late nights, longer sighs
pairing: higuruma hiromi x black!reader (plus size)
warnings: suggestive (non-explicit), work stress, exhaustion.
The office lights are still on.
At this point, you don’t even check the time you feel it. That deep, late-night quiet where the world slows down but your husband refuses to.
You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, balancing the takeout in your hand, your reflection briefly catching in the glass door. Soft curves wrapped in something comfortable but still you, skin glowing under the dim hallway light, hair just a little undone from the day.
You know what he looks like right now.
Tired. Tense. Too far inside his own head.
The scratch of pen on paper doesn’t stop.
You step in fully, closing the door behind you, eyes landing on him immediately, tie loose, sleeves rolled, jaw set, hair slightly messy. Surrounded by papers like they’re closing in on him.
He hasn’t even noticed you yet.
Your chest tightens just a little.
“You skipped dinner again.”
This time, the pen pauses.
“I was going to eat later,” he says, voice low, distant.
You walk over without another word and place the takeout right on top of his work.
His eyes lift and the moment they land on you, something shifts.
The tension in his face softens. His shoulders drop just enough. Like his body recognizes you before his mind catches up.
“You came here this late?” he asks, quieter now.
You shrug, already unpacking the food. “Somebody has to take care of you.”
Not just on your face, on you. The softness of your arms, the way your clothes hug your body, the warmth you bring into a space that’s been cold for hours.
“You didn’t have to,” he murmurs.
“I know,” you say simply. “But I wanted to.”
You slide the food toward him, nudging his hand.
He hesitates, because there’s always something more important in his mind.
You tilt your head, giving him that look.
The one that says I love you, but I will absolutely win this.
“You’re not going to let this go,” he says.
Then he exhales and sets his pen down.
You stay close while he eats, your hip pressed against his, your body naturally fitting into his space like it was made to.
Three years of marriage and he still hasn’t gotten used to how you anchor him.
“You’ve been here all day,” you say, softer now.
Your hand lifts without thinking, fingers brushing against his temple, smoothing his hair back. Your touch is warm, grounding.
His eyes flick up to you, just for a second.
There’s something in your voice that makes him pause mid-bite.
“I’m almost done with this case,” he starts. “If I just—”
His gaze meets yours fully now.
“You said that yesterday,” you remind him. “And the day before that.”
Silence settles between you.
You shift, turning toward him completely, your body facing his, your presence impossible to ignore.
“I know your work matters,” you say softly. “I know you care. That’s why you’re so good at it.”
“But you don’t get to lose yourself to it,” you continue, your hand resting against his cheek, thumb brushing over his skin. “Not when I’m right here.”
You see it in the way his breath slows.
“I’m not losing myself,” he says, quieter now.
“You are a little,” you whisper.
Your fingers slide down, resting over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
He doesn’t respond right away.
Instead, his hand comes up, covering yours, warm, steady, grounding himself through you the same way you do for him.
“I don’t know how to stop,” he admits.
And that breaks something soft inside your chest.
Carefully, you slide onto his lap, ignoring the quiet protest that leaves him.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’ll—”
“Be fine,” you cut in gently.
You settle fully, your weight grounding, your body soft against his in a way that makes him still completely.
There’s a moment where he doesn’t move at all.
Like he’s afraid if he does, this will disappear.
“You always do this,” he says.
You smile faintly, your arms looping around his shoulders.
His hands hover with hesitation, like he doesn’t deserve the distraction.
Then they settle on your waist.
Firm. Careful. Appreciative.
His thumbs press lightly into your sides, like he’s reminding himself you’re real, that you’re here, that you chose to come to him.
“You don’t have to carry everything tonight,” you whisper, your forehead resting against his. “You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to just… be my husband.”
His breath stutters slightly.
“You make it sound simple,” he murmurs.
“It is simple,” you say softly. “Come home with me.”
His grip tightens just a little.
“I miss my husband,” you whisper again, softer this time.
And that’s what breaks him.
His hand slides up your back, pulling you closer—closer than before, like he needs to feel every part of you against him.
“I’m right here,” he says.
“Not like this,” you murmur.
Your hand moves from his shoulder to his jaw, guiding his face toward yours just slightly.
“I want you rested. I want you present. I want you with me not stuck in your head all the time.”
“You always know how to pull me back.”
You grin softly. “Wife duties.”
A quiet huff of laughter leaves him.
And when you lean in this time, he meets you halfway.
His hand spreads across your back, fingers pressing into the softness there, holding you like you’re something steady in a world that constantly shifts under him.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“You’re warm,” he murmurs.
“You’re overworked,” you counter gently.
A faint smile touches his lips.
You sit on his desk, watching him move slower now, more present. Every now and then, his eyes flick back to you, like he just needs to make sure you’re still there.
When he finally slips his coat on, you step forward, adjusting it for him without thinking. Smoothing the fabric, fixing his collar, your fingers lingering just a little.
His hand comes up, brushing along your cheek.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
You tilt your head. “For what?”
Outside, the air is cooler.
He walks beside you not ahead, not distracted.
His hand finds yours easily, fingers threading through yours like it’s second nature.
“You’re staying home tomorrow,” you say.
He glances at you. “Am I?”
He exhales softly, but there’s a smile there now.
