ren !!

“Hiromi,” you can’t help sounding slightly breathless, having rushed over to his desk and feeling the nervous hammering of your heart in your chest, “what can I help you with?”

His eyes meet yours slowly, dragging across your frame. You notice the curve on his lips and the absence of his glasses. For just a moment you let yourself think about how good he looks, not entirely paying attention as he begins to speak. It’s surprising, you ponder, how nobody else in the office seems to understand the appeal; he wasn’t even unconventional. Just scary, apparently.

Hearing your name snaps you out of your thoughts, “is that all okay?”

You nod too quickly, already aware you’d been caught daydreaming. He doesn’t mention it, despite the amused look in his eyes that gives it away. 

You pull up a chair next to his PC and talk him through the problem. It wasn’t anything difficult, just something that stopped him from working; some would take it as a sign to go home. Not Higuruma.

His eyes aren’t really on the screen, instead settling his gaze onto your face while you’re wrapped up explaining. They dip to your lips and then your neck—the collar of your shirt. He feels his cheeks flush and he averts his stare, swallowing as he grabs his glasses from beside him, and places them onto the bridge of his nose. 

“If you didn’t insist on working so late, you could’ve avoided this,” you state, turning to face him in your desk chair.

His brow quirks up, “We’re still within office hours.”

“We are,” you shrug, “but you’re probably the only person working. Most of us are packing our things and logging off very slowly. You’re the only person up here.”

“Except you.”

It makes you pause for a second. He’s right, but you wouldn’t have helped had it been anyone else. You say as such, giving a teasing smile, “that’s only because I’m playing favourites.”

He breaks eye contact, turning his attention back to his monitor. Silence washes over you both and you can’t help but mentally scold yourself for saying anything. Just fix the issue. 

The pair of you are pink-cheeked as you lean over to grab his mouse, having sat to his left rather than his right. You ignore the fact he can probably (definitely) see down your shirt, grasping the wireless mouse and bringing it over to your side. He turns the monitor so it faces you more, watching as you click through various programs he has open.

“Looks like you have two instances running at the same time,” you murmur, “they’re conflicting.”

You see him nod out of the corner of your eye, humming quietly in understanding. He’s not paying attention to what you’re saying. He finds himself opting to watch your hand on the mouse, or the way your lips move as you explain. There’s a pause and he remembers what he’s doing, giving you his attention once again. You continue, “if I close this one and relaunch it…”

The program reloads; problem solved.

“Thank you,” when you turn towards him, you aren’t expecting him to be so close. His lips are slightly parted and you feel his breath against your skin. You aren’t sure if it’s accidental when his eyes flicker away before he pulls back, clearing his throat.

“It wasn’t anything difficult, and now you won’t need me to help next time,” you force a smile, hoping it’s not too obvious.

He doesn’t respond for a moment, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

You break eye contact, standing from your seat and pushing the mouse back towards Higuruma. You don’t look at him but you feel him staring, watching your movement as you tug on the hem of your shirt, straightening it out slightly. 

His gaze lingers on you, following your hands as they smooth out any creases before he looks away, bringing his hand up to his mouth and clearing his throat.

“Well, you know where I am if you need me,” you smile, “unless you’ve forgotten your password again?”

His eyes go wide at your question, before his lips break apart as a hearty laugh fills the office. He tilts his head back and you can see that his eyes are closed now, a few quiet snickers still escaping him, “no, not at all.”

His hand settles on his mouse and you watch him quickly begin to save & close all of his programs. You bite your tongue from commenting on the fact that if he planned to finish for the day, he didn’t need you to come and help. Once he’s shut his computer down, he stands, turning towards you, “would you like to leave together?”

You have to nod in response, not sure you could answer in anything other than a squeak. He was just being polite but the implication of the question was enough to send your heart hammering in your chest. People left the office together all the time, but Hiromi didn’t leave the office at a normal time–let alone with somebody. You mentally thank no one in particular that Yuuji wasn’t here to see you both.

“I need to go and get my stuff, sorry,” you turn to look towards the elevator, “I can meet you in the-”

“There’s no need,” his smile is warm, voice soft and quiet, “I’ll come with you.”

The elevator hums quietly as it descends, and you try to stop looking at yourself in the mirrored walls. You’re stood a fraction too close to Higuruma and his arm brushes against yours as the elevator stops on your floor.

You slip through the doors before they’ve opened fully, hoping he doesn’t notice the heat radiating off your skin.

The floor had been empty since you’d gone upstairs, only the quiet whirring of your pc filling the room. You walk over to your desk quickly, with Hiromi a few paces behind. When you stop at your desk, beginning to log off and collect your things, you become hyper-aware of how messy you looked. Papers strewn across the desk, a half-empty mug of coffee, and your cold noodles, which you hadn’t even had time to throw away. You felt gross looking at your own mess, and worse thinking about how you must look.

“You must have had a long day,” you almost miss it, his voice velvety. 

Something between a sigh and a laugh escapes you as you neaten up the space, stacking papers and straightening out your pens, “yeah, something like that.”

“I apologise for contributing to the stress,” he murmurs, placing a hand on the edge of the desk and putting his weight onto it. His coat is hung over his other arm, sleeves still rolled up his forearms and tie loosened ever so slightly. In this position, you can understand why people would find him intimidating: looking down at you through his glasses, sitting on the bridge of his nose. It isn’t a bad thing, your body would argue that you’re enjoying it, even if you were struggling to hold his gaze.

“You didn’t,” you put your focus back onto packing your things.

“I did,” he insists gently, “it could’ve waited.”

You sigh, shaking your head at him, “I already told you it’s fine, remember? Favourites?”

There’s a pause before you continue, “it’s just one of those days.”

