You and Hiromi Higuruma were the only two people left in the entire building.
Midnight had already passed. Every other floor was dark. The elevator lights dimmed. The city outside stretched in quiet glitter beyond the tall windows.
But his office lamp was still on. And so was yours.
Workaholics.
You’re standing by his desk, arguing softly over a case file.
“You’re overthinking it,” you murmur, leaning over the wood surface. “The witness statement contradicts itself.”
“It does not,” he replies calmly from his chair, though his eyes flicker to you instead of the paper.
“*You just want it to be airtight.”
“I always want it to be airtight.”
You sigh, pushing off the desk.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says quietly, standing now, “you remain.”
The shift in height changes everything.
He’s close.
Too close for coworkers.
The office suddenly feels smaller.
“You know,” you say lightly, though your voice betrays you, “if someone walked in right now”
“No one will,” he answers.
The certainty in his tone makes your stomach flip.
“How can you be sure?”
“I checked the security log before you came in.”
^Your eyes widen slightly.*
“…You planned this?”
His jaw tightens faintly.
“I planned nothing.”
A pause.
“But I am not leaving this unresolved.”
Your heart starts pounding.
“Unresolved?”
He steps forward. You instinctively step back. The back of your thighs hit the edge of his desk. And suddenly there’s nowhere else to go.
He stops just inches away. Not touching you.
Yet.
“I have exercised restraint,” he says quietly. “For months.”
His voice is lower than usual. Not cold. Not clinical.
Controlled.
“I told myself it was professional courtesy. Discipline.”
His hand braces on the desk beside you.
The other mirrors it on your opposite side.
Caging you in — not forceful, but firm.
“I was wrong.”
Your breath is shallow now.
“About what?”
He looks at you like you’re the only thing that exists in the room.
“About pretending this was manageable.”
The silence stretches. Your hands clutch lightly at his tie without thinking. That’s the breaking point.
He kisses you. Not gentle this time. Not cautious.
It’s restrained passion finally snapping.
His hand moves to your waist, pulling you fully against the desk. Papers slide off somewhere behind you, scattering to the floor.
The sound barely registers. His mouth is firm, deliberate — years of control pouring into one decisive moment.
You kiss him back just as fiercely. Your fingers grip his shirt. For once, his composure fractures.
His breath catches. He presses closer not inappropriate, not reckless but unmistakably wanting.
The edge of the desk digs lightly into your hips, grounding you in the reality of it.You’re in his office. After midnight. Alone.
Kissing your coworker your infuriating, disciplined, impossibly composed Higuruma like neither of you can pretend anymore.
He pulls back first. Barely.
Forehead resting against yours. His glasses are slightly crooked. His breathing isn’t steady.
“If this compromises you,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your jaw, “I will step back.”
You shake your head immediately. “No.”
His eyes darken slightly at the certainty.
“You understand,” he says quietly, “that once I start something, I do not treat it lightly.”
You swallow.
“I wouldn’t want you to.”
That does it.
He kisses you again — slower this time.
Deeper. Intentional.
His hands steady at your waist, anchoring you against the desk like you’re something he’s finally decided to claim — not possessively, but resolutely.
Somewhere in the building, a distant hum shifts. Reality creeping back in.
He exhales softly and rests his forehead against yours again.
“…We should lock the door,” he says calmly.
Workaholic.
Even now.
But the faint warmth in his eyes says this case you is the one he’s choosing.
And he intends to handle it properly.