
His slender arms trembled slightly under his sleeve as he fought the overwhelming urge to turn his hand over, trap your fingers in his large palm, and hold on tight. For a long, agonizing second, Higuruma broke his own rule but he didn’t look at the Judge, nor did he look at the prosecutor.
Slowly, his head turned a fraction of an inch, and his dark, dilated pupils dropped to look directly at you. It was a stolen, heavy glance, burning with a quiet intensity that had absolutely nothing to do with the law as his eyes traced the line of your jaw, the soft curve of your mouth, and the fierce, protective loyalty shining in your gaze.
The longing in his expression was profound, a silent admission that he was utterly captured by you, helpless against the soothing weight of your touch as the silence stretched for a beat too long, the tension between your touching fingers thickening until it felt almost palpable.
Slowly, Higuruma let out a long, slow breath through his nose. The rigid, angry tension in his shoulders visibly melted away, replaced by a deep, simmering focus.
He tore his eyes away from you, locking them back onto the Judge, but his thumb shifted just a fraction of a millimeter, leaning into the comforting pressure of your pinky finger. “As I was saying,” Higuruma began, his voice dropping back into its low, smooth, and utterly captivating rumble, completely composed once more.
“The defense would like to present Exhibit C. The signed affidavit from Mr. Sato, which explicitly outlines the timeline of the corporate compliance infractions.”
He paused, his voice taking on a lower, deliberate weight that vibrated right through the desk. “Furthermore, any insinuation by the prosecution regarding the integrity of my co-counsel’s methods is not only entirely defamatory, but legally irrelevant.”
“This affidavit was executed in strict accordance with legal protocol.” He didn’t look down, but his thumb gave a microscopic, firm press against your pinky finger, a silent, professional acknowledgment that was entirely intimate. “The evidence speaks for itself, Your Honor. The defense rests its motion.”
The gavel struck the sounding block with a sharp, resonant crack that echoed through the high-ceilinged room. “Motion granted,” Judge Iwata announced, his voice booming over the courtroom speakers.
“The affidavit is admitted as Exhibit C, the prosecution will refrain from making unsubstantiated claims regarding the defense’s investigative methods. We will recess for lunch and reconvene at 1:30 PM for cross-examination.”
The courtroom instantly erupted into a low hum of activity. Spectators began to shuffle out of the gallery, and across the aisle, the prosecution team began furiously whispering to one another, their faces grim.
Only then did Higuruma smoothly lift his hand from the table, breaking the contact between his thumb and your pinky finger as the sudden absence of his warmth felt like a cold shock against your skin.
He stood up straight, towering over the defense table, and meticulously began gathering the loose documents scattered across the polished mahogany. His movements were deliberate, formal, and entirely controlled, but you could see the slight tremor in his broad shoulders as he forced himself back into the role of the unflappable senior partner.
“An exceptional counter-maneuver, Y/N,” he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register meant only for your ears. He didn't look at you right away, keeping his eyes fixed on a stapled brief as he aligned its edges against the desk.
“Your intervention was... well-timed. From a procedural standpoint, allowing the prosecution to bait us into an emotional response would have compromised our standing with the bench.”
“I just knew you had the upper hand,” you murmured, keeping your voice low as you packed your own legal pads into your briefcase. “I wasn’t going to let them take that away from you… from us.”
Higuruma’s fingers paused on the manila folder. Slowly, he leaned down, resting one hand flat on the edge of the table as he bent his head closer to yours. It was a completely professional posture to any outside observer—just two lawyers discussing strategy—but the proximity was intoxicating.
His dark, intense eyes locked onto yours, holding a heavy, lingering gaze that made your breath catch and under the bright, sterile lights of the courtroom, his dilated pupils searched your face with a raw, unspoken longing that completely contradicted his formal demeanor.
“Your loyalty to this case—and to myself—is noted, and deeply appreciated,” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a sudden, thick friction that had nothing to do with the law. He looked at your lips for a fraction of a second before pulling his gaze back to your eyes.
“However, you must maintain that same level of vigilance during the afternoon session. The prosecutor will be looking for any opportunity to retaliate.”
“I’m ready for them,” you said, offering him a small, confident smile.
Higuruma stared at you for a beat longer, a profound, quiet awe softening the rugged lines of his face and he looked as though he wanted to say something more—something that crossed the strict boundaries he so fiercely guarded—but he pulled back, his jaw clenching as he straightened to his full, imposing height.
“Excellent. Then let us utilize this recess to review Sato’s cross-examination outline.” He adjusted the lapels of his three-piece suit, the formal, stoic mask firmly back in place. “We shall take our lunch in the law library upstairs. It will provide the necessary privacy to ensure our strategy remains ironclad.”
As he stepped out from behind the table to let you lead the way, his hand hovered briefly behind your waist—never quite touching you, preserving that agonizing, respectful distance—but the palpable heat radiating from his looming frame followed you all the way out of the courtroom.
The law library upstairs was a sanctuary of silence, smelling heavily of aged leather binding, dust, and the faint, sweet scent of old paper.
Tall rows of oak bookshelves blocked out the harsh fluorescent glare of the courthouse hallways, casting the room in long, muted shadows as Higuruma sat across from you at a heavy wooden study table, his laptop open alongside a meticulous stack of case files.
He had unbuttoned his suit jacket, his broad shoulders and arms shifting beneath his unbuttoned vest as he quietly reviewed the cross-examination outlines. The atmosphere between you two was quiet but charged, the lingering electricity from your secret, under-the-table touch in the courtroom still humming quietly in the space between you.
The heavy oak door of the library swung open, breaking the silence as the senior partner from the downtown firm—the one who had been consulting on the corporate compliance angle—stepped into the room.
He looked entirely too pristine, his tailored gray suit immaculate, carrying a lavishly packaged bento box in his hands as he walked in with a casual, overconfident stride that completely disregarded the unspoken rules of a closed legal workspace.
“I brought you some lunch, Y/N,” the attorney said, his voice entirely too loud for the library as he walked straight toward your side of the table, offering a dazzling, practiced smile.
“I figured after a grueling morning session like that, you’d want something better than the cafeteria food. I also wanted to confirm our reservations for eight tonight.”
Higuruma froze as the air in the room instantly plummeted, turning thick and suffocating. He slowly lifted his head, his dark eyes narrowing into dangerous, icy slits as he looked at the intruder.
The sheer, imposing mass of his frame seemed to expand as he leaned back slightly in his chair, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles ticked violently beneath his stubble. His expression practically screamed, ‘Who allowed this man into a secured defense workspace?’
He didn’t say a word, but the protective, possessive aura radiating from him was loud enough to fill the entire room as his hands slowly flattened against his legal pads, his knuckles whitening as he fought to maintain his composure.
You, however, were mortified.
“Counselor Minami,” you said, your voice dropping into a sharp, hushed whisper as you immediately stood up, stepping between him and the table.
While you appreciated the gesture of the food, the sheer lack of professional boundaries—barging into a closed, mid-trial strategy session—was completely unacceptable. “This is highly inappropriate! We are in the middle of a trial recess, preparing a crucial witness for the afternoon session… this room is reserved for active defense counsel only.”
“Oh, come on, Y/N,” Minami laughed, waving a hand dismissively, entirely oblivious to the fact that Higuruma was staring at him like a weathered wolf calculating the precise trajectory of a strike.
“I’m a consultant on the case. I just wanted to check in on you. Besides, a quick break won’t ruin your strategy.”
“The integrity of our client’s defense relies entirely on our focus during these hours,” you scolded him sharply, your tone unyielding and thoroughly professional as you gesture toward the door.
“You are not on the active trial team, and bringing personal matters into a secure preparation space is a direct violation of protocol. I must ask you to leave immediately. We will discuss our professional networking schedule after the court adjourns for the day.”
Across the table, a fascinating shift occurred as Higuruma slowly picked up his fountain pen, lowering his gaze back down to his notes, but he wasn’t reading as a slow, rare, and thoroughly satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, softening the rugged, stoic contours of his face.
The deep, possessive irritation that had flared in his chest melted into absolute, quiet smugness. He sat there, crossing one long and slender leg over the other, deliberately sliding his pen across a legal pad with practiced, rhythmic scratches, entirely enjoying the melody of you fiercely defending your shared workspace—and, in a way, him.
Minami’s smile faltered, his face flushing with embarrassment as he realized he had overstepped. “Right… of course. My apologies. I’ll... see you at eight then.” He hastily set the bento box on a nearby cart and practically scurried out of the library, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
The silence that returned to the room was entirely different—warm, thick, and laced with a teasing friction as you let out a long, frustrated sigh, running a hand through your hair before sitting back down, your face still slightly flushed from the confrontation.