In reality, he had been at least a small part of the problem. The barrage of emails and calls, the ‘broken’ printers, recovering deleted files; they were all manageable. But when your attention is elsewhere all day, on something–someone–else, you become susceptible to lots of small, irritating errors in your own work. 

It’s the way you search his name out in emails, or peek over whenever somebody opens the door. He’s at fault and it’s through no fault of his own.

You move the conversation on quickly, stepping past him once you’re ready to leave, “let’s go now, before we end up having to lock the building again.”

When the two of you step into the lobby, you greet the receptionist as she’s packing her things, wishing her a good weekend. Her eyes move from you to Higuruma, narrowing slightly in suspicion before she echoes the sentiment back with a customer service smile. She busies herself with some papers on her desk but you can feel her taking glances at you both walking past.

It’s not the first time: people notice you a lot more in the company of Hiromi, catching subtle glances and whispering to each other when they think you’re out of earshot. You feel it like a weight on your back and, from the way Higuruma’s movements become slightly stiffer beside you, he notices it too. It feels bad but you know for him it must feel worse; to be seen as other before a coworker. 

Neither of you mention it. He just grabs the front door and holds it open for you.

A rush of cold, bitter wind hits you, biting at your skin as you shove your hands into your pockets. It was quiet for a Friday evening, too cold and too dark to justify leaving the warmth of home.

Hiromi slows his steps to match your pace, “I feel like I should apologise again, about earlier.”

The corners of your lips tug up as you shake your head at him, “I already told you, it was really no trouble.”

He lets out a small sigh, his breath visible, “I could’ve fixed it myself. I was just hoping to see you.”

The words are decisive and composed; when he turns to look at you, you’re feeling anything but. You’re worried you may have misheard him, or maybe misconstrued what he said as you fumble over your words, “hoping to see me?”

His eyes are on the pavement ahead, rather than on you. His brows knit together as he frowns, apologising before you’ve even fully processed what he said, “that wasn’t appropriate, I’m sorry.”

It’s as though he’s trying to take it back and you aren’t quite sure what to say in response other than his name. It tumbles out of your lips softly and makes him pause in place. You don’t want him to take it back; you want him to say it again and mean it. 

You take a couple of steps ahead before turning around to face him, having not realised he stopped.

Higuruma is stood, only a few feet away from you, with bright red cheeks. His eyes are looking anywhere but you, brows sewn together and fingers nervously tapping the sides of his legs. He reminds you of a puppy that’s just been told off; you don’t realise that a smile has crept onto your face. Cute.

It takes you a moment to consider your words–whether he would want to be soothed or to just continue on, pretending that you hadn’t even heard. Even if you had already acknowledged it.

“I’m glad,” you mutter, loud enough for him as you step past, “if we don’t hurry we’ll miss our train.”

He catches up in no time, mood subtly lifted. He heard.

“It’s been getting colder again,” he says, “I left my scarf at the office last week by accident and it had been taken when I returned on Monday.”

“That’s so mean,” you frown, thinking about how he’d tuck his chin into his checkered scarf when it was really cold, “I wonder who would even do that.”

He hums in amusement, glancing at you, “you haven’t heard of our office magpie, then?”

You shake your head no, encouraging him to continue as you walk.

“One of the family lawyers has a bad habit of taking things that get left for a few days,” he brings his hand up to his chin, tapping it thoughtfully and listing items off, “some expensive straighteners were taken once but it was never taken to HR so no sanctions were put in place.”

Hearing about workplace gossip made you feel like you were starting to fit in, even if it meant you were going to be more careful about putting things away from now on. Maybe you’d ask Yuuji if any of his stuff has been stolen. Although, you can’t imagine anyone would want to take his chipped coffee mug or the stained cardigan he leaves hung over his chair–he’s exactly like the boys you interned with when you were at college, it makes you smile thinking about it.

“Maybe you’ll have to poach it back,” you push your hands further into your pockets, desperately trying to warm them up. You don’t miss the way he shifts, loosening his scarf slightly as he watches you, as though he’s about to take it off. 

He hums in agreement, opting to tuck his hands into his pockets as well.

The train journey home is quiet. You sit together and look out the window in silence, listening in to other conversations or people on the phone.

It’s not awkward, but you can’t help feeling as though you should say something. Make small talk and ask if he has any weekend plans. As soon as the thought enters your head you begin mentally backpedalling: would that make it look like you were interested? Maybe he would think you’re asking him out? What would he say if you were–

“Are you doing anything nice this weekend?” Hiromi’s voice is hushed, calm and steady. It breaks you away from your panic and settles your attention firmly on him.

“I’m–uh–” you pause for a second, not wanting to embarrass yourself by stumbling over your words, “not really, I might see a friend but she’s very noncommittal. It will probably end up being just me and Bear all weekend.”

“Bear?”

“My cat!” The mere mention of him excites you, scrambling for your phone in your pockets so you can show Higuruma a photo. You turn your screen to him, revealing the brown cat sat on top of an open journal. He only just covers both pages.

The defense attorney next to you can’t help the short chuckle that escapes him, “aptly named.”

“Maybe not,” you flick through a few more photos, “but he does love salmon.”

“He has expensive tastes,” you try not to notice the way Higuruma’s entire demeanour has melted away into something soft and warm, or how his smile curves in a way that makes your stomach twist.

You put your phone back into your pocket as the train comes to a halt at your stop. Hiromi gestures for you to get off first, ever the gentleman.

The cold hits you immediately, making your whole body shiver as you rub your hands together. You’re counting down the days until spring, even if you weren’t halfway through winter yet. The thought of the still sun being up when you leave the office is almost enough to make you giddy: especially the decrease in your heating bill.

