Chapter Text
The office buzzed with the kind of gossip that thrived in spaces where ambition and exhaustion collided. The 27th floor of Takagi & Associates was no exception.
"Did you see her this morning? Walked straight into the glass door. Twice."
"Three times, actually. I was counting."
"She's smart, though. I heard she graduated top of her class. Why is she working as a secretary?"
"Probably because she's a liability. You can't be brilliant and coordinated. The universe has to balance itself somehow."
The voices drifted through the breakroom, carrying that particular blend of admiration and condescension that followed you wherever you went. You'd heard it before. At high school, where you'd aced every exam but nearly set the chemistry lab on fire. At your last firm, where you'd drafted impeccable contracts but managed to spill tea on the managing partner's silk tie.
You were capable. You were competent. You were also, by all accounts, a walking disaster.
Yet the gossip didn't bother you. It never had. You'd long since accepted that your brain worked faster than your body could keep up, that your thoughts raced ahead while your feet stumbled behind. You were used to it. What you weren't used to was the way people spoke about him.
Higuruma Hiromi.
The name alone seemed to lower the temperature of any room it was uttered in.
"He doesn't smile. Ever. I've been here three years and I've never seen it."
"He's not mean, though. Just... really intense."
"Intense. Right. That's one word for it. Another word is terrifying."
"He won that extremely hard case last month. The one everyone said was unwinnable. He destroyed the opposition's lead counsel so badly the guy quit law entirely."
"And he did it all without raising his voice. That's the scariest part. He just... looks at you. And you know you've lost."
You listened to the murmured conversations as you refilled your mug, the ceramic warm against your palms. The Higuruma they described was a stranger to you. A caricature. A myth built from whispered fears and professional envy.
You'd met the real Higuruma Hiromi.
The real Higuruma Hiromi held the door for you when your arms were full of files. The real Higuruma Hiromi corrected your mistakes with quiet patience, never once raising his voice or making you feel small. The real Higuruma Hiromi had looked at you over his reading glasses last Tuesday and asked, in a voice so gentle it made your chest ache, if you'd eaten lunch yet.
"You need to take care of yourself," he'd say and then he'd slid a protein bar across his desk like it was a peace offering.
You'd nearly dropped it that time.
The breakroom door swung open behind you, and the gossip died instantly. You didn't need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel the shift in the atmosphere—the way the air grew heavier, more charged, like the moment before a storm.
Higuruma Hiromi walked past the cluster of paralegals without so much as a glance. His presence commanded attention, not through aggression, but through sheer gravitational pull. He was tall, lean, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that looked like it had been tailored specifically for him—because it probably had. His hair was dark, swept back from a face that was all sharp angles and quiet intensity. His jaw was set with the kind of discipline that came from years of self-control and they missed nothing. He moved through the room like a man who had long ago learned that the world would move for him. Then his gaze found you.
It was brief, a flicker, a fraction of a second where his eyes met yours across the crowded breakroom, and something unspoken passed between you. You couldn't name it. It was there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it.
But you didn't imagine the way his steps slowed. Just slightly. Just enough for you to notice. And then he was gone, disappearing down the hallway toward his office, leaving behind a wake of held breath and nervous glances.
"See?" someone whispered. "Terrifying…"
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.
If only they knew.
You settled back at your desk, the familiar chaos of Post-it notes and stacked files a comfort in its own way. Your computer screen glowed with the morning's tasks—calendar invites to coordinate, briefs to format, a transcript to proofread. You'd been here three weeks now, and you still marveled at the sheer volume of work that crossed your desk. It was a good kind of busy. The kind that kept your mind occupied and your hands steady.
Except when you were around him.
You'd noticed it from the very first day, during that awkward orientation where you'd accidentally knocked over a potted plant and announced to the entire floor that you were "so sorry, oh God, this is fine, everything is fine, I'm fine."
Higuruma had emerged from his office at the commotion, and you'd braced yourself for the inevitable reprimand. The dismissal. The cold, professional lecture about competence and professionalism and basic coordination.
Instead, he'd crouched down beside you, helped you scoop the soil back into the pot, and said, "The plant was due for repotting anyway."
His voice had been so calm. So matter-of-fact. Like he hadn't just saved you from complete humiliation.
You'd stared at him, utterly speechless.
He'd looked back at you, and for a moment—just a moment—the corners of his mouth had twitched.
The evening had settled over Tokyo like a silk shroud, the neon glow of Shibuya bleeding through the windows of the tiny bar tucked away on the third floor of an unremarkable building. It was the kind of place that didn't advertise—the kind you only knew about if someone told you. Your colleagues had told you. And now, three glasses of wine in, you were beginning to understand why.
