He's watching you. You can't help but notice that Bobby doesn't stare the way other men stare, heavy and obvious.

He watches. There's a difference. Staring is passive. Watching is a skill.

You can see it in the way his eyes move: cataloguing, framing, composing. Those eyes. Pale blue, sharp, amused in a way that suggests he's always in on a joke nobody else has heard yet. They land on your face and stay there with an intensity that makes you want to look away and also makes you want to never look away and you're not going to think about that right now. Even in a shitty diner booth with fluorescent lighting and a crack running through the formica, Bobby Franklin is looking at you like he's already thinking about angles.

"And you're—Terrence said you do everything yourself? Shoot, edit, all of it?" you croak out, forcing yourself to swallow a mouthful of coffee.

"I don't trust anyone else with the camera." He says it the way other people say they don't trust anyone else with their car keys. Flat. Non-negotiable. His fingers are wrapped around the coffee mug and you notice—you're noticing too much, you need to stop noticing—the veins on the back of his hands, the way the leather jacket sits on his shoulders like it grew there, the silver hoop catches light every time he tilts his head. "It's a one-man operation. Well." The twitch again. Almost a smile. "Usually two-man. One behind the lens, one in front."

You nod. Push the eggs. Your fork makes a sound against the plate that's louder than it should be because neither of you is talking and the diner is mostly empty. The jukebox in the corner is broken and has been broken since Reagan. Your knee is bouncing under the table. You press your palm flat on your thigh to stop it. It only partially works.

"How behind are you?" Bobby drawls.

Your head snaps up. "What?"

"On rent," he clarifies patiently. "Terrence said you were in trouble. How behind?"

He leans forward when he asks it and the chain shifts against his collarbone and you catch a breath of him leather and something underneath, warm, clean, just skin—and your stomach coils.

You're nervous. You're nervous and attracted and the two are braiding together into something that makes it hard to hold your fork steady.

This would be easier if he were sleazy. If he looked like what you'd imagined when Terrence first explained the arrangement. Some greasy guy with a moustache and a waterbed. Instead he looks like this. Sharp jaw and piercing, amused eyes and an earring, a chain and a full mouth that does that little twitch and you're in so much trouble.

You put the fork down. Two months. You're two months behind because the temp agency dried up and the waitressing gig fell through and you've been living on ramen and the leftovers your neighbour leaves outside her door in tupperware containers that you're pretty sure are meant for the stray cats but you're not proud enough to care anymore.

"Two months," you admit, staring down at the eggs. Not looking at him. Looking at him is becoming a problem.

Bobby whistles. Low. Through his teeth. "Well shit. Landlord breathing down your neck?"

You scoff, swallowing down the bitterness. "He's past breathing. He's at written notices."

Bobby leans back in the booth. The vinyl creaks beneath him. He's got one arm stretched along the back of the seat and the other hand wrapped around the coffee mug and the morning light from the window is hitting the side of his face and you think, abstractly, the way you'd think about a painting in a museum: he's beautiful. Sharp angles. Pale eyes. Cali tan and an ease in how he slouches in his seat.

"The money's good," he says suddenly, tongue poking his cheek as he drags his attention back towards you. "That's the first thing. I'm not gonna bullshit you. It's not Hollywood money, obviously, but for Santa Clara? For a couple hours of work?" He tilts his head. "It'd cover your rent. Easy. One shoot."

You stare, unblinking. Sceptical. "One shoot."

"One shoot."

You pick up the fork again. Put it down again. Your fingers won't stop moving.

"Look—" Bobby leans forward. Elbows on the table. The leather jacket he's wearing creaks with the movement, and he's closer now and the watching has intensified into something that feels less like a camera and more like a hand on your skin. "I'm not trying to pressure you into shit. Terrence vouched for you because I asked him if he knew anyone and he said he knew a girl who was real smart and broke and—"

He stops. Mid-sentence. The watching goes still. There's a shift in his expression. A loosening, a slip, the mask of professional detachment developing a crack.

"Shit," he says softly. Almost to himself. "You're pretty. Real pretty."

You bristle. The flinch is automatic. A full-body tightening that starts in your shoulders and works down, because you know this game, you've played this game, the compliment that's actually a crowbar, the flattery designed to pry you open. Men in diners don't tell you you're pretty because they mean it. They tell you you're pretty because they want something and that something is usually between your legs.

"Don't do that," you say sharply. Your voice is harder than you intended.

Bobby blinks. The crack in his expression widens and what's behind it isn't a game. It's surprise. Genuine, unperformative surprise, the kind that creases the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger than however old he is.

"Do what?"

"The—flattery thing. The buttering up. I don't need you to tell me I'm pretty to get me to agree, I already—" Your throat tightens, and you knot your fingers in your lap, setting your jaw. "I'm already here. I'm already desperate enough to be sitting in this diner talking about—so you don't need to—"

"Hey." His hand comes up. Not touching. Just a gesture. A pause button. "I wasn't buttering you up. I was just—" He runs a hand through his hair, clipping his sunglasses. He looks, for a half-second, almost flustered. "I was looking at you and it came out. That's it. That's the whole thing. You're pretty and my mouth moved before my brain did and I'm—" He picks up the coffee. Takes a long sip. Sets it down. "Sorry. Professional hazard. I notice faces."

You stare at each other in silence.

He wasn't mocking you.

The realisation lands with a warmth that starts in your chest and spreads to places you weren't expecting.

He wasn't mocking you. He was sitting across from you in a vinyl booth and the light caught your face and he thought you were pretty and he said so because his mouth was faster than his filter. And now he's drinking burnt coffee to cover the fact that he's embarrassed about it.

"Okay," you say quietly.

He pauses, cup halfway to his mouth. "Okay?"

"Okay, tell me the terms."

Bobby sets the coffee down. The professionalism clicks back into place but the tips of his ears are still pink and you file that away somewhere warm and private.

"I shoot everything at my place. My equipment, my setup. VHS. I've got two cameras, one static, one handheld. The handheld's the one that matters. That's the one I operate." He taps the table with his index finger. Rhythmic. A habit. "I edit everything myself. I distribute through a guy I know in the valley who handles the duplication and the mailing list. You never have to talk to him. You never have to talk to anyone. Your face, your name, none of it goes on the packaging unless you want it to."

"What name do you use?" you ask, curious despite yourself.

"For me? Bobby." He shrugs. "I'm not creative about it."

"And for—"

"Whatever you want. Pick something. Pick nothing. Some girls just go by a first name. Some make something up. One girl I worked with went by the name of her landlord's dog. Said it felt like revenge." The almost-smile again. "Point is: it's yours. The whole thing is yours. You say stop, I stop. You say no to something, it's no. I don't push. I don't coerce. I don't do anything you haven't agreed to beforehand and if you change your mind halfway through, the camera goes off and we're done. No questions. No attitude."

He says all of this in the same tone he'd use to explain how a camera works. Methodical. Clear. Like he's said it before and means it every time.

"How much?" you ask.

He tells you.

You put your fork down carefully because the number he just said would cover two months of rent and groceries and the electricity bill that's been sitting on your kitchen counter turning into a small paper monument to your failure.

"One shoot," you say again, making sure.

"One shoot," he echoes with a nod. "Couple hours. You walk out with cash."

Hope and desperation surge up your spine, working your tongue. "Cash?"

"I don't do checks. Checks leave paper trails and paper trails make people nervous." He drains the last of the coffee. Grimaces. Apparently even Bobby Franklin has limits and Moreno's coffee has found them. "You don't have to decide now. Think about it. Call me."