“I bet you’re wishing you still had that scarf,” you mumble, watching your frosty breath when you sigh, “weekend plan: get a scarf.”

There’s a beat, and you notice that Higuruma starts walking slightly slower, as if he’s deep in thought. You decide not to mention it as you match his pace, settling into a comfortable quiet.

When you turn to glance at him, he’s already looking at you. His eyes are focused, searching your features for something that you can’t place. He smiles and your stomach starts to twist again, heat flooding your cheeks when you catch yourself thinking about how handsome he looks.

He doesn’t mention it, if he notices. 

“I never asked,” you begin, “do you have any plans this weekend?”

His eyes widen by just a fraction, clearly caught off guard as he begins walking slightly faster again, “oh- no, not really.”

“Not really?”

It’s adorable, the way the tips of his ears begin to go red and he pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose for no reason in particular, “I was planning to stay in all weekend. With my cat.”

“You have a cat?” you don’t intend for your voice to come out as loud as it does, and you apologise sheepishly when you realise.

“I do,” he fishes around in his coat pocket and pulls out his phone, turning it on to reveal a very large, very fluffy ragdoll cat as the lockscreen, “she’s called Truffle.”

You wonder how you’d never noticed it before. You also wonder how he never has a single cat hair on him; Bear’s fur sticks to all your clothes like glue, no matter how much you lint roll them. White hair is even worse, especially on a black suit.

“She’s huge,” he raises a brow at you, “so cute.”

You don’t even realise that you’ve stopped walking, having reached the road that you split up at. Hiromi is showing you more photos of Truffle, telling you anecdotes from when they were taken and what she was doing. In one she’s stretched out on the floor, in another she’s perched proudly on the windowsill. When he scrolls again it’s a video: he lets it play for a moment, revealing Truffle staring at herself in the mirror, lips slightly parted. The video zooms out and in the mirror is Hiromi, with plaid pyjama bottoms on and nothing else.

He doesn’t give you a second to memorise his v-line, or the bulge of his biceps before he flicks his phone off, “sorry.”

You don’t acknowledge the apology, trying your best to cement the image of him shirtless into your memory. 

“I hope you have a nice weekend,” this steals your attention away, immediately locking eyes with Higuruma as he begins to step away, “get home safe.”

There’s something in the way he says your name: it’s quiet and soft-spoken. It’s only for you to hear and you aren’t thinking when you call his name as he turns away from you. There’s a beat. Total silence between you as you lock eyes once again.

“We should do something,” you try not to think about the words before you say them, too scared that you’ll stop halfway, “if you’re free, that is. And if you want to…”

Suddenly the winter chill feels quite nice against your burning cheeks, while you wait for Higuruma to decline, letting your eyes wander to his shoes and the pavement between you both. You’d never noticed the tiny scuffs on them before.

The atmosphere shifts when he says your name again–it’s a request, the way he says it. It’s like magic, the way he can make you meet his gaze with just a single word, “I’d like that.”

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“You must have had a long day,” you almost miss it, his voice velvety. 

Something between a sigh and a laugh escapes you as you begin to neaten up the space, “yeah, something like that.”

“I apologise for contributing to the stress,” he murmurs, placing a hand on the edge of the desk and putting his weight onto it. His coat is hung over his other arm, sleeves still rolled up his forearms and tie loosened ever so slightly. In this position, you can understand why people would find him intimidating: looking down at you through his glasses, sitting on the bridge of his nose. It isn’t a bad thing, your body would argue that you’re enjoying it, even if you were struggling to hold his gaze.

“You didn’t,” you put your focus back onto packing your things.

“I did,” he insists gently, “it could’ve waited.”

You sigh, shaking your head at him, “I already told you it’s fine, remember? Favourites?”

There’s a pause before you continue, “it’s just one of those days.”

In reality, he had been at least a small part of the problem. The barrage of emails and calls, the ‘broken’ printers, recovering deleted files; they were all manageable. But when your attention is elsewhere all day: on something–someone–else, you become susceptible to lots of small, irritating errors in your own work. 

It’s the way you search his name out in emails, or peek over whenever somebody opens the door. He’s at fault and it’s through no fault of his own.

You move the conversation on quickly, stepping past him once you’re ready to leave, “let’s go now, before we end up having to lock the building again.”

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“Hiromi!” your voice comes out louder than expected, excited to let him know you got the disc sorted, “I was just about to call, you should have full access to those files now. Let me know when you want me to bring the disc back up.”

“I told you it wasn’t urgent,” his voice is soft, reminiscent of the quiet tone he had on the train, “but thank you. I can come down and get it, but there was actually something else I wanted help with.”

You hum, letting him continue.

He doesn’t.

He sighs and lowers his voice, letting a beat pass, “I need to reset my password. Again.”

You’re sure he doesn’t miss the amusement in your voice when you ask, “that’s no problem, would you be able to verify your identity?”

“Hiromi Higuruma,” you find his user straight away this time, having snooped around it after Yuuji told you how stuck up and scary he was. You’d found out then that he was 36, which was at least a handful of years older than you had guessed. It made sense, though, he was very accomplished (probably too accomplished) to only be in his early thirties.

You go through his security questions and then reset the password, “okay, your new password is Forgetful_1, let me know when you’ve been able to change it.”

From his end of the phone, you hear something between an exhale and a chuckle, “I’ve done it, thank you.”

“No problem, I’ll see you when you get that disc.”

It’s not even 10 minutes before Hiromi walks through the door, hair slightly messy and part of his shirt untucked. Silence settles over the floor, everyone suddenly busying themselves at their computers as he walks past.