You looked across the table, only to find Higuruma still looking down at his notes, though the amused smile was still firmly etched on his lips. “You find this amusing, Counselor?” you asked, tilting your head, a mix of exhaustion and playfulness in your voice.
Higuruma slowly raised his head, his dark, intense eyes locking onto yours with a heavy, lingering glance that held a profound, unspoken warmth. He set his pen down, his large, rough hand resting flat on the table, just inches from yours.
“On the contrary,” Higuruma rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly timber that vibrated right through the wooden table. “I find your adherence to courtroom protocol... deeply commendable. Your cross-examination of Counselor Minami’s boundaries was flawlessly executed.”
His eyes darkened with that familiar, intense longing, his gaze dropping to your hands before rising back to meet your eyes. “Though, I must admit... I am glad you dismissed the distraction. We have far more important matters to conclude today.”
The digital clock above the heavy oak double doors of Courtroom 402 clicked over to 1:30 PM sharp as the sharp, mechanical ring of the bailiff’s buzzer signaled the end of the recess, and the heavy silence of the gallery was instantly replaced by the rustle of tailored wool and the snapping of briefcase latches.
You and Higuruma sat side by side at the defense table, a flawlessly coordinated front. The sterile, white fluorescent light overhead glinted off the polished mahogany surface between you, where the signed affidavit of Mr. Sato lay resting like a loaded weapon.
Higuruma sat perfectly upright, his towering frame imposing even while seated. His unbuttoned vest had been meticulously refastened, his tie straightened, and the formal, unyielding mask of Tokyo’s most formidable defense attorney was firmly back in place.
Yet, as you arranged the final set of cross-examination indexes, his dark eyes flicked toward you. It was a heavy, lingering glance—brief, silent, but thick with the shared triumph of the library upstairs.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Iwata,” the bailiff announced, his voice echoing off the high, sterile walls.
The courtroom rose in unison. As Judge Iwata took his seat on the elevated bench, his sharp gaze swept over the well of the court, landing first on the visibly perspiring prosecution team, then on Higuruma.
“We are back on the record in the matter of Tokyo District Corporate Fraud, Case Number 409,” Judge Iwata stated, adjusting his glasses. “The defense may call its witness.”
Higuruma stood up as his broad shoulders squared, his broad chest expanding beneath his white dress shirt as he took his place at the center podium.
The sheer gravity of his physical presence seemed to command the entire room, drawing every eye to the sharp angle of his jaw and the distinctive streak of grey in his fringe. “Thank you, Your Honor,” Higuruma began, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly, and utterly captivating rumble.
“The defense calls Mr. Daisuke Sato.”
The side door opened, and Sato stepped into the courtroom. He was pale, his hands trembling slightly as he took the oath, but as his eyes found yours at the defense table, he took a steadying breath.
You offered him a precise, encouraging nod—the exact reassurance you had promised him during those late-night hours in the Ota district.
What followed was a masterclass in judicial execution as Higuruma approached the witness box with measured, deliberate steps. He systematically guided Sato through the dual-ledger accounting records and the encrypted emails, establishing an unbroken chain of custody for every piece of evidence you had recovered the night before.
His questioning was formal, incisive, and completely airtight. Every time the prosecution attempted to object, attempting to muddy the waters with character assassination, Higuruma countered instantly, citing statutory exceptions with absolute clinical precision.
“Objection, Your Honor! Speculation on the witness’s part regarding executive intent,” the lead prosecutor barked, his face flushed with frustration.
“The witness is testifying directly to an explicit directive received via an encrypted server, verified under Article 321,” Higuruma shot back, his tone cool, formal, and utterly unyielding. “The intent is not speculated; it is documented.”
“Objection overruled,” Judge Iwata declared, his gavel falling with a decisive thud. “The witness may answer.”
By the time the prosecution took the podium for cross-examination, they were already beaten. Their arguments were desperate, fragmented, and entirely dismantled by the legal framework you and Higuruma had spent weeks constructing as Sato held firm, protected by the ironclad clauses you had briefed him on.
As the afternoon sun began to dip, casting long, amber slants of light through the high courtroom windows, Higuruma stood up for his closing summation.
He didn’t use notes as he simply stood before the bench, his lean, slender frame casting a long shadow across the courtroom floor, “Justice is not a matter of corporate convenience,” Higuruma concluded, his deep voice vibrating through the sterile room, holding the entire gallery captive.
“The evidence presented by the defense demonstrates a systematic, illegal suppression of truth. The statutory requirements for a conviction have not merely been met; they have been overwhelmingly established… the defense rests.”
Judge Iwata leaned back in his leather chair, looking at the mountain of evidence before him. The silence in the room was deafening, heavy with a simmering friction as everyone awaited the inevitable as the Judge did not even retire to his chambers.
He looked down at the defense table, his expression solemn but respectful, “In light of the irrefutable evidence presented in Exhibit C, and the corroborating testimony of Mr. Sato,” Judge Iwata announced, his voice booming over the microphone.
“This court finds the corporate entity and its executive board guilty on all counts of structural fraud and hazardous disposal. Sentences will be handed down during the formal hearing next term.”
“This court is adjourned.”
The final strike of the gavel echoed through the room like a thunderclap.
It was over… and you had won! The gallery erupted into a flurry of motion and excited whispers as you let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding for weeks, your shoulders instantly dropping as the immense weight of the trial lifted from your chest.
A brilliant, radiant smile broke across your face as you looked up as Higuruma turned away from the podium and walked back to the defense table. The rigid, calculated tension in his posture finally melted away, replaced by a profound, quiet relief.
He looked down at you, his dark pupils dilated under the harsh lights, drinking in the sight of your euphoric expression. For a moment, the bustling courtroom around you faded into absolute nothingness but he didn’t care about the spectators, the lingering press, or the defeated prosecutors packing their bags across the aisle.
His gaze held a quiet, unspoken longing so intense it made your pulse race. “We did it, Hiromi,” you breathed, your voice a soft, ecstatic whisper amidst the courtroom din as Higuruma slowly leaned his heavy frame down against the desk, bringing his face closer to yours. He reached out, his hand resting on the polished wood just inches from your own.
His knuckles twitched, the rough, scarred skin of his thumb subtly brushing against the very edge of your desk calendar—close enough that you could feel the immense, radiating heat of his palm, yet still preserving that agonizing safety he forced upon himself to keep from being too rough with you.
“Correction, Y/N,” Higuruma murmured, his voice a low, gravelly timber meant entirely for you, carrying a deep, simmering emotion that sent a shiver down your spine. “You did it. This victory belongs entirely to your diligence, your intellect, and your unyielding resolve.”
He looked down at your hand, then back up to your eyes, the grey patch on his fringe catching the last rays of the afternoon sun.
The formal boundaries of the senior partner were still there, but beneath them, the raw, possessive heat from the night before was burning brighter than ever.
“It has been the distinct privilege of my career to sit beside you today,” he rasped softly, his jaw tightening as he glanced toward the courtroom doors, his mind tracking the impending arrival of eight o’clock and the man waiting for you. “Now... let us conclude our administrative filings. Your evening engagements await.”
The word engagements hung heavily in the narrow space between you, sharp and bitter. You felt your smile falter slightly, the lingering heat between your hands turning into a taut, agonizing pull. “Hiromi,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the rustle of papers as the courtroom slowly emptied around you.
You shifted your hand just a fraction closer to his, daring to close the distance. “You make it sound like I’m rushing out the door. The dinner isn’t for hours, we still have to file the post-trial motions together.”
Higuruma didn’t move his hand away as he looked at your fingers, so close to his rough, leather-like skin, and his jaw ticked.
He let out a low, rough breath that smelled faintly of the black coffee he’d consumed during the recess. “I am simply ensuring you have adequate time to prepare,” he replied, his tone clipping, trying to sound like the detached mentor he was supposed to be.
But his eyes gave him away—dark, intense, and practically smoldering with a jealousy he couldn’t entirely choke down. “A seasoned lawyer from downtown likely expects absolute punctuality. I wouldn’t want my junior partner keeping him waiting.”
The human, possessive edge in his gravelly voice was unmistakable. You couldn’t help the small, breathless laugh that escaped your lips, leaning in just a fraction more until you could feel the warmth of his chest radiating against you, “Are you jealous, Counselor?” you murmured, your tone a daring mix of playfulness and undeniable heat, your eyes locking onto his.
Higuruma froze and for a second, the only sound was the distant hum of the ventilation system and the heavy, synchronized rhythm of your breathing.
His pupils dilated further, swallowing the dark iris as he stared down at you as he lowered his head slightly, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly whisper that vibrated right through the wood of the table.
