"personal space" : ̗̀➛
first higuruma fic!! fluff with my sexy sleep deprived attorney, the man is losing it
second part
hiromi higuruma x secretary!reader
Synopsis: you're the perfect hire. attentive, engaging, sweet, and intelligent. you enliven hiromi's stuffy little office without even trying. you handle things before he can even think to tell you to get them done. you're incredible... save for the fact that you can't for the life of you comprehend what it means to give him some personal space.
to sum it up: you are a subconsciously touchy and clingy person. you don't mean to throw your handsome boss off his game, you just can't help but to gravitate toward human warmth!
WC: 7,766
Warning(s): nothing really, you're stressing the poor man out even more (but it's good for him)
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Hiromi is a profoundly intentional man.
Every act and decision in his life is calculated, as he was trained to think with incredible precision, with swiftness, with efficiency. He takes his coffee black every morning when the sun just begins to peak over the horizon.
He annotates every case he is working on, first, with red pen, then back over again with yellow, orange, and green highlighter by noon, alternating between each hue in accordance with the material emphasized.
At the end of the day, when patience has worn thin, and aggravation with the difficulties of the legal system as settled into the hypertension tensing his neck, his strained eyes habitually fly to Shimizu's desk, and he counts the pens in her pencil holder, the ridges in the edge of her desk, the amount of time she taps her foot restlessly against her chair like routine, then he’s back to work. Back to focusing.
Justice remains the motivation in a world that favors deception, and the burden falls to him to fight back, to combat manipulation, and crime. The world's issues never cease, therefore, neither does Higuruma. Sleep comes rarely, and sanity even less so, but he's done this for so long it practically feels normal. Shimizu claims it's not.
Nevertheless, intentionality is Hiromi's motto. He lives it. He breathes it. There is no ambition, no justice, no integrity without tireless work, without precision and routine and carefully thought out, yet incredibly crammed, days and nights in the office. Lack of care and intention can only lead to a road of failure, a road that fosters malfunction and oppression, that swallows up any hope for a better life and future for the wrongfully accused.
Hiromi can not afford to operate any other way.
Which is why you pose such a problem to him.
The inky haired man would like to tell himself that he does not recall the exact day you first arrived at the office to settle into your position as the office receptionist and intake specialist. As a man who practices such precision and observation in daily life, however, he can not deny the fact that he has the exact date and time of day you first walked in and shook his hand tight engrained in his damn brain.
Hiromi is a private attorney, therefore, his office isn't too big. It holds a few cubicles for himself, his assistant, and other clerks and accountants, but otherwise, it is a very intimate space. In contrast to a public attorney's office, funded by the government, his space is more cozy, a little cramped, but close-knitted.
When he was searching for a new receptionist a year or so back, he needed someone who could serve as the friendly face and voice of his firm that he did not have the ability to present himself. It is not that Hiromi is necessarily unfriendly, but his countenance is tightly wound, cautious, deliberate. 90% of the time, he appears more exhausted and drab than he does enthusiastic and sociable. In moments where he does feel the latter, it only shows in the smallest ghost of a smile formed by the tight pressing of bowed lips.
Despite being a man of the people, he's not really a people person. As in, he's not good with easing clients with tone or presence, but with facts.
His last receptionist had been with him for quite some time, but fell severely ill one day and took permanent leave to heal. Despite Hiromi's loyalty to his team, he admits that her demeanor closely matched his. She was older, maybe mid sixties, and she would pick up the phone with sloth-like urgency and drone into the speaker hoarsely - polite, but oh so emotionless.
Shimizu suggested a brighter replacement, someone to bring back a bit more color to their world. And you fulfilled those requirements with flying... well, colors.
You stepped into his space with an unshakable confidence, a warm smile that does not align with dread that swirls in Hiromi's chest day in and day out, a happiness and implied innocence that rivals the world you inhabit. Hiromi greets all his team members the same, whether new or old. Tight clasps of hands, a nod of acknowledgement and appreciation, a soulless rundown of their responsibilities and expectations.
Intention.
But when he sees you for the first time, adorned in a navy pencil dress that touches your knees, black heels that click eagerly against the floor, your professionality accentuated with a breathless grin and shining eyes, intentionality staggers. He almost hesitates, buffers, when he reaches to clasp your hand as a formality and your warm palm folds against his, your dainty hand small and sweet in his grasp.
You introduce yourself with a smooth airiness in your syrupy voice, (e/c) hues locked onto his with no trace of anxiety or uncertainty. You show him, within just a few seconds of meeting, that you are where you want to be, and you will enter your role with class, dedication, and a strong desire to support.
