✮⋆˙. 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. you'd been raving about it for weeks, in hopes that maybe this could be it, that this could be the man of your dreams...or not. After clocking out for the night, your law partner finds you outside by a flower vendor, dressed in your finest. He's pretty curious as to why though when you should be accompanied by another...
warnings: wc: 3.7k ! higuruma hiromi x black!fem reader, black!fem lawyer, friend!hiromi, fluff, intimacy, slight angst but comfort in the end, failed date, the act of being stood up, making out, law partners, friends to lovers.
𝒜ℱ𝒯ℰℛ three hours of sitting alone at the restaurant, the reality of being stood up finally settled in. You left the table and began walking aimlessly, eventually stopping at a flower stand a few blocks away. The city was loud, frantic with the constant drone of idling engines, the overlapping conversations from nearby outdoor seating, and the sharp bark of a dog created a dense wall of ambient noise. Though the evening humidity was high, the warm air pressing against your skin, it did little to alleviate the frustration tightening your chest.
You looked over the buckets of flowers, thinking that buying a bouquet might help brighten your mood. It was a pragmatic attempt to salvage the evening—a small, tangible act to counteract the feeling of wasted time and effort.
The stand was positioned directly beneath a flickering streetlight that cast a harsh, rhythmic glow over the display. You scanned the rows of flora, your hand hovering over the various arrangements without making contact. Nearby, the vendor worked with efficiency, trimming stems and stripping thorns with a pair of rusted shears. His movements were rhythmic and preciseー a sharp contrast to the restless energy you felt. You watched him, envying the simplicity of his task. You wanted something to occupy your hands so you wouldn't feel so conspicuously alone in your fuchsia, corseted dress—a garment designed for an audience that never arrived.
You compared the options: the deep reds of the roses against the stark, clinical white of the lilies. You considered how they would look in your apartment, calculating whether their scent would be enough to neutralize the sterile silence of a night spent alone. You were still weighing the cost and aesthetic value of the selection when a voice behind you interrupted your thoughts.
"What are you doing out here?"
The voice was low, controlled, and immediately recognizable. They spoke softly at first, almost uncertain, like the speaker wasn’t sure if they should interrupt. The sound cut through the noise of the street, familiar enough to make you turn before you even thought.
There — still dressed in his professional attire—a dark, well-tailored suit—though he had made adjustments to the heat by loosening his tie and unfastening the top button of his shirt. He stood with his usual heavy posture, his briefcase gripped in one hand, looking every bit the man who had just finished a twelve-hour shift at the firm. A few strands of black hair had escaped his normally disciplined styling, falling over his forehead. You caught a faint whiff of his cologne mixed with city air. He looked tired but composed, carrying the day’s weight quietly. His expression softened when his gaze landed on you.
You could tell he was reading the situation before he spoke, trying to figure out what brought you out here.
And for a moment, the disappointment sitting heavy in your chest eases.
He slowly stops a few steps away, careful not to intrude. “I thought you had plans tonight,” he added. His tone lacked judgment, carrying only direct concern. His gaze drops briefly to your dress before returning to your eyes.
"I did…" you replied, forcing a short, dry laugh that didn't quite mask the irritation. "Until I realized I was being stood up.” You then gesture vaguely down the street, toward the restaurant. “I waited…but he never showed.”
You attempted a casual smile, but it was stiff
And Higuruma noticed. He always did. He’s heard you talk about this date for weeks, He had seen the preparation, the uncharacteristic nervousness, and the way you had joked about your own expectations. Now, he was seeing the failure of those expectations.
Seeing you deflated made his expression shift. A faint crease between his brows deepens, and his mouth tightens before he speaks. “I’m sorry he did that.” The words are simple, but they land heavier than they should. His tone isn’t pitying but it does make you feel seen.
"It's fine," you shrugged, shifting your weight. "Probably for the best."
You tried to dismiss the topic, but Higuruma remained stationary, his gaze lingering on the details of your appearance — hair pulled back neatly, lilies tucked into the bun. The corset dress you chose for the date was a deep fuchsia that moved softly when the breeze passed by, it fitted you perfectly in all the right places, emphasizing the bust of your breast and the curve of your hips. You looked beautiful in every way, and he knew it. Though, he doesn’t say it. He just stands there, quiet, taking in the details like he’s memorizing them.
His eyes shifted to the corner of the stall, catching the exact moment your gaze drifted toward a specific bouquet of vibrant crimson blooms. You had failed to realize he'd noticed that fleeting glance and without hesitation, he stepped toward the vendor, pulled his wallet from his pocket, and slid a bill across the counter. “When the man began reaching for change, Higuruma gave a subtle wave of his hand. "Keep it," he muttered.