He pulls a napkin from the dispenser and writes a number on it in handwriting that's surprisingly neat for someone who looks like he's never filled out a form in his life. Slides it across the table.

You look at the napkin. Look at him. then back at the napkin.

You pick it up, folding it neatly.

"Tomorrow," you say. "I can come tomorrow."

Bobby's eyebrows rise. Just slightly. Then he nods slowly. "Tomorrow works."

He pays for your eggs. You don't argue. You should argue but the rent was due six days ago and the eggs were $2.15 and the pride you'd normally spend on "I can pay for my own breakfast" has been liquidated to cover more pressing debts.

At the door of the diner he holds it open for you. Not performatively. Just does it. And when you pass him your shoulder brushes his chest and he smells like that warm thing again, the underneath thing, and his pale eyes track your face one more time and he says "See you tomorrow" in a voice that's dropped half a register and the warmth in your chest migrates south and you walk to your car thinking fuck, fuck, fuck, what am I doing?

You're covering rent. That's what you're doing.

That's all you're doing.

His apartment is above a furniture store.

You stand on the sidewalk for four minutes before you go up. The building is nondescript. Beige stucco, iron railings, a set of stairs on the outside that lead to a door that needs painting. There's a cat on the landing that looks at you with the serene judgment of a creature that has never once had to worry about rent.

You envy the cat greatly.

You're wearing a sundress because you didn't know what to wear and the sundress felt like a compromise between "trying too hard" and "not trying enough." You changed three times.

The first outfit was too casual. The second was too much. The sundress is yellow and you hate that you care what colour it is.

You knock.

Bobby opens the door and the first thing you register is that he's not wearing the leather jacket.

T-shirt. White, thin, cropped in a way that shows the shape of him underneath and is making it difficult to maintain eye contact. Jeans slung low on his hips. Bare feet on the hardwood. His hair is damp from the shower and pushed back off his face and without the sunglasses holding it up you can see the full architecture of him.

The jaw, sharper in natural light than in the diner's dimness. The earring. The chain, sitting in the hollow of his throat, rising and falling with his breathing.

He looks good in his own apartment. Relaxed in a way he wasn't at Moreno's, the professional edge softened into something more lived-in.

He leans against the doorframe and says, "Hey. Come in" and the drawl is thicker in the morning.

You're going to be professional about this. You're not going to think about his forearms, which are now visible because the t-shirt sleeves are short and his arms are lean and tanned and there's a vein running from his wrist to his elbow that you're staring at. Stop staring at it.

The apartment is small and clean and full of light. Not the fluorescent light of the diner but real light, California morning light, pouring through windows that face east.

There are photographs on the walls, black and white, and you realise after a second that he took them. They're good. They're better than good. A bridge in fog. A woman's hands. A street at night, wet, reflecting. He has an eye. You knew that from the diner, from the way he watched, but seeing it on the walls makes it real.

Bobby Franklin has an eye and he uses it for this and also for what you're about to do and the cognitive dissonance of "artist" and "adult filmmaker" is something you're going to have to sit with.

"Coffee?" he asks, padding toward the kitchen. Bare feet on linoleum.

The t-shirt rides up slightly when he reaches for a mug on the top shelf and there's a strip of skin above his waistband and the muscle that cuts along his hip and you look away so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.

"Please."

He pours you a cup. You stand in his kitchen and drink it and it's good. Your hands are shaking and the cup rattles against the saucer and you set it down before he notices except he's already noticed.

"Hey," he calls out, leaning against the counter. Arms crossed. The t-shirt pulling across his chest. His stare is piercing, amused, reading you the way they read you at the diner except now there's nowhere to hide behind a menu and a plate of eggs. "We don't have to do anything today. We can just talk. Get you comfortable. No pressure."

"I'm fine," you force out.

He gives you a sceptical once over. "You're shaking."

"I'm fine and I'm shaking. Both can be true."

His mouth the twitches, the almost-smile that you're beginning to understand is Bobby's version of a laugh. A contained one. Controlled. Like even his amusement is something he runs through a filter before letting it out. But his eyes crinkle at the corners and the amusement reaches them and it's warm, genuinely warm, and some of the tightness in your chest loosens.

You talk.

He asks you questions. Mercifully not invasive ones, not the peeling-back kind. Surface questions. Where you grew up. How you know Terrence. What music you like. And you find yourself answering, not because he's charming (he is) but because he's easy. Bobby Franklin is easy to talk to in a way that contradicts everything about his sharp jaw and pale stare and the fact that there are two video cameras set up in his bedroom that you can see through the half-open door.

He listens the way he watches: completely, with his whole attention, like whatever you're saying is the only thing happening in the world. And he's funny. Dry, quick, a deadpan that sneaks up on you.

You laugh at something he says about Terrence and his face creases in a way you haven't seen before. Surprise. Pleasure. Like your laugh was an unexpected pleasure.

He tucks it away fast, smooths the expression back to amused neutrality, but you saw it. You saw it and it made your stomach warm.

An hour passes. Your hands stop shaking. You've stopped noticing the cameras through the doorway. You've started noticing other things.

The way he gestures when he talks about photography, loose and animated, the only time his cool composure fully drops. The way he licks his bottom lip when he's thinking. The way the chain shifts against his throat when he laughs. The pale eyes that keep finding your face and staying there a beat longer than conversation requires.

You're attracted to him. This is no longer a thing you can file under "irrelevant." This is a thing that is happening in your body, in the kitchen, in the warm light, and it's making the prospect of what comes next feel less like a transaction and more like something you might actually want and that's more frightening than the cameras.

He shows you the bedroom eventually.

It's not what you expected. No red lighting, no satin sheets, no sleazy backdrop. Just a bed—queen, white sheets, a quilt that looks like it came from someone's grandmother—and two cameras. One on a tripod in the corner, aimed at the bed. The other on the dresser, smaller, a different angle. Both VHS. Both off.

"The one in the corner is the wide shot," Bobby explains, standing in the doorway behind you. Professional. Tour guide. "It runs the whole time. Catches everything. The one on the dresser is for close-ups. I adjust it as we go. The handheld—" He nods toward a third camera sitting on the nightstand. "That's the one I use. That's the one that makes the money."

You nod, staring at the bed. The white sheets. The grandmother's quilt. The two dark eyes of the cameras. Your pulse is loud in your own ears.

"I'm sorry," you blurt out, not looking at him, still staring at the bed. "I'm being weird about this. I've obviously never—I haven't done anything like this before and I don't know how to—"

He kisses you.

His hand is on your jaw first, angling your face toward him. Gentle but sure, the confidence of someone who knows the effect he has and is choosing to use it kindly. And then his other hand comes up. Both hands cupping your face now, his palms warm against your cheeks, his thumbs resting along the line of your cheekbones, and his mouth finds yours.

The first press is soft. Almost chaste. Just the warmth of his lips settling against yours, testing, asking. You inhale sharply through your nose, and he catches it. Absorbs it. Tilts your face up with those hands and kisses you deeper.

Bobby's mouth opens yours. Coaxing, slow.

His bottom lip drags against yours, the faintest graze of teeth, and then his tongue follows. Warm, unhurried, curling against yours in a way that makes your knees actually weaken.

You've kissed people before. This is not that. This is Bobby Franklin kissing you with both hands cradling your face like you're worth holding and his tongue moving against yours with a patience that suggests he could do this for hours. Just this. Just the wet slide of his mouth on yours and the taste of good coffee and the way your breath mingles when he tilts his head and changes the angle and finds something deeper.