Hiromi swallows thickly, shaking your hand a second too long before releasing it, fingers twitching momentarily at his side before sliding into his slacks pocket. Your touch still buzzes throughout his palm. He finds himself giving another short nod again, lips set in a flat line, before he clears his throat and shows you around, giving you the rundown of where everything is located, what he expects of you, and how you will contribute to his small family.
You're a perfect fit. You're perceptive, you listen, you take marvelous notes, but there's one issue Hiromi has with you that he notices from the get go.
He first notices when he's showing you around, and you're waving at the members you pass after Hiromi's curt introductions, heavy eyes staring forward. It starts with the invasion of your perfume. Something sugary, but not vibrant. It's calm, almost suave, buttery and warm and practically luxurious. Hints of vanilla, dashes of cinnamon.
You smell intoxicating.
The scent jumbles his brain, and for the first time in Hiromi's life, he finds himself struggling to remember what he is prepared to say and show you next, stalling to find the forgotten thoughts with a thumb and index finger brushing his chin. In reality, he only stumbles for a split second, but in his mind, it feels and sounds like an eternity.
He finds that you smell so strong because you're standing so damn close to him. He can feel the heat of your chest radiating against the back of his shoulder as you follow him around closely, inches away from clinging to the outer layer of his tailored blazer, which apparently is not thick enough to block out the sensation of you.
When you speak, making an observation or asking a question, the vibrations of your voice settle just below his ear, the warmth of your breath fanning the sliver of his neck between the tight cuff of his collar and the wavy strands of silky hair that stop just above there.
He does not plan his bodily reaction, the goosebumps that dash over his skin, the spike in his heart. It all just happens, and he wonders if you notice. He wonders if you're doing it on purpose.
He turns over his shoulder to glance back at you, acting as though he is checking to make sure you are still on track with him and keeping up, but what he is really doing is studying you briefly. Tired eyes fly over your face, searching for any tell of mischief or seduction, but instead, he is met with your eyes again and a calm smile of assurance, showing that you are still engaged, that you aren't at all thinking about how close you are to him.
Hiromi turns back around and goes on, monotonously rambling, and decides to brush it off as your underlying nerves. As a subconscious human desire for closeness and familiarity in a foreign space.
After all, you'll be practically glued to the front desk all day. With your skills, prowess, and kindness, a perfect fit for his firm, your little lack of personal space upon first meeting should not pose as a severe complication in the future.
You should not interfere with his daily life, for nothing is strong enough to deter his efficiency and intentionality. Not even the lacking personal space of his pretty new information specialist.
Consequently, Hiromi is damn near distraught when not only your lack of personal space proves to be a recurring habit of yours, but when it significantly impacts his proficiency.
The distant sound of you picking up the telephone carries through the small office, and the melodious chirp of your voice greeting potential clients falls comfortably on his team's ears.
"Higuruma Law, how may I help you today?" you greet kindly, the smile evident in your voice alone from down the hall. Hiromi is certain that if his life had somehow panned out differently, if he was seeking representation after having been wronged by the legal system, your voice would immediately put him at ease.
The office feels almost safer with your presence. You bring in little treats like donuts and coffee almost every morning, and you're always the first one there to greet everyone with a grin on your beautiful face and the scent of pastries swirling throughout the space, intermingling with your perfect perfume.
And when you see Hiromi, you always light up more. Out of respect or obligation, Hiromi is not sure. For once in his life, he just can't name your intentions, but the way you perk up with the offer of a second black coffee and some notes from early calls, his name sweet on your lips - "Good morning, Mr. Higumura! How are you this morning? Get any sleep last night?" - has him almost forgoing the urge to analyze you, as his first instinct is to just sink into your optimism and sweetness.
And if all of that isn't bad enough, the true complications lie in moments where you have to depart from the front desk to deliver new information to him.
He'll hear your heels clicking for a mile away, your scent wafting into his shared space with Shimizu before you even enter the room. When you do, you're a sight for sore eyes. Hair pinned up, new tight, yet modest dress accentuating the curves of your body, the fabric tightly stretching over your thighs as you walk toward him with a calm smile and arms full of papers. You'll greet his brunette assistant first, the two of you exchanging smiles and a brush of her shoulder as she twirls in her chair, then you head straight to Hiromi.
His eyes are already on you. They have been since you walked through the door.
