“𝙸’𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚍.” ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
hiromi higuruma | lawyer!reader | not a love story…or is it?
You keep telling yourself you won’t message him tonight.
You even put your phone face-down on your desk like you’re punishing yourself for even thinking that you should. But you tidy your place just in case and you shower…just in case. And you definitely aren’t texting him. You’re a lawyer for fucks sake. You’re logical. Not emotionally compromised just because one man in a dress shirt rearranged your guts with Olympic precision last Friday.
Still, it’s 6:47 PM and you can’t stop pacing.
Not that you’re waiting for him to text you. He never does first anyway. Not unless it’s mid-week and he needs to reschedule. You’re the one who always cracks first. And that’s fine. It means you’re taking control. You’re just…making a proposition?
Your thumb hovers over his name in your contacts. “Hiromi.” You don't even have an emoji next to it. It’s not that kind of connection.
You delete the first draft. Then the second.
Then you settle on, <Busy tonight?>
Five minutes pass. Then another ten. You sit on your bed, hands sandwiched between your thighs and try not to look at your phone.
Then it buzzes and you immediately leap to check the notification, <No. Come over whenever.>
That was a start. Your heart leaps, like an idiot. Your consciousness, the reasonable lawyer with ten years of experience, reminds you that he’s not asking you out. He’s asking you in.
You stand and walk to your closet. You open it but then immediately close it again because nothing looks good enough.
‘It’s not a date’ you repeat to yourself over and over. But you still want him to see you and think, ‘God, I need to touch her.’
You settle on something that isn’t entirely much but also not plain. That black skirt that really doesn’t go past mid-thigh. A wine-colored blouse, loose enough to slip off a shoulder. And perfume—a little too much of it—sprayed on your clothes mostly but dabbed on your wrists and the inside of your ankles. Just in case.
By the time you’re walking out your front door, coat in hand, your heart is pounding like this means something. You hate how excited you are.
You hate that it’s always this way—every Friday, the same self-delusion wrapped in lace and hope.
But you're still going. Obviously. Because you know what’s waiting for you on the other side of that luxurious, teakwood door.
And his name is Hiromi fucking Higuruma.
You sit behind the steering wheel for a minute before turning the ignition. Your hands are clammy.
‘Stupid, stupid, stupid’ you think. You didn’t even need to drive. You could’ve taken a cab. But something about pulling up outside his place like it’s professional and not incredibly pathetic makes it feel easier to stomach.
You check your phone again.
Still no follow-up message. No “can’t wait to see you.” No “bring wine.” Just the same words- <No. Come over whenever.>
You start driving. You play some music to muffle your racing thoughts. The traffic’s light. The streets are quiet. Your thigh bounces the whole way like it didn’t get the memo that you’re trying to act normal.
At a red light, you grip the steering wheel and exhale through your nose. Your brain starts doing that thing again—the reruns.
Last week at his apartment. The way he opened the door like he was mad you’d taken so long. He didn’t say much. Just stepped aside and let you walk past, trailing the scent of your own perfume through his hallway.
You remember the way he kissed you with no preamble. Just grabbed your face and kissed you like he needed it. The way his hands were all over you. More rough than usual. The low, strained groan when he finally sank into you like he’d been holding back all week.
You still remember how it sounded when he said,“Don’t talk. Just take it.”
And you did. Like a fucking champ.
You squeeze your thighs together just before the light turns green. Because yeah—he’s a withdrawn, emotionally guarded man with a god complex and too many unresolved feelings about justice, but that dick? Uhm, that dick deserves awards.
It’s the kind of dick that holds power without trying too hard. It’s heavy, beautiful and perfectly shaped. It’s like it’s hand carved or something. He fucks like he’s been holding himself together all day and is finally able to let go of all that tension and control. You’re grateful you’re the one he chooses to lose it with.
No, it’s not romantic. But it is honest. At least physically and that’s something.
And God, he’s so hot when he’s quiet and focused and gripping your hips like a lifeline. When he says things under his breath like “Take it.”, “That’s it.”, “Good girl.”
You turn onto his street and calm your breathing. Imagine how embarrassing it’d be if people passing by saw you screaming and slamming your face into the steering wheel. So. Stupid.