When he turned back, the flowers were already in his hand, held out to you.
He waited until you took the bouquet, his hands then disappearing into his pockets as he watched the surprise register on your face. His gaze followed the way you held the blooms close to your chest, the paper crinkling softly between your fingers — the only sound in the quiet that had settled between you. As you looked down at the paper-wrapped stems, the tension in your frame finally began to dissipate.
For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just observed you glaring at the petals, blinking back the surprise at his gesture. The smile came slowly, tugging at the corners of your mouth until it was full and genuine.
When your eyes finally met his, he didn’t look away or try to fill the silence with small talk. Instead, he cuts the distance between you, offering a bent arm your way—a quiet invitation. “If you’re not too bummed out,” he said softly, “I know a place nearby. Good wine, quiet atmosphere. You might like it.”
You looked at him—really looked at him—in the uneven light of the street. You had spent years working alongside this man, navigating complex filings and grueling trials. You knew his habits, his work ethic, and his dry sense of humor. But at this moment, the professional boundaries felt thinner than usual. The way he was looking at you wasn't just the look of a concerned colleague. It was focused, intentionally warm, and entirely present.
"Hiromi," you said, your voice regaining its usual spark as you used his given name. "Are you asking me out on a date?”
He gives a small, knowing smile. “If you think I’m good company, and can get your mind off that asshole, then yes. I’m asking you out.”
You reached out, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow. The wool of his suit was cool under your touch. "Such a gentleman, Mr. Higuruma," you teased as you fell into step beside him.
“Only when the situation warrants it,” he replied, adjusting his pace to match yours as you stepped away.
The walk to the wine bar unfolded at an easy, deliberate pace. He was mindful of your heels, shortening his long stride without a word until your steps fell in sync. He kept to the outside of the sidewalk, a quiet barrier between you and the hum of passing traffic.
Gradually, the tension of the day began to slip from your shoulders.You found yourself talking — about the chaos at the firm, the client who had called five times before noon, and the exhaustion of trying to keep up with a schedule that felt designed to drain you.
He didn't offer empty platitudes or try to pivot the conversation to his own day. He simply just listened, his attention locked on you. Nodding occasionally to show he was following the thread of your frustration. His presence was grounding. the physical contact feeling like an anchor with your arm looped through his, the rough wool of his suit jacket brushing against your skin.
As you passed a small neighborhood park, the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass mingled with the faint floral notes of the bouquet you carried. He fell silent for a moment, the city noise fading into the background as he caught another trace of your perfume — subtle, lingering, and unexpectedly intoxicating.
He’d spent years looking at you across mahogany desks and stacks of legal briefs, admiring your mind and your sharp instinct for the law. But seeing you now, dressed in silk and framed by the soft, evening shadows of the city, made those professional boundaries feel incredibly thin.
You caught him watching you from the corner of your eye, his gaze lingering on the soft contrast of your features — the sweep of long lashes against your cheekbones, the warm glow of your skin, the faint cherry sheen of your lips. There was something quietly intent in the way he looked at you, as if memorizing a canvas. He didn’t look away immediately. Instead, he let the moment stretch, causing a surge of heat to rise in your cheeks.
"You're staring, Hiromi," you teased, your voice a little softer than usual.
He exhaled a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. "Can you blame me?"
You shook your head, trying to maintain your composure. "You're supposed to be subtle about it. We are professionals, after all."
He glanced down at the pavement for a second, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth before he looked back at you. "I was trying to be subtle. You just happened to catch me."
"You're terrible at hiding things," you murmured, looking ahead so he wouldn't see how much the comment affected you.
“Maybe I don’t want to hide it,” he said.
The bluntness of his words broke the easy rhythm between you, leaving a charged stillness in its place. You looked up at him, and for a moment, the city seemed to fall away — sirens fading, the low rumble of the subway dissolving beneath the grates. All that remained was the click of your heels against the concrete and the soft rustle of paper around your flowers. The air felt suspended, your breath catching as the weight of his gaze settled on you.
When you reached the wine bar — a discreet spot with wrought-iron fixtures and windows fogged by the warmth inside — Higuruma opened the door and held it for you. His hand found the small of your back, a light, guiding touch that carried a quiet sense of protection. Inside, the air was rich with the scent of aged oak and dark fruit. The lighting glowed low and golden, cast by thick candles flickering on every table. He led you to a secluded corner near the window, where the streetlights outside shimmered faintly through the glass.
