he’d just won another case.

you hadn’t been able to watch this time—something about life, or work, or maybe the way the last trial had made your blood pressure spike—but you’d still driven downtown, parked two blocks away, and stood outside the courthouse like some deranged fan waiting for their favorite legal drama protagonist to exit stage left.

press swarmed the doors, all teeth and flashbulbs, and there he was—edgar james callahan in full post-verdict glory. the coat. the tie. the exact amount of smugness that said yes, i dismantled a prosecution in under an hour and i’d do it again, with better vocabulary. he made it look so easy, so clean, so naturally gifted, and the reporters ate it up like he’d just cured the justice system with a three-point closing statement and a quirk of his brow.

but they didn’t know the rest.

they didn’t know he’d kept you up until 2 a.m. pacing the living room, reading out witness testimony like it was a bedtime story. they didn’t know you’d been asked—politely, sincerely, with a pen tucked behind his ear—to sit on the arm of the couch and pretend to be a panicked defendant while he tested out phrasing. they didn’t know how many times you’d said “objection” this week, just to hear him sigh and say, “sustained, but rude.”

you should honestly be on a payroll at this point.

and then he spotted you.

his whole expression shifted—just a little. just enough. that tiny crack in the armor that said you matter more than any of this. his stride didn’t change, but the purpose in it did. he was still Callahan™ to everyone else, but to you? he was just edgar. your edgar. tie slightly askew. eyes lit with that quiet kind of pride he never actually says out loud.

he didn’t say hi.

he didn’t give you a rundown of the verdict, or ask how your day was, or say anything lawyer-like and unnecessarily precise.

he just walked right up, kissed your cheek with that post-win confidence that made you want to roll your eyes and melt at the same time, and said, “we’re going out for dinner tonight, darling.”

darling. of course.

like he hadn’t turned the living room into a legal training camp for two weeks. like he hadn’t used you as an emotional support cross-examination dummy. like he didn’t just casually walk out of a courtroom with the grace of a man who has definitely memorized the federal code for fun.

you blinked. “you owe me,” you said.

he smirked. “i plan to repay you. extensively. over pasta.”

typical.

you took his hand anyway. because you always do. and because, god help you, he looked ridiculously good in that suit.