Pairing: Higurama x F!Reader
Trope: Enemies to lovers, Rival Lawyers, 18+ content
Synopsis: You’ve always been untouchable in the courtroom—confident, sharp, and perfectly in control. But when a firm merger forces you to work alongside Higurama, the infuriatingly grumpy, morally rigid lawyer who seems determined to undermine you at every turn, your carefully ordered world is thrown off balance. Late nights, heated arguments, and accidental closeness blur the line between rivalry and something far more dangerous, and suddenly, winning the case isn’t the only thing at stake.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The bell above the door rings, the familiar sound bringing a sense of comfort you haven’t felt in a while. You haven’t been here in months. Cases packed against cases kept you too busy to even try to stop by. The warm smell of coffee and the fresh baked pastries they always set out fill your senses, your stomach growling on instinct. You walk in, taking in your surroundings. Everything’s still the same.
Books adorn the well aged wooden shelves, in the corner there’s still that familiar who-knows-how-old, rickety chair that the owner refuses to get rid of. The thought brings a smile to your face, a small chuckle leaving your lips as you approach the counter.
You order your usual without thinking. The barista smiles like she remembers you, and maybe she does. Maybe this place remembers the version of you that still knew how to rest.
As you wait for your order, you occupy yourself with the tabby cat that lays on the counter. When you first started coming here, early on your law school days, the cat, as they called Mr. Mingee, was no older than a young cat. And now, after coming back after who knows how long, grey hairs framed the cat’s once bright orange fur.
Something about that gives you a sense of nostalgia, remembering all the times you stayed here, well after closing time, much to the owners oblige, to study for your bench exam. If it weren’t for the late nights, endless supply of chocolate croissants and a pecan, oatmilk latte, you don’t know how you would’ve made it.
Your name is called, your attention shifting away from the cat as you walk back to the counter. You take your drink, thank the barista, and walk over to the corner table by the window. The same one. With the same rickety chair. Sunlight spills across the wood, warm against your hands as you wrap them around the cup. Outside, people move without urgency. No gavels. No objections. No sharp, calculating gazes tracking your every move.
You exhale. For the first time in weeks, your shoulders drop.
You told Ichiji you’d take a break. And here you are. Actually doing it. No files. No laptop. No legal pads bleeding with annotations. Just you, your coffee, and the quiet hum of a space untouched by rivalry.
But admits that quietness, your phone suddenly buzzes against the table. You don’t look at it. You refuse to look at it. This is your break.
You narrow your eyes at the device like it personally betrayed you. You let out a heavy sigh, taking another sip from your drink as you fight the temptation.
Your jaw tightens, your grip on the cup hard enough to see white in your knuckles.
It’s probably nothing you think. A newsletter. A text from your mom asking if you’re eating well. A calander reminder, or a spam.
Either way, it can’t be no important than getting your alone time. The screen lights up faintly on the wood, the glow catching your peripheral.
Something seems different with this notification. You can’t explain why, but you feel the need to look at it.
Letting out a sigh of resignation, you set down your coffee cup and reach for your phone.
Slowly, you flip it back upright.
Your stomach drops. You never receive an email from him unless it was to chew your ear out, or something abrupt had come up.
You tap on the notification before your better judgement.
The email opens smoothly, the words clinical and impersonal as always.
Case 72-F: Divorce settlement & Custody
Assigned Counsel: Your name.
Assigned Counsel: Higurama.
Your grip on your phone tightens. Your heart practically on the ground now as you reread the email again.
You blink. You blink again.
You reread the line once more as if you were merely hallucinating from stress, but when the words don’t rearrange themselves you feel your shoulders tense.
Not opposing counsels. Not across the room.
A strange heat crawls up your neck. Frustration. Disbelief. Something sharper you can’t quite name. You reach for your coffee, hoping the brew can soothe the ache in your throat. You glance out the window again, but the sunlight feels different now. Less warm. More distant.
The thought repeats in your mind, plaguing your once peaceful atmosphere. After everything. After the losses. After the way he’s carved through your confidence piece by precise piece.