You carefully placed the bouquet on the empty chair beside you, the crimson paper crinkling softly in the quiet booth. Across from you, Higuruma settled into the leather seat, leaning back as he loosened his tie another notch. In the amber glow of the bar, the rigid tension he usually carried in his shoulders finally seemed to dissolve. A comfortable silence settled between you—a shared breath of relief after a long day.
When the waiter arrived with a cheerful grin, asking what special occasion brought you in, you offered a small smile and deferred to Higuruma. He took the lead with practiced ease, ordering a bottle of wine and a few appetizers to start. As the waiter disappeared into the shadows of the bar, Higuruma found himself leaning back, his eyes tracing your silhouette.
You were looking out the window, arms crossed over the table with a posture that still held a trace of the day’s lingering armor. The city’s night lights washed over you, catching the twinkle in your eyes as you watched the world rush by. The natural glow of the evening illuminated the sharp, elegant lines of your profile, casting the deep warmth of your skin in a soft, cinematic light.
Watching you, a quiet frustration stirred beneath his calm exterior. He couldn't wrap his mind around the lack of logic in your earlier disappointment; why anyone would fail to show up for a woman like you was a mystery he couldn't solve. To him, you weren't just a partner or a friend, you were a rare combination of sharp intellect and a heart that didn't flinch in the face of adversity. You were brave, possessing a quiet strength and a heart of gold that he had seen you extend to others time and time again. You were beautiful and brilliant. And in that moment, sitting in the dim light of the wine bar, he realized he was more than happy to be the one who actually stayed.
"You deserve better than someone who doesn’t show up," he said quietly, his voice full of genuine sincerity.
"Maybe," you said, turning to look at him across the table. A small smile curls at your lips as you ponder for a moment. "But, I think the night turned out okay anyway."
Without a word, Higuruma nodded. His gaze held steady as he reached across the table, fingers brushing lightly against your skin as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The motion was deliberate yet unforced, so natural it almost felt instinctive. The brief contact sent a quiet shiver through you — your breath catching, pulse quickening — but you didn’t move. Even after his hand withdrew, the warmth lingered. He looked as though he hadn’t planned the gesture, yet there was no trace of regret in his expression either. You glanced down at the table, trying to steady yourself, but his eyes never left you.
The conversation flowed easily, the kind that didn’t require effort or pretense. You moved through a bottle of wine, drifting between topics — dissecting the flaws of past trials, trading the kind of dark humor that only years in the legal field could produce, and wandering into subjects far removed from work. He leaned in when you spoke, his eyes steady on yours. Each time you laughed, he seemed to memorize the sound, his usual composure softened into quiet, attentive warmth.
This didn’t feel like the awkwardness of a first date. It felt like a shift — a natural evolution of something long established. The transition from colleagues to whatever this was didn’t need explanation or performance. The history you shared — late nights at the firm, mutual respect, the unspoken understanding of long hours and hard cases — had already built the bridge. This new closeness simply just felt earned.
By the time the bottle was nearly empty, you’d stopped trying to maintain your professional distance. The earlier frustration of being stood up had dissolved completely, replaced by something lighter — genuine ease, even happiness. You found yourself leaning toward him, posture relaxed, smiles coming more freely. The warmth in your cheeks was a mix of the wine and the intensity of his focus.
Each time his fingers brushed yours near the center of the table, a spark of nerves shot through you — sharp, fleeting, but impossible to ignore. It was strange, almost disarming, to feel this transparent with him, yet you didn’t pull away. His voice had softened, lower and more personal than you’d ever heard it in a courtroom. And as you sat there in the dim, golden light of the wine bar, you realized the night had become something you weren’t ready to leave behind.
The walk back to your building was quiet. The city’s usual chaos had softened into a low hum — the distant hiss of tires on damp pavement, the faint buzz of streetlights overhead. Hiromi walked close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed, his suit jacket draped over one arm and his tie long gone. Neither of you spoke for a while, but the silence wasn’t awkward. It carried its own kind of meaning — steady and unspoken.
When you reach your loft complex, the glow from the lobby light spills across the sidewalk. You stop at the door, turning toward him with the bouquet still in your hands. “Thank you,” you say quietly. “For tonight. For everything…I really needed it.”
He looks at you for a moment, that faint smile tugging at his mouth. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, voice low and steady. “I didn’t mind it at all.”
The silence returned, stretching between you until it felt thick with anticipation. You looked down at your keys, turning the metal over in your hand to burn off the sudden surge of nervous energy. It was a familiar, fluttering tension in your stomach, born from the realization that the night’s professional boundaries had long since dissolved.