“And if I am?” he asked, the filter entirely slipping away. He leaned closer, the scent of his cologne—earthy, rugged, like cedar and rain—flooding your senses. His hand twitched violently on the desk, desperately wanting to reach out, to wrap around your wrist and pull you against him, yet still holding back out of that stubborn, deep-seated fear of his own roughness.
“If I told you I would rather you spend your evening across a table from me, rather than some man who didn’t spend the last three weeks watching you pour your soul into this case... what would you say to that, Y/N?”
The sheer intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch, the heated friction between you stretching so tightly it felt ready to snap. “I would say,” you whispered, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs, “that you should have asked me first last night... and that you better not forget about that promise for next time.”
A slow, heavy silence settled over you, the tension lingering thickly in the air as Higuruma stared at your lips, his chest rising and falling deeply.
Finally, a tight, rugged smile broke the harsh lines of his face as he slowly pulled back, breaking the intoxicating proximity, though his eyes never truly let you go. “A binding verbal contract,” Higuruma murmured, his voice returning to a smooth, quiet rumble as he reached for his briefcase. “I will certainly hold you to that, Y/N. Now, let us finish these files.”
The clock on the wall of the office clicked past 7:30 PM, the rhythmic tick-tick-tick sounding much lighter now that the crushing weight of the trial was behind you.
The amber warmth of the desk lamp cast long, relaxed shadows across the dark mahogany, and the scent of rain-soaked asphalt from the open window had settled into a pleasant, cool breeze as you sat at your desk, the soft click of your keyboard filling the quiet space as you typed up the final post-trial memo.
Across the room, Higuruma sat behind his own desk, his unbuttoned vest hanging open over a frame that was deceptively lean. He was a tall man, commanding a striking height that naturally drew the eye, but his build was distinctly lanky—an average, healthy weight distributed across a long, slender torso and narrow, sharp shoulders.
His sleeves were rolled up, revealing thin, wiry forearms defined more by tight sinew and a few prominent veins than bulk. To anyone else, he looked like a man meticulously wrapping up administrative loose ends.
In reality, he was executing a highly calculated, entirely uncharacteristic act of corporate sabotage as a heavy stack of red-labeled folders sat prominently on the corner of your desk—files on an upcoming compliance audit that weren't due for another three weeks.
Higuruma had personally retrieved them from the archive room twenty minutes ago, placing them down with a perfectly straight face and a calm, clinical explanation about “procedural expedience.”
‘... He absolutely hates me,’ you thought to yourself, staring bitterly at the massive pile of paper. Your eyes darted from the red folders over to him, watching how smoothly his fountain pen glided over his own work. ‘There is no other explanation! He takes me under his wing just to bury me alive in paperwork and he’s absolutely sadistic…!’
‘He probably saw me smiling after the trial and decided my joy was a personal insult to his workload…’
Your phone buzzed on the desk. The screen lit up with a text from the downtown senior partner: ‘Just leaving the firm. See you at 8:00?’
You let out a soft sigh, looking at the mountain of fresh paperwork Higuruma had assigned you. With a wry, slightly defeated smile, you picked up your phone and typed out a reply: ‘I’m so sorry, but I won’t be able to make it tonight. My boss just handed me a sudden influx of urgent post-trial filings and audit prep. I’m stuck at the office for the foreseeable future…’
Across the room, Higuruma’s fountain pen paused against a sheet of legal paper. He didn’t lift his head entirely, but his dark eyes flickered upward beneath his brow, tracking the movement of your fingers on the screen.
He watched you set the phone face-down, his sharp, analytical mind instantly calculating the timing as a slow, thoroughly satisfied, and devastatingly soft smile tugged at the corner of Higuruma’s mouth.
The dark, suffocating jealousy that had been simmering in his chest all day instantly evaporated, replaced by a deep, smug sense of triumph. He lowered his gaze back to his paperwork, the scratch of his pen on the paper resuming with a rhythmic, almost cheerful pace. “Is there an issue, Y/N?” he asked, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly rumble that vibrated right through the quiet office.
His tone was a masterpiece of formal, professional innocence. “If the volume of the compliance files is too burdensome for this evening, we can certainly prioritize them first thing in the morning.”
You looked up, catching the faint, residual curve of his lips before his stoic mask slid back into place as you tilted your head, a knowing, slightly annoyed look in your eyes. “No, Counselor. It’s fine,” you said, your voice laced with heavy, deliberate sarcasm. “It’s completely fine. I just had to cancel my dinner plans.”
“Apparently, my supervising partner has decided that corporate compliance from a month from now is a matter of absolute midnight urgency.”
Higuruma didn’t look up immediately, but his thin shoulders relaxed completely, his narrow chest rising and falling in a deep, steady breath as he carefully aligned the edges of a document, his long, slender, scarred fingers moving with practiced deliberation.
“Regrettable,” he murmured, though there wasn't a single shred of regret in his tone. He finally lifted his head, his dark pupils dilated as he fixed you with a heavy, lingering glance.
The grey streak on his fringe caught the amber lamplight, making his sharp, angular features look exceptionally striking in the quiet room. “However, in our line of work, the momentum of a major victory must be maintained. Indulging in distractions so soon after a verdict can compromise one’s professional focus.”
“Distractions,” you repeated softly, leaning back in your chair and looking at him through your lashes, stepping right into the banter. “Is that what you think a nice dinner is? A distraction?”
“Or are you just trying to break my spirit by giving me enough work to kill a lesser attorney? Honestly, Hiromi, sometimes I think you just plain ol’ hate me.”
Higuruma froze as he slowly lowered his pen, the silence in the office suddenly thickening, turning heavy and charged with a simmering, electric friction.
His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking beneath his rugged stubble as he absorbed your words. “Hate you?” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously low and quiet. He stood up from his desk.
His tall, lanky frame seemed to unfold elegantly, casting a long, slender shadow that stretched across the floor until it touched the edge of your desk. He walked over with slow, deliberate steps, his long legs crossing the space quickly, the faint scent of his cedar-and-rain cologne moving with him.
He stopped right in front of your desk, leaning his thin frame forward as his wiry arms braced his hands against the wood, the fabric of his white shirt pulled taut against his slender shoulders.
He brought his face closer to yours, his dark eyes burning into your own with a raw, fierce intensity that made your pulse instantly sprint.
“You think I give you this work because I hate you, Y/N?” he murmured, the jealousy from earlier flaring back up, mixed with an unspoken, agonizing longing.
His eyes dropped to your lips before snapping back up to lock onto yours. “If I hated you, this would be easy. I would have let you leave months ago without a second thought. Instead, I’m stuck standing here, completely at the mercy of whatever you decide to do next. Does that sound like hatred to you?”
The air between you grew suffocatingly hot. His long, slender hands twitched against the dark mahogany of your desk, just inches from your fingers as you could feel the immense, radiating heat of his palms.
He was so close you could see the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes, his lean angles casting sharp shadows across his face, yet he forced himself to maintain that tiny, agonizing boundary of safety—scared that his rough, labored hands would be too harsh if he dared to touch you.
“Your place is here,” Higuruma whispered, his voice a gravelly, possessive timber that sent a furious shiver down your spine. “Perfecting the craft… with me.”
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs, entirely captivated by the sheer weight of his presence as you leaned forward just a fraction of an inch, your voice dropping to a matching, breathless whisper. “So... this whole mountain of paperwork was just a high-class kidnapping?”
A sudden, soft huff of a laugh escaped his nose, the intense, smoldering expression on his lean face melting into a rare, genuinely amused smile.
He slowly shook his head, though he didn't pull his face away from yours. “It was an administrative necessity,” he shot back smoothly, his tone laced with a smug, teasing warmth. “And since you are now required to remain late under my tyrannical rule, it is only logical that I provide sustenance.”
He finally straightened his tall frame up, though his eyes lingered on your face for a beat too long before he reached into his pocket for his phone. “I shall order from the sushi place down the block,” he said, the formal cadence returning, though his eyes were still dilated, still drinking you in.
“The one that prepares the spicy tuna roll exactly to your specifications. If we are to handle this ‘urgent’ workload, we must be properly fueled.”
You couldn’t help but laugh softly, the heavy tension breaking into something sweet, thick, and deeply shared. “Thank you, Hiromi. That sounds perfect... even if you are a terrible boss.”
“I am an efficient boss,” Higuruma corrected, a brilliant, content glint in his dark eyes as he walked back to his side of the room.
As you opened the first red folder, his gaze continued to flicker up and down from his papers to you, entirely satisfied to have you trapped in his space for the rest of the night. The frantic rush of adrenaline slowly bled out of the room, leaving behind a heavy, comfortable quiet.
True to his word, Higuruma had ordered the food, and for twenty minutes, the only sounds were the quiet rustle of brown paper bags, the snap of chopsticks, and the soft murmur of a shared ‘thank you.’