You should be irritated. You are irritated. And yet—
Beneath that irritation is something else. A flicker of challenge. Of curiosity. And an impending sense of something you know might change your life forever.
Your phone buzzes again. Your eyes flickering down to the notification.
You feel your soul actually jump out of your body.
Strategy meeting scheduled for tomorrow. 8:00 AM sharp.
There’s no greeting. No pretend pleasantries. Just straight to the case. Of course.
You feel that familiar irritation start to bubble in your chest, your grip hard enough to break the mug in your hand. You silently curse the universe for punishing you like this. Wondering what you could have possibly have done to anyone that would make them want to curse you like this.
You let out an incredulous laugh, well aware you probably look crazy giving your phone a death glare. You lean back, finishing the last bit of your coffee and let out a heavy sigh.
“So much for a break,” You murmur to yourself. Gathering your belongings and making sure to clean up after yourself. You leave a few spare bucks inside the tip jar, giving Mr. Mingee one last head scratch before you head out.
Stepping out, you let yourself take a deep breath, staring up at the sky. You feel something shift, and for the first time in forever, you’re not exactly sure how to plan for this.
Because this time, you don’t be standing across from him, but rather next to him.
And somehow that feels even more dangerous.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The next morning, you’re five minutes early. And a little bit more dressed up than usual. You tell yourself it’s professionalism. Not anticipation. Not the restless way you barely slept after reading that email. Just discipline. Besides, you can’t show him just how anxious you were about this meeting, best way to show your false confidence is by looking like it.
The conference room is quiet when you step inside. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in pale morning light, the city still stretching awake beneath a grey-blue sky. The long mahogany table sits untouched, polished to a near mirror finish. It’s cold, a subtle chill in the air that makes you shiver as you walk further inside.
You place your briefcase on the table. At one end. Not the head of the table. Just a seat with equal footing. You refuse to subconsciously concede territory. That’s too testosterone-y for you. You smooth your blazer, inhale once, steady.
The door opens exactly at 8:00 AM.
Your eyes roll back subtly, not turning immediately. You won’t give him that satisfaction. But like his arguments, his presence was heavy. You felt him before you could see him as he walked up, brushed beside you, his steps unhurried and calculated.
“Good morning,” he speaks up, his head inclined slightly.
To your frustration, he looks as he always does. Composed, neat, his suit and tie crisp with not a sight of a wrinkle. And much to your frustration, annoyingly handsome.
“I’d like to thank you for meeting me at this time,” his voice is steady, neutral as he sets his briefcase down opposite of you. He’s almost too casual, as if you haven’t spent the last month going back and forth, your words of defense at each others throat.
You swallow your pride and greet him with a polite smile. “It’s no problem,” you say as you gesture towards the seat in front of you. “Shall we?”
Higurama simply hums as he opens his briefcase, pulling out a singular file. He slides the file in front of you first, leaning back in his seat as he pulls out another copy for him to look at.
Opening the file up slowly, your eyes begin skimming at the words.
Case 72-F. Family Court. Custody dispute.
Primary petitioner: Mother.
Allegations: Emotional manipulation. Financial control. Questionable living conditions.
You exhale slowly, your shoulders tensing slightly as you read further into the case. Higurama, ever the observer, notices, but doesn’t say anything as he sorts through all the documents.
No medical documentation.
No formal findings of abuse.
On record it’s all clean. But after years of being in the law firm, you’ve taught yourself that even records and documents lie.
“You finished reviewiewing the complaint?” he asks quietly.
“It’s structured,” you reply. “Specific language. Not vague.”
“That strengthens credibility,” he says simply.
Footsteps approach. Both of you straighten slightly. Mr. Takeda steps in. Mid-thirties. Neutral suit. Well-groomed. Nothing remarkable at first glance. The kind of appearance that photographs well in court.
Higurama is first to stand as he reaches a hand out for the male. “Mr. Takeda,” he greets.
You follow after, a polite smile on your face.
“I’d like to introduce you to my partner and I,” he says as he gestures towards you.
Mr. Takeda smiles, turning his attention towards you as he reaches a hand out to shake yours. His hand lingers. You internally grimace as you gesture towards the seat between the two of you.