And then you come closer with a breathless 'hi' as you settle the papers into a neat stack beside him on his desk. Hiromi fights the twitch of his eye as his hues jump from you down to the stack before him, your hands pressed to the surface. Instead of moving away, you lean in close. You hover directly behind his chair as he shifts to interlace his fingers over his mouth, elbows to his desk as he looks over the notes you present him, your necklace dangling right next to the side of his face. You crane over him, hand gripping the back of his chair, and your voice soothingly details each note you present him as he hunches over, trying so damn hard to concentrate but he just can't.
The words blur on the page as he rereads the same damn line over and over, his mind completely unable to process what you are telling him. It gets even worse when your finger stalls on one specific note, one that you have to take a minute to think about. You consequently lean in further, your head directly next to his. Your brows narrow with concentration, something that has long fled from Hiromi's ordinarily pristinely constructed routine.
He breathes in slowly, silently as you hover. His eyes trail to the side, and swiftly, they find your side profile again. So fucking close, one would think that the two of you are close friends or dating. Chocolate eyes jump to the way you pucker your lips slightly in thought, nose scrunching. Suddenly, you gasp upon recollection, and turn to face him with an apologetic grin as you proceed.
Hiromi holds your gaze for a moment before tearing away, staring harshly back down at your papers as you proceed with your debrief like nothing. Like you aren't within kissing distance. Like he can't smell the peppermint on your breath as your scent traps him. Your voice is softer as well as you speak, the proximity between you leaving little room for any noise above a mumble.
How can you not realize what you're doing? How can you be so spatially and socially unaware? You're practically purring potential clients into his ear, clinging to his space like it's normal. Like you aren't stealing the breath from his lungs as he holds it, afraid to exhale in your company.
He plans to sort back through all of your neatly written notes once you leave, as he is completely unable to retain anything you are saying.
You give him one last smile and ask if there's anything else he needs. He waves you away, shaking his head as he pretends to be too preoccupied with the content in these papers, and you nod and turn to go. Shimizu watches as the dark haired attorney looks back up at your retreating figure, hooded eyes almost tormented, confused, entranced by the vision of you walking away accompanied by that click clack of your cute heels.
His brunette assistant twists her lips playfully, leaning back in her chair as she fiddles with a pen in hand, turning to face him once more. He blinks and looks back down at his desk. "Get back to work, Shimizu," he says calmly, feeling her eyes on him. She stifles a smile, sighs, and obliges.
Then there's all the times he's accidentally bumped into you, the office space often too cramped for multiple people to walk around at once. Leaving his section of the space, his body has collided with yours on numerous occasions. You would either be on your way to the bathroom or into his section as he goes to step out when your body collides with his, chest to chest. You would stumble back in surprise, his hands reaching out to subconsciously catch you by your shoulders to keep you from falling or losing balance. Papers fly from your arms and to the floor in a gentle shower.
You blink up at him in shock, and his large hands linger on your arms a second too long before dropping to his sides. "Mr. Higuruma! I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," you rush out, dropping swiftly to your knees to gather papers.
"No need to apologize," he assures you. "I shouldn't have been so careless.”
He stops himself, looking down at you from this position. You're on your knees at his feet, peering up at him through your lashes with an anxious smile. Hiromi's eyes widen, this position allowing him a clear angle of your ordinarily hidden cleavage.
"Let me help you," he blurts suddenly, kneeling down before you in a similar fashion with his gaze downward and a lump in his throat.
Your hands fly about the sheets, and in your haste, you both reach for the same paper. Your fingers brush, grazing, and you both retract like you've been shocked. You sit back on your calves, giggling bashfully. "Sorry."
"It's alright," he murmurs.
His entire body tingles for the rest of the day from your previous point of impact. Your body had felt so soft and warm against his firm chest, the angle of you from above so pretty and sinful that he almost felt the need to take himself to HR for viewing you in such a manner.
There are moments in the break room. You're inside, already fixing yourself some lunch as you hum a gentle tune to yourself. You don't hear Hiromi come in, as you are in your own little world. He swiftly moves to brush behind where you stand at the counter beside the fridge, but as fate would have it, you finish making your sandwich just as he moves behind you. You turn around and collide with him. His hand finds your forearm this time, the collision not as bad as others, and you wince up at your handsome boss.
"God, I don't know why I keep doing that," you laugh, shaking your head at your own clumsiness. Hiromi lowers his hand and shakes his head to dispel your embarrassment, lips pressing together.
"It's my fault. I seem to always be in your way."
"No, it's me who's always in yours!"
He ducks his head with a low, breathy, awkward chuckle, one that stuns himself as much as it stuns you into laughing along with him. "Are you getting lunch?" you ask as he moves to open the fridge, your sandwich clutched tight between your hands.
