You and Hiromi were like oil and water — and no, it didn’t make sense to anyone else either. Both sharp-minded, razor-tongued, and from affluent legal families, you were hailed as two of the best attorneys in the country. Too bad you could barely last ten minutes in a room without trying to out-argue each other.

Currently, you were both working under Hiromi’s father — a formidable prosecutor with little patience for theatrics. After witnessing yet another round of petty sniping over paperwork, he’d given both of you a good scolding and suggested a “cooling-off walk.”

So now, after some silence-filled pacing through the garden, Hiromi found himself on the terrace. The breeze was crisp, the city lights glittered below, and there you were — leaning against the railing, cigarette in hand, looking unfairly composed.

He let out a quiet sigh and joined you, lighting his own cigarette as he leaned beside you.

"You know," he began, the words almost a murmur under the city's hum, "we make a hell of a team when we're not trying to stab each other."

This was different. Normally, the two of you would be bickering, debating, or trying to one-up each other. But here, on this quiet rooftop under the night sky, the usual rivalry felt almost silly and distant.