With Hiromi Higuruma, the confession doesn’t explode out of him.

It slips out.

Quiet. Measured. Honest.

You’re sitting close — closer than you ever allowed yourselves to be during the trial.

No desk between you now. No case files. No titles.

Just him.

He’s been quieter than usual, thumb tracing slow circles at your waist like he’s thinking.

“I need to tell you something,” he says finally.

You already know.

You’ve always known.

He exhales, gaze steady but softer than the courtroom version of him.

“There were moments during the trial when I almost lost the case.”

You blink.

Not because you doubt him — but because he’s admitting vulnerability.

“Not legally,” he clarifies quietly. “Emotionally.”

His jaw tightens faintly.

“When they questioned you harshly… when you froze in that hallway…” His fingers press slightly at your waist. “I nearly forgot I was your lawyer. I wanted to hold you. Not to steady you. Not to guide you. Just… to keep you there.”

He looks down briefly.

“I had to calculate every touch. Every step. Because if I let myself act on what I felt—”

He stops.

Then corrects himself.

“I wouldn’t have been thinking like your attorney.”

You stare at him.

Because you knew.

You saw it in the way his hand lingered half a second too long. In the way he pulled you through side exits before you broke down. In the way his voice softened only when no one else could hear.

You knew.

And hearing him admit it makes your chest ache.

“You were scared of losing me,” you say softly.

His eyes lift to yours.

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

Not scared of losing professionally.

Of losing you.

That’s when you move.

You don’t overthink it. You don’t warn him.

You lean forward and kiss him.

Soft. Intentional. Grateful.

For believing you. For protecting you. For holding back when you were too fragile to understand what it meant.

For loving you quietly before he was allowed to.

He freezes for half a heartbeat — surprised.

Then his hand slides firmly to your waist, pulling you closer.

The kiss deepens slightly — not rushed, not overwhelming — but certain.

His other hand comes up to cradle the side of your face this time.

No hesitation now.

When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours.

“You knew,” he murmurs.

“I did.”

There’s something almost vulnerable in his expression.

“I was afraid,” he admits softly. “Not of the verdict. Of myself. Of crossing a line when you trusted me.”

You kiss him again — this time slower.

Reassuring.

He exhales through his nose, the faintest hint of a smile brushing his lips.

“You’re bold,” he murmurs quietly.

But his hold tightens, grounding and warm.

And this time, when you kiss him first again — days later, out of nowhere, mid-conversation — he doesn’t freeze.

He responds immediately.

Hands at your waist. Drawing you in. Returning it with a steadiness that says he’s done holding back.

No courtroom. No reporters. No boundaries left to guard.

Just him.

And the truth you both felt all along.