“Thank you for representing me,” he says, offering a measured smile.
Higurama follows suit, adjusting his tie as he sits back down, reaching for the file. “We’ll clarify several points before building our strategy.”
“You manage household finances?” Higurama asks.
“Joint accounts?” You ask as you pull out a notebook and your pen.
“Initially. I transitioned to separate oversight when spending became inconsistent.” You jot that down.
“Inconsistent how?” you ask.
“Unplanned purchases. Lack of budgeting.”
“Was access removed entirely?” you press.
“Limited,” he corrects. “Not removed.”
Higurama doesn’t interrupt. He lets silence do the work. Takeda fills it.
“It was temporary. For stability.”
You glance at the complaint again. The wording there was different. You move on.
“The petitioner claims you monitored her communications.” You lean back in your chair, legs crossed as you begin growing more comfortable in the process.
“I asked for transparency,” he replies evenly. “Trust requires openness.”
“Did you request passwords?” Higurama asks.
You note the phrasing. “At times,” you repeat.
You turn a page. “The school report mentions behavioral withdrawal in your son.”
Takeda sighs as if the information inconveniences him. Running a hand through his hair, his voice steady as he speaks. “Children react to divorce.”
You grimace at the cold tone, your brow furrowed slightly as you try to mask your indifference.
“Was this before or after the divorce?”
You glance over at Higurama. No commentary. He doesn’t look back, simply just staring at Taekeda as if he wasn’t feeling the same gut feeling you were having.
“Have you ever threatened custody during arguments?” Higurama asks.
Taekeda pauses briefly as if he was running back through all the arguments with his wife. “I reminded her that the court favored stability.”
“Which she lacked.” He finishes off cold and there’s a certain twitch in his eyes as he mentions his wife.
You notice that. You close your pen.
“Is there anything we should be aware of that’s not stated in the complaint?” You ask, your eyes narrowed slightly at him.
A standard question. Takeda’s gaze shifts between you and Higurama. Calculating.
The answer comes smoothly.
Higurama nods once. “Our defense will center on demonstrable stability: employment, residence, structured routine, documented involvement in education.”
Takeda relaxes slightly at that. A subtle curve of his lips that doesn’t mask his arrogance about how confident he is that he’ll win.
“And the emotional allegations?” You can’t help but ask.
“They lack substantiation,” Higurama replies before Takeda can. “Unless evidence is produced.”
Your eyes flicker over to him, his eyes already on you as he sets his pen down. Your brows furrow, your shoulders tense. You don’t argue, you bite your tongue, and lean back in your seat.
Takeda stands after another few procedural clarifications. “I trust your expertise,” he says.
“We rely on accuracy,” Higurama replies calmly. “If any information changes, you will inform us immediately.”
“Of course.” He says as the three of you exchange some last minute words and a quick tensed goodbye.
The door shuts behind him. Silence lingers.
Your leg bounces up and down as you glance up at him. “He’s careful,” you finally speak up, unable to hide any discrepancies you felt.
“Yes,” Higurama agrees, not batting an eye as he begins clearing the table.
“That doesn’t concern you?”
“No, and it shouldn’t concern you,” He says, finally lifting his gaze up to look at you. “Carefulness is common in litigation.”
You tap your pen lightly against the file. “The timeline in the school report and the separation date are close.”
You look at him. “You don’t think the allegations could escalate?”
“If they do,” he replies evenly, “we reassess based on evidence.”
You let out a small huff, standing up to your feet as you gather your things.
It’s always evidence with him. Never instinct.
You close the file, setting it neatly into your briefcase.
He gathers his documents with practiced precision.
“If documentation remains consistent,” he adds, “this is a straightforward custody defense.”
Straightforward. The word sits oddly with you. But nothing on paper contradicts it.
He stands. “We will prepare initial filings tomorrow.”
The tension between you isn’t explosive. It’s controlled. Familiar. Like standing across from him in court, except now the opposition isn’t each other. It’s uncertainty. When he leaves, you stay there for a moment longer, eyes on the closed door. On paper, the case it stable, Taekeda’s argument is calculated.
Legally defensible. Clean.