Eating at your desks felt like a quiet conspiracy as he sat across the room, lanky legs crossed at the ankle, elegantly navigating a bento box while his dark eyes occasionally drifted over to make sure you were actually eating the spicy tuna rolls he’d ordered.
Once the containers were cleared away, a seamless, unspoken rhythm took over. The playful friction of the evening melted into the background as you both truly locked in as the clock ticked steadily past 9:00 PM, then 10:00 PM.
The silence between you was thick with mutual focus. It was the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of your keyboard answering the sharp, deliberate scratch of Higuruma’s fountain pen against yellow legal pads.
Every so often, the heavy rustle of a turning page from the red compliance folders would break the monotony as Higuruma was entirely in his element. Under the stark amber light of his desk lamp, his thin, angular silhouette looked like a painting of sharp contrast.
He had discarded his suit jacket completely, and his unbuttoned vest hung loose over his slender torso. As he leaned over his desk, his long spine curved gracefully, his narrow shoulders hunched slightly in absolute concentration.
Whenever he paused to ponder a specific clause in the compliance code, his long, slender fingers would rhythmically tap against his jaw, his rugged stubble catching the light.
Around 10:45 PM, a sudden, sharp breeze swept through the open window, carrying the crisp, damp scent of the late-night rain as you winced slightly from the sudden chill hit your bare arms, your shoulders tensing.
Across the room, the scratching of the fountain pen instantly stopped but Higuruma didn’t say a word as he simply stood up, his tall, lanky frame unfolding into the dim light of the office.
He moved with a quiet, feline grace that belied his height. Walking over to the coat rack near the door, his long arms reached up to smoothly slide his heavy, dark trench coat off the hanger as he walked over to your desk, his steps completely silent on the carpet. Before you could even look up from your monitor, the large, heavy fabric of his coat was gently draped over your shoulders.
It was still warm from his earlier commute, and it completely enveloped you, smelling richly of cedar wood, expensive ink, and the faint, bitter trace of black coffee. “The temperature drops rapidly after rain,” Higuruma murmured, his voice a low, gravelly friction in the quiet room.
You pulled the lapels tighter around yourself, burying your chin slightly in the collar. “Thank you, Hiromi. But… aren’t you cold?”
He offered a faint, almost imperceptible shake of his head, his dark eyes locked onto yours for a lingering moment. His lean face softened just a fraction. “No. The workload keeps me quite warm.”
A small, amused huff escaped your nose. “Right... the tyrannical rule.”
“Exactly,” he replied smoothly, a tiny, smug curve returning to the corner of his mouth but he didn’t linger, stepping back with his long strides to return to his own desk as he slid back into his chair, picked up his pen, and immediately immersed himself back into the sea of text, but the atmosphere had shifted.
The cold was gone, replaced by the heavy, protective weight of his jacket around your shoulders, and the quiet scratch of his pen felt less like a deadline and more like a steady, reassuring heartbeat keeping time in the dark office.
By 11:30 PM, the lines of text on the compliance documents began to blur. The rhythmic scratch-scratch-scratch of Higuruma’s pen across the room turned into a rhythmic, hypnotic lullaby.
Your eyelids grew impossibly heavy, the warmth of his oversized trench coat acting like a weighted blanket that slowly anchored you down as you tried to blink the sleep away, propping your chin up with one hand, but the heavy scent of cedar and rain radiating from the fabric was too comforting.
Eventually, your hand slid down. Your head lowered onto the smooth mahogany of your desk, resting right on top of a half-filled post-trial memo.
Subconsciously, your arms crossed over your chest, your fingers tightly bunching the lapels of his coat, hugging it closer to your body for warmth. Within minutes, your breathing slowed into a deep, heavy rhythm, punctuated by a faint, soft, and utterly adorable snore that puffed against the paperwork beneath your cheek.
Across the room, the scratching of the fountain pen abruptly ceased as Higuruma paused, his hand hovering over a sheet of legal paper. He lifted his head, his dark eyes tracking the sudden absence of keyboard clicks.
When his gaze landed on your slumped form, completely swallowed up by his dark coat, his expression softened into something intensely tender but he didn’t move for a long moment, simply resting his chin in his hand, his long, slender fingers tapping idly against his jaw as he watched you sleep.
A quiet, breathless huff of amusement escaped his nose at the sound of your soft snoring. You had fought so hard to prove you could handle his ‘tyrannical rule,’ only to be defeated by a mountain of corporate audits.
Gently setting his pen down so it wouldn’t click against the wood, Higuruma stood up as his tall, lanky frame unfolded silently, and he crossed the office with long, careful strides, making sure not to let his shoes scuff against the floor.
He stopped just beside your desk, towering over you in the amber lamplight as he leaned down slightly, his sharp, angular features cast in soft shadows as he looked at your peaceful face.
Your fingers were still white-knuckled, gripping his coat like a lifeline. The sight sent a strange, tight ache through his chest—a raw, protective instinct he usually kept locked behind layers of professional detachment.
Carefully, so as not to wake you, he reached out with one long, slender hand. His thumb gently brushed a stray lock of hair away from your forehead, his skin contrasting sharply with your soft skin as he lingered for a second, the warmth of your face radiating against his palm.
“You completely lack a sense of self-preservation, Y/N.” he whispered into the quiet room, his gravelly voice dropping to a breathless, velvety murmur.
He glanced down at the open laptop screen, seeing the unfinished sentence you had left behind. With a quiet, resigned sigh, Higuruma reached around your sleeping form, his lean torso hovering just inches above your back.
He carefully slid your laptop closer to himself, his long fingers hovering over the keys but instead of waking you, he simply leaned against the edge of your desk, his long legs crossing at the ankle as he began to type.
Working at an awkward angle, he seamlessly picked up exactly where your memo had left off, his quiet, rhythmic typing replacing the sound of his pen.
He was going to finish your work for you, completely content to stay right here in the quiet dark, guarding your sleep while you remained securely wrapped in his weight.
As the clock ticked toward midnight, the quiet tap of the keyboard was the only sound accompanying your soft, rhythmic snores as Higuruma paused his typing, his long fingers resting on the keys as he looked down at you.
Wrapped tightly in his oversized trench coat, your face pressed against the legal brief with a tiny puff of air escaping your lips every few seconds, you looked entirely defenseless. It was a stark contrast to the sharp, fiercely sharp attorney who had stood beside him in court just hours prior.
For a man who lived his life governed by strict logic and heavy burdens, the sight was a rare, pure pocket of peace… and he wanted to keep it.
Moving with deliberate slowness, Higuruma slipped his right hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out his phone. He wasn’t a man who took photos—his camera roll was a bleak expanse of scanned documents, evidence photos, and legal texts—but the sudden, uncharacteristic urge to capture this moment was overwhelming as he held the phone out, his long, slender arm extending to frame you perfectly in the amber glow of the desk lamp.
His thumb hovered over the screen, adjusting his grip on the device. Because he rarely used the camera app, his finger inadvertently clipped the camera flip icon in the bottom corner just as he pressed the shutter button.
The artificial shutter sound echoed loudly in the quiet office. Higuruma froze, his dark eyes instantly darting to your face to see if the noise had disturbed you as you merely stirred, burying your nose a little deeper into the collar of his coat, letting out a slightly louder snore before settling back into a deep sleep.
Relieved, Higuruma looked down at his screen to check the photo as he stared at it for a flat, unblinking three seconds.
There was no picture of you, instead, the screen displayed a stark, slightly low-angle, glaringly high-definition selfie of Hiromi Higuruma himself looking profoundly confused.
Because he had been leaning forward, the amber lamplight hit the sharp angles of his lean face perfectly, illuminating his rugged stubble, the deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes, and the silver streak in his hair, all framed against the backdrop of the dark office ceiling.
He looked less like a distinguished defense attorney and more like an older man having a deeply stressful technological crisis as a heavy, silent sigh expanded his narrow chest. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a faint flush of embarrassment coloring the tips of his ears.
The sheer absurdity of a brilliant legal mind being defeated by a front-facing camera was almost insulting. Deciding that trying to fix it would only risk waking you up with another loud click, Higuruma gave up entirely.
He locked the phone, setting it face-down on the mahogany desk with a muted thud but he didn’t return to typing, instead, he simply leaned his tall, lanky frame back against the edge of your desk, crossing his long legs at the ankle.
He rested his chin in his hand, his long, slender fingers tapping a slow, meditative rhythm against his jaw as he went back to simply staring at you.
The amber light caught the soft curve of his mouth, the earlier frustration melting into a quiet, enduring warmth. He didn't need a photograph anyway.