He stops in front of your desk and readjusts his shirt, smiling at you. His eyes scan your desk, which is considerably messier than his, landing on the disc.

“That was quick, hi,” you smile up at him, grabbing the disc and holding it out, “all done.”

He takes it, your fingers brushing against each others for a moment, “thank you, I really appreciate it. You didn’t need to rush to get it done, let me know if I can make it up to you.”

You shake your head, “it’s really no problem, Hiromi. That’s what I’m here for.”

His gaze dips from your eyes to the disc in his hand, returning to yours slowly. The attention makes you hyperaware: able to hear your steady heart beat in your ears and a subtle heat crawling up your neck. You subconsciously bite down on your bottom lip, breaking eye contact.

He thanks you again, quiet and slightly stunted, turning around to leave.

“What was that?” Yuuji barely waits for the door to close before he makes a beeline for your desk, whispering, “I’ve never—how did you do that?”

You don’t pay him much mind, continuing with your work, “I’m not sure what you mean, Yuuji.”

He points at the door and then at you, mouth agape.

“I told you before,” your eyes pass over to him and return to your monitor, “Hiromi’s really nice.”

“Ah! You said he was friendly, not really nice,” he emphasises the ‘really’, like a kid on a playground.

“Yuuji, let her do her work.” He sulks at the IT managers scolding, dragging his feet back to his desk with an exaggerated frown.

You’re about to take your lunch at one thirty when your phone rings again. You don’t look at the caller ID and think about letting it go through to voice mail; you took your lunch around the same time every day, if it was urgent they could call someone else.

It's when your phone starts ringing again, immediately after the first call ends, that you relent and pick it up, “hello?”

The voice on the other end is hushed, as if they don’t want anyone else to hear them, “is now not a good time?”

“Hiromi,” you immediately feel guilty for getting annoyed so quickly, “I was just about to go to lunch but-”

“Perfect,” he interrupts, sigh of relief escaping his lips, “would you want to get lunch together?”

You pause, completely caught off guard by the question. He could’ve said he had just deleted all his user data, and you’d be stumbling over yourself less than you are when he’s invited you for lunch.

The silence is excruciating for him on the other end, he’s about to speak again but you beat him to it, “I’d like that, yeah.”

He agrees to meet you outside the lobby, the sound of shuffling papers and bags drowning out a couple of his words. You do the same and then end the call, feeling a spike of nerves once you’re left alone with your thoughts. It’s hard not to wonder whether there’s a deeper meaning to his words; whether it’s really just lunch.

It’s hard not to wonder if maybe you’re hoping it’s not just lunch.

It only takes you a couple minutes before you’re standing outside, hands tucked into the pockets of your fluffy winter coat. You make a mental note that you need to buy a scarf.

Hiromi is there just a few seconds after you, cheeks brushed pink in the cold and a smile on his lips, “thank you for agreeing to come with me, I know it was sudden.”

You shake your head, unable to stop yourself from mirroring his smile, “It’s no problem. Anything that stops me eating instant ramen at my desk is a win, to be honest with you.”

He hums in agreement, “most days I don’t really get a lunch, maybe 5-10 minutes of peace before my phone rings again.”

“You don’t eat lunch?” your smile drops, meeting his gaze with your own steadfast stare, “Hiromi that’s bad for you!”

The defense attorney pays you no mind, plucking his glasses off his face and wiping the lenses with his tie, “did you have anywhere in mind? I don’t really go out to eat very often.”

You don’t, but that wouldn’t be helpful so you rake through the closest food places you know off the top of your head. Working in the city has its perks, as much as your bank account may disagree.

“Something warm, I can’t think of anything better than putting my hands on a warm bowl–”

“There’s a noodle bar nearby,” Hiromi interrupts, pulling his phone out and typing the name into maps. His brows furrow as he taps on the screen, squinting slightly through his glasses before he gets it, turning the phone around to show you, “would this be okay?”

It’s a little hole-in-the-wall place, down a random alley nearby that you’d never been brave enough to walk through alone. The review photos make your stomach twinge and you agree before it starts grumbling out loud.

You only have to walk 5 minutes, being seated instantly when you walk in. Hiromi lets you have the booth seat, passing the menu over to you and thanking the waiter. The lighting inside is warm, gentle yellows and oranges that melt away the cold nipping at your skin. The light dances in Hiromi’s eyes, reflecting off his glasses slightly. He’s too focused on the menu to notice you staring, nibbling on his bottom lip.

He looks up at you, leaning forward slightly and you can smell his cologne again, “thank you, again, for coming.”

“I’m glad you invited me, honestly,” your fingers play with the edges of the menu, waiting for a server to come by, “what was the occasion, though?”

He breaks eye contact, turning his head to the side as if to try and get the attention of a waiter (which works). His side profile is probably the most striking thing about his appearance, completely unique. The rectangular glasses sat on the bridge of his nose highlight his jawline and his eyes: you’d say he’s very close to being perfect.

After ordering, he returns your attentive gaze. You both sit there, just looking at each other. It’s comfortable, but the way that Hiromi occasionally shuffles in his seat tells you he doesn’t feel the same.

“I wanted to thank you, in some way,” he’s looking down at the table, examining the details in the wood and notices a stain he’s never seen before, “for the disc and the passwords.”

You see his lips say something else, but it’s too quiet to hear as the waiter arrives and places your food on the table. Hiromi doesn’t give you a chance to ask anything, gesturing for you to dig in.

Neither of you speak as you eat, entirely too focused on how hungry you are and how good the food is. A hum of content leaves your lips and you don’t notice Hiromi’s eyes flick up to examine your expression. What you do notice, though, is how he barely eats: just stares at his food like it’s a work document.

