ONE NIGHT ONLY.
Pairing: exhusband!Higuruma x f!reader.
Synopsis: After more than a year apart, you thought the hardest part of loving Higuruma Hiromi was already behind you. You were wrong. Between late nights, missed calls, and a marriage that slipped through your fingers far too quickly, the divorce felt inevitable—almost merciful. You had your whole life ahead of you. He had a life that never slowed down. So when Higuruma carves out a single night from his relentless schedule—flying back to Japan just to finalise the paperwork—you expect signatures, distance, and closure. Not dinner. Not the quiet way he still looks at you. And definitely not the offer to spend one last night together. Just one night. No promises. No future. No pretending it doesn’t end in the morning. But some things were never properly finished between you… —and one night might be enough to remind you why. Or ruin you all over again.
Tags: Yearning Higuruma, age gap, angst with smut, workaholic Higuruma, unresolved feelings, jealousy, possessive Higuruma, YEARNING Higuruma, passionate sex, spanking (Like once), praise kink, soft dom Hiromi, make-up sex, POC reader, cunnilingus, plot? What plot?
Word count . 11k
Divider credits: @uzmacchiato , @cafekitsune | Art credits: @hunnismokah
Author's notes: Re-upload because I messed up the first post. Lowkey, I lost the plot towards the end, and the song doesn’t really match—but hey, at least I finished it. Feedback is much appreciated and keeps me motivated!
Enjoy!
In the beginning, it was all so sweet.
You were wandering through a small gallery near your university, notebook in hand, completely absorbed in a painting that screamed chaos in crimson and gold. To you, it was deliberate, a critique of apathy, of people walking past beauty without noticing.
“You’re thinking too much,” a flat, dry voice said beside you, just faintly amused.
You looked up. He was older, impeccably dressed, with eyes sharp enough to cut through the quiet of the gallery. Higuruma Hiromi. Even now, you can picture the faint smirk he had, the kind that suggested he was always slightly entertained by the world, and by you.
“And you’re thinking too little,” you replied, cheeks warming. “And who gave you the right to judge?”
“Experience,” he said smoothly. “Or maybe I just enjoy arguing with interesting women.”
Your stomach fluttered. You? Interesting? Ridiculous. Yet you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.
This is how it started.
And, looking back now, it’s almost painful how perfect it felt at the time. You were young, full of energy and certainty—the kind that makes you believe you understand the world better than it understands you. He was older, calm, sharp, and quietly confident, the kind of man who makes every room shrink around him without trying.
You remember thinking, Of course he’s infuriating. Of course he’s charming. And of course I’m going to fall for him anyway.
The gallery faded around you that afternoon. His dry remarks, his teasing corrections, the faint smirk that suggested he was both amused and approving—it all felt like a dance you hadn’t learned the steps to, and somehow, you didn’t mind stumbling. You argued interpretations of the painting, debated the nuances of literature, and laughed like idiots over a café latte that was far too bitter for your taste.
He noticed everything. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the tilt of your head when you were concentrating, the way your notebook pages were always messy, but organized in a way only you could understand. And you… you noticed him noticing. Not in a shallow, infatuated way, but in that slow, consuming way where it feels like he’s quietly building a place for you in his world, and somehow you don’t want to resist.
It was sweet. It was simple. And looking back, you can see how fragile it all was, how little it took for it to slip away. Back then, you didn’t care. You were entirely present in the way only someone with too much hope can be.
Now, after a year apart, you know how fleeting it was. And still, even now, the memory of that smirk, that teasing tone, that quiet attention makes your chest tighten in ways you try not to admit.
After you met, the early years of your marriage felt like a continuation of that first gallery afternoon—playful debates, quiet dinners, and those subtle ways he showed he cared. Higuruma wasn’t demonstrative in obvious ways; he rarely said “I love you” aloud, and he hated anything that felt performative. But he noticed everything.
Even while you worked from home, surrounded by stacks of manuscripts and the hum of your laptop, he found ways to reach you. A message mid-flight: Did you eat? Three words, but enough to make your heart skip. A book left on your doorstep with a note in his meticulous handwriting. A quiet phone call at 2 a.m. when he knew you were still editing. Little gestures that reminded you he was thinking of you, even when work consumed him.
You loved that. You loved him. You loved feeling like he was entirely his own person, yet somehow entirely yours. You laughed at his dry sarcasm, debated him endlessly, let him tease you until you were both breathless. For a while, you thought that was enough. That it could last forever.
Then life happened.
It started small. Late-night calls turned into missed dinners. Weekend trips became month-long absences. Your apartment, once a shared sanctuary, began to feel like a quiet witness to a love slipping away. You could see him in flashes—through video calls, fleeting texts—but he was always elsewhere, always moving, always working.
You still worked at home, building your life as an editor, crafting other people’s stories while yours unraveled. And somewhere along the way, you realized that love alone wasn’t enough. Marriage isn’t just laughter or small acts of devotion; it’s showing up. It’s presence. And Higuruma… he was never really there when you needed him.
So you let yourself leave. The divorce wasn’t sudden—it was inevitable, a slow, quiet unraveling neither of you could stop. And yet, even now, remembering him watching you from the café window of that first date, slipping notes into your manuscripts, leaving quiet reminders of himself in your home, you can’t help the ache. He was never perfect—but he was perfect for you, once. And maybe that’s the cruelest part: that someone can be everything, and still not enough.
He came home late—later than usual, though after a month-long trip, that had become the norm.
“Hey,” you said softly, trying to make your voice light. “Welcome back.”
He nodded, eyes fixed on the floor, and muttered, “Thanks.” That was it. No warmth, no lingering glance, no anything.
The table was set for two. You had tried to make it like a normal dinner. You had tried to make it feel like a normal evening, despite the tension curling in the back of your throat. The plates were warm, the wine had been poured, and you could still smell the faint trace of garlic in the air.