Your stomach flips at the thought. You check your face in the visor mirror. Your thighs are warm and your heart’s screaming for the love of her life. As if the love of her life isn’t a man who won’t even text you a good morning but he rearranges your entire internal anatomy.
You park around the corner like you always do. Not because you’re hiding but you don’t want to see your own car in his building’s little guest lot the next morning. Just rubs you the wrong way. (In other words, it’s shameful.)
Your heels click on the pavement as you walk. You hate that you feel nervous. It’s not a date. You’re not meeting his parents. You’re just going to get fucked by a man who argues multi-million dollar cases with his sleeves rolled up like it’s nothing.
By the time you reach his door, your hands are cold and even more clammy than they were before.
The hallway is quiet and dimly lit. His apartment door is the same—dark wood, polished silver handle, nothing extraordinary. Except that behind it is the only place you’ve ever let someone use you this openly and deliberately. And he made it feel so worth it.
Your knuckles hover over the wood. You think about the things you won’t say. You won’t ask if he thought about you this week. You won’t ask if this is all it’ll ever be. You won’t say “I missed you” even though you absolutely do—stupidly, pathetically and ferally.
And you definitely won’t say, “I wanted you so bad I almost touched myself to the sound of your voice during a recorded deposition.”
…Even though that very much did happened.
You wipe your palm on your coat one last time and finally knock. It’s not even five seconds before you hear the bolt slide open.
Hiromi Higuruma, in a dark gray t-shirt that clings just enough to make your mouth go dry along with some grey sweatpants. Somehow, he’s still intimidating. Even while barefoot with his hair a little messy. Even with no tie, blazer or trousers that fit him just right.
He leans against the frame. “Hi.”
That’s all he says. Like you just ran into him at the office break room and not at the entrance to the pit of your recurring moral downfall.
“Hi,” you breathe back way too softly.
He looks you over. Eyes dragging methodically and slowly. “That skirt’s new.”
You nod. “Uh, yeah. I got it last weekend—you like it?”
You instantly snap your mouth shut. It’s so embarrassing. How much you’re so quick to gain his approval.
He lifts one brow slightly but otherwise shows nothing. His gaze lingers a second too long. “Yeah,” he says, low and easy, like it costs him nothing. “You wore it for me?”
The heat in your face says you did. The small curve of his mouth says he knows.
You walk in with a sliver of confidence. Like you haven’t been rehearsing a dozen versions of this in your head all day.
The door shuts behind you. You feel it click into place just like every other Friday.
Except this time, you’re wondering (as usual) how many more times you’ll let him do this without asking for more.
And how many more times you’ll let yourself hope he might give it.
His apartment smells like citrus and cedar. The lighting is warm. The music is low—some ambient jazz he definitely didn’t put on for your benefit.
You slip off your coat and heels at the door. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t ask how your week was. He just takes in the sight of you.
You meet his eyes, already anticipating what’s coming next.
Within a minute, he’s got you pinned against the hallway wall, mouth on your neck, hands under your skirt. His breath is hot and controlled, like he’s been wanting this all day but refuses to give you the satisfaction of saying so.
You’re wet already. Pathetically so. And he groans when he feels it.
But then he slows down, lifts your leg to his hip and runs his palm along your thigh. His mouth still brushes yours but he doesn’t kiss. His hand settles on your hip firm and grounding.
He leans in and presses his forehead to yours.
No words. No smugness. Just breathing and closeness.
His eyes flutter closed. His thumb strokes your waist once. Almost like he doesn't know he's doing it.
It’s so…tender. So un-Hiromi. So devastatingly affectionate it makes your heart seize.
He must feel it—how your whole body tenses. How your breath catches. He opens his eyes and looks at you.
And you almost say something so stupid. Something like “Did you miss me?” or “Tell me I’m yours, even if you don’t mean it—please.”
Instead you kiss him. Hard and messy. Like you can swallow the question before it escapes your lips.
He doesn’t hesitate. He catches your jaw in one hand, anchoring you there and kisses back with a sharp, almost pained hunger. His body presses closer, like he’s trying to fuse the both of you into the wall.