By the time you’ve almost finished, his bowl still looks untouched.

“Do you not like it?” you ask absentmindedly, placing your utensils down and taking a sip of water.

“It’s good,” his eyes remain fixated on the bowl, “my body has just gotten used to skipping lunch, I suppose.”

The admission comes as a surprise and you answer without thinking, “you’re a lawyer, not a machine. You need food to live, Hiromi.”

His brows raise a fraction, not expecting to be scolded about his bad habits. He brings a mouthful of food up to his lips, chewing slowly.

“Lunch usually turns into another call or a meeting I can’t avoid,” his elbow rests on the table, chin perched on the back of his hand, “I would never choose to skip a meal.”

“What makes today different?”

Your question isn’t supposed to be intrusive or embarrassing, but you worry you’ve overstepped as he begins coughing, grasping his glass. His cheeks bloom into different shades of red and pink and his hands cover his face as he mumbles something you can’t hear. You want to ask, but judging by his reaction, you decide against it.

He excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and you pull out your phone to scroll through social media once he leaves. It’s only been a minute when you get a new idea, switching over to a web browser and typing in ‘Hiromi Higuruma defense attorney’. You hadn’t stopped thinking about what he had told you on Friday—about his last case at his previous firm.

The first result is from the ‘People’ page of your company, detailing what work he does and his different credentials. The second is a news article about a murder case, where the accused had been judged guilty after his initial not-guilty verdict had been appealed. Attached to the article was a video taken on a train of Hiromi, standing in the same suit he wears to work, looking out the window. The man taking the video is whispering, but you don’t turn the volume up high enough to hear.

The train isn’t taking a route you recognise–the one you usually take home–and as the doors open, Hiromi steps out into an unfamiliar station. Your eyes widen when the camera begins following him, keeping a careful distance while the man continues whispering.

“Sorry I took so long,” the video ends when he turns around, looking straight down into the camera, “I hope you didn’t get too bored.”

“It’s no problem,” you’re slightly worried that he may have caught you red-handed, but he doesn’t give anything away if he has. He takes his seat again, pushing his glasses up slightly.

“You looked deep in thought,” he picks up his chopsticks and begins eating again, eyes moving down to your almost-empty bowl.

“Thinking about all the work I’ll have to do when we get back,” you joke, breaking away from his gaze and playing with your food absentmindedly. A wistful sigh escapes your lips and you lean back into the plush seating of the booth, “if only we could ditch.”

He hums, amused, “unfortunately not.”

It’s strange, you think, to see someone so important and intimidating soften under the warm lamp light of a noodle bar while you complain about your workload (which is definitely significantly smaller than his). The way his lips tug upwards, eyes focused on you as you talk, makes you think this is the best choice you made since you started 2 weeks ago.

Your conversation is interrupted by a waiter, asking if he can clear your bowls and get you the bill.

Higuruma doesn’t let you react, reaching for it immediately.

“I invited you,” he states matter-of-factly, “you would never be expected to pay.”

You try to argue, but he doesn’t give you an opportunity. There’s a smile on his lips as he thanks the waiter, standing to leave.

“You really didn’t have to pay,” you insist as you exit the building, the winter air nipping at your skin, “thank you though.”

A comfortable silence envelops you, void of any awkward tension that you usually had with coworkers. It makes you wonder how everyone has him so wrong; how has he become this intimidating, silent figure that your colleagues whisper about? You consider that it wasn’t something he necessarily became, but something he had been branded with before he even started. It reminds you of the article you saw.

Hiromi notices you beginning to lag behind, clearly deep in thought. He doesn’t say anything, not wanting to interrupt, but he takes smaller strides in an attempt to match your pace.

Your eyes are pulled up from the floor as his feet begin to slow, drawing your attention away from your thoughts, “sorry, was I walking too slow?”

“Not at all,” he looks down at you, “if it means getting back later, walk as slowly as you want.”

Something about how he holds your gaze, or maybe the softness in his tone, causes your steps to stutter. You trip on nothing, catching yourself as a pit opens in your stomach; your cheeks are burning, heat creeping up your neck and into your ears.

“I’m alright,” you say too quickly, ignoring Hiromi’s concerned expression, “promise!”

You resume walking, slower now. The office building is in sight and you consider slowing down even more, dreading the return to your desk.

When you reach the doors, Hiromi grabs it for you. The warmth of the lobby makes his glasses fog up, face scrunching up slightly as he takes them off, wiping them on his sleeve. The receptionist doesn’t hide her staring, glancing from you to Hiromi. You try not to pay it any mind as you wait for the elevator.

“Thank you again, for taking me out,” you can’t help but feel slightly bashful, “I’ll treat you next time.”

His brow quirks up as the elevator doors open, stepping inside he asks, “next time?”

You fumble over your words slightly, not seeing the teasing smile on his lips.

“I’d like that.”

You collapse onto your bed as soon as you arrive home, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

The afternoon had dragged. You’d kept making stupid, little mistakes once you’d returned to your desk, too distracted by the thought that you’d accidentally asked Hiromi on a date. You aren’t even sure if he’d see it as a date. It was just lunch as coworkers today, so it can be lunch as coworkers next time, right? It’s not even a big deal; why were you making it out to be such a big deal?

“I just hope he didn’t take it the wrong way, y’know?” you’re laid in bed like a starfish, talking to your tiny brown cat, Bear.

You had decided to get a pet when you moved to the city; being far away from home and not knowing anyone, it sounded nice to have somebody at home that you could talk to. Even if the conversations were one-sided. After having unpacked everything, your first port of call was to look for puppies.

It was when you were returning home after visiting a litter, you saw the tiniest ball of fluff curled up next to a potted plant. You immediately abandoned the idea of getting a dog.