You had cooked his favourite meal, mostly because it was an old habit; one you hadn’t been able to shake, even after all this time. It was like you were still trying to make things feel right, even though everything in you screamed that it wasn’t.
He barely touched his plate, just poking at the food and swallowing in slow, tired motions. The man who used to dive into every moment was fading into someone you didn’t recognize anymore.
“Hiromi,” you said quietly, your voice thick with words you didn’t want to say but had to. "We need to talk."
He paused for a second, looking up from his plate, his brow furrowing just a little in acknowledgment. You could tell he was tired—so much more than usual—but his eyes were still sharp. Detached, though. Always detached.
“Can it wait?” he asked, his voice low, not entirely annoyed, but not interested, either. “I’m exhausted.”
But you couldn’t wait any longer. You had spent too many months waiting, hoping, clinging to the idea of what it used to be.
“I want a divorce.”
The words were like a confession—hard to say but harder to keep inside. You had thought about it, agonized over it, yet when they left your mouth, they seemed so… small.
He didn’t react right away. His eyes stayed steady on you, almost as though he was processing the words through the fog of exhaustion, deciding how to respond to something he had to have seen coming for a while now.
“I can have it arranged,” he said flatly, his voice dry, devoid of surprise or frustration. Just tired.
You waited for more, anything. An argument, an objection. Something.
Nothing.
“I can’t keep doing this. You’re never here. When you are, it’s like we’re strangers. I feel… invisible, Hiromi. Like I’m not even part of your life anymore," you said, your voice coming out more raw than you intended.
His eyes lifted again, and for the briefest moment, you saw it: a flicker. Maybe regret. Maybe some kind of understanding. But it was gone almost as soon as it appeared, replaced by that same, blank expression that had become so familiar to you.
“I understand,” he said, voice flat, but somehow quieter now.
And that was it. That was all he said. His words hung in the air like a conclusion neither of you had ever really agreed on.
You blinked, and for a second, it felt like the room was spinning. You wanted to scream, to shake him, to get him to feel something, to make this feel real—but it was too late for that. It was over.
Without another word, he stood up, his chair scraping the floor, his movements sluggish as he moved toward the couch. There was no fight in him. No resistance. Just the sound of him walking away, settling down on the couch, curling into the blanket with an almost mechanical precision.
You didn’t sleep that night.
Instead, you stared at the empty chair across from you, at the man you once knew, and wondered when it had all gone wrong.
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It had been over a year since the last time you saw him.
A year of dinners alone. A year of quiet days spent at work, typing away at manuscripts, sifting through edits, and meeting deadlines. You had become accustomed to the rhythm of it—your rhythm. The hum of the office, the quiet moments between phone calls, and the way the evening light crept through the windows. All the little things that had taken up space in your life where once there had been him.
You had moved on. You had to. It wasn’t as if there was anyone else. You had grown used to the silence, the solitude. It felt normal now.
The only lingering connection to him was the paperwork—the bureaucratic process of the divorce that still hadn’t been finalized. You had asked for it. You had made the decision. But it still felt like something unfinished.
And Higuruma? His life had continued, spinning faster than ever. You hadn’t heard from him in months. And honestly, you were fine with that. You didn’t need him.
Not anymore.
At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.
You were hunched over your desk, flipping through the latest batch of edits, trying to focus on the words in front of you. The rhythmic tapping of your keyboard was like white noise, a lullaby that had become as familiar as breathing. But today, your mind wasn’t as focused as it should have been. You felt the weight of something—you couldn’t pinpoint it, but it was there.
The soft buzz of your phone on your desk broke your concentration. You glanced at it absently, expecting a routine work message, maybe an email update. But when you saw the name on the screen, your fingers froze.
Higuruma Hiromi.
You stared at the screen for a moment. You hadn’t heard from him in months; hadn’t needed to hear from him in months. His absence had been the only kind of peace you’d known. But now, just his name on the screen stirred up something you didn’t want to deal with.
You slid your chair back slightly, your mind racing. You hadn’t expected this.
You hesitated, fingers still hovering over the phone. There were no other messages, just that one. No greeting. No preamble.
Higuruma Hiromi: I’m in town today.
That was it. Just I’m in town today. As if it was the most casual thing in the world.
You set the phone down slowly, leaning back in your chair. Your heart was beating faster than it had a moment ago, and the space in the office, which had always felt comfortably distant, now felt almost suffocating.
What does that mean?
A thousand thoughts swirled through your head. A year had passed since the last time you saw him, and you had done everything you could to move forward. He had to move on too, you told yourself. So why now?
You weren’t sure whether you wanted to reply or if you even should. What was there left to say after all this time? You had both moved on, hadn’t you? But then again, what if he was here to finalize the divorce? Maybe that was all it was, just the last of the formalities. He’s just here for paperwork, you convinced yourself.
You picked your phone back up and stared at the screen. The weight of the past and the present pressed in on you all at once. It felt like a chapter you thought you’d finished, but here he was, with a single message—his presence a sudden, unsettling reminder of everything you’d pushed aside.
You were distracted for the rest of the afternoon, unable to focus on the documents in front of you, unable to push the thoughts away. The message replayed in your mind like a broken record. You tried to shake it off, tried to continue with work, but nothing felt right. Your mind kept returning to that one simple text.
When the workday finally ended, you had little choice but to go home. The city’s evening light bathed the streets in gold as you walked to your apartment, but it didn’t feel like the usual calm. The pull of Higuruma’s message hung over you like a storm cloud.
You walked through the door and dropped your bag by the entryway, the usual quiet of your apartment wrapping itself around you. But something was off. There was a small, unfamiliar box on the kitchen counter.
Your stomach dropped.
You knew who it was from before you even opened it. The same black velvet box you’d once seen too many times before, holding things you didn’t want to remember. Slowly, you lifted it from the counter and took off the lid.
Inside was a dress.
