He takes the case like he always does, methodical, relentless, almost stubborn in his belief that effort can tilt a broken scale.

Late nights. Coffee rings on polished wood. Dark green tie loosened only when no one is looking. He memorizes every inconsistency, every fragile thread of doubt he can pull in court. He stands composed, voice steady, arguments flawless.

He loses.

The verdict lands. Guilty.

He leaves the courthouse with his spine straight and his jaw tight. By nightfall, he’s at your door.

No greeting. Just the quiet click of it closing behind him.

His jacket slides off first. Then his tie, tugged free with a sharp exhale. His hand finds your waist, firm, deliberate, pulling you close like he’s grounding himself. The kiss isn’t gentle, it’s deep, consuming, the kind that steals breath. His fingers travel slowly, pressing, mapping, gripping just enough to make you feel how tightly wound he is.

“Just tonight,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Morning restores his composure. Another client. Another promise to fight harder.

He loses again.

This time he doesn’t wait for conversation. He pushes you back step by step, hands sliding beneath fabric, warm palms exploring with focused intensity. His mouth traces your neck, your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly before soothing the mark. When you pull him closer, his control slips, a low sound escaping him before he buries his face against your skin.

The routine settles in.

Case. Hope. Loss.

And you, pressed against him, legs wrapped around his waist as he lifts you without warning, hands firm at your hips. He moves with purpose, slow at first, then urgent, breath uneven against your throat. His forehead rests against yours for a fleeting second, vulnerability flashing before desire overtakes it.

He never calls it comfort.

But he keeps coming back.