He makes a tiny mewl, sitting on your chest with his eyes closed. His paws knead into the fabric of your top, claws occasionally digging into your skin.

“Maybe he thought lunch was a date?” you look at Bear, watching him rise and fall with your breathing.

It’s too quiet, you think. The only sounds come from the traffic outside.

Your brain refuses to shut off, and the silence isn’t helping. Bear opens his eyes and yawns before going back to sleep, purring quietly. You aren’t sure why you thought your cat would be very helpful.

You know that you’re overthinking; that it meant nothing other than getting lunch but you can’t stop yourself from mulling over the details. The gentle pink hue brushed across his cheeks, the way his gaze held yours. It felt intimate. He paid closer attention to you than some boyfriends you’ve had.

Groaning, you drag a hand over your face, “don’t be stupid, he was just being polite.”

Your phone buzzes next to you on the bed, the home screen lighting up with a text notification. You grab it, pulling the screen up to your face.

The contact reads ‘Hiromi Higuruma’.

You don’t remember having given him your number, but when you open the text it had been you that messaged him first. It had been when you went out for drinks and ended up sat together on the train. Your text reads: home now! :)

His message is polite, just a courtesy call, you say to yourself.

‘Thank you for coming out to lunch with me’

You type out a reply quickly, staring at it. You erase it and type something else, only to delete that too. Eventually you settle on, ‘thank you for inviting me! I had a great time’.

He begins typing, only to stop. Your eyes are stuck to the little bubble, watching it disappear and reappear over the course of a minute or so.

Your breath catches in your throat when it stops, completely disappearing. Bear meows, as if to complain at the way you’ve stopped scratching his head. You close your eyes and let your phone fall back on the bed, “why am I so embarrassing…”

The phone buzzes again and you reach for it immediately, scaring Bear off of his place on your chest.

‘I’m glad. You will have to choose where we go next time.’

You don’t give yourself the opportunity to doubt your reply, immediately typing out, ‘sounds good, I can’t wait!’

You put the phone on silent and place it face down on your bed. Texting hadn’t made you this nervous since you were still in school, and here you were kicking your feet because a defense attorney agreed to go to lunch with you again.

Maybe next time you could call it a date.

tags: @needpeacenquiet @calculust-prime @brekkersgf

Another coworker sitting next to you leans closer, “there’s definitely a few of them that are all work no play. Super serious all the time.”

You nod again, thinking about if any of the people you’ve met match that description. Some of the older lawyers seemed a bit stuck in their ways, but you weren’t sure that you’d call them stuck up. So far, everyone had been nothing but lovely to you.

The five of you finish your lunch soon after, walking back to the office and making general chit chat.

“Just a few more hours until the weekend, we’ve got this,” Yuuji walks in front of everyone else, turning around with a big grin and a thumbs up, “and why would anyone bother us on a Friday? That would just be mean.”

“Alright Yuuji, let’s stop fantasising and get back to work.”

The restaurant you’d gone to was only a 5 minute walk from your office, so you return with a few minutes to spare. You remove your coat and sit down, spotting a notification on your work mobile: Invitation to ‘Birthday Drinks @ 18:00’. You don’t recognise the senders name, but it looks like it was sent to all users, with 30-odd people having already accepted.

There’s no harm in some socialising, you think, pressing the accept button.

When you return to work, the general IT inbox has been flooded with panicked emails from one of the older defense attorneys. The entire message is written in the subject lines with multiple exclamation marks and all flagged as urgent. ‘Please help I can’t do any time recording’, ‘Help my files aren’t uploading to case’, ‘canttime record or upload file’, ‘help please my screen is blue’.

As the most junior IT staff, it’s between you and Yuuji to assist with issues that come into the general inbox, so you spin in your chair to beg the graduate only to find that he’s gone.

“Where did Yuuji go?”

“Toilet.”

That little weasel. He owes you big time.

With a quiet sigh, you send the woman an email back before pushing yourself out of your chair. Dreading having to assist, you only catch the elevator to the 1st floor and take the stairs to the 3rd (because there’s no chance you’re walking up 4 floors).

You’d hardly been onto the 3rd floor except when you recovered that file. It’s still very quiet, fewer people tend to be in the office on Fridays, but there’s a frantic tension in the air as a short, older lady rushes between multiple sets of desks and urges the attorneys to have a look at her PC. She stands over Hiromi, who has a hand over his face and a look of exasperation as she talks at him.

You slowly begin walking over, and when Hiromi notices you, he smiles slightly. Taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes, “don’t worry, help is here.”

The older woman follows his gaze and rushes over to you, introducing herself as quickly as possible before grabbing your wrist and pulling you towards her pc, “oh it’s been such a nightmare! All these new systems and computers, they’re more hassle than they’re worth!”

When she shows you the issues, it takes everything in you not to let out a small laugh. It was always going to be easy to fix, you knew that, but normally you still have to do a little bit of work.

“Higuruma, come and look at this!”

From the corner of your eye, you can see Hiromi huff as he stands up and idles over. He puts his hands in his pockets, watching as you wriggle the display cables which gets rid of the blue tint. Once you’re done, you close the application she’s using and reopen it, “if one of these applications ever prompts you to open them in Safe Mode, just click ‘cancel’ and open it normally. Otherwise you won’t be able to do anything, like record time or upload new files to a case.”

She looks astonished by how promptly her issue is fixed, “look at you, you’re a computer whiz!”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but I’m happy to help,” you catch Hiromi’s eyes, which are slightly squinted to hide his amusement; you can’t help wondering whether his laugh is as rich as his voice.

