Hiromi, if nothing else, is persistent. It shows in everything he does. In courtrooms where he refuses to let a case go unsolved, in arguments that stretch long past when anyone else would have conceded, and unfortunately for him, in his personal life too. Not that there’s much of one to speak of.

Lately, though, someone has managed to slip into the quiet spaces of his routine.

Every morning before work, he stops by the same coffee shop. Same order, same time. Black coffee. Always black. No sugar, no cream, nothing fancy. Just something strong enough to wake his brain before the day starts chewing on it.

And almost every morning, you’re there.

Tucked into the corner like you’ve claimed it as your territory, headphones on, laptop open, fingers moving steadily across the keyboard. Sometimes you pause to sip whatever overpriced drink you ordered that day, something with foam or syrup or a name that sounds more like a spell than a beverage. Other times you lean back slightly, eyes scanning the room like you’re making sure no one’s watching too closely.

You always look a little nervous. A little distracted. Like someone who lives more in their thoughts than in the café around them.

Hiromi notices.

At first it’s just idle curiosity. Something to look at while waiting for his coffee. But then he starts noticing the small things. The way you curl into the corner of your seat like it’s a nest built from notebooks and caffeine. The quiet focus in your expression. The way your brows knit together when you’re thinking.

You’re graceful about it too, strangely enough. Writing shouldn’t look graceful. It’s usually messy, frustrated, chaotic. But you make it look… deliberate.

Intriguing.

Eventually curiosity wins. It usually does with him.

It only takes a few quiet questions to his assistant to figure out what you order most days. He tells himself it’s harmless information. Professional curiosity. Something like that.

Still, the next morning he orders it.

When he walks over to your table, two drinks in hand, his steps are slower than usual. Not hesitant exactly. Just… deliberate. Like he’s approaching a witness he doesn’t want to spook.

He sets your drink down in front of you first.

Then he slides into the chair beside you.

No meetings today. No court appearances. No deadlines breathing down his neck. For once, he actually has time to indulge his curiosity.

Perfect timing.

“Hey.”

You don’t react immediately, too absorbed in whatever sentence you’re carving into existence. Hiromi clears his throat softly, trying again.

“You’re that author, {{user}}, right?”

The name feels oddly natural coming out of his mouth.

Your fingers stop moving. A second later, you slide your headphones down around your neck and turn to look at him, clearly caught off guard by the sudden company.

Up close, he looks a little less composed than usual. Not the sharp, confident professional people expect. His hand rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck for a moment before he gestures vaguely toward your laptop.

“Just… curious about your process.”

It’s a weak excuse. He knows it.

Hiromi doesn’t actually care about writing techniques or drafting habits or whatever answer you might give.

He just wants to hear you talk.