"Just a drink."
You tilt your head. "Have you eaten at all today?"
You both know the answer to that.
The fridge door closes behind him as he clutches a beverage in his well sculpted hand. "I don't have the time."
"Sure you do. Why don't I order you something?"
"There's no need, (Y/n). I'm okay, but thank you."
"Nonsense," you step toward him. "You can eat while you work."
"I don't like a messy desk."
"Who says it has to be messy? Come on. You can't keep working on an empty stomach. It's not healthy."
You sound just like everyone in his life who cares for Hiromi's wellbeing outside of his occupation. Ordinarily, he'd brush them off, stubbornly refusing help as his mind swarms with more pressing matters, with data and evidence and arguments and hell.
But in your presence, he finds that his mind can't swarm with anything but how charming you look with a sandwich in your hands and hope in your (e/c) eyes. A passion within you that eases his nerves. How can he say no to that face?
Here you are again, disrupting his way of living.
"Something light is fine," he murmurs, starting to walk past you toward the door. You light up, following close on his heel.
"Yeah?"
"And inexpensive."
"Yes sir. I'll bring your food to you when it gets here."
"...Thank you." He halts in the door, turning to look down at you, as you are - of course - directly behind him. "You don't need to call me sir."
"Oh," you furrow your brows. "I didn't even realize I did. Sorry, Mr. Higuruma."
Hell, the way you say his name like that is no better than the former. It is his title, the way everyone in the office or any of his clients address him, but fluttering from your lips, the title feels intimate, a very contradiction within itself.
Yet somehow, you make everything feel informal. Like you're more than an employee. Like you're someone more.
Late nights in the office are worse. Ordinarily, the wee hours of the morning are reserved for him alone or him and Shimizu, who often struggles to keep up with his pace and insomnia. He once realized that you tend to stay late with him from time to time when he walks out of his office, having shed off his suit jacket with sleeves rolled to his elbows and tie loose, to retrieve some extra paper from your desk, and you're there. Face lit by the dim light of your computer, circles tracing under your eyes, yet peace evident on your expression.
"What are you still doing here?" he asks, approaching your desk slowly. You perk up, meeting his gaze with a tired smile.
"Oh, hi Mr. Higuruma," you hum, your voice soft enough to sound like a lullaby at this time of night. Sleepiness glimmers in your eyes, but you remain engaged. "I saw that you were staying late to finish some stuff up so I stayed to catch up on some things too. In case you needed anything from me."
He checks the clock behind you. "(Y/n), it's two in the morning. Go home."
"I don't mind, really. Honestly, it's kind of cozy here and I didn't really feel like going home yet, anyway."
"Why is that?"
You shrug. "It gets too quiet. I feel better sometimes knowing I'm in a space with other people."
"Mmm."
You watch as Hiromi rubs at his eyes, blinking harshly. Your paired exhaustion breeches some kind of boundary. He does not have the energy to exude professionalism, nor do you, so in the silence of the empty, dark office, you share an unspoken, weary connection.
"Is there anything I can help you with?" you ask kindly.
He looks at you for a long moment before speaking. "I just need some paper. I'll get it."
He moves to round your desk, but you are already scootching out of your chair to assist. "No, it's okay. I've got it."
Despite both of your claims, you end up reaching for the same drawer at the same time, the two of you now behind your desk together. He looks down at you out of the corner of his eye, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "You don't quit," he says lowly, pulling the drawer open the moment he distracts you. "I told you I'd get it. Sit back down."
Your brows curve, something toying in your expression as you smile. "What sense does that make if I'm already behind the desk, next to the paper?"
"Enough sense if it's coming from your boss."
You laugh slightly, raising your hands, but not stepping away as Hiromi gathers a fresh stack. He closes the drawer and lifts himself back up, his shoulder bumping yours. He looks down where the contact occurred, then back at your face.
"Seriously. I think you should go home. You shouldn't stay just because I'm here. There's no telling when I'll leave."
"I appreciate the concern, Mr. Higuruma. Really, but I told you. I prefer being here."
"You very well may be the first, then."
"I can't be. Not if you're here more than anyone else."
"That's different. I don't have a choice."
"But you like what you do, don't you?" you ask. "I mean, as much as anyone can in this field. When you're able to help people, it makes you happy. Right?"
He turns, setting his forearm against the surface of your desk as you stand before him, your voices hushed. "I think relieved is a better word for what I feel. I can't fully be happy knowing that things could change any second."
"Still. It seems like you were made for what you do. You do your job so well."
