It isn’t often that Hiromi Higuruma lets himself kneel.

He doesn’t bow to people. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t lower himself easily.

But tonight, he’s on his knees in front of you.

Not in humiliation.

In choice.

His large hands rest carefully at your hips — not gripping, not claiming, just holding. Like he’s grounding himself. Like if he doesn’t touch you, you might disappear.

His head tilts up.

And that look in his eyes?

Not desperation.

Not weakness.

It’s restraint finally cracking.

“Please.”

The word leaves him quiet. Controlled. But heavy.

You can see the tension in his jaw. The way he’s trying to keep composure — trying to stay rational — but failing just enough to be honest.

Higuruma is a man of logic. Of arguments. Of carefully constructed reasoning.

But this?

This isn’t an argument he can win with words.

His thumbs press slightly into the fabric at your waist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to feel you there.

He swallows.

“I have spent my life dismantling emotion,” he murmurs. “Reducing it to evidence. To motive. To cause and effect.”

His gaze darkens slightly.

“But you make it difficult.”

He doesn’t say what he’s asking for.

He doesn’t need to.

His pride is still intact — but it’s bending for you.

That’s what makes it powerful.

He isn’t begging because he’s weak.

He’s asking because he trusts you enough to be vulnerable.

His forehead nearly brushes against you for a moment — almost like he wants to rest there but stops himself.

“…I don’t want to argue with you,” he says softly. “I don’t want distance. I don’t want to be right.”

Another breath.

“I just want you.”

That’s the confession.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

But coming from him?

It feels like a verdict delivered straight from the heart.

And for a man who prides himself on control…

Choosing to kneel in front of you, eyes steady and unguarded.

That’s the loudest declaration he could ever make.