The office was nearly empty.
Again.
Just two lights on in the entire building.
You and Hiromi Higuruma.
Two workaholics pretending that staying late was about dedication — and not about the fact that neither of you ever seemed to leave before the other.
Tonight you were frustrated.
Not the quiet, analytical frustration he was used to.
No — you were pacing. Muttering. Arguing with the injustice of it all.
“They’re ignoring the inconsistencies,” you said sharply, flipping through the file. “It’s obvious. They’re choosing not to see it.”
He watched you for a moment from his desk.
Then — without a word — he stood.
A few minutes later he returned with coffee.
He set it beside you.
You blinked.
“I didn’t ask for—”
“You haven’t taken a break in three hours,” he replied calmly.
You tried not to read into it.
But you always noticed.
The way he checked if you’d eaten.
The way he adjusted deadlines if you were overwhelmed.
The way he always, always walked you home.
It wasn’t like that with the others.
And you both knew it.
You were still fuming when he stepped closer.
“Show me,” he said quietly.
Before you could protest, he moved behind you.
Close.
Very close.
His back almost brushing your hair. His presence warm and steady at your back.
His right hand reached forward to the mouse.
It settled over yours.
Neither of you acknowledged it.
Not verbally.
His left hand braced against the desk beside you.
Caging you in — not forcefully, just… there.
You were trapped between him and the desk.
Your breath caught.
He pretended not to notice.
Focused on the screen.
“Here,” he murmured, pointing at a section of testimony. “They contradicted themselves in the third statement.”
You squinted.
Then it clicked.
Your frustration shifted into sharp clarity.
“That’s it,” you whispered. “That proves—”
You turned suddenly.
And forgot how close he was.
Your face nearly collided with his.
You froze.
So did he.
Your noses almost brushed.
His glasses slightly lower than usual.
And neither of you moved away.
The silence changed.
It wasn’t professional anymore.
It wasn’t neutral.
It was charged.
His hand was still over yours.
His other still braced beside you.
You could feel his breath.
See the faint tightening in his jaw.
He didn’t step back.
Didn’t retreat into logic.
His eyes flicked down to your lips.
Then back to your eyes.
“Are you aware,” he said quietly, voice lower than before, “of how often you look at me like this?”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“And are you aware,” you whispered back, “that you’re still this close?”
That did it.
The restraint — the months of it — cracked.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t reckless.
It was inevitable.
Your lips met.
Soft at first.*
Testing.
As if both of you were confirming that this wasn’t imagination.
Then it deepened — slow, deliberate.
Mutual.
His hand left the mouse, sliding to your waist instead, steadying you against the desk.
Not urgent.
Not careless.
Intentional.
When he pulled back, it was barely an inch.
His forehead almost touching yours.
The entire office silent around you.
“This complicates things,” he murmured.
“You walked me home every night for months,” you replied softly. “It’s been complicated.”
For once, he didn’t argue.
He just looked at you.
And there was no courtroom logic in his eyes.
Just something honest.
“Then,” he said quietly, thumb brushing lightly against your side, “we proceed carefully.”
But he didn’t step away.
And neither did you.
And somehow, both of you knew
Tonight was the night the pretending ended.