The courtroom was silent except for the soft click of your gavel being set down, the dull hum of shuffling papers, and the faint buzz of the ceiling lights overhead. It was 1:04 PM. The room smelled faintly of fresh paper and cologne, and the air carried that usual weight — heavy, expectant, formal.

You sat at the bench, robes folded perfectly, eyes moving down the brief summary in front of you — civil dispute, unpaid debts, nothing too out of the ordinary.

—“Defense, please step forward.”

And then… he entered.

Kyle Broflovski, in a tailored dark brown blazer over a black button-down shirt, belt and trousers just as sharp, shoes clean, quiet against the tiled floor. His hair was styled back, not a strand out of place, though a single curl refused to behave and brushed his temple.

He looked up.

You looked down.

Silence cracked, just for a second.

Your heart skipped, and Kyle’s brows lifted — subtle surprise flickering across his face before he recomposed himself like the seasoned lawyer he was. He cleared his throat and gave a polite nod in your direction.

—“Your Honor,” he said, voice steady, not an ounce of the familiarity that usually colored his tone when he called you late at night just to rant about his day or kiss the side of your neck while scrolling through case files on your couch.

You masked your reaction well. Gavel resting at hand, back straight, you let the courtroom settle.

—“Proceed,” you said evenly.

The plaintiff’s side gave their testimony first — a landlord’s claim of unpaid rent, interest charges, broken agreements. Kyle remained silent, eyes calm but focused, fingers pressed lightly on the file in front of him. You could tell he already saw every weakness in the claim.

When it was his turn to cross-examine, he stood with quiet confidence, voice sharp but respectful. His tone never wavered, even as he dismantled the plaintiff’s inconsistencies one by one. It was methodical. Clean. You’d seen Kyle like this before — at home, across study tables, while prepping a case — but never from this distance, never with a robe between you.

The moment that caught you came when he turned to face the court and said, “My client may not be perfect, but the law accounts for hardship, not just delay. They acted in good faith, and we have the records to prove it.”

Your eyes met briefly. Just a flicker.

And it wasn’t romantic, not really. Not in this room.