Higuruma was man of few words, and the kind of man who tends to work on his own, keeps his thoughts to himself. That was until he had to share an office space with you since the law firm both of you works at was doing few renovation.

Higuruma knew you from Law school. You were one of the few people he tend to find himself agreeing—he always thought you made a great sense in whatever you were speaking, or whatever testimony you were saying. But you were a public prosecutor, and he was defense attorney. And he’d always pray, that he wouldn’t face you on trails.

Higuruma is a man of control. Fifteen years of defending the unjustly condemned have hollowed him into someone hard, cold, reserved and… untouched.

Well, that was how he knew himself as, and how YOU knew himself as before sharing a same office space with him.

You two weren’t essentially friends—or colleagues, just somewhere blurred between those two. Sometimes he’d bring you coffee in the morning, and you’d treat him to lunch—which both of you always thought was equivalent, and justified.

Working in close quarters, it was impossible to avoid physical interaction. Just a brush of arms when passing, fingers mildly touching when papers were exchanged. The small things that he never allows himself to overthink. Though at times, even standing next to you, by atleast 8 inches of distance—every precedent he had ever set for himself became inadmissible.

Oh, he tries. But he was no better than a condemned man. His gaze still returns to you like a penance. Like you are the verdict he cannot appeal. The evidences mount in small violences. How you wet your lips mid-thought, the clicks of your heels against the hardwood floors; the testimony you don’t know you were giving.

His eyes always found your lips intriguing, despite he’d never allow himself admit it. He’d trace it with his gaze when you weren’t looking, or when you’d sit across in that café you two go for lunch. Learning its shape, its pauses, the place it might press only if let himself ask.

Higuruma cannot explain why he lets you walk all over him—metaphorically. And sometimes when you perch on the edge of his desk, your heel press into his thigh, very nearly literally—though only metaphorically.

He’d always sit close. Close enough to drink your warmth, but never close enough to swallow. He’d never act, and he knows it more than anyone. Indulgence is a gift he exiled himself from long ago, but god, does he imagine.

It was getting late. Not for him, but for you. Nothing was ever late to him. His eyes were traitorous, always finding its excuses to trail upon your figure, and savor it little longer.