He lifts you. Carries you to the bedroom like it’s routine. Like you’re just an object he’s learned how to handle efficiently. Like you’re not currently reading into every micro-expression he has ever made since the dawn of time.
You land on the mattress with a bounce, knees still trembling from the hallway. Your skirt’s bunched around your hips. Your panties are already lost somewhere along the tiled floor.
He strips his shirt, tosses it and opens the drawer without thinking. Finds the condom, rolls it on, all in silence. The rhythm of someone who’s done this before. Maybe not with you. Maybe not like this. And still his eyes flick down and catch on your skin and you feel it. Just a breath, a twitch of his mouth. It’s nothing. No…it’s everything. You pretend not to notice but you’ll think about it for days.
You don’t say anything. You never do. You just open your legs wider and watch his jaw clench.
He kneels between your thighs, grips your waist and slides in with a single, devastating push.
You choke. The way he does it—It’s too controlled. Like he’s fighting some internal war and refusing to let it show.
He stays buried for a moment. Lets out a long, low breath through his nose. His hand brushes down your side. A quick adjustment. He shifts your thigh higher.
The rhythm is slow then sharper, then dragging again like he wants you to go insane after everything’s over. He’s not fucking you for the performance—he’s in it. Every thrust sinks deep, every roll of his hips like he’s trying to press his chest into your heart.
He’s silent, mostly. Just those soft, guttural sounds he tries to suppress. That quiet hiss through his teeth when you clench around him. The subtle shift of his brow when your breath catches.
But you know. You’ve memorized this man.
You know the way his fingers flex when he’s close. The way his pace changes to slightly rougher, just a breath faster, as if he’s trying not to finish. You’ve seen it. Felt it. Counted it like evidence.
Your legs wrap around his back. Your nails drag down his shoulder blades. You whisper his name just to feel the reaction. Just to feel his hips stutter for a split second like it matters.
He presses his forehead to yours again. Not out of tenderness, you tell yourself. Just for leverage and proximity. It’s just sex after all.
But his hand finds your face. Cups your cheek. His thumb drags once across your temple, barely there.
And it hurts how much you want it to mean something.
“You make me so stupid—I’d beg if you asked me to,” you whisper.
His hips falter slightly but it’s enough to feel it. His mouth parts, teeth catching on his lower lip as if to bite back whatever wants to come out. A shiver ripples over his skin, the fine hair on his arms lifting under your hands. He grunts—low, sharp, almost pained—and pushes in deeper like he can ground himself there.
“You sound ridiculous,” he says finally, voice rougher than it was a second ago. But his fingers are still digging into your thigh and now you know.
His thrusts go from measured to reckless—sloppy but hard, skin slick and sliding, each movement hitting deeper and sharper. The tension builds too fast, too hot and you can’t hold back anymore.
You finish hard and fast, breath catching in your throat, hand pressed against your mouth to stifle the noise. Your muscles clamp down around him, trembling and refusing to let go.
He doesn’t ease up. Instead, he drives into you harder, hips snapping with a guttural growl, every movement rough and demanding. His hand slams down on your hip, nails digging in, grounding himself through the storm.
His breath is ragged, low grunts vibrating against your ear. Sweat beads at his temples, slick strands sticking to his forehead.
When he cums, it hits him hard and sudden—his body tensing, muscles clenching deep inside you. His hips jerk sharply, every movement violent but controlled, like a storm finally breaking loose. His breath catches in a rough gasp, voice dropping low and ragged as he lets out your name, broken and desperate, right into your skin.
He stays inside you, still trembling, sweat slick and heavy. His grip tightens on your hip like he’s holding on for something—control or maybe just you. The world narrows down to the sound of your breathing and the pounding of his heart, everything raw and exposed in that quiet aftershock.
You close your eyes and pretend it’s fine. Pretend the quiet after is comfortable.
He pulls out. Discards the condom. Doesn’t say much—just a muttered “bathroom” as he stands, like none of it meant anything.
But you’re still on the bed. Staring at the ceiling. Feeling his breath still ghosting against your skin.
You’ll come back. You always do. Because the sex is good. Because he’s good even when he’s pretending not to be.
And you’ll keep pretending it doesn’t feel like something more.
Until maybe, one day, it finally is.