You don’t trust clean. Not anymore.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The first week, the meetings are strictly professional.
You arrive exactly 5 minutes early.
He arrives exactly on time.
Files aligned. Chairs across from each other. No small talk. Except for the occasional exchange of debrief.
It’s strictly professional, technical, and ethical.
And infuriating. You’ve lost track of how many hours of sleep you’ve lost to this man. And how many liters of coffee you’ve consumed.
“You’re overcomplicating it,” he says during your third strategy session, flipping through your annotated custody argument.
You huff, your gaze flickering towards him as you sit up in your seat. “I’m strengthening it.” You mutter, your voice steady.
“You’re adding unnecessary variables.”
“You’re removing context.” Your voice growing a bit more firmer.
He sets the file down with a heavy sigh. “Context is irrelevant if it cannot be substantiated.”
“And your version reads like a machine wrote it.” You mutter, arms crossed over your chest as you look away from him.
He almost scoffs at that, his brows furrowed slightly as he glances at you with a small frown. “It reads like it will hold up in court.” He says shaking his head at your child like demeanor
You exhale sharply and lean back in your chair.
There it is. That wall. Every single time.
You don’t know why it gets under your skin so much. Maybe because he’s rarely wrong. Maybe because he doesn’t even seem to enjoy being right. He just…is.
By the 5th meeting, you’ve stopped putting any effort into your looks, hair not up done in its usual bun, clothes a bit looser now, and your makeup lighter. The lack of sleep is evident and it’s infuriating that he doesn’t seem to be affected.
You’ve stopped trying to hide your impatience, stopped biting your tongue by your nth meeting.
“You’re not listening,” you say flatly, closing the file with a bit more force than necessary.
“I am,” he replies calmly. His face looks real punchable right now.
“No. You’re waiting to disagree.” A pause.
“You haven’t agreed with me once.”
“I have not encountered a statement requiring agreement.”
You stare at him. You’re sure you’ve probably grown crows feet by now as many times as you’ve stared daggers at this man. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you are emotional,” he replies evenly.
Your jaw tightens. “It involves a child.”
“It involves custody law.” He counteracts.
You stand abruptly, pacing once before catching yourself. “You don’t think that matters?”
He watches you, gaze steady. Something in his eyes flicker. “It matters,” he says. “It simply does not alter statute.”
You sigh, sitting back down as you shake your head. You say nothing more. Neither does he. And once again the two of you fall into that silent rhythm. This time there’s no small brief of exchange, only the tensed passing of papers and files, the slightest brush of the hand that makes you feel a lot more than you want.
At the end of the consultation, it’s 12pm once again. Right on time as always. The two of you say your short goodbyes and exchange your schedules to fit another meeting in.
When you finally return home, your feet drag down your hallway and towards your bedroom where you don’t even bother to get un-ready for bed. You plop facedown, letting out a small groan of frustration into your pillow. You roll over, starfishing on your sheets as you kick off your shoes.
Silence fills your room, other than the soft hum of your fan. As much as you’d like to go to bed, your mind plagues you of him.
No matter how hard you try, try to not let everything about him bother you, he lives in your mind. Picking at every little thing you do. And even worse, he haunts your dreams.
You tell yourself it’s just because of close proximity. On top of the stress, the lack of sleep, and the fact that he’s the only person you see consistently in your schedule, even more now than Ichiji lately.
Despite how hard you force yourself not to, it’s inevitable. Waking up drenched in sweat, your face warm and that familiar warmth between your legs, you groan and throw the pillow over your face, mentally degrading yourself for being such a touched starved pervert.
You rub your face, sitting up in your bed, glancing down at yourself. You look over at your alarm clock. Your eyes widen when you realized you’ve overslept.
9am. 4 hours way over then you usually have.
You’ve really fallen out of balance here.
Quickly, you dive out of bed, running to your bathroom as you slip off your clothes along the way. Multitasking brushing your teeth and changing is not for the faint of hearts as you try to slip on your shoes. Finally you’re decently put together, your briefcase in your hand as you rush out of the door.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
You make it to the conference room a hour and a half after the usual scheduled time. Standing outside of the room, you take a deep breath, ready for the ridicule you were about to face. You steel yourself, opening the door slowly.