You’re about to leave when Hiromi says your name, asking if you could look at something on his PC. He gestures for you to sit in his desk chair and leans over to grab the mouse. He’s close enough that you’re able to smell his cologne, warm and spicy with a woody base.

“I was having an issue,” your eyes leave his screen and trail up his arm, taking in the way his sleeves are rolled up. His glasses sit low on his nose and his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, “I’m not able to get access to this file, but from what I can see I should have permission already.”

When his head turns to you, locking his eyes onto yours, you remember that you’re supposed to be helping. You take the mouse off of him and begin poking around, inspecting the file details, “I’m guessing this was emailed to you?”

“It’s from a disc, IT already checked it for me,” you vaguely recall being told you’d have to check any external storage that gets sent before anyone else has access to them, “do you need it to take a look?”

“If you don’t mind me taking it, that would be great.”

He hums and moves away, getting the disc and holding it out to you as you get out of his chair.

When you return to your desk, you’re surprised to see that it’s already 3pm. You sit down and check for any urgent emails, only to be pleasantly greeted by an empty inbox. Getting straight to work on checking the disc, you grab the external CD drive and plug it into your PC.

“Where’d you get that from?” Yuuji is leaning against your desk, hovering over you, clearly bored.

“Hiromi Higuruma up on 3rd floor, he’s struggling to get access to it,” you answer, not really paying attention to the younger man, “I couldn’t turn him down.”

“Wait a second,” Yuuji spins your chair so that you’re face-to-face, “Hiromi Higuruma… like, THE Higuruma?”

“Is there another Hiromi Higuruma that works here?”

Yuuji’s jaw drops and he blinks, dropping his voice down to a hush, “when we were talking about some people being stuck up,” his eyes dart away before meeting yours again, “well, Higuruma is exhibit A. Most of us have barely even spoken to him before.”

You tilt your head, an unconvinced smile playing on your lips, “I don’t know, he’s been pretty friendly to me.”

You don’t miss the way Yuuji’s brows furrow before he shrugs. He opens his mouth to talk again but gets interrupted by the IT manager, who tells him to get back to his work. He makes an exaggerated whine before saying he’ll talk to you later and slowly dragging his feet back to his desk.

The next few hours are frantic, with endless calls and emails about minute problems that they need fixed ‘right now’. You get multiple tickets asking about the printers and fax machines, which have you running around each floor to try and get it sorted, barely receiving any thanks in return. Higuruma’s disc lies on your desk, taunting you every time someone else begins bothering you.

You don’t even notice when the clock hits 5:45, and all your colleagues begin slowly winding their work down. There’s a clatter of things being put away into work bags and people shuffling over to the sink to wash up their coffee mugs.

“Hellooooo?” it isn’t until Yuuji is back, waving a hand in your face, that you actually see the time, “we’re all gonna go over together in 5, if you aren’t ready then you’re being ditched.”

“Yuuji!” one of your coworkers chastises him, gently whacking the back of his head before turning her attention to you, “we’ll wait if you need us to, don’t worry.”

You shake your head, beginning to save everything and log out, “It’s honestly no problem, the bar is pretty close so I’ll just head out after you guys. I need to go and freshen up anyway, so I’ll be 10 or 15 more minutes.”

She quirks a brow, as if to say ‘are you sure?’ before nodding and turning around, grabbing Yuuji and taking him away with her, “we’ll see you there, then.”

Everyone leaves shortly after, all waving and saying goodbye as they exit. You smile politely and finally begin to pack up your stuff, making sure to pack your work laptop and the external disc drive; you were hoping you could look at it over the weekend, so it could be back with Hiromi on Monday.

It takes longer than you’re expecting before you’re ready to leave, having gone to the bathroom to reapply your makeup. You’re ready at 10 past 6, making sure everything on your floor is locked and shut.

A head pokes through the door as you’re turning off the lights, startling you as they call out your name, “I’m about to lock up, I’ll wait for you.”

“Hiromi,” you smile, walking slightly faster to reach him, “I’m done anyway, just need to turn the lights off.”

He nods and opens the door fully, holding it for you as you flick the lights off and walk past him. You thank him and begin to walk up the stairs together, “are you going straight home?”

“Unfortunately not,” he sighs, shoulders hunching slightly, “the drinks are for one of the other defense attorneys, it’s the only time I have to show my face.”

You can’t help but smile at his apprehension: who would’ve thought a big, scary lawyer would be so antisocial?

“I hate celebrating with my colleagues too,” you huff jokingly, “I’d rather be doing overtime.”

His lips break into a small smile, rolling his eyes as he replies, “I didn’t know my only options were work or drink.”

You shrug, looking up at him. It’s only then that you notice the absence of his glasses, letting you see his eyes more closely. There’s barely any colour in them, a deep brown that teeters on the edge of being black and decorated with a purple tint on the surrounding skin; evidence of all the late nights and early mornings.

“I assume you’re also going?” he interrupts your train of thought, locking his gaze with you once you both reach the reception on the ground floor, “we can walk together.”

“We are going the same way,” you smile at him, moving over to the front door before he can, pulling it open and holding it for him, “after you.”

He smiles again, eyes breaking away so that he can fish his keys out of his bag and lock up. He looks softer and more unguarded under the moonlight, tucking his chin into a checkered scarf and hiding the way his lips tug upwards.

When he turns back to you, you avert your gaze and smile awkwardly, “ready?”

You start walking as soon as he nods, shoving your hands into your coat pockets. He walks in sync with you, trying to match your pace.

“Have you been working here for long?”

“Almost 4 years now,” he answers, “the last firm I was at–one of my cases had a bit of a PR disaster.”

There’s a moment of silence before he continues, “we came to a mutual agreement that I should probably leave.”