His shoulders jump with an amused breath. "I'd hope so."
"You do! You're the main reason why coming to work doesn't feel like a chore. It pays to have a passionate and talented employer."
Unceremoniously and unexpectedly, heat burns at the tip of Hiromi's ears. "Flattery won't get you a raise, you know."
You gape with a smile on your lips. "Was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?"
"I make jokes all the time."
"You do not."
"I do. It's true," he challenges. "Maybe you're just not paying close enough attention."
You know he's joking again, because your entire position revolves around you paying attention to every little detail of potential cases brought to your office's lap. You laugh, the very sound carrying through the space like the symphony of birds chirping melodiously. Hiromi's eyes are heavy, they burn each time they blink, but they're soft on you. His smile is gentle, barely there.
"I'll have to step it up then if you think that's the case," you counter.
"No," he denies, amusement fading. "You're doing wonderful work."
You smile warmly with a slow blink and a nod. "Thank you," you grin.
The air stalls between the two of you for a few seconds as you look at one another, unsure of what more to say, your closeness keeping him grounded there.
"Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Higuruma?" you ask, the computer screen light shining in your glassy eyes.
He shakes his head, swallowing. "No. Just get some rest."
He does not leave without you reaching a hand out to hold his upper arm, a gesture of gratitude and departure, yet the very thing that spikes Hiromi's heart rate. "You too," you smile.
He nods one more time, pursing his lips, before turning away from your light.
You are a huge problem.
Hiromi can't get you out of his mind. A brain once too crowded with the details of his work now struggles to balance the intrusion of your face, your smile, your body, your energy, your touch.
You haunt him. You wreck his mind, destroying all that he has sorted into organization for the sake of a sliver of his wellbeing and all of his legal ambition.
Hiromi tries to observe you around others, tries to see if you act with the same lack of personal space with your coworkers. Sure enough, he's caught you invading Shimizu's personal bubble as well as his accountant's multiple times, but it looks much more casual on the outside looking in. Others do not appear as affected by it as he feels deep within, and he wonders if he is reading too much into it. If his mind has finally turned on him and he's mentally snapped. Maybe it's all just a figment of his imagination.
But how could it be, when images of you sneak into his head when he's trying to focus, the butt of his pen rubbing against his temple? He feels the phantom of your body hovering close when the night drags along, a subconscious effort his mind and body make to comfort itself. And it's you. It's always you he goes back to.
It's more than your touch and your closeness. It's the impact you've had on his office from the moment you stepped into it. It's the life you breathe into moments of helplessness and frustration. It's the motivation you inspire with your grins and those bright eyes, still free of trauma, still full of promise.
You bring Hiromi back down to earth, and you throw him off kilter all the same.
Higuruma storms in one day, unfathomably tense. He swoops past your desk without greeting, mind running, and you look up upon feeling the wind of his pace that flickers papers upward. He keeps his door closed all morning, and you ruminate in the suspicions, concerned. You know Hiromi carries the world itself on his shoulders and he consistently works himself into the ground without fail.
You're sure today he's stressed about a big case he just decided to take - another one where the evidence seems damn near impossible to point into the direction of his defendant's innocence. You hear much speculation about the seemingly unreasonable choices he makes every now and then, how he seeks to challenge himself with the absolute worst possible cases. Some say he's crazy, others say he's a masochist.
But you say that he's just a man yearning for a better world, a man who knows not what it means to make easy money, but to prioritize the person over the pay, the truth over duplicity.
He just wants to make a difference. And he's willing to kill himself to do so.
You wonder if he's eaten. You wonder if he's slept. You wonder if he's alright.
You rap at his door during lunch, a muffled ‘come in’ greeting you from behind it. You turn the handle with your elbow, arms full of a lunch order and some other papers.
You peek your head in cautiously. You see Hiromi at his desk with his cheek propped on his fist and his brows tightly angled. His jaw is set, and his dull eyes bore into his computer screen as if it is plaguing him. Shimizu is out to lunch, you assume by her empty desk, and you slowly proceed.
"Hi Mr. Higuruma," you sing. His eyes dart up to you, sharp and intense. You remain unfazed, keeping your smile as you step into his space. You're wearing a black pencil skirt today with a frilly white blouse tucked into your belt. Worn down, his eyes flicker over you rather knowingly, but you don't seem to notice. You never seem to notice anything within the realm of how crazy you've been driving Hiromi for the better half of a year.
You kick the door closed behind you with your heel, and strut your happy ass over to him. His eyes don't leave your figure, and like routine, you settle just beside him, organizing the things you brought onto his desk neatly. You know he hates clutter.