To your surprise, not really, Higurama’s still here, files and documents scattered around the table. You had figured he would’ve left by now. He glances up when he realizes you’re here and for a split second, something flashes across his face.
Not annoyance, but rather, relief.
It’s gone just as quickly, replaced with that usual composure he held.
“You’re late,” he says evenly.
No edge. No mockery. No bite. Just stating fact.
“I’m aware,” you reply, stepping inside and closing the door behind you a little too carefully. You don’t offer an excuse. You don’t have one that doesn’t sound weak.
Not to court. Not to meetings. Not to anything. Yet here you are.
He watches you as you set your bag down, fingers flexing slightly like you’re bracing for impact.
“I assumed something had occurred,” he says.
“You did not respond to the revised draft I sent this morning.”
You hadn’t seen it. Your stomach twists. You swallow your pride. “I overslept,” you admit quietly.
The words feel foreign in your mouth.
You drop into your usual chair, avoiding his eyes. “It happens.”
“It does not,” he corrects automatically.
You exhale sharply through your nose, brows finding their usual place on your face any time you’re around him. “Are you going to cross-examine me or can we move on?”
“I was not aware you were capable of it.”
There’s no mockery in his voice. If anything, there’s something closer to… curiosity.
You fold your arms. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“You are precise,” he replies. “Consistent.”
The quiet that follows isn’t judgmental. It’s observational.
You busy yourself pulling out the necessary files, reading through that revised draft he sent, pretending your pulse isn’t slightly off. You don’t tell him that you fell asleep later than you meant to. That your mind wouldn’t shut off. That every time you drifted, his face plagued your dreams.
“That will not affect preparation,” you say firmly.
“Has anyone told you sound highly invasive sometimes?” You speak up, eyes flickering up towards him.
He doesn’t look at you. “Invasive? I like to call it practical.”
You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”
“You arrived,” he says simply.
It takes you a second to process that.
You falter slightly, your grip on your pen loosening slightly. “You thought I wouldn’t be?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. The silence stretches.
“I considered the possibility,” he says at last.
Your irritation flickers. “Because I was late once?”
“Because you have been… unsettled.”
That catches you off guard. “Unsettled?”
“You are more reactive during this case than usual,” he says calmly. “Your arguments are sharper. Less filtered.”
Your jaw tightens, your gaze diverting away and back towards the papers in front of you. “Maybe I care.”
The words land heavier than they should. He straightens a stack of papers, aligning the corners.
“I did not interpret your absence as incompetence,” he continues. “Merely deviation.”
You huff softly. “That’s comforting.”
“It was not intended to be.”
A beat. Then, more quietly—
“I would have rescheduled if necessary.”
You look at him fully now. “You would have?”
No hesitation. No performance. Just simple certainty. Your chest feels strange for a moment. Tight and warm at the same time.
“That’s… unnecessary,” you say quickly.
He slides a document toward you. “The father’s financial advisor responded. We’ve got all records of every financial transaction made.”
“Including both parties?” You question with a tilt of your head, your hand reaching out for the document as your eyes begin to skim through the paper.
“Yes,” he replies. “Joint accounts. Individual holdings. Investment portfolios. The advisor was thorough.”
You hum quietly, scanning the columns of numbers. Dates. Transfers. Account numbers. Your finger trails down the page slowly. You’re too focused on the papers to notice the way Higurama shifts. Your pen moves steadily across the margins, brows drawn in concentration, lips pressing together every time a number refuses to align. You don’t look up once.
Across the table, he stops reading. And watches.
There’s something different about you. Not that he’s watching you. But Higurama’s observant. Of course he notices how every time the two of you meet, you seem less..how does he put it into words?
Your hair isn’t in that usual bun you had it in during the first few meetings. The clothes you wear are a little looser.
Higurama’s eyes shift up to your face. His eyes zoom in on the slight bags under your eyes. Something in his chest stirs. This case was taking quite a toll on you.
“Thorough doesn’t always mean complete,” you suddenly speak up.