Having you right here, completely safe and sound asleep under his care, was more than enough as a sudden, particularly loud snore jarred you awake.
Your eyes snapped open, blinking wildly against the amber glow of the desk lamp as your brain scrambled to process your surroundings as you sat up so fast your chair groaned, the heavy fabric of Higuruma’s trench coat slipping slightly off your shoulders.
Panic surged through you as you realized you had completely passed out on the clock. “I am so sorry!” you blurted out, your voice thick and slightly raspy from sleep as you frantically tried to smooth down the wrinkled post-trial memo beneath your hands.
“Hiromi, I’m so sorry, that was incredibly unprofessional. I didn’t mean to—I just closed my eyes for a second, I swear—”
Higuruma’s voice cut through your panic, a low, steady rumble that instantly grounded you. He was still leaning against the edge of your desk, his long, lanky legs crossed casually but he hadn’t moved an inch, and his dark eyes were crinkled at the corners with a quiet, patient amusement.
“It is alright,” he said softly, his deep voice carrying a soothing weight. “You have been working tirelessly for weeks and the human body requires rest, even under administrative tyranny.”
He checked his watch, the metal glinting in the dim light. “It is past midnight, the office cafeteria is closed, and I imagine the sushi from earlier has worn off. There is a 24-hour convenience store just down the block.”
“Shall we go find something to eat?”
The thought of food made your stomach give a timely, quiet growl, sealing the deal. “... Yeah,” you murmured, sheepishly smiling. “That actually sounds really good.”
You stood up, your legs a little stiff from sitting so long, and immediately reached up to fix your hair, fingers acting as a frantic comb to smooth down the sleep-mussed strands.
As you did, you shrugged your shoulders to slide his heavy trench coat off, holding it out to hand it back to him. “Here, thank you for letting me borrow—”
“Keep it on,” Higuruma interrupted smoothly but he didn’t take the jacket. Instead, he stepped closer, his towering, slender frame completely eclipsing the light from your desk lamp and before you could protest, his long, slender hands caught the lapels of the coat, pulling it firmly back up and securing it over your shoulders.
He didn’t pull away immediately; instead, his large palms smoothed down the fabric, patting your shoulders with deliberate, gentle strokes to fix the wrinkles that had formed while you slept as the sudden, intense proximity made your breath hitch.
He was so close you could feel the radiating heat of his chest, his cedar-and-rain scent enveloping you all over again. Your heart began a frantic, erratic sprint against your ribs, a warm flush crawling up your neck.
Then, his hand moved from your shoulder as his long, slender fingers gently reached up to your face, his touch incredibly light as he tucked a stray, stubborn lock of hair behind your ear.
His thumb lightly brushed against your cheekbone, lingering for a fraction of a second. His dark eyes searched yours, utterly dilated, his sharp, angular features softening into a look of pure, unadulterated tenderness. “... Besides,” Higuruma murmured, his gravelly voice dropping into a breathless, velvety whisper that vibrated right through you.
“You look quite pretty when you have just awakened. It would be a shame to ruin the aesthetic.”
Your brain short-circuited. You stood frozen under his touch, your face burning a bright, undeniable crimson as you tried to find your tongue, your eyes darting nervously from his gaze down to his collarbone and back up.
“I—uh,” you stammered awkwardly, forcing a small, incredibly flustered smile onto your face as you looked up at him through your lashes. “Thank you, Hiromi.”
A slow, thoroughly satisfied smile tugged at the corner of Higuruma’s mouth, his dark eyes glinting with a smug, teasing warmth at how easily he had rattled you.
He finally let his hands drop, stepping back just enough to give you room to breathe, though his gaze never left your face. “Come,” he said softly, turning toward the door with his long, elegant strides. “Let us get that food before you fall asleep on your feet again.”
The midnight air was crisp and heavy with the clean, ozone scent of the recent downpour. Outside the brightly lit convenience store, you sat side-by-side at a small, slightly rusted metal table.
The neon sign above buzzed with a low, rhythmic hum, casting a pale, electric glow over the steam rising from your Styrofoam cups of instant ramen as you were still completely buried in Hiromi’s dark trench coat.
The heavy fabric kept the biting wind at bay, but it also kept you thoroughly intoxicated by his scent—that persistent, comforting blend of cedar wood, bitter black coffee, and expensive fountain pen ink. It smelled exactly like his office at 3:00 AM: exhausting, yet intensely grounding.
As you lifted a plastic forkful of noodles to your mouth, your heel accidentally slid against the side of his shoe. Higuruma’s long leg shifted, his leather dress shoe nudging your foot back with a subtle, deliberate pressure as you peeked at him from over the rim of your noodle cup.
His sharp, angular face was illuminated by the neon light, highlighting the faint, permanent frown etched between his brows and the deep, stressed wrinkles around his eyes.
He looked tired—he always looked tired—but right now, the corners of his mouth were twitching as you nudged him back, a little harder this time, your eyes narrowing playfully.
A sudden, breathless huff of a laugh escaped his nose. What began as an accident quickly devolved into a silent, childish game of foot tag beneath the small table.
Your heels clicked against his shoes, your ankles brushing as you tried to outmaneuver his long, lanky legs. It was a ridiculous sight—a brilliant defense attorney with a sharp silver streak in his dark hair, a man known for his stoic, unyielding, and terrifying courtroom presence, engaged in a petty foot-war outside a convenience store.
“You are being incredibly disruptive, Y/N,” Higuruma murmured as he took a slow sip of his black coffee, though his tone was entirely devoid of any real irritation. A (soft, genuine giggle bubbled up from your throat.
Hearing it only made his smile which smoothed out the harsh, exhausted lines of his face. “Me? Disruptive?” you laughed softly, your foot aggressively tapping the toe of his shoe. “You started it, Counselor.”
“... Besides, I am just celebrating our victory. Did you see the prosecutor’s face during your closing argument? He looked like he wanted the concrete floor to swallow him whole.”
“He was entirely unprepared for the precedent we cited,” Higuruma replied, his gravelly voice rich with a quiet, smug satisfaction as he leaned his thin torso forward, his narrow shoulders rolling as he rested his elbows on the table.
Even in this casual, cheap setting, his lanky frame possessed a sharp, disciplined fitness, the fine fabric of his white button-down shirt clinging to the lean muscles of his back. “Your research on the corporate compliance loopholes was flawless. He didn’t stand a chance once you handed me that cross-reference.”
“Flawless, huh?” You beamed, stirring your noodles. “I should get that in writing. Maybe a raise?”
“Don’t push your luck,” he replied, though the ghost of a smirk remained on his lips. “A bowl of premium convenience store ramen is your bonus for tonight.”
For a while, the air was filled with the easy, comforting warmth of shared success and the casual slurping of noodles as you traded notes on the trial, dissecting the judge’s subtle micro-expressions and the opposing counsel’s blunders.
The heavy, academic nature of the conversation beautifully clashed with the crumpled wrappers and plastic forks sitting between you, but as the noodle cups were emptied, the laughter slowly tapered off, leaving behind a profound, heavy silence.
The neon sign buzzed overhead.
The distant, hissing sound of a lone car driving over rain-soaked asphalt echoed in the night as the playful friction beneath the table faded, replaced by that thick, simmering tension that had been building between you all evening—through every shared glance across the defense table, every late-night file exchange where your fingers accidentally brushed.
You looked down at your hands, tracing the rim of your paper cup, before the question that had been lingering in the back of your mind for weeks finally slipped out.
“Hey, Hiromi?” you asked softly, your voice dropping into the quiet night.
“Yes?” He shifted instantly, his dark eyes locking onto yours beneath his heavy brow. The casual demeanor vanished, replaced by that intense, undivided attention he gave to things he cared about.
“Serious question... Do you hate me? Just a little bit?” You looked up through your lashes, trying to keep your tone light, but there was a genuine, vulnerable curiosity in your eyes.
“You keep giving me so much work and you bury me in these files, night after night. Sometimes it feels like you’re trying to push me away… or break my spirit.”
Higuruma didn’t answer right away as the silence stretched, turning heavy, charged with an agonizing, electric gravity, instead of speaking, his gaze drifted downward as he looked at his heavy trench coat draped over you, noting how ridiculously big it looked on your shoulders, completely swallowing your frame.
A deep, weary sigh expanded his narrow chest, shaking his thin shoulders. The permanent frown between his brows deepened—not with anger, but with a raw, agonizing conflict.
When he finally looked back up, his dark pupils were entirely dilated, burning into yours with a fierce, quiet intensity that made your heart instantly sprint against your ribs.
“If I really hated you,” Higuruma whispered, his voice dropping an octave into a rough, gravelly rasp that vibrated right through the soles of your feet, “you would be at home sleeping right now. I would have let you leave at five o’clock.”