Your steps slow, “that’s horrible, what happened?”

He doesn’t wait before he says, “my client got charged with murder.”

You don’t say anything else until you arrive at the bar, spotting your coworkers through the windows. Hiromi lets you enter first, following behind.

“You made it!” a voice you don’t recognise shouts in your direction, a tall man walking towards you both and grinning at Hiromi, “Good to see you’re making friends already!”

The man has a small badge that says ‘The birthday boy is 8 today!’ with a 3 scribbled in front in permanent marker to make it 38. He shifts his attention to you and offers his hand, “I hope this guy isn’t scaring you off, come join us for a drink later!”

He pulls Hiromi away with a grin, allowing you to make your way over to some familiar faces.

“We were starting to think you wouldn’t make it!” Yuuji laughs, a pink hue dusted across his cheeks already, “but I’m glad you got here.”

He stands up and urges you to take his seat before disappearing into the sea of people. You barely get the chance to speak to anyone else before he’s returned with two drinks, placing one down in front of you, “a token of appreciation for sorting out the defense attorneys earlier.”

Your feet feel unsteady when you stand from your seat, unsure how much you’ve drank but fully aware that it’s more than you should’ve around new coworkers, “do any of you know where the bathroom is?”

One of the women that had joined your table points you in the right direction, offering to show you but you decline, “It’s no problem, thank you though.”

You take a breath to ignore the woozy feeling in your head and the heat rushing through your veins, taking steady steps until you get to the women’s bathroom. There’s nobody else in there as you double check your appearance in the mirror. You don’t look as drunk as you feel, your makeup concealing the red flush that must’ve taken over your cheeks. Perfect. Nobody can tell, probably.

You leave and begin walking back to your table, until you spot Hiromi leaning against a wall by himself, tapping at his phone.

Calling out his name, he looks at you and his eyes soften slightly, “Hi.”

“Hey,” you lean beside him, peering at his phone, “letting your girlfriend know you’ll be late?”

He chuckles, low and resonant, “trying to work something out for a case, so definitely not.”

You almost ask if he has a girlfriend, but stop yourself and settle on ‘he probably does’.

“Do you ever stop working?” he turns his whole body towards you as you ask, “Y’know, everyone seems to think you’re scary. Or stuck up.”

He doesn’t answer, instead just holds your gaze as you continue to find words to fill the silence, voice dropping slightly, “I don’t though.”

“Well, that’s good,” his voice matches yours–almost a whisper, and he leans closer. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, “I’m glad you do.”

He doesn’t move away, letting his eyes move across your face. You do the same, eyes flicking to his nose and then his lips, which part quickly as he licks them before standing straight again. It snaps you out of your reverie, and you look around to see the crowd has started to thin. You wonder how late it is and what time is acceptable for you to leave.

“Sorry I couldn’t get that disc sorted, I’ll have it sorted first thing on Monday for you.”

“There’s no rush, really,” he insists, repeating your own question, “do you ever stop working?”

Before you can answer, someone is shouting for you across the bar. You cringe, apologising to Hiromi and excusing yourself.

“Where’s Yuuji?” once you’ve returned to your table, you notice there’s only one other person from the IT department left.

“We bundled him up into a taxi before he embarrassed himself,” you can picture him insistence that he’s not that drunk, while simultaneously being pink-cheeked and somehow louder than usual, “but we were planning to leave, and thought we could all walk together.”

By the time you arrive at the station, it’s just you left. Luckily, it’s not long to wait before your train arrives and, due to the time of night, it’s almost empty.

You sit down, leaning your head back and closing your eyes. The world feels unsteady around you, and nothing sounded better than getting home and crawling into bed without even taking your makeup off.

Someone sits next to you and you open your eyes; they could’ve sat anywhere else, they had the choice of the entire carriage.

Deep brown looks back, immediately making you feel guilty. You exhale, a little breathless as you say, “Hiromi.”

His gaze shifts away from you, “I didn’t mean to frighten you, sorry.”

Neither of you speak, he loosens his tie and starts rummaging around in his bag until he pulls out a glasses case. Opening it, he grabs his glasses delicately with one hand and pinches the bridge of his nose with the other.

“I should’ve stopped after the 2nd,” he mumbles, slipping his glasses on and returning the case to his bag, “hindsight.”

You hum in response, resuming your position with your eyes closed, “I couldn’t, every time I finished somebody had another drink in front of me.”

“They do that when you’re new,” he chuckles, leaning back against the seat, “until you leave or they can’t justify the cost anymore.”

You crack one eye open to look at him, “is that what you did? Waited until they didn’t want to keep spending money?”

“I was old news by the first time I went for drinks,” he says dryly, “and I didn’t stay long, anyway.”

The sway of the carriage makes your head feel heavier, closing your eyes again. You can feel Hiromi shift from beside you, brushing his arm against yours. For a while, neither of you speak, just listening to the rattling of the train.

After a while, he says your name, his voice soft and quiet, “that disc really isn’t urgent, I promise.”

You’re too tired to laugh properly, “you hunted me down to remind me about work? How cruel.”

“No,” he pauses, and you open your eyes again to see him looking out the window, “I just…”

You wait, watching as his jaw tenses and then relaxes, but he doesn’t finish. You can see him watching you from the corner of his eye before looking away.

“It’s a good thing we’re getting off at the same stop,” you yawn, stretching your arms out above you, “almost there.”

The train pulls into the last stop before you need to get off, and you hardly realise where you are. Your eyes drift over Hiromi one last time before they close again, mumbling, “let me know when we’re home.”

He looks down at you once more and then out the window, like he’s trying very hard not to stare.

“Alright.”

A/N: if you want to be added to a taglist for future chapters let me know! :)