A dress that had been your favorite at one point—his favorite, too. A maroon silk. The one he loved to see you wear on nights out, the one that always made you feel beautiful when you put it on. The realization hit you like a wave, cold and sharp.
You stared at the dress, your heart skipping a beat. Why? After all this time, why now?
Before you could stop yourself, you picked up your phone again and unlocked it. The message from Higuruma was still there, staring back at you.
You swallowed hard, your fingers moving to type a response.
You: What is this?
You waited, but the reply didn’t come immediately. Instead, you watched the screen, your pulse quickening. Then, a message finally appeared. One short line.
Higuruma Hiromi: You know where to find me. I’ll be waiting.
There it was. The same way he always spoke to you. Detached. Like this was just another thing for him to check off the list. He’d always been good at compartmentalizing. At keeping emotions at arm's length. And you? You were the one who got left behind.
The room felt like it was closing in on you. You could almost feel the weight of his gaze, the way he used to look at you when he was done with whatever it was he was doing. The way he would always pull you back in with just a few words. A simple glance. A brief touch. And suddenly, you were lost again.
But this time, you weren’t sure you could afford to get lost again.
You tried to steady yourself, but the memories—the nostalgia—swept over you like a wave, and suddenly, the quiet apartment didn’t feel so empty anymore. It felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something. Waiting for you to make a decision.
The room felt small suddenly, the walls closing in. He hadn’t changed. He hadn’t even explained. The same vague, impersonal tone as always. You knew what he meant—he was at the same hotel. The same place. The one you used to go to when it all felt easy, before everything had gotten so... complicated.
But it wasn’t the same anymore. It couldn’t be.
Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being pulled back in. That familiar weight of him, of his presence.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, trying to clear the fog.
Then you took a deep breath and stared down at the dress in your hands. You had moved on. You had. But you weren’t sure you could ignore him, not now.
Not when everything inside you still ached for the truth of what you had been and what you could never be again.
You felt something shift inside you. Anger? Confusion? Maybe both. The weight of the past was closing in around you, but you couldn't help but feel that strange pull—the one you thought you had buried.
The phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t Higuruma.
It was Megumi.
Megumi Fushiguro: Hey, just making sure you're alright. You’ve been a little off at work lately.
His message was simple enough, but you could tell there was more beneath the surface. Megumi had always been observant, noticing the smallest shifts in your mood. You weren’t sure if you were ready to talk to him about this, but a part of you appreciated that he noticed.
You set your phone down with a sigh, trying to make sense of everything. Higuruma was back, and you had no idea what he wanted, but you felt that familiar unease creeping in.
──────────────
The steam from your shower lingered in the air, the comforting scent of vanilla and amber mixing with the cocoa butter that had become your signature. Even after all this time, it still felt like you. It was a scent Higuruma had always loved, one that had stayed with you, even if you had tried to move on.
You stepped out of the shower, towel in hand, and paused in front of the mirror. The woman looking back at you was different now. The curves of your body had softened over the years. Stretch marks along your hips and thighs marked the passage of time. You had learned to embrace those parts of you, the things that made you who you were.
You moved toward the bed where the maroon silk dress lay. You ran your fingers over the smooth fabric, feeling the coolness of it against your skin. The deep, rich color of the dress was something you knew he’d like. The silhouette, sleek and elegant, with just enough boldness to remind you of the past. It felt right for tonight. A quiet connection to something that no longer existed, but that you couldn’t quite erase.
You slipped it on, the fabric hugging your curves in a way that felt confident, but also vulnerable. It was a reminder of who you had been, who you had loved. But it was also something you had chosen for yourself. Tonight wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about the past.
You stood in front of the dresser and reached for the gold earrings Higuruma had given you on your anniversary. The ones you hadn’t worn in months. Maybe longer. You slid them on, feeling their weight, and for a moment, you could almost feel his presence beside you. It was the smallest thing, but it made your chest tighten.
And then you saw it—the wedding ring.
It had been months since you’d taken it off, months since you had started the process of the divorce. But the papers still hadn’t been signed. There was a mandatory waiting period, but the real reason was simpler: Higuruma had been too busy. He had kept you in limbo, just like he had kept you at arm's length for years. The ring had always been a reminder of your marriage. Of the life you’d tried to build together. And now, it was a symbol of everything that had unraveled.
You picked up the ring, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. Your heart beat a little faster in your chest as you slid the band onto your finger, the cold metal now warm against your skin. The weight of it felt heavier than it had when you had first worn it. It felt like a connection to something unfinished.
But it also felt like closure, or maybe the lack of it. You weren’t sure. You just knew that tonight, the choice had been yours to make.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves, but the weight of it, both the ring and the situation, felt like a knot tightening inside your chest.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves, but the weight of it, both the ring and the situation, felt like a knot inside your chest.
Your phone buzzed, pulling you from your thoughts.
It was Nanami.
Nanami Kento: I’m downstairs.
You quickly typed back.
You: You're not DoorDash, are you?
His reply was instant.
Nanami Kento: I’m not, but you still haven’t changed the door code.
You couldn’t help but laugh, knowing exactly what he meant.
You: Breaking and entering is a criminal offense, you know. Should I press charges?
A pause, then Nanami’s reply.
Nanami Kento: If I get caught, I’ll have your husband bail me out.
You smiled, though it stung a little.
You: Yeah, he's always been a workaholic.
You grabbed your bag, walked to the door, and opened it to find Nanami standing there, looking as calm as ever. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the look on your face.
“You alright?” he asked, sensing the slight shift in your mood.
“Yeah,” you replied with a soft smile. “Just… reminiscing.”
He grinned in response, but then his expression shifted slightly, a little softer. “Don’t worry, I’m here to make sure you don’t chicken out.”
You shot him a pointed glance. “You really do think you know everything, don’t you?”
He shrugged, the playful glint never leaving his eyes. “I just know you. More than you think.”
