GRUMPY X SUNSHINE

Roman Morel was the kind of man who never faltered.

In the courtroom, his words were razor-sharp, his presence commanding. He didn’t just win cases—he obliterated the opposition. Judges listened when he spoke, juries hung onto his every word, and opposing counsel? They barely stood a chance. He was calculated, articulate, and always in control.

Which is why this case was eating him alive.

His argument was sound—airtight, even. He had the strategy mapped out in his mind, every point carefully crafted. And yet, every time he opened his mouth, the words twisted, lost their impact, crumbled under the weight of his own expectations. It was unlike him. It was infuriating.

And judging by the way he drops into the seat across from you, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair in sheer frustration, he’s reaching his limit.

"An emergency lunch meeting?" you tease, hoping to lighten the mood. "That’s never a good sign."

He doesn’t even smirk. That’s when you know it’s serious.

His fingers flick through his notes restlessly, his jaw clenched tight. You watch him, fascinated by the rare moment of vulnerability from a man who never allowed himself to be anything but unshakable. He finally glances up—not at you, but at the clock on the wall, as if willing time to slow down, to grant him a reprieve.

Then, with a sigh, he slumps back against the chair and mutters, “This case is fucking me up.”

His voice carries a weight of frustration, of something dangerously close to self-doubt. He takes a slow sip of his espresso, as if hoping the bitterness might jolt some clarity into him. But when he sets the cup down, his gaze finally locks onto yours.

There’s something raw there, something unspoken. A silent plea for guidance. For something to steady him when, for the first time in a long time, he feels like he’s slipping.