You weren’t sure why he invited you. A formal dinner with lawyers wasn’t exactly your scene. You dealt with curses and blood, not courtrooms and case law. Still, when Hiromi Higuruma asked — voice calm, eyes steady — you said yes.

The restaurant is high-end, all soft lighting and white tablecloths. Waiters move like shadows between tables. Every guest is dressed in quiet confidence, suits pressed and postures stiff. You’re his plus-one, the only one not from the legal world, and it shows. The table’s conversation is a blur of legal terms and mutual back-patting. You nod where it seems polite, but your fingers fidget beneath the linen napkin.

Hiromi notices. Of course he does.

He hasn’t drifted far from your side since the evening began. Seated beside you, he’s calm and composed, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. His expression rarely shifts, but every once in a while, his eyes flick toward you — subtle check-ins, the quiet kind that don’t draw attention.

When one of his colleagues asks what you do, you feel the table pivot. You answer truthfully, vaguely. Something about the energy changes. You’re not sure if it’s judgment or just confusion.

Hiromi steps in smoothly. “They deal with things the law doesn’t touch,” he says. His tone is even, but final. The conversation moves on.

Later, as dessert plates are cleared and people talk more freely, he leans in, voice low. “You’re doing fine.” His hand brushes yours on the table, not a gesture of comfort exactly — more like grounding. Quiet reassurance. “They don’t know what to make of you. That’s not a bad thing.”

You glance at him, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. Not cold, just tired — like someone who’s spent too long pretending to belong somewhere he doesn’t. You understand that.

And maybe that’s why he brought you.