His thumb strokes your cheekbone. Back and forth. This light, rhythmic brush while his tongue curls against yours, while his bottom lip catches between your teeth and he makes a sound—small, low, a vibration you feel more than hear—and your hands are on his chest. When did your hands get on his chest?

You can feel his heartbeat through the white t-shirt, fast, faster than his relaxed composure suggests, and the knowledge that Bobby Franklin's heart is hammering while he kisses you makes you dizzy.

He tilts his head the other way. Your noses brush. The tip of his against the side of yours, a small warm nudge, almost playful.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Your bottom lip. Takes it between his and sucks, gently, and your fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt and pull and the sound you make is swallowed by the warmth of him.

He pulls back.

Not far. An inch. Maybe two. His hands still on your face. His thumbs still on your cheekbones. His forehead nearly touching yours and you can feel his breath on your lips and his eyes are right there. Those pale, watchful, bright eyes, scanning your face. Reading you. Making sure.

Your lips are tingling. Your whole body is tingling. You're standing in a stranger's bedroom being held by the face and kissed like you've never been kissed before.

"Was—" Your voice is thin. Wrecked. He kissed your voice right out of you. "Was the camera rolling?"

Bobby smirks.

Up close, from two inches away, with his hands still warm on your face. One corner of his mouth lifting in that lazy, crooked, insufferable way. His eyes half-lidded. And it goes trough you like wildfire, flooding your nervous system with liquid heat.

"No," he answers huskily, his thumb tracing your cheekbone one more time. "Just felt like doing that."

He holds your gaze. One beat. Two. Three. Letting the smirk settle. Letting you feel the weight of it—the fact that he kissed you off-camera, off-clock, for no professional reason.

The fact that his heart is still hammering under your fists and his pupils are blown wide and he kissed you because he wanted to. Because you were standing in his bedroom apologising for being nervous and he looked at you and his mouth moved before his brain did. Again.

"Still okay?" he asks, softer now. The smirk gentling into something warmer.

"Yeah." Breathier than you want it to be. Your hands still in his t-shirt. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Good." His hand drops from your jaw. Trails down your arm. Fingertips only, light enough to raise goosebumps, tracing the inside of your wrist where the pulse jumps. "I'm going to undress you now. Slow. Before the cameras go on. Just us. That alright?"

You nod.

He starts with the straps of the sundress. Easing them off your shoulders one at a time. Not pulling, guiding. His knuckles graze your collarbone and you shiver, his eyes tracking the shiver down your body with an attention that makes you feel like the only light source in the room.

"You wore yellow," he notes conversationally. Like he's remarking on the weather while his fingertips trace the neckline of your dress. "Looks good on you. Warm. Shows off your skin."

The dress pools at your feet. You're standing in his bedroom in your underwear and the morning light is on you and Bobby is looking at you the way he looked at you in the diner when his mouth got ahead of his brain.

"Pretty," he murmurs. Like he can't help it. Like the word just falls out of him when he sees you. His thumb traces your hip bone above the elastic of your underwear. "Real pretty."

This time you don't bristle.

He reaches past you. Flicks on the tripod camera. A tiny red light. Then the dresser camera. Another red light. Two eyes, open, watching.

"Don't think about them," Bobby says, his mouth near your ear. His hands settle on your waist, warm palms on bare skin. "Don't think about the cameras. Don't perform. Just feel me. Can you do that?"

You jerk your head. "I can try."

"That's all I'm asking." His lips brush your ear. Down. Along your jaw. The corner of your mouth. His hands slide up your ribcage and his thumbs trace the underwire of your bra and you exhale, shaky, and he catches it. "There you go. Just like that. Stay with me, yeah? I got you."

He unclasps your bra with one hand. Practiced, efficient, but the way he peels it away is anything but. Reverent, almost, easing the fabric off like he's unwrapping something valuable. The air hits your skin and your nipples tighten. Bobby's gaze drops and his jaw flexes and for a moment, just a moment, the professionalism wavers. His throat moves on a thick swallow.

"Lie down," he instructs, a little rougher than before. "On the bed. On your back."

You lie down. The sheets are cool beneath you, the quilt soft. on your skin

The light from the window falls across the bed in a warm band and you're naked except for your underwear and Bobby is standing over you still fully dressed and the power imbalance should feel wrong but it doesn't because his eyes are eating you alive and his hands are clenched at his sides and you realise, with a jolt that goes straight through you: he's holding himself back.

This is Bobby exercising control. This is what it looks like when he wants to touch something badly and is making himself wait.

He picks up the handheld camera. Lifts it to his eye. And something shifts in him. Visibly. The control locks in, the professional takes over, and he's Bobby-behind-the-lens. Steady. Composed. Seeing everything.

"Touch yourself," he says. Director voice. "Just your skin. Nothing heavy. Just run your hands over yourself. Get comfortable."

You do. Your own hands on your own body, palms skating over your stomach, your ribs, the swell of your breasts, and it feels strange and exhibitionistic but then Bobby says "gorgeous, just like that, you're doing so good" and the praise lands in the pit of your stomach like a lit match. Your back arches. Barely. Just enough.

"Yeah," Bobby breathes from behind the camera. "That's it. That's perfect. Look at you."

He films you touching yourself for what feels like hours and is probably three minutes. Then he sets the handheld down on the nightstand. Red light still blinking, and he crawls onto the bed.

Not between your legs. Beside you. Lying on his side, propped on one elbow, his face level with yours. Close enough that you can see the flecks of darker blue in his irises and the faint scar on his chin and the way his throat moves when he swallows. Still dressed. T-shirt. Jeans. Bare feet.

"Keep going," he murmurs, watching your hands on your own body. "Don't stop on my account."

Your hands move. Over your stomach. Up. And Bobby's hand joins them. One warm palm laid flat against your sternum, between your breasts. Not groping.... just resting. Feeling your heartbeat through your ribs.

"Fast," he notes. His thumb strokes the valley between your breasts and you shiver. "Slow down. You're rushing."

You do as he asked, your hands sliding over your skin with less urgency and more intention. Bobby's hand follows, learning new terrain, the dip of your waist and the flare of your hip and the soft give of your stomach where you've always been self-conscious and he presses his palm there like he's making a point.

Like that spot, specifically, is worth his hand.

Then his mouth replaces his palm.

He starts at your throat. A kiss. Open-mouthed, warm, the press of his lips and the faintest edge of teeth. Then your collarbone. The notch at the base of your throat where your pulse is hammering. Down. The flat of his tongue dragging along your sternum, tasting the thin sheen of sweat that the California morning and your own nerves have produced.

His mouth is unhurried. Exploratory. He's not kissing you so much as he's mapping you with his lips, charting the terrain the way he'd scout a location before a shoot. Finding the light, finding the angles, finding what works on you.

His mouth finds your breast. Kisses the swell of it. The underside, where the skin is softest. And then his lips close around your nipple and he sucks—not hard, not gentle, somewhere in between, a warm wet pressure that sends a bolt of sensation from your breast directly to your cunt and your back arches off the mattress.

"Oh."

Bobby hums against you. A sound of satisfaction. His tongue circles your nipple, flattens, flicks.

His free hand slides up your ribs and cups your other breast, thumb rolling across the peak, and the dual sensation—mouth and hand, wet and dry—makes you reach for him. Your fingers find his hair. Sandy strands, still slightly damp from the shower, thick between your fingers. You grip. Pull.