The car hummed smoothly as Nanami maneuvered through the city streets, the familiar rhythm of the road almost as soothing as the steady presence of his calm demeanor beside you. Yet tonight, you couldn't shake the tension gnawing at the edges of your mind. The dinner ahead—meeting him again—felt like a weight pressing on your chest.
You glanced at Nanami, his focus still on the road. “I feel like I’m walking into the lion’s den tonight.”
“You’re not wrong,” he replied dryly, glancing at you briefly. “I don’t think anyone ever truly feels ready for a Higuruma dinner. He has a way of… pulling you in and then leaving you high and dry.”
You snorted, the sound just short of bitter. “Yeah, well, I’m a little past the point of being pulled in.”
Nanami nodded, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “That’s what I thought. But I’m still here to make sure you don’t lose your mind halfway there.”
You chuckled, the tension easing slightly. “At least you’re not one of those secretaries who just books the flight and calls it a day, huh?”
Nanami raised an eyebrow. “I’m definitely not just booking the flights. Dragging his wife to a mysterious dinner also happens to be part of the job description, apparently.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I appreciate the support, Kento. But I wouldn’t want to get you fired for aiding and abetting my emotional breakdown.”
Nanami’s lips quirked upward at the corner. “I think I’ve already passed the point of getting fired. Higuruma might threaten to fire me, but we both know he’s not really the type to do that.” He paused, looking at you with a dry smirk. “Besides, he’s the one who asked me to keep an eye on you tonight.”
You blinked. “He did?”
“Yeah,” Nanami said, shrugging. “Said something about wanting me to make sure you didn’t back out last minute. I’m just here to make sure you don’t do anything… unwise.”
You raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering through your discomfort. “Unwise? What am I, some sort of reckless teenager?”
“You can be a little dramatic when it comes to him,” Nanami said, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips.
You leaned back in your seat, eyes shifting toward the window. “I don’t know what I’m walking into, Kento. It’s been a year. A long year. And now he sends me a dress and just says, ‘I’m in town.’ As if everything’s fine, like nothing’s changed.”
Nanami’s expression softened. “I get it. But just remember—he’s the one who never made time for you when it mattered.”
You let out a quiet sigh, the weight of his words sinking in. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”
“Of course I am,” Nanami said dryly, glancing at you with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
For a brief stretch of silence, the car carried you both forward, the weight of the night ahead not feeling so heavy now. The road ahead might have been uncertain, but with Nanami beside you, you weren’t walking it alone. And for tonight, that was enough.
──────────────
You push open the door to the restaurant, the chime overhead a sharp contrast to the storm swirling in your mind. The dim lighting casts long shadows over the elegant tables, and the air smells faintly of expensive wine and the sharpness of the city outside. This place is meant to make you feel special, but tonight it feels like a stage set for something more uncomfortable.
You spot him right away—Higuruma Hiromi, already seated. His suit is as immaculate as always, but there’s a slight slouch in his posture that you can’t ignore. He’s holding his glass a little too tightly, the way someone does when they’re trying to look casual but can’t quite hide the effects of a drink. His eyes catch yours as you approach, sharp and assessing, but there’s a heaviness in them tonight—something more than his usual detached calm.
You stand at the edge of the table for a moment, unsure whether to wait for him to speak or just sit down. The silence between you stretches too long, thick and awkward. Finally, he motions to the seat across from him without a word. The invitation feels both cold and familiar.
You take a seat, trying to act as nonchalant as he seems, but your heart’s beating a little too fast. The waiter arrives and you both order quickly, the conversation brief and strained, each word filling the space with more tension.
As the waiter leaves, it’s just the two of you, and the silence crawls between you like an old, familiar thing.
Finally, you break the quiet. “Why did you ask to see me?”
Higuruma doesn’t react right away. He’s swirling his glass, staring into the amber liquid as if it holds all the answers. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he looks up at you, his gaze steady but not quite as sharp as it usually is. “I missed my wife.”
The words land heavier than they should. The use of wife stings—like an open wound you didn’t realize you still had. You swallow, keeping your tone steady despite the way his words make your stomach tighten. “Ex-wife,” you correct, the words sharper than you meant them to be.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t apologize. His eyes meet yours again, but this time, there’s something different in them. A faint flicker of something—longing, regret—whatever it is, it’s buried deep, and he does a damn good job of covering it. “Right. Ex-wife. We sign the papers today.” His words are smooth, too smooth. Like he’s rehearsing the lines, convincing himself as much as you.
You nod, trying to hold your ground. “And you thought meeting here would make it easier?”
He sets his glass down, the sound of it clinking against the table too loud in the quiet. “I didn’t think it would be easy.” His voice is a little too soft, and there’s a weariness to it that catches you off guard. “But I thought... I owed you this.”
You don’t know how to react. The words are almost painful to hear, because they feel like an admission, but they don’t quite feel real. He’s so controlled, but the edge in his voice betrays him. For the first time in a long time, it’s hard to separate the man in front of you from the version of him you used to know.
“And what now?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended. You can’t hold back the frustration anymore, not when you’ve been here, waiting for answers, for something from him, for so long.
His fingers tap lightly against the rim of his glass, the movement restless. He looks at you, his eyes searching for something. Maybe forgiveness, maybe understanding. But he doesn’t speak for a long moment, and when he does, his words are soft, almost tentative. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I thought if I saw you again, maybe... maybe I could understand. Maybe we could—” He stops, as if he’s about to say something else, but doesn’t.
“Maybe we could what?” you press, leaning in slightly. You can feel the old frustration rising in you again, the resentment bubbling just beneath the surface.
He breathes out, the sound heavy with something; regret, maybe, or just the weight of the conversation. He looks down at his glass for a moment, as if gathering himself before finally meeting your gaze again. “Maybe we could fix this,” he says quietly, almost like a confession.
Fix this? The question rings in your mind. The past is too much to fix, too much to pretend can be repaired with a few words. But as you sit across from him, you can’t deny that part of you still wants to believe it. Still wants to believe in what you had before it all fell apart.
You exhale slowly, the air in your chest tight. “You didn’t show it,” you say, your voice thick with years of unspoken hurt. “I spent so many nights waiting for you to come home, Hiromi. I waited for you to notice I was still here, but you never did. You never did.”
His expression softens for the briefest moment—just a flicker of something you can’t quite name—but it’s gone before you can hold onto it. He’s back to his usual composed self, but there’s a slight shake in his hand as he picks up his glass again. “I know,” he says, voice tight, and for a second, you think you see him close his eyes, like the weight of his own words is hitting him too. “And I hate myself for it.”
You look at him, but this time, it’s not with the same anger, not with the same hurt. You’re not sure if you’ve forgiven him or if you even can, but you’re tired. Tired of holding onto things that weigh you down.
“What do you want from me?” The question hangs in the air, more desperate than you’d like to admit. It’s the question you’ve been asking for months, but now, it feels like the only one that matters.
He leans back in his seat, his gaze dropping to the table. His fingers drum lightly against the glass again, the tips of them now slightly unsteady. “I want... I want to make things right,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m not sure how.”
For a moment, the words seem to settle between you like a fragile bridge. A bridge that might shatter if either of you steps too hard. But you’re tired of trying to fix things that can’t be fixed. You don’t have the energy for it anymore. Not for him. Not for this.
“I don’t think you can fix it,” you say quietly, your heart heavier than before. “Not anymore.”
And just like that, the air feels thick again, charged with something that’s been left unsaid for far too long.
The weight of the conversation between you and Higuruma feels almost unbearable now, the silence stretching as you both wait for the next words to fall. His eyes are fixed on you, not with the usual cool detachment, but with a quiet intensity. There's something different in the way he’s looking at you now. Something that feels almost… vulnerable.
“It’s been a while,” he says, his voice smoother now, though still carrying the weight of something heavier. “You look... different. You’ve gained weight, haven’t you?”
The words hit you with surprising force. He doesn’t say it like it’s a criticism, but it still feels like an assessment, something that forces you to be aware of your body in a way you hadn’t thought about in ages. You feel a sudden flush of self-consciousness, but you don’t let it show. You keep your expression neutral, but inside, there's a knot tightening in your chest. It’s as if he's measuring you again, just like he always did.
“People change,” you say, your voice a little too casual, trying to deflect the discomfort his words have caused. “A year is a long time.”
He leans forward slightly, his gaze softening just enough that it feels almost intimate. “Yeah?” His voice is low, almost conspiratorial, and you wonder for a split second if he’s really seeing you or just remembering the past. “What’s new, then? What’s been keeping you busy these days?”
You hesitate for a moment, then, almost without thinking, you find yourself mentioning his name.
"Work," you say, as casually as possible. "And... Megumi."
The name slips out before you can even stop it. You watch his reaction closely, but he only raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into that signature half-smile.
Higuruma’s expression tightens ever so slightly, his eyes darkening. It’s subtle, but you see it, and it’s enough to make you wonder if you’ve just struck a nerve.
“Megumi?” he repeats, his tone almost too neutral. “I didn’t know you two were close.”
You don’t know why you push. Maybe it’s the way he’s always looked at you—like you were his and his alone—or maybe it’s just the desire to make him feel the way you felt all those months. You couldn’t help it. Maybe you want to see if there’s a flicker of jealousy in his eyes, something that lets you know he’s not completely immune to the way you’ve moved on.
“Mm,” you murmur, giving him a tight smile. “We’re... close. In our own way. He’s been there for me, you know, with everything.”
There's a brief flicker of something in his eyes, something you can’t quite place, before he takes another sip of his wine, his fingers steady, the tip of his glass almost trembling as it touches his lips.
"I see," he says, his voice quieter now. "He sounds like a good friend." The way he says it, though, there's something sharp underneath. Almost like he's trying to hold onto something he’s afraid of losing.
You don’t miss it. You know he’s fishing for something. Maybe he’s trying to size up Megumi. Or maybe he's just trying to measure how much space you’ve given him in your life now. Either way, it stings. And you can’t help the small, satisfied smile that creeps onto your lips.
"Yeah, he's good. He’s... reliable," you say, leaning in just a little, your words carrying an undertone you hadn’t intended, but that you almost can’t stop now. "He’s been there, you know? Not like you, I guess." The jab lands sharper than you meant, but you don’t care.
Higuruma’s eyes narrow slightly at your words, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he simply nods, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I suppose everyone needs someone to rely on."
You can’t tell if he’s acknowledging the distance you’ve put between you or if he’s letting it slide. Either way, the tension in the air between you two has thickened, the silence swelling with unspoken things.
Just as you’re about to say something else, the waiter arrives with your meal, setting it down between you with quiet efficiency. You both take a moment to focus on the food in front of you, the plates an excuse for the quiet that has returned to the table.
The conversation dies down, and for a while, it’s just the clink of silverware, the soft murmur of voices from nearby tables. But Higuruma’s presence is undeniable. He’s sitting across from you, not the same man he was before, but not entirely different either. His eyes follow you as you eat, and despite yourself, you catch the lingering looks, the almost imperceptible way his gaze drifts down to your fingers—the place where the ring should be.
You notice it, too. The gold band sits snug on your finger, the weight of it constant, a reminder of the years that stretched between you and him. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but you feel the pull of it. His gaze lingers a fraction longer than usual, but he doesn’t comment on it. Maybe he doesn’t need to. It’s there, and for some reason, the silence about it makes everything heavier.
You don’t comment on it either. It’s safer that way. The ring is your bridge, your shield, and maybe, in some ways, your tether.
As dinner winds down, the air between you both is thick with something unspoken. The waiter comes to clear the plates, and you realize just how much quieter it has gotten. Higuruma’s been sipping his drink steadily, but you know he’s not just a little tipsy anymore. It’s more than that.
He sets his glass down and looks at you, his eyes holding yours for a moment too long. "I’d like to finish this somewhere... more private," he says, his voice lower than before. It’s not an invitation in the way it used to be. It’s different now—more insistent, but still veiled in the calm of his usual manner. "There’s something I need you to sign. I thought it would be easier this way."
For a moment, you think he’s talking about the divorce papers. The words echo in your head, but they feel colder now, more formal than they had all those months ago. You nod, just slightly, not wanting to admit the tension in your chest. You have no intention of letting him pull you back in, not for this, not for anything.
But there’s a part of you that wonders what it will feel like, standing in front of him again, facing the weight of the last year, and whatever this is between you.
You force yourself to look away first, feeling the burn of his gaze on your skin. "Fine," you say, your voice steady, but there’s an edge to it. "Let’s just get this over with." You didn’t want to be alone with him like this, but you’re already here.
Higuruma gives a faint nod, the ghost of a smile returning to his lips. "I’ll have the papers brought up. But, it’s better we do this somewhere... more private."
You know what he means, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you stand, smoothing the fabric of your dress, telling yourself you’re ready for whatever happens next. You follow him out of the restaurant, the soft chime of the door signaling your exit, and down the quiet hall of the hotel.
──────────────
The penthouse suite is exactly as you remember it—impossibly luxurious, the night view of the city sprawling out beneath you. You stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows, your palms pressed against the cold glass, the familiar hum of the city’s nightlife just audible from this high up. The lights below seem so far away, so small, like they're on another planet, and for a moment, you feel the same distance between you and Higuruma, as if you've both been living in different worlds.
You hear him behind you before you feel him. His footsteps are deliberate, but the weight of them isn't what it used to be. He’s a little off-balance, just enough to make you notice. You glance at him over your shoulder. His eyes are glossy, his cheeks flushed in a way that’s unmistakable—he’s more drunk than he’s letting on. He’s trying to maintain his usual air of composure, but the sharpness that usually defines him is gone, replaced with a softness in his gaze that feels foreign.
You can’t help but feel the shift in the air as he comes closer. It’s not like before, when his presence would fill the room with an almost oppressive weight. Now, there’s a strange, almost desperate quality to him that you can’t ignore.
“I used to love this view,” you say, trying to fill the silence with something, anything. “You remember?”
His footsteps stop behind you, but he doesn’t respond right away. He’s still a little too far away. You feel the space between you both. The silence hangs thick for a moment, heavy with the words you both haven’t said. You wish you could take it all back—the marriage, the pain, the quiet distance that built up between you two.
“I remember,” he says, his voice lower than usual, more intimate than you’d expected. You hear the faint tremor in his words, the alcohol making his voice almost unrecognizable. He’s close now—too close—and you feel the heat of him behind you.
There’s a hesitation in the way he moves. His breath is warm against your neck, and for a moment, you forget to breathe yourself.
You turn slightly, your body rigid with the sudden tension. You don’t want to, but your gaze drifts to his face. His eyes are unfocused, clouded, and the way his lips curve into a faint, sad smile only makes your chest tighten. He’s not the Higuruma you used to know. There’s a crack in him now, and it’s so damn hard to look at.
The alcohol has loosened something inside him, something raw, something real.
“I never thought I’d see this place without you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion, more than he probably intended. He steps closer still, the subtle sway in his posture betraying him.
His hands reach for you—tentatively, like he’s not sure if he has the right to touch you anymore. But before you can respond, he does it anyway. His fingers slide lightly over your back, just grazing the fabric of your dress.
“I remember everything,” he adds quietly, as though talking to himself, his words nearly lost in the air between you. “The nights we spent here... just the two of us. The way your laugh would echo off the walls, how you used to... used to look at me like I was the only person in the world.”
His words linger in the room, and for a moment, it almost feels like nothing has changed, like you could step right back into those moments. You want to feel nothing. You want to turn away, but something keeps you rooted in place.
Then, his breath hitches, and before you can make sense of it, he’s there—his chest pressing lightly against your back, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin. You can feel the heat of him, but it’s not just the alcohol; it’s something deeper.
You don’t move. You’re frozen, but then you hear it: the quiet sob. At first, you don’t recognize it, as though it’s just the sound of the night blending with his voice. But then there’s another, softer, more broken. A sob that’s so quiet, it seems like it’s suffocating in the back of his throat.
The emotion catches you off guard, but before you can gather your thoughts, his knees hit the ground with a soft thud. He’s no longer standing tall, composed; he’s kneeling before you, the sudden shift in his posture so abrupt that it makes you take a step back. His hands grip the fabric of your dress as if trying to pull you down to him, his face pressing into your soft belly, hiding the tears that begin to streak down his flushed cheeks.
He doesn’t look up at you, but his breath comes in desperate, shallow gasps, each one rattling his chest. His voice is tight when he speaks, cracking with something more raw than you’ve ever heard from him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, so quietly you almost don’t catch it. “Please... please forgive me.”
You freeze, the shock of his sudden vulnerability paralyzing you. This isn’t the man you knew, the man who never let his emotions show, the one who held everything tightly behind his cold, controlled façade. This man, on his knees in front of you, looks small, fragile in a way that makes your heart clench painfully.
His hands shake as they grip you harder, and he begs again, his voice pleading, broken. “Please... don’t leave me.”
The tears slip down his face now, quiet, steady, but his composure is still there, just barely holding on. He’s still trying to hold onto that semblance of control, even as he holds you like he’s drowning.
You’ve never seen him like this. The man who was always so sure of himself, so self-assured; now nothing more than a man desperate for you to stay, desperate for your forgiveness. It’s almost too much to process.
You should push him away. You should stand tall, force him to face the consequences of what he did. You could walk away right now and never look back.
But instead, you stay, paralyzed by the weight of everything that’s just been laid bare. And then, without thinking, you gently reach down, cupping his face with your hands, your thumb brushing away the fresh tear on his cheek. His eyes flicker up to meet yours, glassy but searching, like he’s holding onto you as if you’re his last lifeline.
"If you’re really sorry," you whisper, your voice softer than you expected, but edged with something dangerous, something teasing. "Why don’t you prove it?"
His breath hitches, and for a split second, there’s a flash of hesitation. But then he nods, his eyes darkening, the tension between you thickening, pulling you both into something neither of you can escape.
The cool glass of the penthouse window pressed against your back, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body. He gently kissed your knee, his lips lingering on your soft skin as he slowly trailed upward. Your breath hitched as he worked his way up your thigh, his fingertips grazing the sensitive flesh. He paused before reaching the hem of your dress, his breath warm against your skin.
"May I...?" he murmured, seeking your silent consent. His voice was low and rough with emotion, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. He knew he had to tread carefully, not wanting to overwhelm or pressure you in any way.
Despite the tension and uncertainty between you, Higuruma was determined to show you the depth of his feelings and commitment to you. He wanted to worship every inch of your body, to make amends for all the moments he had missed or taken for granted in the past.
He gazed up at you, his dark eyes filled with a mix of vulnerability and raw desire as he pressed another worshipful kiss just above your knee. His hands slid slowly up your inner thigh, thumbs caressing the soft skin. He could feel the heat emanating from your core, smell the intoxicating scent of your arousal. It took every ounce of his self-control not to bury his face between your thighs and taste you right then and there.
"Higuruma..." you gasped, your voice trembling with need. Your fingers tangled in his dark hair, gripping tightly as you fought the urge to pull him closer, to demand that he claim you, make you his again. You could feel the wetness pooling between your thighs, your body aching to be filled by him once more.
Without breaking eye contact, he gently lifted your leg, placing it over his broad shoulder as his large hand caressed the smooth skin of your inner thigh. His touch was electric, sending shivers of longing through your body.
"Shh, let me take care of you," he murmured, his deep voice sending vibrations straight to your core. His fingers danced along the lace edge of your panties, teasing you with the promise of pleasure.
"I've missed everything about you," he murmured, his deep voice laced with emotion. "The way you feel, the way you taste, the way your body responds to my touch." He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh as he inhaled your scent, a heady mix of desire and the faint remnants of your perfume. The combination was intoxicating, and Higuruma felt a surge of hunger that had nothing to do with the dinner they'd just shared.
His fingers danced along the inside of your thigh, teasing the soft skin with feather-light touches. He could feel you trembling beneath his fingertips, and it only served to fuel his desire. Higuruma's gaze remained locked with yours, his dark eyes filled with a vulnerability he rarely allowed anyone to see.
"Let me worship you," he pleaded, his words a low rumble against your skin. "Let me show you how much I've missed you, how much I still crave you." His fingers crept higher, brushing against your slick folds with a tenderness that belied the intensity
You hesitated for a moment, your heart warring between the love you still harbored for Higuruma and the fear of revisiting the pain he'd caused. But as his fingers grazed your slick folds, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your sensitive body, you found yourself nodding, granting him permission.
A low, possessive growl rumbled in Higuruma's chest as he gripped your thighs, bunching your dress up around your waist. He leaned in, and the first touch of his tongue against your aching core drew a sharp gasp from your lips. The sensation was overwhelming, his skilled mouth and tongue quickly stoking the flames of your long-dormant desire.
Higuruma took his time, his tongue exploring every inch of your most intimate places with a hunger and fervor that spoke of a man starved for the taste of his beloved. He lapped at your folds, his tongue delving deep to taste your essence, to drink in the proof of your arousal. His nose pressed against your clit, inhaling your scent deeply as his tongue circled the sensitive nub, teasing it mercilessly.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tightly as you struggled to maintain your composure. The pleasure was intense, almost too much after so long without, and you could feel your body tensing, your climax building rapidly. Higuruma seemed to sense this, his licks growing more purposeful, more insistent, as if he were determined to taste your release.
He suckled your clit between his lips, his tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive bud as he drank in your moans and cries. Your hips bucked against his face, seeking more of that delicious friction, and Higuruma gripped your thighs tighter, holding you in place as he worked you towards your peak.
"I'm close—" you gasped, your voice breaking on a moan as your climax crashed over you. Your body shuddered and shook, your inner walls clenching and fluttering around nothing as wave after wave of ecstasy consumed you. Higuruma didn't let up, his tongue and mouth working you through your orgasm, prolonging your pleasure until you were left boneless and spent in his grasp.
Higuruma gazes up at you, his dark eyes glistening with unshed tears and raw, unbridled desire. He takes in the sight of you sprawled out before him, your silk maroon dress bunched up around your thighs, exposing your glistening, dripping core. The intoxicating scent of your arousal fills the air, making his head spin and his cock throb with need.
With a low, possessive growl, he hooks his arms under your thighs and wraps them around his broad, muscular shoulders. In one fluid, effortless motion, he stands up, lifting you as if you weigh nothing at all. He holds you close, your curves molding perfectly against his hard, chiseled body as he carries you towards the bedroom.
"Higuruma, wait…" you protest weakly, your heart racing at the sudden movement.
He lays you down gently on the plush, king-sized bed, the silk sheets cool against your heated skin. Towering above you, he begins to remove his suit jacket and tie, revealing the crisp white shirt underneath, the fabric stretching taut across his broad, muscular chest.
"I've missed you,," he murmurs, his voice low and rough with emotion. "I've missed this." He trails a finger along the curve of your breast, down your soft belly, pausing to brush against the silver stretch marks that adorn your skin. "You're even more beautiful than I remembered."
He's different now, softer, but his need for you remains the same. He's still Higuruma, the man you'd wanted a divorce from, but he's trying to be the man you deserve. The man you fell in love with all those years ago. And as he hovers above you, his body trembling with desire and longing, you feel the old emotions stirring to life once more.