He paused, the air between you turning suffocatingly hot despite the cold midnight breeze.
He reached across the small, rusted table. His long, slender fingers were hesitant for a fraction of a second, hovering in the space between you, before his hand slid firmly over yours as his skin was radiating an immense, burning heat, his rough palm contrasting sharply against yours.
“Instead,” he murmured, his thumb slowly, deliberately tracing the back of your hand with a heavy, lingering pressure that made your skin tingle, “I am selfishly keeping you where I can see you.”
Your breath hitched, completely trapped in your throat. You froze, staring at him in absolute, breathless awe as the raw honesty of his confession stripped away every ounce of his professional armor, leaving behind nothing but a man consumed by a quiet, possessive longing.
“Hiromi…” your voice was barely a breath.
“I try to justify it to myself,” he continued, his gaze dropping to your joined hands, his thumb never stopping its slow, mesmerizing stroke. “I tell myself I need your mind. That your research is indispensable.”
“But the truth is much simpler, Y/N… and much more pathetic, I just don’t want to walk out of the courtroom alone.”
You didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, your fingers instinctively turned, intertwining with his long, slender digits, holding on just as tightly as the heated tension between you stretched taut, thick and undeniable in the quiet dark.
“It's not pathetic,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “I stayed because I wanted to do this.”
Higuruma’s eyes snapped back to yours, a sudden, sharp vulnerability flashing through his dark irises. For a man who always knew exactly what to say to a judge, he seemed entirely speechless.
He pulled your hand just a fraction of an inch closer across the table, his grip tightening as if verifying you were real as you sat beneath the buzzing neon light, the remnants of cheap dinner between you, completely captivated by the brilliant, tragic man holding your hand—and for the first time in a long time, the lines on his face completely vanished.
The silence that followed was thick with a mutual, grounding gravity. He didn’t release your hand, if anything, his grip tightened, his long fingers anchoring yours against the cold metal of the table as if anchoring himself to the realization of your words.
“You wanted to stay,” Higuruma repeated. It wasn’t a question, but a slow, deliberate processing of the truth. He looked down at your intertwined hands, his thumb pausing its rhythm to rest firmly against the pulse point of your wrist. “You say that with such terrifying ease, Y/N.”
“Because it’s true,” you said, leaning in just slightly, the heavy fabric of his trench coat shifting around your shoulders. “I’m not a hostage to the workload, Hiromi. I could have walked out weeks ago… but I didn’t.”
A slow, wry smile touched his lips, though it carried a trace of his usual self-deprecating edge. “A pragmatic assistant would have filed an institutional complaint about the hours. Instead, you're sitting outside a convenience store at midnight, freezing in my coat, validating my worst, most selfish habits.”
“Someone has to keep the brilliant defense attorney from turning into a complete ghost,” you countered softly, your index finger lightly tracing the prominent knuckle of his thumb. “You spend all day carrying the weight of everyone else’s flaws and injustices. Who carries yours?”
Higuruma’s breath caught as the sharp, analytical mask he wore so effortlessly in the courtroom seemed to crack entirely, leaving him exposed under the harsh, unforgiving neon light.
He looked at you, really looked at you, with a raw intensity that made the surrounding darkness fade away. “I don’t ask for charity,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, a low vibration that seemed to settle deep in your chest.
“Good, because I’m not offering it,” you replied, your voice steady despite the rapid drumming of your heart. “I’m offering a partnership. In and out of the office.”
He was quiet for a long moment, the only sound between you being the rhythmic, low hum of the convenience store sign. Then, slowly, Higuruma stood up as his tall, lanky frame cast a long shadow over the table, but before a cold wave of panic could hit you, he stepped around the small metal barrier.
He didn’t let go of your hand as he used it to gently guide you to your feet. Standing this close, the height difference was pronounced. You had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze as Higuruma reached up with his free hand, his long, slender fingers hovering near your face before gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear.
His knuckles brushed against your cheek, his skin still radiating that immense, comforting heat. “... A dangerous proposition,” he whispered, his dark eyes searching yours, dropping down to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to your gaze.
“I am a difficult man, Y/N.”
“I’ve seen you at your worst, Counselor. I’m still here.”
A genuine, unburdened laugh escaped his lips—a sound so rare it felt like a triumph. He slid his hand from your cheek down to the collar of his trench coat, which was still draped over your shoulders, gently pulling the heavy fabric tighter around you to block out the sudden, cold gust of midnight wind.
“Then I suppose,” Higuruma murmured, his face tilting down toward yours, his breath warm against your skin, “I have run out of excuses to keep my distance.”
The heavy fabric of his trench coat still shielded you from the biting wind, but the temperature was dropping rapidly, turning the midnight air sharp and crisp. He hadn’t pulled away after his confession, instead, he remained standing close, his tall, lanky frame cutting a striking silhouette against the harsh, pale glow of the convenience store window.
The heavy fabric of his trench coat still shielded you from the biting wind, but the temperature was dropping rapidly, turning the midnight air sharp and crisp.
He hadn’t pulled away after his confession; instead, he remained standing close, his tall, lanky frame cutting a striking silhouette against the harsh, pale glow of the convenience store window as a quiet hush fell over the empty street, and then, the first stray flake of white drifted down between you.
Within moments, a slow, gentle snow began to fall, dusting his dark hair and catching on the eyelashes of those intense, searching eyes but instead of pulling back, you let a small, knowing smile touch your lips. It wasn’t a smile of surprise, but of quiet victory.
“You really thought you were being subtle, didn’t you, Hiromi?” you murmured, looking up at him through the falling snow.
Higuruma’s brow twitched slightly, a faint look of perplexity crossing his features. “Subtle about what?”
“... About us. About this,” you said, your smile widening just enough to show him you had the upper hand. “I’ve suspected it for weeks, but tonight really gave you away. You aren’t the type to suddenly realize there’s an ‘emergency filing crisis’ at 7:00 PM on a Friday.”
A flicker of realization crossed his face, followed by a rare, slightly abashed look that he tried to mask with his usual stoic composure. “Minami is a perfectly pleasant department head downtown,” you continued, your voice teasing as you watched him carefully.
“He brought me flowers. He had reservations at that new French place downtown… and yet, the formidable Counselor Higuruma suddenly declared that the entire firm’s infrastructure would collapse if I didn’t stay behind to organize case files.”
Higuruma let out a low, defeated sigh, though the corner of his mouth ticked upward as the grip he had on the lapels of his coat—still draped over your shoulders—tightened just a fraction, pulling you a breathless inch closer.
The heat radiating from him was the only defense against the growing chill of the winter night. “Minami is an idealist who doesn’t understand the grueling reality of your schedule,” Higuruma said, his voice dropping into a deeper, rougher register that vibrated right through you.
He stepped closer, completely closing the distance between you until the tips of his shoes brushed yours. “And his taste in restaurants is pretentious.”
“So you admit it? You used the paperwork to keep me here.”
“I admit nothing that could be used against me in a court of law,” he murmured, but the sheer intensity in his dark eyes contradicted his legal defense as the playful banter melted away, replaced by a gravity that made the falling snow seem to freeze mid-air.
He reached up, his long, slender fingers gently catching a stray snowflake that had landed on your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin with an aching tenderness. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there long enough to make your breath hitch, before rising back to lock onto your eyes.
“But if you want the truth, Y/N…” He paused, his chest rising and falling with a heavy, deliberate breath as the raw honesty in his expression was breathtaking—a man who spent his life hiding behind logic and law, completely exposing his heart to you under a convenience store awning.
“The thought of you sitting across from someone else, laughing at someone else’s jokes while I sat alone in that office... it was intolerable.”
The snow was falling thicker now, creating a quiet, isolated world just for the two of you. “I tried to be rational… I told myself I was being possessive, unfair, a distraction to your career,” he whispered, his face tilting down, his warm breath fanning across your cold cheeks.
“But watching you walk out that door tonight broke something in me. I don’t just want a partner in the office... I want you. If you’ll have a man as complicated as me.”
The sheer, breathless sincerity of his speech hung in the crisp air as you stared up at the formidable, usually unshakeable lawyer, only to watch a sudden, bright flush creep up from his collar, painting his cheeks a vivid pink.
The gravity of what he’d just admitted seemed to catch up to him all at once as a soft, breathless laugh bubbled out of you—you couldn’t help it.
It was just too endearing.
Hearing your laugh, Higuruma’s eyes widened in sheer panic. The legal genius completely short-circuited. “Y/N—” he choked out, his voice cracking slightly but before you could answer, he abruptly dragged both of his large hands up to cover his face, completely hiding his burning blush from your view.