"I hope you don't mind me bringing you lunch again. I ordered your usual from the place across the street. Light and inexpensive," you quote him from some time in the past. He remains silent, looking over the container of food you sit at the right corner of his desk, followed by some new notes you've brought him on big index cards.
You go on to explain everything else you have for him. Your hip hits the arm rest of his chair, your back slightly arches as you bend over beside him to drag your finger over everything with expert memory. Your perfume wafts into his face, circling through his room and through his nostrils.
His jaw clenches, the crick in his neck tight today, and he leans back into his chair, pen tapping against the table as you talk.
He sees your lips moving, but does not hear what you're saying. He studies that gentle way your lashes brush against your cheek when you blink, the indentations at the corners of your mouth when you speak. Your necklace dangles again, swaying over the peek of your collarbone and around the dainty stretch of your neck.
You're all up in his space. As usual. Breathing his air, brushing his arm, staining the atmosphere.
Hiromi has had a horrible past two days. He's drained. Irate. Sleep deprived. Every little thing has been working his last nerve as of late, and here you come along, looking the way you look, talking the way you talk, acting the way you act.
Hiromi can't take it anymore.
"(Y/n)."
He calls your name gravelly, his voice firmer and lower than usual. You hum, turning to look back at him from your current position. Your smile diminishes ever so subtly when you catch his expression. He's slouched back into his seat, fingers shielding his nose and mouth with his elbow propped on the armrest, his other hand still tapping his pen restlessly. Those sunken eyes of his bore into your soul and carry something weighted that you do not recognize, something dark and testing.
Tendrils of his hair fly from his messy slickback, and his jaw clicks every two seconds as he watches you, calm yet daring.
"Is something the matter?" you ask, smile completely dropping now. Your brows pull together with worry, the stress very evident in his composure. "I know you've had a rough couple days. Is there anything I can do to help?"
His lack of urgency to respond starts to make you nervous, as you raise yourself from your bent position to frown at him.
"Mr. Higuruma?"
"Stop," he orders. Not loud. Not aggressive.
Stern. Strained.
You blink, tilting your head. "I'm sorry, sir, did I do something wrong?"
"I thought I told you not to call me sir."
"I-" you realize your mistake and clasp your hands before you humbly. "Right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."
"(Y/n)," he inhales slowly, closing his eyes as he runs his hands over his face, shifting to lean forward and set his elbows back onto his desk. "I need you to step back."
"Step... back?"
"Yes," his chocolate eyes snap back up at you. "Now. Please."
You take a moment to process what he is asking of you, therefore, you do not do as he says right away. You're too busy trying to piece together what you did to annoy him and how you can fix it. Do you smell bad? Did you come in at a bad time? You did knock.
Your lips part to further pry, missing the way his eyes drop to your lips. "Mr. Higuruma, what-"
"I'm asking you nicely as your boss to give me some breathing room before I act inappropriately and do something I will surely regret."
Your eyes go wide, and his are steely as they search yours. He is deadly serious.
Dazed, you take a cautious, tiny step backward, freeing up an inch of space. Hiromi inhales, shaking his head. "That's not far enough."
"Mr. Higuruma, I'm really sorry but I'm very confused. If you could explain where this is coming from... I mean, I didn't mean to offend you. Was I too close to you?"
"You're always too close," he cuts in, and your lips clamp shut. "Do you realize that?"
Your mouth runs dry. "...No, I... I didn't know."
"You didn't know," he repeats. You watch as he sets his veiny hands flat to his desk, settling there momentarily before he pushes himself up. His chair rolls back as he rises. Slowly he turns to you, one hand tucked into his pocket, blazer flapped over it. "It would be much easier for me if I didn't know you were telling the truth. You don't even think about what you're doing, and somehow it's all I can think about."
His free hand reaches out to methodically straighten a manilla folder in front of his keyboard. It stalls there as he ponders. "Every day. You wear the same perfume, and you stand so close to me that I can't think straight. Our arms touch. Our hands touch. You're never more than a few centimeters away. Do you realize the predicament that puts me in? As your superior?"
Your heart pounds into your chest, your posture suddenly rigid. Hiromi can see the gears turning in your head. He realizes this conversation in itself is extremely inappropriate, as you've been nothing but polite. It really isn't your fault that you lack so much spatial awareness, but Hiromi is at the end of his rope.
You've come in at a very bad time. Hiromi's so stressed that he's willing to refrain from excessive thought for one second and give into the desire that has been consuming his entire being.
He sees the dumbstruck look on your face and starts to feel remorse and shame, for he's never seen you in such a state. He sighs heavily. "You should leave."
You snap out of it. "What?"
"Thank you. For the food and for the extensive notes. But you should leave now."
"But I-"
"I don't want to make you any more uncomfortable. I apologize. I shouldn't have said any of that. Please. Just leave."
"You haven't even let me say anything, though."
"(Y/n)," your name comes as a warning this time. The tension thickens between you as his chest stutters with a shaky breath. He eases his hand out, as if that's enough to cut through the thickness, to keep you away. "Leave."
He's begging you at this point. Like he is unsure of what he'll do if you stay any longer. You know that, by the look on his face, you should listen to him and walk out of the door, but every bone in your body keeps you stationary. You don't want to go.
You respect Hiromi. You admire Hiromi. You really like Hiromi. He's your boss, but he makes work feel breathable, like you are accomplishing big things, doing life changing work. Despite his calculated countenance, Hiromi is thoughtful. He's passionate. He's dedicated. He's an inspiration. You've come to truly appreciate him, as an employer and as a man.
It doesn't hurt that he looks the way he does either. Dark inky strands of cropped hair. A heavenly sculpted nose. Haunting, shrunken eyes that send a pit to your stomach each time they lock with yours. The moments of freedom in which he allows himself to smile, the way his shoulders sag.
He’s a beautiful specimen, inside and out.
You truly did not know that you had such an impact on him. You've been told in the past that you tend to linger close to people, but you thought you'd gotten better. You thought that you weren't being too bad about it.
But, apparently not. It's been so bad that your boss now has to physically bar himself from you, kick you out of his office before he...
Before he what exactly?
And would that what be so terrible?
You twist your fingers around, nervous, jittery. "What if..." you start carefully, walking over eggshells. "...I don't leave?"
You can see the pattern of his breathing in the distinct rise and fall of his chest, his tight work clothes expanding. His eyes flick to the closed door, then back at you.
Your expression is blank as you await his response, the silence within the office blaring in your ears. You can’t read him. You can’t pick up on anything but his intensity, and how he’s mulling over all the possibilities and consequences in his head.
Suddenly, he moves out from his desk, taking two slow steps into your direction.
You watch him patiently, anxiously, excitedly, until he’s hovering mere centimeters away, heat to heat, chest just barely away from chest. You breathe in slowly, eyes trailing up.
You see his jaw clench as he thinks this over again and again, until you see the very moment his resolve crumbles. "Then you're giving me permission to..."
"To what?" you ask eagerly.
His eyes soften. He inches the curve of his knuckle forward, grazing it over your shoulder experimentally. You tense, breath hitched. "To touch you," he eventually says.
You nod as if entranced. "You can," you assure him. "I mean it. If it'll help with your stress."
His hand freezes on you. "Just for my stress?" he murmurs. "Not for you in any way?"
"That's not what I meant," you defend quickly. "I mean - I want you to."
"To what?" he resumes the graze of his knuckles over the curve of your shoulder, down the expanse of your arm. Chills sprout across your skin in the wake of his hand's trail, and warmth swirls over your cheeks. "To need you? To want you so badly you distract me from the one thing in this world I'm good at?"
His hand slips down to clasp yours. You look down, following his movements as he brings the back of your hand upward to his lips, all while his eyes remain on you. Your brows curl, a hum catching in the back of your throat as his bowed lips brush your skin, pressing a kiss gingerly there.
He monitors you to ensure that you are okay with this, that he isn't pushing any limits. He could already get himself into a world of trouble for even being seen this close to you in such a manner, but the world be damned for one second. All Hiromi has ever thought about is this godforsaken planet, and time and time again, it has chewed him up and spit him back out like a stale piece of gum.
Through the hell he calls his life, he thinks he should be awarded at least this one little treat. This one pleasure, this treasure that is his secretary. That is you, efficient, kind, beautiful in more ways than he can count. You're the only thing his aching body deems as a remedy for his inner turmoil.
"I already do," he tells you, tugging you gently by your hand, bringing you unfathomably close with a hand sliding over your cheek to cradle you. Sharp eyes look over your face, detailing everything from your forehead to your chin, you brows to your enticing lips. "Tell me, do you feel the same? More than just an obligation to me as your boss?”
You nod slowly and look at him with a neediness in your breathtaking (e/c) eyes, and your lips part to answer. "Yes."
He hums, neck and ears blooming with heat. "You want to help me?"
"Yes, Mr. Higuruma."
"Hiromi," he corrects.