Hiromi noticed the way you fidget. Always possessing the ability to read the room, especially when the room was just the two of you. He let out a quiet, warm chuckle and stepped into your space. His hand reached up with steady assurance, placing a single finger beneath your chin to gently tilt your face upward. You froze as your gaze met hisーdark, searching, and intensely focused, as if he were cataloging every flicker of emotion on your face. He didn't rush his actions but waited, giving you every opportunity to pull back.
But you don’t. Allowing him to finally lean in, his movements gentle and deliberate. Your breath hitches, caught in the back of your throat as the distance between you vanishes.
His lips meet yours with a soft, cautious pressure. It began as an inquiry—unhurried and careful—testing the waters of a transition he clearly didn't take lightly. But as the reality of the contact set in, the world narrowed down to the heat of his skin and the faint, lingering taste of the red wine you’d shared. The bouquet in your hand became an afterthought; your grip loosening until the flowers slipped through your fingers, hitting the pavement with a muted, floral thud.
You didn't care. Your hands moved instinctively, finding their way into the hair at the nape of his neck. The kiss deepened instantly, losing its cautious edge and becoming something much more urgent and hungrier. A low, jagged sound vibration started in his throat when you pulled him closer, a raw response to your touch that seemed to break his composure.
He moved with swift motion, his body pressing firmly against yours as he guided you back against the heavy door of the loft. One hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you flush against the solid line of his frame. While the other hand cupped your jaw, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone with a mix of possessive heat and surprising tenderness. He kissed you with slow, sweeping intensity, a cumulative release of months—perhaps years—of repressed professional distance.
The air between you grew heavy and electric. His hand drifted downward, sliding through the slit of your fuchsia dress to find the bare skin of your thigh. The heat of his palm against your leg sent a jolt through you, your own breath hitching into a small, broken moan that he swallowed greedily.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. He rests his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged and heavy. He stays there for a moment, barricading you against the door with his frame, the scent of his sandalwood cologne and the cool night air swirling between you. Neither of you spoke. The weight of the moment was heavier now, a silent agreement that things could never return to exactly how they were before.
When your eyes flutter open, he’s already watching you — pupils wide, gaze steady and unreadable. His thumb lifts, tracing the curve of your lower lip, slow and deliberate, smearing the faint sheen of gloss left behind. The touch is light but charged, lingering just long enough to make your breath catch. His gaze lingers, soaking in the moment, like he’s trying to decide whether to apologize or let it stand.
But you beat him to it, whispering, “You didn’t have to do that.” your voice trembling slightly as you tried to find your footing.
“I know,” he said, his voice a rough, quiet rasp. “But… I’ve wanted to… for a long time.”
You nodded, leaning back into the door to catch your breath. He stepped back just enough to give you space, though his hand lingered on your arm for a second before dropping to his side. The atmosphere was charged, the professional veneer gone, replaced by a raw, mutual understanding.
He looked down at the fallen flowers, bent over to retrieve them, and handed them back to you. The petals were a bit tousled, but the colors were still vibrant. “You dropped these,” he said, his voice softening.
“Guess I got distracted,” you admitted playfully, your fingers brushing his as you took the stems.
He chuckled, a genuine, low sound that vibrated in the quiet street. “Understandable.”
For a moment, you both just stood there, the reality of the workday tomorrow looming but feeling remarkably unimportant. He straightened his jacket and gave a small, formal nod toward the door, reverting slightly to the steady man you knew, though the warmth in his eyes remained. “You should get some rest. We both have a long day ahead of us.”
“Yeah,” you agreed, a soft smile playing on your lips. “You too, Hiromi.”
He hesitated for a second, as if he had more to say, but he settled for a final, thoughtful nod before turning to walk away. You stayed by the door, watching his tall figure move down the sidewalk until he disappeared around the corner.
Stepping inside the lobby, the scent of the crushed lilies and roses followed you into the elevator. When you finally enter your loft, you set the bouquet on the counter, your fingers lingering on the petals.
The disappointment of the early evening had been entirely overwritten. The night wasn't perfect, and the morning would bring the complexities of navigating a new dynamic at the firm, but as you locked the door, you felt a lightness you hadn't expected. You catch yourself smiling again, quietly, before locking the door behind you.
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | @kimmylikesthemall @jellywrites1218 @amethyst09 @snore-3 @aizawash0e - if you're interested in joining the taglist, comment down below!
©𝗺𝘁𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘂𝗱𝘀 ─ 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅, 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒, 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 ─ 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡
