dare i say, divorce lawyer!higuruma who becomes infatuated by you, a client, who hires him to divorce her husband— nanami kento. dare i??
the first time you see higuruma, it’s across a polished mahogany table that smells faintly of lemon cleaner and old paper.
the office is too quiet; so quiet, in fact, that it makes you hyperaware of your own breathing, the subtle rustle of fabric when you shift in your chair, the distant hum of traffic filtered through sealed windows.
he sits there in his dark suit, sleeves crisp and precisely cuffed, his tie knotted with geometric perfection, hands folded on the table before him like a man about to pass judgment rather than ask questions. hiromi higuruma isn’t smiling. you get the sense he rarely does, you don’t expect him to, but you do wonder what he would look like if he did.
his eyes are sharp, dissecting you the way a surgeon studies an incision site before making the first cut. there’s something in the set of his mouth that suggests he’s already forming conclusions about you, filing them away in that orderly mind of his.
you tell him your name, your voice steadier than you expected. you tell him you want a divorce from nanami kento, your husband of 5 years.
his expression remains perfectly neutral as he writes something down, the scratch of his pen steady and controlled, each letter formed with deliberate precision. when he finally looks up, his gaze meets yours without any change. “and why?” he asks, his voice even and measured. there’s no judgment in it, no curiosity beyond what the case requires.
why do you want to divorce nanami?
because loving nanami feels like loving something immovable, something solid and dependable that will never surprise you again. because you are exhausted in ways that sleep cannot fix, tired of reaching across a table and finding nothing but polite conversation where passion used to live. because somewhere along the way, marriage transformed into routine and routine hardened into silence, and now you cannot remember the last time you laughed together, really laughed, the kind that leaves you breathless and tear-eyed. because you still love him, god, you do, but it feels like drowning in warm water, too gentle to fight against, too suffocating to survive in much longer.
you don’t say any of that, instead, very carefully, you say, “we grew apart.”
higuruma watches you for a long moment, and in that silence you feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing. he notices the tremor in your fingers where they rest on the arm of the chair. he notices the way your eyes glass over but don’t spill, how you’re fighting to maintain composure. he notices, too, the way you don’t wear your ring anymore, though there’s a faint indentation on your skin where it used to sit, a ghost of commitment that hasn’t quite faded.
“does he know?” he asks quietly. “that you’re considering this?”
you shake your head, unable to use words.
he nods once, makes another note, and continues with the next question. he is professional, indeed, very detached. the way a good lawyer should be.
nanami finds out a week later.
he doesn’t shout when the papers arrive. that would be easier somehow, cleaner, something you could point to as justification. he doesn’t accuse you of anything, doesn’t beg, not at first anyway.
he just stands there in the living room of the house you picked together three years ago, the one with the windows you both fell in love with and the kitchen you planned to renovate someday, his tie loosened from work, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose the way they always do when he’s tired. he stares at the file like it’s written in a language he doesn’t understand, like if he reads it enough times the words might rearrange themselves into something less devastating.
“you already hired a lawyer,” he says quietly, and it’s not a question.
you can’t look at him. you focus instead on the slight crack in the corner of the window frame, the one he’s been meaning to fix for months.
“is there someone else?” he asks after a long pause.
the question is calm, too calm, uttered with the controlled composure that comes from years of practice keeping emotions in check. and it makes something inside you fracture, because you recognize that control, you’ve always recognized it, it’s the very thing that’s been slowly suffocating you. you hated it about him the most.
“no,” you whisper, and your voice breaks on the word. “there isn’t.”
that part, at least, is true.
. . . but there is something else, something you can’t quite name, something that begins to grow in the spaces between meetings with higuruma.
because the more time you spend with him, discussing assets and timelines and the cold logistics of dismantling a life you built with someone you still love, the more you notice things about him.
the way he listens without interrupting, letting your words settle before responding. the way his voice drops slightly when you look overwhelmed, softening around the edges without losing its professional quality. the way he pours you tea during consultations like it’s the most natural thing in the world and attending to your comfort is simply part of his responsibility.
he doesn’t flirt with you. he never oversteps, never says anything that could be construed as unprofessional. his behavior is impeccable, precisely what you’d expect from someone with his reputation.
but sometimes, when you’re speaking, you catch him staring. not at your body, not at your lips, but at your face, at your eyes, and when you pause, confused, he looks away immediately, returning to his notes with perfect composure that you’ve come to hate on anyone.
“you’re still in love with him,” he says one evening, late in a consultation that’s run past office hours. you’ve just admitted that nanami asked you to reconsider, that he’s been making efforts to change, to see you, to bridge the distance you’ve been feeling for a while.
you laugh weakly, surprised by the observation. “that’s not very helpful legal advice, higuruma-san.”
“i’m not speaking as your lawyer,” he replies, and the less guarded appearance of his voice surprises you.
silence settles between you, thick and charged.
