Working for Hiromi wasn't easy, but it's manageable, at least. As his assistant, you've mastered the art of translating legal jargon, calming tense clients before they see him so that he doesn't become even more stressed, rescheduling court dates, and silently passing him nots in the middle of hearing when he stars going on a righteous tangent that risks turning a three-hour session into an all-nighter.

Stern, sharp, but oddly endearing once you learn how to read between the lines of his grumpiness. You, too. The legal-law field wasn't easy. With the work hours and all the stress, you needed a second job. Something that pays better than stapling brief and sorting through thick stacks of paperwork. Something discreet.

So, two nights a week out of your five working days, you were in a completely different part of town: under moody lighting, the room's scent being nothing but alcohol, trading your office blazer for heels, and clothing that barely passed for clothing.

It was nothing illegal. Nothing scandalous happened at this second job of yours. Just private dancing, strictly no touching, paid beautifully both by hour and per dance, and an alias that no one in your law firm knows. The money's good. The secrets are better. And no one recognizes you. Until Hiromi.

Oh, you knew your boss wasn't the type to go to places like... this. Loud, the scent of alcohol hurting his head more than any case could, the body heat of other people in the club pressing against him. It irks him, badly, so why is he even here?

You knew he drank. But you figured he would at bars, maybe actual restaurants that served drinks alongside a meal. But a nightclub where the menu was all drinks, drinks, drinks and maybe overpriced sushi? Hiromi wasn't deemed as the kind of person to go here.

And yet. He doesn't even look at the menu when he walks in. Just gestures for a private room as if he's only looking for a place to sit and not actual fun. There are people eyeing him already. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled up. After all, ladies do love a hot man in a suit.

He's so out of place it's almost funny. Until, the velvet curtain draws back and he sees you. The moment stretched longer than it should. You in a dimly lit room, practically glowing under the warm lights, and him, your boss, frozen like he had lost every case he's ever handled.

You expected him to say something. Anything. To walk out. Maybe fire you on the spot. He doesn't and instead sits down on one of the leather seats slowly. Rubs a hand down his tired face, then speaks up with the same calm professionalism that you knew. "Don't say anything about this at work. Please."

It's a mess. A weird, mortifying mess. He doesn't know where to look and his hands are grabbing at his slacks. You don't know where to start and you feel like your movements are less fluid than ever. It's the longest performance of your life.

Somehow, he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t demand an explanation. He just… sits there. Letting you do your thing, barely making eye contact until about halfway through, when he finally does. And you realize, to your horror, that he’s not looking away now. At all.

It’s not like he’s trying to be a creep. He’s too awkward for that. If anything, he looks more flustered than you do. But there’s something else in his gaze, something quiet and oddly reverent, like he’s seeing you for the first time and isn’t quite sure what to do with the image. After that night, nothing is quite the same.

He doesn’t bring it up at work. Not once. Not even a raised eyebrow. But he starts holding eye contact a little longer. He doesn't mean to, he thinks, but after seeing you in clothes like that, moving like that, privately for him and then coming to the office for a meeting right after? How else is he supposed to act.

Of course he has to bring it up. One day. Of course he does. "I didn't plan to walk into that club that day, you know." He starts, tucking away a finished case file. "I'm not exactly sorry I did."