"Hiromi," you try it on your tongue, and the said man feels himself shudder.
He exhales, releasing your hand to cup your other cheek. He cranes his neck slightly to look directly into your eyes. "Thank you," he breathes, desperately appreciative.
He ducks in to kiss you with a delicacy you can't put into words. The journey to your lips is slow, as if he wants to savor every second of what leads to the gentle connection of your lips.
He's soft, cautious, like he does not want to harm you or push you away. Your hands raise to his sides, your eyes fluttering closed as you hum softly into his lips. You feel the dark haired man relax into you, shoulders dropping and groan bubbling from his chest, long and sustained. Your scent practically molds with his, encapsulating the two of you in its own bubble.
He pulls back to breathe, tilting his head to push back in. Fingers thread into the back of your hair and gradually bring your face close, his shoulders bunching and brows arching as he melts into you like a dream. He hums again, a wrecked sound of relief that you catch with ease, lips slowly swimming in gentle unison.
Your body feels fuzzy from the way he kisses you, like you are a glass doll he does not wish to break, one he cherishes with all his soul, one he wants to shower with care and affection the right way, the gentlemanly way, the earned way. Yet he's hungry, unraveling at the seams with each passing second your lips remain locked. You taste like a dream Hiromi once believed he could not achieve. Like a pastry he told himself was too good to eat.
Like you. Soft and delicious and... and not close enough.
The kiss proceeds between short breaks away, intensifying as his hands move to wrap under your arms, sliding over the fabric of your work clothes, tucking safely around your waist. Your arms move accordingly, raising into the air before falling to his shoulders, wrapping snugly around his neck.
He pulls you flush to him, encircling you tight between languid kisses. Slow and meticulous like the way he works, capturing every element, failing to let any of you go to waste.
The two of you are practically molded, heads angled with the deepening of your kiss. Hiromi groans, lifting you up carefully and effortlessly to twirl you around and set you on the middle of his desk. His hands fly to your face again, pressing soft, thoughtful pecks to your plush lips, the bridge of his nose bumping yours occasionally.
He smoothes some of your hair over your shoulders, only pulling away to peel his lidded eyes open and admire you tenderly. You can't think. You just lock eyes, searching within one another for the deeper thing you felt in your kiss.
He kisses you once more, a bit firmer this time, sliding a palm up your thigh, gripping your hip, rolling a thumb back and forth. You moan sweetly, and Hiromi grunts.
"That's lunch," he breathes hotly into you, a thin string of saliva snapping as you chase his lips.
"Huh?" you furrow your brows, following the warmth of him blindly. He pecks your lips again, then your cheek sweetly.
"That's lunch, sweetness."
You blink. Upon processing his words, you tilt your head to look up at the clock. He takes the opportunity to plant a kiss on your jaw.
Sure enough, lunch ended a minute ago. You assume Hiromi knows the routine by heart, as he does not even have to look at the time to know that break has ended, and therefore, his assistant will be returning any minute now.
You look back at him to find that he's smiling. Not something barely detectable, but something real and relaxed. You ogle him openly, looking over the crease at his hooded eyes and the color on his pale skin.
"You have to get back to work now,” he says affectionately.
You nod slowly. "Okay. Right. Oh, right!" The realization finally comes to you that there is a risk of you getting caught, and you go to fix your hair and straighten your clothes.
Higuruma chuckles, assisting you by adjusting the collar of your shirt and the clasp of your necklace. "Are you alright?"
You flush, going to jump off of the desk when he lifts you from under your arms instead, setting you down on your feet where you first resided upon intrusion. You giggle nervously, brushing yourself off and chewing on the inside of your lip. "Yes, I'm more than alright," you say. "...Are you? Did that… help any?"
He smirks. "You have no idea."
Just then, the door clicks open revealing Shimizu, who steps in casually, unfazed by the two of you standing next to one another.
You jump, clearing your throat. "Okay, so I'll be back to - to bring you those last contacts in about an hour, Mr. Higuruma."
Hiromi watches you knowingly, greedily. "I'll be waiting."
You nod curtly before turning on your heel, brushing past Shimizu with a quick wave and out of the door.
The brunette turns to look back at her boss as he settles stiffly into his seat with a lingering smile. "Mr. Higuruma! You're smiling! Did you get some good news about the case?"
"No," he breathes, reaching to sort through the things you brought him, then stopping himself when his eyes catch the food you so kindly brought out of concern for his wellbeing. His smile softens as he goes to eat first.
Shimizu puzzles. "Then what's with the attitude shift? You were just so upset."
Hiromi shrugs. "Second wind."