His broad shoulders slouched, and he looked entirely defenseless, trying to shield himself from his own embarrassment. “Please don’t look at me,” came his muffled, thoroughly defeated voice from behind his palms. “That was... incredibly undignified.”
Your heart melted completely. Stepping into his space, you gently reached up and took hold of his wrists, tugging his hands away from his face as he resisted for a fraction of a second before letting his hands drop, looking down at you with a gaze that was painfully shy, his dark eyes wide and vulnerable. “Hey!” you said softly, your voice wrapping around him like a blanket.
“I’m not laughing at you, Hiromi. I promise.”
Before he could overthink it, you slid your arms around his waist and pulled yourself flush against his chest, burying your face into his sweater. You squeezed him tight, letting him feel the steady, rapid beat of your own heart. “I’m laughing because I’m happy,” you murmured into his chest, feeling him freeze in surprise before his arms slowly, tentatively came up to wrap around your shoulders, holding you back.
“You don’t have to worry about Minami, or anyone else. Because I have a crush on you, too… I have for a really long time.”
Above you, Higuruma let out a long, shaky exhale that sounded like a prayer as the tension melted right out of his lanky frame, and he buried his face into the crown of your hair, squeezing you so close that the winter chill vanished completely.
For a long, quiet moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was the muffled crunch of snow beneath his boots as he shifted his weight, pulling you even closer into the warmth of his chest.
The heavy wool of his coat wrapped around the two of you like a cocoon, shutting out the rest of the freezing world but he didnmt speak right away, but you could feel the erratic, heavy thud of his heartbeat settling into a steady, rhythmic pace against your cheek.
Slowly, his hands shifted as one large palm rested flat against your lower back, pressing you firmly against him, while his other hand came up to cup the back of your head. His long fingers gently tangled into your hair, his touch so careful, so deliberate, it felt almost reverent.
“A crush,” he finally murmured, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. There was a faint, breathless thread of disbelief in his tone as he pulled back just enough to look down at you, though he didn’t let go of your waist.
The blush was still dusting his cheekbones, but the panicked edge in his eyes had entirely softened. “You... have a crush on me…?”
“I do,” you smiled, looking up at him, your hands resting against the lapels of his suit jacket. “Though I usually tried to keep it professional. Unlike a certain defense attorney who manufactures administrative emergencies.”
Higuruma let out a low, genuine chuckle—a sound so rare and warm it sent a thrill straight through you. He shook his head, looking down at his shoes for a brief second as that endearing shyness threatened to take over again, before forcing his gaze back up to lock onto yours.
“I suppose my legal arguments in favor of my own restraint have completely fallen apart,” he admitted softly as he reached out, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, his skin warm against the winter air.
“I’ve spent weeks convincing myself that I was misreading the signs… that you were simply being an exceptional colleague.”
“And tonight?” you teased gently.
“Tonight, I lost my cross-examination with myself,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips again, but this time, there was no hesitation. The gravity of his affection was heavy, sweet, and entirely certain. “I don’t want to be professional with you anymore, Y/N.”
“I want to take you to dinner, to a restaurant that isn’t pretentious… and I want to be the one who gets to walk you home every night.”
The snow was settling thick on his shoulders now, turning the dark wool of his coat white, but neither of you cared about the cold anymore. “I’d really like that, Hiromi,” you said softly as a beautiful, unburdened smile broke across his face—the first completely relaxed smile you had ever seen from him.
He leaned down, his forehead gently resting against yours, his warm breath mingling with yours in the crisp night air. “Then consider the motion carried,” he murmured against your skin, before closing the remaining distance to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.
When he pulled away, his lips left behind a lingering, burning warmth that contrasted sharply against the icy bite of the midnight air as he exhaled a soft, tremulous breath, his dark, searching eyes blinking down at you through the thick flurry of falling snow.
His slender, towering frame was still slightly bent to accommodate your height, completely enveloping you in the scent of aged parchment, expensive fountain pen ink, and the sharp, crisp aroma of winter air.
Before he could fully straighten up or retreat back into his usual defensive posture, you smirked. Your fingers shot out from beneath the oversized sleeves of his trench coat, wrapping firmly around the dark silk of his tie.
With a deliberate, playful tug, you yanked him back down as Hiromi let out a sharp, muffled gasp of surprise, his long legs stumbling a half-step forward to catch his balance.
The sudden movement sent a faint crunch through the fresh blanket of snow beneath his boots. His eyes widened, a sudden spike of electric, heated tension snapping between you as your lips met his properly this time.
For a fraction of a second, the formidable attorney completely froze, his brilliant mind utterly short-circuiting under the audacity of your touch. But then, the rigid tension in his tall, lanky frame melted away entirely as a soft, surrendered sigh vibrated through his chest as he leaned into the kiss, his large hands sliding from your waist up to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.
The kiss was deep, slow, and dizzyingly sweet, sealing out the hum of the convenience store’s fluorescent lights and the quiet whistling of the wind. When you finally parted, the silence of the empty street felt heavier, charged with a thick, simmering warmth as Hiromi stepped back, his chest rising and falling with a slightly labored breath. A fierce, crimson blush rushed up his neck, staining his sharp cheekbones and the tips of his ears.
He abruptly cleared his throat, adjusting his crumpled tie with long, trembling fingers while intentionally averting his gaze toward the snow-covered pavement.
“This is… highly unprofessional,” he murmured, though the severe weight he usually carried in his deep voice was completely ruined by the breathless, shy tremor underlying his words. He shot you a sideways glance through his thick eyelashes, his brow twitching with a mix of affection and faux-seriousness.
You smiled, your eyes crinkling as you watched the brilliant legal genius struggle to regain his composure. “Oh, really? Because it felt like you complied pretty willingly, Counselor.”
“I was acting under duress,” he countered smoothly, though the corner of his mouth ticked upward into a helpless little smile. He looked back down at you, the intense gravity in his dark eyes returning, laced with something incredibly tender.
“Besides… We are technically dating now. Correct? Or have I fundamentally misunderstood the terms of our verbal agreement?”
Instead of giving him a straight answer, you reached out and slid your hand into his. Your fingers slotted perfectly into the spaces between his long, slender ones, squeezing tightly as you swung your joined hands back and forth between you, deliberately acting like a pair of giddy middle school lovers under the pale glow of the awning.
Hiromi stared down at your intertwined hands, his expression a comical mixture of utter bewilderment and absolute adoration. He let out a low, defeated chuckle that rumbled pleasantly against your palms.
“You are entirely shameless, Y/N,” he said softly, his thumb tracing the back of your knuckles as he finally began to lead you away from the store.
“And you love it,” you shot back, stepping in sync with him as the snow crunched rhythmically beneath your feet.
“The court reserves its judgment on that matter,” he replied, though he didn’t loosen his grip on your hand for even a second. The biting wind blew a strand of dark hair across his forehead, and he brushed it away with his free hand, looking out toward the main road.
“We should get moving. The trains have likely stopped running for the night. I will drop you off at your home with my car. It is parked just around the corner from the office.”
You leaned your shoulder against his arm, tilting your head up to look at his sharp profile. “Mm, a private escort? Is that really the only reason you’re driving me home, Hiromi? Just a logistical necessity?”
He stopped in his tracks, scoffing quietly as he turned his head to look at you. For a second, he looked as though he was going to craft a flawlessly logical rebuttal about safety and temperature statistics.
But as he looked into your teasing eyes, his stoic facade crumbled as he looked away again, rubbing the back of his neck with a hesitant, endearing awkwardness.
“It is also because…” he trailed off, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly whisper that was almost swallowed by the falling snow. He cleared his throat, forcing the words out. “…because you are my lover now. And it is my responsibility—and my preference—to ensure you return home safely.”
Hearing him call you his lover made a wave of dizzying, giddy warmth rush straight to your chest as your smile widened, your heart doing a violent flip against your ribs.
Deciding he was far too fun to tease, you leaned in closer, stepping into his space until the fabric of his coat brushed against his suit as you tilted your chin up, lowering your voice to a sultry, conspiratorial whisper right against his ear, letting your eyelashes flutter as you gave him a slow, deliberate wink.
“Well… if the trains are down and it’s so cold out, you could always just stay over at my place tonight, Counselor. I have plenty of room.”
Hiromi stiffened instantly as the sheer, unadulterated embarrassment that washed over his face was magnificent. He pulled back, his dark eyes wide with a mixture of shock and sheer panic, his blush flaring so bright it practically radiated heat.
“Absolutely not,” he stammered, his legal eloquence completely deserting him as he shook his head rapidly. “That is—it is far too early for that kind of… of arrangement! We have been a couple for less than ten minutes, Y/N. A proper boundary must be maintained, and jumping into such domestic intimacy is entirely premature—”
“What exactly were you thinking about, Counselor?” you interrupted, letting out a delighted laugh that echoed beautifully in the quiet street.
