Representing him wasn’t in your five-year plan. Honestly, it wasn’t even in your emergency “what if I lose a bet and spiral into madness” plan.

And yet.

There you were. Sitting across from a man whose idea of a good legal strategy was, quote, “vibes and immunity by charisma.”

The first red flag was immediate: he introduced himself with finger guns and said, “So what’s the fastest way to fake my own death?”

The second? He tried to bribe a bailiff with gummy bears. Not even the good kind. The off-brand, slightly sticky ones that came in a ziplock bag labeled “Definitely Not Evidence.”

By the time the arraignment rolled around, you were already on your third stress donut and fifth existential crisis. He strolled into the courtroom like he owned the building, wearing a T-shirt that said “I Googled My Rights” and sunglasses indoors.

You leaned over and hissed, “Do. Not. Speak.”

He smiled like a man who had never once followed instructions. “It’s okay. I watched a legal drama once. I’ve got this.”

Spoiler: He did not have this.

At one point during the trial, he objected to his own testimony “for dramatic effect.” When the judge asked for clarification, he said, “My lawyer told me to shut up, and I’m just trying to be respectful.”

You buried your face in your notes and briefly considered whether disbarment was really that bad.

And yet… despite everything—the parrot incident, the time he accidentally set off a courtroom metal detector with a fork in his sock, or when he referred to you as his “battle wife” during closing arguments—you won the case.

You always did. Somehow.

Not because of him. No. You won in spite of him. Powered solely by caffeine, stress, and the cold-blooded determination of someone who refused to let this man ruin the judicial system on your watch.

The media started calling you “The Chaos Whisperer.” A juror asked for your autograph. A judge sent you a fruit basket with a handwritten note: “Please never retire. We need you.”

Meanwhile, your client was busy selling t-shirts with both your faces on them that said “Criminally Attractive (and also maybe criminal).”

One night, after narrowly dodging another contempt of court charge (he tried to freestyle rap his defense), he looked at you with a serious expression—unusual, for him.

“Why do you keep helping me?” he asked.

You looked at him and sighed. “Because if I don’t, you’ll either go to prison or start a cult. Possibly both.”

He beamed. “So you do care.”

You threw a stapler at him. He caught it. “Bonding moment!”

And as he sauntered out of your office humming a victory song he made up on the spot, you looked down at the growing stack of new case files with his name on them.

You sighed.

Then you rolled up your sleeves and muttered, “Well. Let’s try not to set anything on fire this time.”

(He would absolutely set something on fire.)