Just... needing something to hold onto while his mouth does this to you.

The pull makes Bobby groan. The sound vibrates through your nipple and into your chest and your hips lift off the bed involuntarily, pressing into nothing.

He feels it and his mouth tightens. Pulls harder. His teeth graze the sensitive peak and your fingers clench in his hair and you tug, genuinely tug, trying to pull him up, pull him to your mouth, because you need to kiss him, you need—

He doesn't let go.

His mouth stays locked on your nipple, sucking with a focused intensity that borders on stubborn, and you're pulling his hair and he's groaning and he will not come up, will not release, and the wet heat of his mouth is making you clench around nothing.

Your thighs press together, your hips rocking against air, seeking fullness, friction, anything, and Bobby—Bobby, who is supposed to be a professional, who is supposedly in control of this situation—reaches down with his free hand and cups you between the legs.

Just cups you. His whole palm, warm, pressed against the soaked cotton of your underwear. Just holding the heat of you in his hand while his mouth works your nipple and your fingers twist in his hair and the sound that comes out of you is breathy and too high.

"Bobby—please, I need—"

He releases your nipple with a wet pop that you feel in your spine. Glances up at you, his lips swollen. His eyes heavy-lidded and dark and his hand still cupping you, pressing against the damp fabric, feeling the heat seep through.

"Need what, baby?" Low. Rough. His fingers flex against you, palm grinding just slightly against your pulsing core, one small movement of pressure through the cotton. "Tell me."

"Touch me," you plead, trying to press closer. "Actually touch me."

His fingers slide under the elastic. Find you bare. Find you soaked. And the sound he makes—a sharp exhale through his nose, almost a hiss—is the sound of a man who knew what he was going to find but is still wrecked by the reality of it.

"Jesus." Barely a whisper. His fingers parting your folds. Not penetrating yet, just circling your clit. Just petting. Long, feather-light strokes through the slick of you, up and down, spreading the wetness with an aching patience that makes your hips chase his hand. "So wet, baby. This all from—was this from my mouth? From me sucking on you?"

You nod. You can't speak. His fingers are petting you like he's got all the time in the world and no intention of giving you what you need. Long strokes. Root to tip. Parting you with two fingers and letting the middle one drag between, barely touching your clit, just enough to make your thighs shake.

"Pretty little pussy," he murmurs, and the words shouldn't work.

They're filthy and crude and you've heard variations in the tapes you've watched that made you cringe, but Bobby says them the way he said "you're pretty" in the diner. Like a fact. Something he can't help observing. Like your body laid out in morning light is a view he needs to narrate. His fingers keep petting. Lazy. Wet with you, making you drip onto his grandmother's quilt.

Then his mouth starts traveling south.

He kisses down your stomach. Your hip bone. The crease of your thigh. Hooks his fingers into your underwear, drags them down, tosses them off the bed without looking. Parts your thighs with both hands, spreading you open, and the sound he makes—not a groan this time, something lower, something guttural, a sound that vibrates in his chest—is not for the camera.

You know this because the camera is on the nightstand and he hasn't touched it and he's not angling for a shot. He's just peering down at you. Spread open in the morning light. And that sound is coming out of him because he can't stop it.

"Fuck," he whispers, his thumbs pressing into the crease of your thighs. "Okay. Okay."

He lowers his mouth to you.

Bobby eats you out the way he kissed you earlier. Unhurried, thorough. Long strokes of his tongue that start at your entrance and drag upward, tasting the length of you, and you feel his groan against your cunt when the flavour hits and your whole body shudders.

He circles your clit with a pressure that's devastating in its patience. He's not trying to make you come fast. He's tasting. Exploring. Learning what makes your hips jerk and what makes you gasp and what makes your fingers find his hair again.

You fist both hands in those sandy strands and pull and the sound he makes—rough, grateful, hungry—vibrates against your clit. Your hips buck and his hands tighten on your thighs. Holding them apart, his thumbs stroking the soft skin in counterpoint to the filthy things his tongue is doing.

He's found a rhythm now. Flat, wide strokes punctuated by the pointed tip of his tongue flicking your clit in a pattern that your hips start chasing, lifting off the bed, grinding against his mouth, and he lets you. Lets you ride his face with his hands gripping your thighs and his eyes closed and his entire world narrowed to the taste and the sound and the wet.

"Bobby—oh my god—"

"Mm." Against you. His mouth full of you. His tongue pressing flat, licking you open in a broad swipe that makes your vision swim. "Taste incredible. Could stay here all fuckin' day."

He could. You believe him. He looks like he means it. Settled between your thighs like he's found the only place in the world he wants to be.

You tug his hair again and his moan is muffled against your cunt and you feel it everywhere, the vibration traveling through your pelvis and up your spine, and you pull harder and his tongue presses harder and the feedback loop is building. Your hands in his hair and his mouth on you and the wet sounds and the moans and you're close, you're getting close—

He pulls back with a wet, slick sound.

You whimper. The loss of his mouth leaving you throbbing, aching, empty.

"Not yet." His chin is wet, his lips swollen. Bobby's eyes are glazed and dark, the professional gone, replaced by something feral that's been living underneath the cool-boy surface and is now looking at you like it's deciding whether to devour you. "Not yet, baby. Want to be inside you when you come. Wanna feel you, yeah?"

You moan in response, dizzy. And your moans are real. That's the thing that's changing the temperature of the room.

You're not playing them up, not pitching them for any microphone, not performing the breathy exaggerated sounds you've heard in the tapes you've watched out of curiosity and mild horror. You're just reacting. And it's affecting him. His breathing has changed. His hips are pressing into the mattress in a grind he can't seem to control and you realise he's hard.

He's been hard for a while. He's been eating you out with his cock straining against his jeans and he hasn't touched himself once.

Bobby sits back on his heels. Pulls the t-shirt over his head in one motion. His chest is flushed. Lean, not bulky, the body of someone who lifts camera equipment for a living and forgets to eat regularly. The belt buckle. The zipper. The happy trail of hair dipping dangerously beneath the belt buckle. He pushes the jeans down and kicks them off and he's—

your mouth goes dry.

Bobby Franklin naked is a problem. Bobby Franklin hard is a crisis.

He sees you looking. The smirk returns. That lazy, insufferable lift of one corner of his mouth. "See something you like?"

"Shut up."

You sit up. Grab his hips. Pull him toward you and the surprise on his face—genuine, unperformed, the mask cracking again—is worth everything.

He stumbles forward on the mattress, knees sinking into the sheets, and your hands are on his stomach, his ribs, dragging your nails lightly down his sides and he hisses. His cock twitches and you feel powerful in a way that has nothing to do with cameras or money.

"How do you want me to fuck you?" His voice is gravel. Wrecked. He's peering down at you with his hands cupping your face, thumbs on your cheekbones, and the professionalism is a memory. "Tell me."

"From behind." No hesitation. The words tumbling out before your brain can edit them. "I want—on my stomach, I want you behind me, I want—"

Bobby's eyes go wide. His whole face flushes harder. Cheeks, ears, the V of his throat. He drops his head against your shoulder and laughs. A real laugh. Rough and bitten-off and disbelieving.

"Shit, baby." Muffled against your skin. "Can't say stuff like that to me. Can't just—" He lifts his head. The flush is gorgeous on him, spreading down his neck. "Yeah. Fuck yeah. Turn over."

He flips you. Firm and purposeful. His hands on your hips guiding you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until your ass is raised and your face is in the pillow and you feel exposed in a way that's terrifying and thrilling.

"Look at you." His hands on your hips, sliding up. Over the curve of your ass. Both palms cupping you, squeezing, spreading, his thumbs tracing the cleft while he breathes hard through his nose. "Every angle. Every fuckin' angle. 'S not fair."

His hand draws back. Comes down on your ass. Not a slap, not quite, a firm pat that's more proprietary than punishing and the sound it makes in the quiet bedroom is obscene. Your hips jolt. He does it again. Lighter. Smoothing his palm over the spot after, kneading with a hum.

"Could cover you like this," he mutters, stroking the curve of your ass with both hands, spreading you again, looking at you from behind with an expression you can feel even though you can't see it. "Just—stay right here. Just like this. Prettiest goddamn thing I've ever shot and I haven't even started the camera yet."

He reaches for the handheld. Turns it on. Red light. Frames the shot—you on your stomach, your hips raised, the curve of your spine. His hand still on your ass. Claiming. Warm.

He sets the camera on the mattress, angled up. Reaches for himself. You hear it. The wet sound of him spitting into his palm, the slick stroke of his fist over his cock, and then he's behind you. The hot thick length of him pressed against you, nestled between your folds, and he groans and you groan, and he doesn't push in.

He rolls against you.

Long, grinding strokes, his cock sliding through the slick mess of you, dragging across your clit with every thrust. The head catching at your entrance and pulling away. Over and over. Using the length of himself to stroke you, to tease you, to coat himself in you until the sound of skin on wet skin fills the room and your fingers are clawing at the sheets.

"Feel that?" His chest pressed against your back. His mouth against your ear. "Feel how hard you got me? Been like this since the diner. Since you sat down in that booth and looked at me with those fuckin' eyes. Thought about this. Thought about what you'd feel like."

His hips roll. The head of his cock catches your entrance again, presses, almost, almost—

"Bobby, please—"

His cock throbs against your core. "Tell me."

"Fuck me. Please." You suck in a shaky breath. "I need you to—"

He spits again. You feel it, warm, landing where his cock meets your cunt. His hand stroking himself once, twice, spreading the slick. And then he notches himself at your entrance and pushes in.

One long stroke. All the way. Your body opening around him and his groan matching yours. Colliding, two raw sounds meeting in the air and becoming something bigger than either. He bottoms out and holds you in place, and you feel every inch of him, the stretch, the heat, the fullness, his forehead dropping against the nape of your neck and he breathes "oh fuck" against your hair and his whole body shakes.

"God—you feel—" He can't finish. His hips twitch, involuntary, the tiniest thrust that pulls a gasp from both of you. "Baby. Baby, you feel—"

He starts moving. And the control lasts about thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds of measured strokes. Finding the angle. Professional. Thinking about the shot, the camera on the mattress, the red light.

And then you push back against him with a greedy sound, meet his thrust with your hips, grinding onto him, taking him deeper, and you moan. Really moan, the sound that's been building since he put his mouth on your nipple and refused to let go, and something in Bobby snaps.

His hand grabs your hip. His other hand braces on the mattress beside your head. And he fucks you.

Not the controlled version. The real version. The Bobby Franklin that exists underneath the smirk and the camera and the professional detachment. Hips driving into you with a force that shoves you into the mattress, that punches the air from your lungs, that turns your vision white around the edges. Sweat beading on his chest and dripping onto your spine. His breathing ragged, broken, gasping against the back of your neck in hot bursts.

And you're both gasping, coiling, pushing into each other blindly. Your hand reaches back, finds his hip, his thigh, pulling him deeper, harder, your fingers digging into the muscle and he groans like you've wounded him.

His hand finds yours, laces your fingers together beside your head, pressing your joined hands into the sheets, and the intimacy of it cracks something deep in both of you.

"So good," he's babbling against your spine. His mouth open, dragging wet kisses between your shoulder blades. "So fuckin' good, squeezing me so tight—can you hear that? Hear how wet you are? Hear what you're doin' to me?"

You can hear it. The obscene wet sound of his cock driving into you, the slap of his hips against your ass, the creak of the bed frame that he's going to have to explain to the furniture store below.

"Bobby—" Your voice is gone. Shattered, croaking. "Bobby, I'm gonna—I can't—"

"Yeah you can." Growled against your ear. His teeth grazing your earlobe. Biting down. "Cum for me. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock so tight I can't fuckin' think—"

He lets go of your hand. His fingers fist in your hair. Gathering the hair, wrapping the strands around his fingers. And he lifts your head from the pillow, arching your neck back, turning your face toward the camera on the mattress that's still rolling, red light blinking, catching everything.

"Show them," he murmurs against the shell of your ear. "Let 'em see how pretty you look when you cum for me."

You fall apart.

The orgasm rips through you. An earthquake, seismic and structural that starts where he's buried inside you and radiates outward.

Your mouth opens on a moan that you don't recognise as your own voice, wanton, cracked, genuine. There's no performance, no production, it's pulled from somewhere primal and raw inside you. And Bobby feels it. Feels the clench and the shake and the sound and his rhythm breaks, shatters, his hips slamming into you without finesse, chasing his own end through the aftershocks of yours.

He comes with a loud, greedy moan, a gruff sound of laughter caught in his throat. This breathless, incredulous sound, muffled against the back of your damp neck, like he can't believe what just happened to him. His hips jerk again, pressed flush against your ass. His hand loosens in your hair, fingertips grazing your scalp.

His body shudders against yours in waves that slow and gentle and eventually still.

His lips find the shell of your ear. Warm. Spent. Still inside you.

"With a moan like that," he rasps, kissing the curve of your ear, "and a pussy that grips me that tight?" He laughs against your skin. Loose. Golden. The real laugh, the unfiltered one. "Shit, baby, you're gonna be famous."

You laugh too. Into the pillow. The sound surprising you. The lightness of it, the ease. The fact that you can laugh, right now, naked and sweating and thoroughly ruined in a stranger's bed with two cameras rolling.

You're laughing because he's funny and because the sex was extraordinary and because you came to this apartment expecting something transactional and clinical.

Instead you got Bobby Franklin's mouth telling you you're pretty like he couldn't help it and Bobby Franklin's hands holding yours while he fucked you and Bobby Franklin laughing against your neck like making you come was the best thing that happened to him all week.

He pulls out, slowly, carefully, making you shiver at the loss, and collapses next to you. Reaches over and clicks off the handheld. The red light dies. The static camera in the corner is still running and neither of you moves to turn it off.

Bobby lies on his back, chest rising and falling. Staring at the ceiling with the expression of a man whose professional boundaries have just been comprehensively violated by his own want.

"So," he says to the ceiling. "Same time next week?"

You turn your head on the pillow. He turns his. Pale eyes. Flushed face. Hair wrecked. That almost-smile.

"Same time next week," you agree, still breathless.

The static camera runs for another four minutes before Bobby remembers to turn it off.

In the footage—which he will watch later, alone, ostensibly for editing purposes—you can see two people lying side by side on white sheets, not touching, not talking, just breathing, and at the 2:47 mark the girl in the yellow sundress starts laughing again and the boy with the camera reaches over and takes her hand and doesn't let go until the tape runs out.

He doesn't use that part in the final cut.

Most fathers would be pleased by the information— not yours, he’s a little more… strict. He already doesn’t like him from a joke made over a decade ago, suggesting you’d make a fine concubine, which wasn’t taken lightly. 

Your father threatened to usurp the throne, sending a chill running down a then 21 year old Zuko’s spine.

There was no way in hell he’d hand you off to the imperial palace to become a concubine. You’re the only child of his that inherited firebending. If your father had it his way, you’d be a warrior, for fucks sake. 

Lord Zuko may have a dry sense of humor at times, but you have your doubts about how much of a joke that statement was, especially with how much he likes to bug you throughout the day.

Perhaps another conflict should erupt— the man has too much time on his hands. Maybe then you’d fulfill your fathers wish of finally working in the military— put your talents to use, as he’d say. 

But would Lord Zuko allow the gentle hands running through his hair to commit such violence? Or would that be when he’d draw a hard line with the aggressive strategist? 

As progressive as he is, you sometimes wonder just how much it extends to you. Even as children, he’d go easy on you during trainings. He’s only grown softer with you as the years passed. Despite not being a concubine yourself, you wouldn’t be surprised if he saw you as one of the flowers in his garden— one he’s not allowed to touch. 

You slide the hair stick through his headpiece, securing the top knot he had you redo. It looks the same, but you hold off on making a comment. “Is that better?” 

“Much better.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, lips curving into a sly smile. “Now— what are we doing today?”

We. You hate how much he likes to emphasize that at times. 

“Well,” you sigh. “Aside from the usual council meeting, nothing much. Perhaps you can visit one of your concubines today… for once.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Are you saying I don’t fuck my concubines enough?” 

“Precisely,” you say almost mockingly. 

It’s all they ever complain about, and honestly, you’re sure you would, too, if you were one of them. Having to wake up and sit around all day, waiting for a man who never comes. And on the rare occasion that he does, he doesn’t stay long. He’ll show up, fuck the shit out of you for a couple rounds, then leave right after. Allegedly. 

“Don’t you want an heir?” you ask. 

“Depends,” he hums. 

With the way he’s looking at you, you can already tell what it depends on, and it has nothing to do with his current concubines. Lucky for you, he never gets the chance to actually say it because he gets interrupted right after, putting a conversation you’d rather not have to a screeching halt.

“The council is waiting for you, my Lord.”

—

The silk district was notoriously known for two things: brothels and bandits. It was the wild, wild west compared to the other districts in the capital due to high crime and the growing wealth gap. The governments always kept a watchful eye on it, which was never enough in your opinion. 

Are you surprised to hear that an entire brothel, including the madame, was discovered to be slain and robbed in the early hours of this morning? Absolutely not. 

“Send more military officers to patrol the area,” the chamberlain says without hesitation. “We’ve been too lenient with them. If they want bloodshed, we’ll give them bloodshed.”

Yikes, he wants to rule the area with an iron fist when they’re already clearly struggling. You can’t help but think of how much of a dictator this guy would be if he were in Zuko’s place. 

You make eye contact with the lord, who’s sitting at the end of the table right next to you. In that brief moment, he notices the concern in your eyes and gives you a subtle nod. 

“Perhaps we can send more public aid?” you suggest. “They’ve been testing out a new rehabilitation program in Republic City as well. I’m sure the Silk District could benefit from—“

“Nonsense,” the chamberlain cuts you off, wondering why you’re even here right now— he thought you only assisted in matters within the court, not outside of it. “I-“

“Careful,” Zuko interrupts the man rather playfully as he continues to read through the scroll. “That’s the military strategist’s daughter you’re speaking to.” 

The comment makes you nearly roll your eyes, knowing the only reason why he said it was because you’re having to constantly remind him yourself when he gets too close. 

The chamberlain, however, straightens up immediately. You have no idea why it took him this long to realize it. He’s been here for nearly over a year, but at least he knows now. The chamberlain can be quite rude at times, you wouldn’t want him to slip up with your father in the room. Not only would that earn him an earful of insults that are as creative as they are hurtful, but it’d also be embarrassing on your part. 

That old man embarrasses you enough when he’s around. Following you around like a lost puppy after meetings, asking if you’ve eaten and if your superiors are treating you right, while side eyeing the fire lord himself. You’d agree so yourself that he has too much power in the court. He enjoys holding it over everyone’s head even more. It’s sickening, really.

You look at the chamberlain, who is now pouting, and offer an apologetic smile. “May I continue?” 

“Yes, of course,” the old man nods, struggling to hide his shame.

Always one for games, Zuko finds himself suppressing a laugh, which in turn makes the chamberlain’s slouch worsen. He’s grown to find more and more amusement in his daily tasks, a trait his father would definitely disapprove of— good thing he’s not here anymore. 

The rest of the meeting went by as smooth as it could be, with the fire lord, of course, praising the chancellor in the end for being so well behaved, pretending to wonder what could’ve changed his usual demeanor. The usual teasings, all while you once again found yourself thinking of how light he’s become. Even after receiving such upsetting news, he stayed calm while finding a solution. 

A humane one.

No longer the grumpy, angsty boy you grew up with. He’s actually quite charming. But you keep that to yourself.

The palace grounds are empty, as they should be during the afternoon. Everyone’s off either eating, napping, or tending to duties such as cooking or cleaning. It’s quiet, surprisingly peaceful. Your footsteps echo throughout the breezeway as Zuko defies the basic etiquette of walking ahead of you as a ruler should. Instead, the bastard walks a little slower than you. If given the opportunity, he’d turn it into a mini competition of who could walk the slowest, up until you both come to a full stop, with him looking at you all smug. 

“Your chambers are this way,” you remind the said bastard as if he’d already forgotten. 

He doesn’t bother to look back as he responds, walking down a gravel path leading directly to the flower garden. “How about we take a detour today, hm?”

You watch him for a moment, waiting to see if he’d stop. He doesn’t, and you shouldn’t be surprised by it. You’re able to catch up with him in just seconds given his slow pace, this time not bothering to walk behind him as he’s clearly in the mood to be extra stubborn today.

You’re all alone and away from the hearing distance of anyone else, yet you still choose to speak quietly as you start to gently tease the man. “What a surprise to see the king taking some time to enjoy his garden.” 

He lets out a soft laugh that fades into a hum. “Only around a select few.”

“Oh, wow,” you pretend to be impressed. “How charitable.” 

“It’s an honor that you think so,” he says, placing a hand over his chest to add to the theatrics, trying not to laugh once again. “Tell me, when was the last time you walked through here?”

You hum as you walk further into the sprawling garden filled with wooden arches covered with green vines and flowers in full bloom. “Can’t say I actually remember when.”

“That’s a shame. I had the gardener plant new rose bushes,” he murmurs. “Wanted to ask what you thought of them.” 

“I think they’re lovely,” you admit, softly pinching a petal, rubbing your thumb over the velvety skin.

He smiles. “I figured.” 

They were your favorite after all. 

Why is he like this? The garden’s already filled with enough flowers. A new section wasn’t needed. 

Again, he’s just bored.

In an attempt to keep the conversation from getting any more personal, you change the subject. “Are you looking forward to your trip to Republic City?” 

At the end of the meeting, it was decided that he’d visit with the purpose of getting more information about the new rehabilitation program the city was rolling out. While the chancellor wanted to take a more aggressive approach, he decided to take a more peaceful route. It’s admirable how hands on he’s chosen to be since taking his father's place. 

“Mhm. It’ll be nice catching up with some old friends while I’m there—“ he cuts himself off and looks at you with slight suspicion, “you’re going, right?”

You never said you would, nor did you want to, honestly. It’d be nice to take a break. “I’m sure you and some of your subordinates can handle it.” 

“Weren’t you the one who came up with the idea, though?” his tone slightly clips as he reminds you. 

“I was,” you respond tentatively, taking back your thoughts from earlier as you look him in the eyes. 

This man looks like he’s about to throw a fit. 

Zuko opens his mouth again, already knowing he shouldn’t be this pushy towards you, of all people, but he is far from perfect. 

So with a forced smile and all the resolve in the world, he murmurs, “you’re going.” 

You smile back despite feeling an annoyed heat creep up your neck, heart starting to pick up. “Alright.” 

—

Imagine being the fire lord, a literal ruler, and getting the cold shoulder from your own advisor. Every answer is so curt and clinical, and it’s going to drive him up the wall. 

Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. Apologies, my lord.

Give him a fucking break.

As if you weren’t punishing him enough, you went ahead and had two of his concubines “accompany” him on the trip. It’s not like he can say no to that, either, since it’s considered to be one of his duties. Not to mention they both come from high-ranking families that would not be very pleased to hear of their neglect. 

So now he has to deal with two spoiled, pent-up brats hanging on him during the entirety of this flight, all while trying not to glare at the biggest brat of them all— you, as you sit directly across from him, reading probably what’s some pathetic romance novel.

This is fucking ridiculous. You haven’t looked at him once since you first sat down.

You’re no better than him. There was a strike of lightning in the direction you walked off in, and given how it was a perfectly sunny day, he’s pointing his finger at you for the damages done in the east wing, despite keeping his mouth shut on the matter. Complain about being dragged to Republic City all you want, but you still have it better than most. If you really did have it that bad, you would’ve been punished for such an offense. 

Like, seriously? Blowing shit up, like a fucking child— a terrifying one, to be frank, you are absolutely your father’s daughter— just because you had to do your job? Grow up. His grandfather’s statue was shattered in the midst of it all, thanks to you. You’re lucky he never liked the bastard.

In protest, you’re dressed like a noble's daughter rather than a member of the court. Wearing the finest silk and adorned in gold imported from the Earth nation, quietly refusing to represent your actual nation as you claim to be representing your clan— proof that you have enough power on your own to be acting like he’s actively denying you of basic human rights.

As if he even cared about your attire. Be his guest! You look fucking hot. Someone might even mistake you for one of his concubines, and he might just not correct them, since you think you’re more petty than he is.

Zuko gets pulled out of his thoughts when Concubine Aika speaks, still leaning against him and rubbing on his chest. She asked what book you were reading, which is when you finally looked up from it. 

“It’s sort of an adventure novel.” You look at the cover, speaking to her with a certain warmth you’ve been depriving him of. “It’s about a girl escaping an abusive orphanage once she turns 18 and follows her journey for the next 10 years.”

So now you’re fantasizing about leaving him? Good luck with that. 

“You look troubled, my lord,” the woman to his right, Concubine Saiyo, says. She’s leaning against him as well, now tracing her fingers along his jaw. “Are you alright?” 

“M’fine,” he murmurs, trying to fix his face as he takes a sip of sake. “It’s been a long flight.”

“There’s a private cabin you can retreat to, if you’d like,” you suggest, going back to your little book, missing the way you just made the lord’s eye twitch. 

“I know,” he says. 

It’s his airship. 

Without warning, he gets up from his seat. Was it a little rude? Perhaps. But surely the two women beside him could understand what feeling hounded could do to someone. They don’t, they do their jobs and get up as well, which he understands. However, Zuko’s not in the fucking mood right now and waves a dismissive hand. 

“No need,” he curtly says, making his way to the back of the airship. “I just want to close my eyes for a bit.” 

. . . . . .

The trip starts off strong with a banquet being held in honor of the fire lord's arrival. 

Contrary to Zuko’s wishes, nobody’s stupid enough to mistake you for one of his concubines. At least not within the circle of people you’re mingling with tonight, who all recognize your family's crest engraved on your hairpin. 

They were an ambitious bunch that spread all over once Zuko came into power— reaching amongst the highest positions within the military, medicine, and even education. 

Funny enough, your position in the court was nothing special in comparison to some of your relatives’ achievements. Some are even bothered by the fact. Being the first of all your cousins to master the art of firebending, being your grandfather's favorite solely for bending lightning with the same grace as he did in his prime, all while excelling in your studies. 

All of that potential, just wasted on being the lord’s “pet”. 

You don’t have much of an opinion on the disappointment some of them have expressed in the past, though it would’ve been nice if their words had stayed behind closed doors. You didn’t want to hear any of it. If you truly wanted to make use of that said potential, you would’ve worked directly under your father as his subordinate. 

Maybe it was the result of growing up feeling like you were enough. You have nothing to prove, and quite frankly, you’re content with having a role that really only requires you to share your opinions with a ruler that shares the same ideals as you… for the most part. 

If only he’d also agree that you two spend way too much time together. 

Luckily, you’re not required to be by his side tonight since you’re attending the banquet as a representative of your clan— something Zuko had no clue about until the moment you stepped onto the airship, which had him looking like he was about to blow a fucking gasket. He absolutely sucks at masking his frustrations. You’re surprised his concubines still had the courage to cuddle up with him. He looked like he was 2.5 seconds away from throwing you off the ship mid-flight. 

Zuko would never do that, by the way, but you’re sure he was daydreaming about it. 

But even then, with all the distance between you tonight, you can still feel his eyes on you. Just watching and waiting for you to do something he didn’t like. Very masochistic considering how he wouldn’t confront you if you did end up doing something wrong in his eyes. 

You spend the entire night avoiding eye contact, which isn’t too hard given how all you’ve done is catch up with old peers from school and relatives who’ve decided to move here to start new lives. 

The relatives you got along with, that is. 

You were enjoying yourself. Truly. Until Sokka called you over to their table. 

Funny how Zuko wasn’t looking at you then and was instead stuffing his face with spicy dumplings, then downing it with whatever liquor was in his cup. 

You walk over with two thoughts running through your head— please don’t let this man be as drunk as Sokka and Aang, and don’t let this be a conversation about how work was been. Sokka tends to ask those things at the wrong time, despite his heart being in the right place. 

This time around, it’s not Sokka.

“How’s our flaming hot lord treating you?” Aang asks, throwing an arm around a very drunk Zuko, who’s laughing his ass off over the avatar’s words for once. 

Your lips may have twitched a little, as well. Only because Aang gave even less fucks when in an inebriated state. 

“Oh, you know— the usual.” You let out a lighthearted laugh, and only you notice the way Zuko’s face momentarily drops. 

The air around him quickly screams ‘don’t fuck with me’, then settles back into something more suitable for someone who’s already had half their water weight in alcohol. 

“C’mon, you can do better than that,” Zuko forces out a laugh, leaning back in his seat. 

You laugh a little harder. “Can I?”

“Yeah, you can.” 

Sokka lets out this weird, giddy gasp because he loves drama, and cuts in. “Are you two fighting?”

“No.” 

“No.”

You and Zuko look at each other after shutting down Sokka’s question at the same time. The fake smiles you’re wearing are not helping your case at all. 

“Where’s Katara? I’ve been wondering where she’s been this whole time,” you ask in an attempt to keep the energy between you from getting any more awkward than it already is

Aang grows a little pale— the instant karma feels nice. “She’s a little sick tonight.” 

There’s a bit of fear in his voice. She’s totally pregnant. Not that you say that. Instead, you just point in some random direction behind you. “That’s terrible— my cousin actually just mentioned a bug going around. I hope she feels better soon.” 