You gave his hand a playful tug, your eyes dancing with mischief. “I was merely suggesting you sleep over so you wouldn’t have to drive back in a blizzard. You could sleep on the couch… butttt your mind went straight to something scandalous, didn’t it?”
Hiromi snapped his mouth shut, realizing he had just walked right into a trap as he stared at you, his jaw tightening slightly as a deeply amused, albeit thoroughly flustered, look took over his features.
“I was merely analyzing the potential implications of the invitation,” he retorted, his voice rising in an attempt to sound authoritative, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him. “As a lawyer, I am trained to anticipate all possible outcomes of a vague proposal.”
“Your phrasing was deliberately misleading.”
“Sure it was,” you teased, laughing as you pulled him along the snowy sidewalk. “Just admit your mind was in the gutter, Hiromi.”
“I admit to nothing,” he grumbled, but he stepped closer to you, his long arm wrapping securely around your shoulders to pull you against his side, shielding you from the wind as you walked together into the quiet winter night.
The December morning was brutally sharp, the kind of deep, biting winter cold that turned every breath into a thick puff of white fog as the sky above Tokyo was a pale, sterile grey, and the concrete plaza outside the defense law firm was slick with a thin layer of overnight frost.
The distant hum of commuter traffic and the synchronized, rhythmic clicking of hundreds of leather shoes against the pavement created a sterile, bustling soundtrack for the start of the workday as you hurried up the wide stone steps, your hands buried deep into the pockets of your coat, the thick knit of your woolen scarf pulled all the way up to your nose to shield your face from the freezing wind.
Slung securely over your shoulder was a canvas tote bag, carrying a very specific, heavy weight inside it.
Standing just to the side of the towering glass entrance doors was Hiromi Higuruma. Even in a sea of Tokyo salarymen, he was impossible to miss as he stood exceptionally tall, his lanky, slender frame cutting a stark, almost architectural silhouette against the modern building.
He was wearing his signature charcoal suit, the fabric draping elegantly over his narrow shoulders and long, thin limbs as a dark scarf was looped loosely around his neck, and a prominent silver streak gleamed sharply within his otherwise pitch-black hair.
Despite the early hour, his sharp, angular face carried that familiar, permanent frown between his brows—the heavy, stressed wrinkles around his eyes speaking of a man who carried the weight of the world's flaws on his shoulders and in his large, slender hands, he was holding two paper takeout coffee cups, steam lazily escaping the small sipping holes.
A genuine smile broke across your face. You raised a hand, waving enthusiastically through the frosty air to catch his attention.
The moment his dark eyes locked onto you beneath his heavy brow, the severe, unyielding courtroom expression he usually wore seemed to fracture, softening into something remarkably fond as you broke into a quick jog, your boots clicking rapidly against the stone until you came to a halt right in front of him, panting slightly as a cloud of mist swirled between you.
The rich, bitter aroma of fresh espresso and roasted coffee beans instantly drifted from the cups, cutting through the sterile, frozen smell of the city.
Without a word, Higuruma extended his long arm, handing you one of the cups as the cardboard sleeve was wonderfully hot, radiating a fierce, localized heat that immediately began to thaw your frozen fingers through your gloves.
He looked down at you, clearing his throat lightly. Then, with a completely straight face, his gravelly baritone voice dropped into a low, smooth cadence.
“What’s good, pretty girl.”
You froze entirely as your jaw slightly dropped in sheer, unadulterated confusion, your mind struggling to process the words that had just come out of the mouth of the most stoic, brilliant, and terrifying defense attorney in the district.
You blinked up at him through your lashes, your brows wrinkling tightly together as you stared at his deadpan expression. The silence stretched between you for three long, agonizing seconds, filled only by the distant chime of a train station bell.
“Who…” you started, your voice a mixture of awe and absolute bewilderment. “Hiromi, who on earth told you to say that?”
Almost instantly, the cool, collected armor of the legendary counselor shattered as a deep, intense crimson blush rapidly crept up his neck, burning across his sharp cheekbones and turning the tips of his ears bright red.
He looked away abruptly, staring intensely at a random spot on the concrete plaza, his thumb nervously tracing the plastic lid of his coffee cup.
“A friend,” Higuruma muttered, his voice dropping an octave as he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, looking deeply embarrassed. “An old friend from high school. He… we caught up over drinks over the weekend.”
“He noticed how highly I spoke of you, and he promised me that it was a modern pickup line…. He… he swore it would swoon your heart.”
A breathless, delighted laugh bubbled up from your chest, the sound bright and human against the bleak December morning. “A pickup line?” you teased, leaning in slightly, entirely captivated by how flustered this brilliant forty-year-old man had become.
“Hiromi, that sounded like a teenager trying to act tough in an alleyway. I am highly offended… in fact, I’m threatening to report you to HR for an unwarranted, highly horrible flirting outside the firm’s premises.”
Higuruma let out a sudden, breathless huff of a laugh through his nose, his shoulders relaxing slightly as his dark eyes flicked back to yours, a familiar, academic spark returning to his gaze. “An HR complaint?” he countered smoothly, his lips twitching into a rare, smug smirk as he leaned his tall torso down just a fraction closer to you.
“I believe you lack the necessary leverage, Y/N. In accordance with corporate policy, the plaza outside the building is public property. Furthermore, my statement contained no explicit malice or coercion and it was, legally speaking, an objective observation.”
“An objective observation, Counselor?” you laughed, your foot playfully tapping the toe of his leather dress shoe. “You’re grasping at straws. The prosecution rests its case on the sheer awkwardness of your delivery.”
“I was merely testing the waters of contemporary vernacular,” he replied, his tone deadpan, though the lingering, heated tension between you was growing thick and undeniable, a warm current defying the freezing winter air.
You looked at his sharp face, seeing the faint lines of exhaustion that never truly left him, and your playful teasing softened into something incredibly tender. Reaching up, you placed your free hand—now warm from the coffee—firmly against his cheek.
Your palm felt incredibly soft against his cool skin, and you could feel the slight, rough texture of his morning shave as you gently cupped his face, forcing him to keep his eyes locked onto yours.
“You don’t need to test any waters, Hiromi,” you said softly, your voice rich with genuine emotion. “You being yourself is more than enough to swoon my heart. You don’t need any ridiculous lines.”
Higuruma’s breath hitched in his throat. He went entirely still beneath your touch, his dark pupils dilating as he stared down at you in absolute, breathless awe as the raw honesty of your words seemed to strip away the final remnants of his professional guard, leaving a heavy, simmering warmth between you.
“...Though,” you added mischievously, your thumb giving his cheek a playful squeeze before you dropped your hand, “him being himself is slightly less charming when he buries me in a mountain of corporate compliance files until midnight.”
A genuine, unburdened laugh escaped his lips, a sound that completely smoothed out the harsh lines of his face. “A fair point. I shall take the criticism under advisement.”
As the crowd of lawyers and paralegals began to thicken around the entrance, Higuruma subtly stepped closer to you, his long, lanky frame blocking the cold wind.
Slowly, deliberately, he slid his large, calloused hand into the deep, capacious pocket of his heavy wool trench coat. He paused for a fraction of a second, looking at you with a quiet question in his eyes.
Smiling, you slid your hand right in after his. Inside the dark, silk-lined pocket, the heat was immense as his long, slender fingers immediately intertwined with yours, holding on tightly, his rough, scarred palm pressing firmly against your skin. It was a secret, hidden paradise of warmth away from the prying eyes of the firm.
“By the way,” you murmured, leaning your shoulder against his arm as you walked slowly toward the doors, your hands still locked together in his pocket. “Here’s your heavy winter jacket inside it from last friday night. I washed it, dried it, and lint-rolled it so it’s perfectly clean!”
Higuruma glanced down at the canvas bag slung over your shoulder, noting how the heavy fabric seemed to weigh down your smaller frame. Without a word, he slipped his hand out of his pocket—a brief, cold pang of loss hitting your fingers before he reached across and gently lifted the straps of the tote bag off your shoulder.
His long, slender fingers brushed against your neck as he did so, leaving a lingering trail of heat. “Thank you,” he murmured, effortlessly slinging the heavy bag over his own narrow shoulder so you wouldn’t have to carry the extra weight.
He then immediately guided his hand back into his coat pocket, his long fingers finding yours once again, intertwining just as securely as before as he looked down at you, the silver streak in his hair catching the pale morning light, his dark eyes burning with a quiet, possessive tenderness as he squeezed your hand.
“Let’s go inside,” he whispered, his gravelly voice vibrating softly in the crisp air. “We have a trial to prepare for, my dear.”
© konseur — don’t copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do not use/feed my works to AI.