“i can request a different attorney,” he adds after a moment, his tone shifting back toward formality. “if you believe my involvement has become… compromised in any way.”
your heart stutters in your chest. you understand what he’s saying, what he’s asking without quite asking.
“has it?” you ask softly and your voice sounds strange to your own ears. it almost feels like watching yourself from the sidelines.
for the first time since you met him, higuruma hesitates. you watch him war with himself, watch the conflict play out across features usually so controlled and the sight is almost startling in its humanity.
“yes,” he says finally, the word hanging heavy between you.
you mutter something about proceeding with him and he nods, regret flashing in his eyes.
. . . and nanami doesn’t make the process easy, despite the papers moving forward.
he begins coming home earlier than usual, leaving work at reasonable hours for the first time in years. he cooks your favorite meals, the ones he learned to make early in your marriage when you were both still figuring out how to share a kitchen. he fixes small things around the house you hadn’t even realized were broken, the squeaky hinge on the bathroom cabinet, the loose drawer pull in the kitchen, the light that’s been flickering in the hallway for months.
he doesn’t plead on his knees or make grand romantic gestures; that’s not who he is, and you both know it. instead he stands tall and composed, going about these small acts of service with quiet determination, but there’s desperation in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his eyes follow you around rooms. like he longs to say something but he doesn’t know what.
“tell me what i did,” he says one night, finding you in the kitchen long after dinner. his voice is low, rougher than usual. “tell me what to fix, and i’ll fix it. i’ll do anything.”
you want to scream at him that he didn’t do anything wrong, that’s the problem. he’s steady and reliable and safe, and you have felt yourself slowly shrinking inside that safety, like a plant kept in shade too long, still alive but pale, reaching toward light it can’t quite find. there’s no villain in this story, no clear antagonist, and somehow that makes it worse.
“i don’t feel seen,” you finally admit, the words escaping before you can stop them.
nanami’s expression crumbles, an unexpected crack in that carefully maintained composure. “i see you. you’re my wife,” he says, and he sounds genuinely confused, genuinely hurt. you feel bad for him, for hurting him, but you can’t bring yourself to stop.
“you look at me,” you correct, and now the tears are slipping free, hot and humiliating. “but you don’t see me. not anymore. not the way you used to.”
he steps forward, hands hovering at your waist like he’s afraid you’ll curl into yourself if he touches you too firmly. you can feel the warmth of his hands almost touching you and it feels like too much.
“i love you,” he says, “i have always loved you. i will always love you.”
the absolute worst part is that you believe him completely, staring firmly onto the place on his shirt where his heart is supposed to be as you let him hold you close and cradle the back of your head like he’s always done when you needed him. it’s a shame that he has to do it in these circumstances.
higuruma shouldn’t meet you outside the office.
he knows that. you know that. every professional instinct, every ethical guideline, every rational thought screams that this is a terrible idea.
but when you call him late one night, voice shaking after another devastating conversation with nanami, he comes anyway.
you meet at a quiet bar on the edge of the city, somewhere neither of you is likely to be recognized. dim lights reflect off glassware arranged behind the counter, casting shadows across his face that make him look older, wearier, more human than you’ve ever seen him. he sits close to you, closer than appropriate, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, but he doesn’t touch you.
you talk and he talks, you drink and he drinks. you don’t relax and he doesn’t either.
“this is unethical,” he murmurs after a bit. you can hear the self-recrimination in his voice.
“then leave,” you whisper. “no one’s stopping you.”
you don’t know who leans in first. maybe it’s mutual, a collision of loneliness and want and tension that’s been building for months, years, lifetimes.
his hand cups your jaw with surprising gentleness, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s testing whether you’re real, whether this is actually happening. when he kisses you, it’s restrained hunger finally snapping loose, years of discipline crumbling in a single moment. there’s something desperate in the way his mouth moves against yours, something that speaks of wanting things he’s never allowed himself to want.
it feels different from nanami’s kisses. nanami kisses like a promise, like a vow renewed each time. higuruma kisses like a confession, like he’s telling you secrets with his mouth that he could never put into words.
you pull away first, breath unsteady, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. everything just feels wrong.
“i’m still married,” it comes out like an apology when you say it, the shame of your realisation flooding you.
“you’re my lawyer.” or you were. or something. the lines have blurred beyond recognition.
“i know.” he rests his forehead against yours, and you can feel him breathing, can feel the effort it takes for him to maintain control. when he speaks again, his voice drops even lower. “and i have thought about you in ways that are inexcusable. in ways that violate every professional boundary i’ve ever maintained.”
your pulse roars in your ears. “then excuse yourself,” you challenge, though your fingers are gripping his jacket like you might fall without something to hold onto.
he laughs, low and humorless, a sound without any real amusement in it. “if i were a better man,” he says quietly. “if i were the man i’m supposed to be.”
you pull away and let go of his jacket as if burned. that evening you can barely look nanami in the eye and shame still courses through you when you throw your clothes into the washing machine and wash yourself until your skin is irritated, unable to clean away the dirty feeling.
the divorce proceedings become complicated after that.
higuruma requests to formally transfer your case to a colleague, citing a conflict of interest. the transition is seamless on paper, handled with the same precision he brings to everything.
nanami notices the change immediately.
“why the switch?” he asks during mediation, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“conflict of interest,” higuruma answers smoothly, not meeting anyone’s gaze directly.
nanami’s eyes flick between you and him, and you watch suspicion dawn slowly across his features. nanami is perceptive, always has been. it’s one of the things you loved about him once, the way he noticed small details, the way he could read you without words. now that perceptiveness feels like a threat.
later, outside the building, he corners you gently. he’s never rough with you, never cruel, even now. but he’s firm, insistent, his hand catching your elbow to stop your retreat.
“did he touch you?” he asks. the question is quiet, almost gentle, but it cuts through you like a blade.
you don’t answer. you can’t.
nanami exhales sharply. you watch pain flash across his face, raw and immediate before he manages to contain it. “i’m still fighting for you,” he says, his voice cracking uncharacteristically. “i haven’t stopped fighting. i won’t stop. but i need to know, are you already gone?”
you don’t know the answer to that question.
because with nanami, you have history stretching back years. you have comfort and familiarity and a love that feels like an anchor, heavy and secure and impossible to escape. with higuruma, you have intensity, sharp edges, the terrifying possibility of being understood in ways you didn’t even know you needed. one offers safety. the other offers revelation.
that night, nanami doesn’t sleep in the bedroom. he sits on the couch instead, lights off, staring into the darkness with the same expression he wore when he first read those divorce papers. you watch him from the hallway, hidden in shadow, and your heart aches with a pain that feels physical.
higuruma stops contacting you after the case transfer.
outside of necessary legal updates forwarded through his colleague, you hear nothing from him. he draws a line, firm and final, and retreats behind it completely.
you miss him immediately, but the realization shames you.
you miss the way he challenged you, the way he never accepted your easy answers without pushing deeper. you miss the way he looked at you like you were something rare and breakable and dangerous all at once. you miss the tension between you, the heat that existed in every room you shared, the knowledge that something unspoken was building between you.
but when you look at nanami, still cooking your favorite meals, still fixing things around the house, still trying so hard to reach you, guilt floods your veins like poison. he doesn’t deserve this. he never deserved any of this. you don’t deserve any of this.
weeks pass. the days blur together in a haze of paperwork and meetings with the new lawyer and conversations with nanami that circle the same territory without ever reaching resolution.
the papers finalize. the house is to be sold, the assets divided, the life you built together dismantled piece by piece.
and on the last day, when you both sign the final documents in the mediator’s office, nanami’s hand trembles just slightly as he sets down the pen. you notice because you’re watching him, because you’ve always watched him, because some habits don’t die even when everything else does.
“if you walk out that door,” he says quietly, not looking at you, his gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance, “i won’t stop you.”
it’s not a threat. it’s not manipulation, not some last-ditch attempt to guilt you into staying. it’s resignation, pure and simple, the surrender of someone who has fought and fought and finally accepted that fighting isn’t enough.
you feel the weight of every shared morning, every quiet night, every soft kiss pressed to your forehead when you were half asleep. you feel the memory of safety, of belonging, of coming home to someone who knew you completely.
and you feel the echo of higuruma’s mouth against yours, the spark, the danger, the way he said he wasn’t a better man but looked at you like you might make him want to be one anyway.
you stand there in that sterile office, suspended between past and possibility, between the love you’ve known and the love you might still find.
nanami finally looks up at you, and his eyes are raw, exposed, all the carefully constructed composure stripped away. love is still there, painfully, impossibly alive inside them despite everything.
“do you still love me?” he asks.
your answer catches in your throat, trapped somewhere between truth and fear and the impossibility of the question itself.
because the truth is, you do love him. you love him in ways that will probably never fade, love him like scar tissue, love him like muscle memory.
and you don’t know if that’s enough anymore. you don’t know if love alone can bridge the distance that’s grown between you, if it can fill the silences, if it can make you feel seen instead of simply looked at. you don’t know if the kind of love that anchors you can also set you free, or if anchors are meant to hold you in place forever.
outside, beyond the closed door, the world is waiting. somewhere in it, hiromi higuruma is living his careful, controlled life, probably regretting every moment of weakness he showed you, probably rebuilding the walls you helped him tear down.
and here, in this room, nanami is waiting for your answer, still loving you, still hoping, still fighting even as he says he won’t fight anymore.
you open your mouth to speak.
for a long moment, even you don’t know what’s going to come out.
[ an. this could have been a long one shot full of angst but i don’t have time or energy so im feeding this bullshit to you guys i hope you dont hate it ]
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