“Thank you,” the man lets out a sigh of relief, allowing himself to be delusional for just one more night. 

“What about Toph?”

“Home. Asleep.” Sokka rolls his eyes. “She’s like a little old lady now. You’ll see her tomorrow, though, she’s been volunteering at the center.” 

“Volunteering or beating everyone into submission?” Zuko murmurs, and they all erupt in laughter. “She probably runs that place like the military.”

You find yourself starting to zone out as the conversation moves on to a different topic. You’d like to blame some of the wine you’ve been sipping on throughout the night for that. Everything starts to melt together— the live music, the endless chatter in every which direction. The only thing that pulls you out of it is seeing another one of your cousins who had just arrived, waving at you, and you don't shy away from taking that as an opportunity to excuse yourself. 

Aang and Sokka were as kind as usual when you said your goodbyes. Zuko, on the other hand, was harder to read through the pathetic excuse of a smile he gave you. One only meant to save face. 

If only he knew just how much worse he makes things sometimes. Although they’re rare, this isn’t the first fight you two have been in. Perhaps you have been a little petty towards the man, but it’s not you who grows so frustrated at someone’s anger that you begin to hold a grudge yourself. 

You arrive back to your room in the early morning with the regret of not cutting yourself off from the drinks sooner than you did. You wouldn’t say you were drunk, but you were definitely tipsy as you started to shed layers of clothes and jewelry to get in the hot bath that had been prepared prior to your return. 

Aang may be childish at times, but fuck was he a great host. Or maybe it was Katara who had all of these amenities set up for you. Candles and bath salts— you could die a happy woman right now as you settle into the stone tub, taking deep breaths, letting your muscles relax. 

Twenty minutes in, you hear rattling and heavy footsteps that seem to hit the ground with more confusion than the determination an attacker would usually have. It forces you to leave the warmth of your bath, slipping on a robe. Getting hit with annoyance rather than fear may be a little foolish. Overconfident, even. But there’s still alcohol running through your veins, and you aren’t the pride and joy of your clan for no reason— you can absolutely hold your own in a fight. 

When you walk out of the bathroom, you come face to face with exactly who you were thinking of.

“Fuck,” he looks away for a moment, regretting his decision thinking it was okay to just walk in. 

Zuko didn’t think you’d be bathing, for some odd, stupid reason. Judging by the fact that he’s still wearing his usual day clothing and his hairs not up in a bun, it’s safe to assume he went straight here after leaving the banquet. 

You let out a long sigh. “God— what are you doing here?” 

You don’t even sound mad— just disappointed that you have to see him once more before you lay your head to rest, which slightly hurts the man’s ego. Truth be told, he came here to argue with you, but even in his drunken state, he’s finding it quite difficult to do so since he looks like a fucking pervert now. 

“Your comment from earlier— what the hell was that about?” Zuko sounds more wounded than anything right now. 

You cross your arms, leaning against the door frame that connects the room to the bathroom. “What comment?”

“The usual,” he says with air quotes. “Do you not like me anymore or something?”

“You’re seriously asking me that right now?” Your face twists, just dumbfounded at this point. “You ask me that as if I don’t work for you?”

He scoffs. “So what, you’re saying I’m not your friend now?”

“I mean, yeah— you are, but I’m still your subordinate at the end of the day,” you attempt to spell it out for him, trying to get it through his brain that he can’t just act like you two are a pair of besties. 

But he just continues to argue with you. 

“Really? ‘Cause last time I checked, people don’t fight their superiors.” 

No, they do not. You’re not sure why you even tried to make that an argument, the line between you has blurred a long time ago. 

“You know what, just— forget it.”

The thing is, you're not the best at taking accountability. Most of the arguments you’ve had with him have been swept under the rug after a while. Zuko's not having that right now, though.

“Hm— actually, no— I don’t think I will,” he stubbornly says. “You have been punishing me for fucking weeks now and now you just want me to forget it?”

Punishing him?

You roll your eyes, muttering “oh my god” under your breath, not even bothering to look him straight in the eyes anymore as you walk to the nightstand and pick up a small jar of body cream. 

“We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” you say dismissively, rubbing the jasmine-scented cream into your hands. “I need to go to sleep, and so should you, honestly.”

It doesn’t matter how well he can handle his alcohol— he reeks of it. 

“I’m trying to talk to you right now so I don’t have to deal with your attitude tomorrow,” he says, as if he hasn’t had an attitude himself the last couple of weeks. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to,” you murmur back. 

What feels like minutes pass after your pathetic attempt to settle your issues with him. At first, he just lets out a sigh, trying to keep his composure, but then he laughs under his breath. 

“So that’s it?” he asks in a condescending tone. “We’re all good now?”

“Yes. Goodnight, Zuko,” you hum. 

More silence follows after. You can just feel his eyes on you despite still facing away, now reaching for some hair oil, waiting for him to leave.

He never does. Even after working the product into your hair, you have yet to hear the door to your room close, making you grow wary. 

There are many things telling you not to turn around at the moment— your blurred mind and tensed body. But even you make mistakes, lots of them with Zuko, and so you finally turn around. 

His lips are on yours. 

You don’t know how long he’d been standing directly behind you, you never even heard his footsteps. All you know is his hands are snaked behind your neck and he’s kissing you and you’re letting him.

It takes you a moment to realize you’re kissing him back— too focused on how soft his lips are, how his tongue glides across your lower lip before slipping inside, so commanding yet so gentle. 

Then you sober up— pressing your palm flat against his chest and pushing him back so you two can look at each other, eyes wide and filled with instant regret.

“What the hell was that?” you try to snap at him, but the sharp edge was dulled from the start, already fearing what’ll change between you from this moment forward. 

“I— fuck,” he stutters, taking another step back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Immediately, you cut him off. “No, you shouldn’t have and you know that.”

“I know.” It sounds like a plea coming from him as his chest tightens. “I’m sorry.”

Even you start to look apologetic, which breaks his heart a little since you did nothing wrong. The one who crossed the line was him, after all. “You should go. You’re drunk.” 

He opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it shortly after. There was nothing to say. 

And so he slowly nods and turns around, still in shock by his own actions as he begins to walk away, leaving you to deal with the aftermath of what the fuck just happened on your own. 

This was going to be the longest work trip of your life. 

notes: i hope u guys enjoyed this first chapter!! this was supposed to be a oneshot but then ideas kept popping up in my head and i thought, why don't i just turn this into a longfic like defiance lol. the plan is to follow these two around throughout a couple arcs, with the first one being them trying to navigate their feelings and attempting to go back to normal while trying to fix the shit show in the silk district.

TAGS ARE CLOSED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Intention.

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

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

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

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

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

You smell intoxicating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's alright," he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just a drink."

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

You both know the answer to that.

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

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

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

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

"I don't like a messy desk."

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

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

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

Here you are again, disrupting his way of living.

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

"Yeah?"

"And inexpensive."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why is that?"

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

"Mmm."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I make jokes all the time."

"You do not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are a huge problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hiromi can't take it anymore.

"(Y/n)."

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Higuruma?"

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

Stern. Strained. 

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

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

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

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

"Step... back?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snap out of it. "What?"

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

"But I-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s a beautiful specimen, inside and out.

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

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

Before he what exactly?

And would that what be so terrible?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To what?" you ask eagerly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Mr. Higuruma."

"Hiromi," he corrects.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's lunch, sweetness."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smirks. "You have no idea."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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