Higurama doesn’t immediately counter. Instead, he shifts his chair slightly closer, angling the document so he can see where your gaze has stalled.
You tap the margin lightly. “Here. These transfers.”
“Every single one ends clean. Even amounts. No service fees. No fractional interest carryover.” You glance up at him. “Real transfers are messy.”
Only then do you realize how much closer Higurama is to you, his shoulder brushes yours lightly as he reads the lines again.
You gulp, pretending not to notice the way your heart beats. Or how once cool room has gone up in heat.
“They could have been manually adjusted.” He says, his eyes meeting yours for a fraction of a second.
“They could have,” you agree. “But consistently? Across six separate transactions?”
Silence stretches between you — not combative, but analytical. He leans in slightly more, close enough that you can feel the faint warmth of his sleeve near your arm.
“The timestamps,” he says quietly.
You follow his gaze. “All processed within a fifteen-minute window,” you murmur.
You look at him. He looks at you.
“That’s not someone managing personal finances,” you say. “That’s someone consolidating.”
“For what purpose?” he asks.
The word hangs there. He doesn’t dismiss it. Doesn’t immediately demand substantiation.
Instead, he nods once. “Cross-reference the property acquisition date.”
You flip to the secondary report quickly, comparing timelines.
“Three days later,” you confirm.
His jaw tightens slightly, thoughtful rather than tense.
“That suggests anticipation,” he says.
“Or foreknowledge,” you add.
A quiet understanding settles between you.
He takes the document back briefly, marking a notation in the margin before sliding it to you again.
“We request supplementary records from the advisor,” he says. “Raw statements. Not summaries.”
“You’re not going to argue that this is circumstantial?”
“It is circumstantial,” he replies evenly. “But it establishes a pattern worth pursuing.” There’s no resistance in his tone.
No instinct to undercut. Just alignment.
You nod slowly. “If he was moving assets before filing, that changes the posture of the defense.”
“And if the court sees intentional concealment—”
“It compromises credibility.”
You sit back slightly, processing.
“You believed me,” you say before you can stop yourself, a subtle smile on your lips you don’t realize you have.
His pen stills. “About what?”
“That something was off.”
Not begrudging. Not reluctant. Just honest.
Your chest tightens in a way that feels unfamiliar.
“You wouldn’t two weeks ago,” you point out.
“Two weeks ago,” he replies, meeting your gaze steadily, “I would not have—” He pauses.
Not searching for the right legal term. Searching for the right truth.
“I would not have allowed your instinct to influence my approach.”
The words are careful. Precise. Honest.
You hold his gaze. “And now?”
His pen lowers slowly to the table.
“Now,” he says, quieter than before, “I look for what you’re looking at.”
The room feels still. You hadn’t realized how close you were leaning in until you feel the edge of the table press faintly into your forearms.
“That’s new,” you murmur.
No defensiveness. No detachment. Just acknowledgement.
Your pulse shifts in a way that has nothing to do with the case.
“You trust me,” you say, softer this time. Not teasing. Not accusing.
Understanding. His eyes don’t waver.
“I respect your judgment,” he corrects. But there’s something in his tone that makes the distinction feel thin.
A quiet hum fills the space between you — the fluorescent lights, the storm outside, the air conditioning — but it all feels distant compared to the weight of his gaze. You become suddenly aware of how close you’re sitting. Of how his hand is still resting near yours on the table. Of how he hasn’t looked away.
“And that’s enough?” You murmur.
“For now,” he replies. For now.
It isn’t a boundary. It isn’t an invitation. It’s a promise of progression. The kind that doesn’t rush.
You break eye contact first, clearing your throat lightly as you glance back down at the documents.
“Then let’s make sure I’m right,” you say, steadying yourself.
A faint, almost imperceptible shift touches his expression — not quite a smile. But close.
And this time, when your shoulders brush as you lean over the same page—
Neither of you moves away.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Woo guys this one took a little longer to write out. But I can’t believe just how much attention my first chapter has gotten. Thank you guys for reading and I hope you guys enjoy this one! When I say slow burn im talking about SLOW BURN. Stay tuned for the next chapter ;p
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