Higuruma slides the straps of your dress off your shoulders, letting the silk fabric pool around your waist as he drinks in the sight of your naked curves. "Beautiful," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "I always loved how that dress looked on you, but it's so much better off now." He leans down, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, down to the swell of your breasts.
You gasp, arching into his touch as he maps out the sensitive skin he's been denied for so long. His fingers skim over your nipples, teasing and tweaking the hardened peaks until you're squirming beneath him, desperate for more.
Higuruma's clothed length rubs against your dripping core, the rough fabric creating delicious friction against your swollen, sensitive folds. He's trembling, his hips rocking instinctively as he grinds against you, chasing the pleasure that's been cruelly taken from him.
You've never seen him like this before, so achingly desperate and gentle. Always before, he was dominant, taking what he wanted with a rough, almost punishing urgency. But now, he seems to be savouring every moment, every touch, as if he's trying to make up for lost time.
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you watch him undress, his chiselled body slowly being revealed to you. The sight makes you feel shy, vulnerable, and you instinctively reach for the hem of your dress to cover yourself. But Higuruma gently smacks your hand away, tutting softly.
"Don't," he says, his voice a low, possessive growl. "Let me look at you. I want to see all of you." His eyes rake over your curves, hot and hungry, as he continues to remove his clothes with deliberate, teasing slowness.
You try to grab for his belt, desperate to help him, to speed up the process, but he gently bats your hand away again. "Patience, my love," he murmurs, giving you a disapproving look. "I want to take my time with you tonight. I want to worship every inch of your body, the way it deserves to be worshipped."
He settles between your thighs, his hard, thick length nestling against your slick, swollen folds. He's so close, so tantalizingly close to where you need him most. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the way his heart races in his chest.
"Tell me what you want, my love," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "Tell me how you want me to take you. I want to hear you say it." His voice is a low, seductive purr, coaxing, begging for your words.
You whine and squirm beneath him, your body trembling with a mix of anticipation and nervousness. "Please, 'Romi," you beg, your voice high-pitched and needy. "Stop teasing me already. I can't take it anymore."
Your words dissolve into a desperate mewl as you feel him slowly, torturously pushing forward, the thick head of his cock catching on your opening.
"Shh, I know, my love," Higuruma soothes, his voice a low, aroused rasp. "I know it's been a while. I know it's big. But you can take it, you're going to take it." He punctuates each word with a shallow thrust, pushing just a little deeper each time, stretching you around his thick, throbbing length.
You whimper, your back arching off the bed as you feel the delicious, almost painful stretch of your walls yielding to his girth. Higuruma coos encouragingly, praising your body's ability to accept him, to take him in despite the time that's passed.
"I know it's a lot, but you're doing so well, my love. Your body remembers mine. It remembers how to take me, how to milk me for all I'm worth." His words are a low, seductive growl, filled with raw, unbridled arousal.
He threads his fingers through yours, lacing your hands together as he slowly, inexorably pushes himself deeper into your hot, slick heat. You can feel his heart racing in his chest, pounding against your own as he fills you completely, his hips pressing against yours as he hilts himself inside you.
"Fuck," Higuruma groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he struggles to maintain his composure. "You feel… fuck, you feel incredible. Like a fucking vice around my cock." He rocks into you, shallow thrusts that grind his pelvis against your clit, stoking the fire burning in your core.
"Tell me how it feels, my love," he demands, his voice a low, urgent growl. "Tell me how good it is to have me inside you again. I need to hear you say it." His eyes bore into yours, desperate and hungry, as he waits for your response.
You can barely form a coherent thought, let alone a response, as Higuruma fills you again and again with his thick, pulsing cock. Incoherent sobs and whimpers spill from your lips, your body writhing and bucking beneath his as he takes you with deep, slow, almost punishing thrusts. The pleasure is overwhelming, bordering on pain, as your walls struggle to accommodate his girth.
"Does Megumi fuck you like this?" Higuruma demands, his voice a low, jealous growl. He's panting, barely able to speak from the intensity of his arousal. "Does he make you feel this good, my love?" His hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that steals your breath.
You try to explain, to tell him that Megumi is just a friend, that there's nothing between you two. But the words won't come, lost in the haze of sensation and the desperate, aching need building inside you. You can only let out choked, garbled noises as Higuruma pounds into you, his jealous anger fueling his lust.
Higuruma's hand cracks across your ass, the sharp sting of pain mingling with the pleasure coursing through your veins. It's a hint of his usual roughness, a reminder of the way he used to take you, hard and fast and without mercy. You try to push him away, to put some distance between your bodies, but he pins your wrists above your head, holding you in place as he continues his relentless assault on your senses.
"No," Higuruma growls, his eyes dark and intense as they bore into yours. "No, you're not going anywhere. You're going to take it, Mrs. Higuruma. You're going to take every fucking inch of your husband's cock." The way he says your name, the way he calls you his wife, sends a shiver down your spine and straight to your core.
Your body betrays you, your walls clenching and fluttering around his pistoning length as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. You're drowning in sensation, lost in the feel of Higuruma's body moving over you, inside you, claiming you in the most primal way possible.
"Fuck, I can feel you," Higuruma groans, his hips stuttering, his thrusts becoming erratic. "I can feel you getting close. Come on, my love. Come for me. Show me who you belong to." His words are a low, desperate command, his voice rough and ragged with impending release.
Your body surrenders to his will, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. You scream, your voice raw and hoarse as you come undone beneath him, your walls clamping down around his cock like a vice. Higuruma follows a second later, his body going rigid as he spills himself inside you, his hot seed painting your insides.
He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he struggles to catch his breath. You're both slick with sweat, your bodies trembling with the aftershocks of your shared release. Higuruma peppers your face with soft kisses, murmuring words of praise and adoration as he slowly comes down from his high.
"Mine," he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. "You're still mine, my love. You'll always be mine." His arms tighten around you, holding you close as the night deepens around you both.
