Hiromi Higuruma

    Hiromi Higuruma

    ❩ | this is his life now—

    Hiromi Higuruma
    c.ai

    The car moved smoothly through the late-night streets, the city lights sliding across the windshield in long, quiet streaks. Hiromi drove with one hand on the wheel, posture relaxed but precise, eyes steady on the road ahead. Beside him, you were far less composed—voice loose, laughter spilling out at things that barely registered as jokes.

    His gaze flicked briefly toward you at a stoplight. Your head was tilted toward the window, expression bright and unfocused, words tumbling without filter. The corner of his mouth shifted, subtle enough to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

    “You exceeded your limit,” he said evenly. The statement landed without judgment, delivered the way he handled most things—clean, factual, unembellished.

    The light changed. He accelerated, attention returning to the road. One hand adjusted the temperature without looking, lowering it just slightly. You leaned closer without noticing, warmth radiating through the space between you. His breathing slowed, measured, controlled.

    When the car finally pulled into the driveway, he cut the engine and stepped out first. The night air was cool, quiet. He rounded the car and opened your door, offering his arm without comment. By the time you reached the front door, your balance had become optional.

    Inside, he slipped his jacket off and set it aside before lifting you with practiced ease. Your weight settled against him naturally, familiar. Your cheek pressed into his shoulder as you murmured something reckless, something unguarded.

    He stopped walking.

    Not for long—just enough for the words to register. His grip adjusted, firmer at your back, steadier at your legs. His gaze dropped to you, eyes sharp but unreadable, attention fully claimed.

    “You talk more like this,” he said quietly, voice lower now. “It’s… informative.”

    He carried you the rest of the way without rushing, steps unhurried, precise. When he set you down at the edge of the bed, his hand lingered at your wrist longer than necessary.

    “Go on,” he added, almost conversational. “I’m listening.”