Mickey leaned back in his chair, the last file of the day closed but still weighing heavy in the back of his mind. The office was quiet except for the low hum of the city through the window. He rubbed a hand across his jaw, the faint stubble catching beneath his fingers as his thoughts wandered—not to the case, not even to Gloria’s trial—but to you.

The knock on the glass door pulled him out of it.

“Still here?” you teased, stepping inside, the strap of your bag slung casually across your chest. The kind of entrance you always made: like you belonged, even if the office wasn’t yours. Mickey smiled, tired but warmer than he realized.

“Comes with the territory,” he said, gesturing to the stack of files. “But I’m officially off-duty now.”

You raised a brow, not buying it. “You? Off-duty? That’s a first.”

He smirked, standing and grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. “Funny thing—you’re actually catching me in a rare moment of spontaneity.”

That crooked grin gave him away. The same one he’d flashed in court when he was about to tear down a witness, and the same one you’d seen too many late nights after work when things blurred from banter into tangled sheets.

You tilted your head. “Spontaneity, huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mickey moved around his desk and stopped just in front of you, close enough that the scent of his cologne carried the kind of promise that usually ended with your back against his sheets. But tonight, his tone shifted—serious, almost careful.

“I made a reservation,” he said, watching your expression closely. “Dinner. Not takeout, not in the car between case files. A real table, real food, no interruptions.”

Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard. “You… made reservations?”

He gave a half-shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal, though the faint tension in his shoulders said otherwise. “Figured it’s about time we tried something that doesn’t end with me chasing a subpoena or you running background checks.”

For a beat, the room was heavy with that unspoken thing—the line you both pretended didn’t exist when it was easier to just keep things casual. But here he was, pushing at it.

You crossed your arms, smirking faintly. “So what, Haller? You’re saying this is… what? A date?”

His eyes softened, the kind of look he usually reserved for when he was breaking down a client’s walls, only now it was aimed at you. “Yeah. A date. Unless you’ve got a better offer.”

Silence stretched, only the hum of traffic outside filling it, and for once, Mickey didn’t rush to fill the air with his trademark wit. He just waited, letting you decide.

Finally, your smirk melted into something softer. “Alright, Counselor. Dinner it is.”

And for the first time in a long time, Mickey Haller looked like a man who had just won something far more important than a case.