"You're telling me he actually helped you clean up the plant?"
You nodded, swirling the remnants of your drink. “Crouched right down beside me. Didn't even sigh. Just... scooped the dirt back in.”
Across the table, your colleague shook her head in disbelief. She was a senior paralegal, sharp-eyed and perpetually exhausted, and she'd been at Takagi for five years.
She'd seen things. She'd survived things and she still didn't believe you.
"That's not the Higuruma I know," she said flatly. "The Higuruma I know once made an associate cry just by looking at her."
"I've heard that story," another colleague chimed in, leaning forward. "Wasn't it over a typo?"
"A missing comma. He didn't even say anything. Just stared at the document for thirty seconds, then handed it back. The associate burst into tears on the spot."
You frowned, the wine warming your cheeks.
"That doesn't sound like him at all."
"Because you haven't been here long enough," the senior paralegal said. "Give it time. The mask slips eventually."
But you knew better or at least, you thought you did.
"He's not what everyone thinks," you said, more firmly than you intended. "He's actually really... nice."
The table went quiet. Then someone snorted.
"Nice?" The colleague across from you raised an eyebrow. "Higuruma Hiromi? The man who's never once joined us for after-work drinks? The man who works until midnight and doesn't even have a picture on his desk? Not even a plant either, that Higuruma?"
"Yes," you said defensively. "That Higuruma."
You thought about the time you'd accidentally sent a draft to the wrong client—a catastrophic error that should have gotten you fired on the spot. You'd gone to his office, trembling, ready to pack your things. And he'd simply said, "I've already fixed it. Don't worry."
No lecture. No cold disappointment. Just a quiet reassurance that made your heart ache. You thought about the way he'd stayed late last week, not because he had to, but because you were struggling with a particularly complex filing system. He'd walked you through it step by step, his voice patient and steady, his arm brushing yours when he reached across the keyboard. You'd felt the warmth of his presence like a second skin.
"He helped me with the Yamamoto case," you said, your voice softer now. "Stayed until almost ten to walk me through the filing. Didn't complain once and didn’t even seem annoyed."
"That's just because you're new," the senior paralegal said dismissively. "Wait until you've been here six months. He'll treat you like everyone else."
"He won't," you said, and there was something in your tone that made the table go quiet again. "I don't know how to explain it. He's just... he's different. With me."
You didn't add that you'd noticed the way his eyes lingered. The way his hand hovered near yours but never quite touched. The way his voice dropped an octave when he said your name.
You didn't add any of that, that would be embarrassing.. but you felt it. A warmth that had nothing to do with the wine.. or it could be just pure delusion who knows?
"So," the colleague across from you said, a sly smile curling her lips. "You think he's hot."
Your face flushed.
“What? No—I mean—that's not—"
"You totally do. Look at you. You're blushing like a teenager."
"I am not..”
"Is it the suits? The whole broody, intense thing?" The other colleagues laughed, and you buried your face in your hands.
“Stop. Please."
"Come on. Just admit it. We won't tell anyone."
You groaned, but there was no real protest in it. The wine had loosened something in you, and the warmth of the bar, the laughter of your colleagues, the comfortable familiarity of gossip—it all conspired to lower your defenses.
"Fine," you muttered, lifting your head. "He's not unattractive. Happy?"
"Not unattractive," the senior paralegal repeated, deadpan. "That's the most boring description I've ever heard describing an office crush."
"His nose," you said suddenly, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them. "I don't know why, but his nose is just... it's so perfect.. and his jaw. The way he looks at you over his reading glasses like he can see straight through you." The table erupted in laughter.
You joined them, shaking your head at your own ridiculousness.
"And his hands," someone added gleefully. "Don't forget the hands."
"God, yes. The hands. Did you see him handle that contract last week? Those fingers—"
"Okay, okay, that's enough—"
"You're the one who started it!"
You were laughing, really laughing, the kind of unguarded laughter that only came with good wine and better company. You felt light. Free. The weight of the office, the constant vigilance of trying not to trip over your own feet, all of it faded in the amber glow of the bar.
"I'm just saying," you said, wiping your eyes, "if he looked at me like that every day, I'd probably forget my own name."
"Pretty sure you already do that," someone muttered.
"Shut up."
More laughter. Another round of drinks. The conversation drifted to other topics—cases, clients, the senior partner's alarming choice of ties—and you let yourself relax into the easy rhythm of it. But then the door opened. You didn't see it at first. You were laughing at something the senior paralegal had said, your head tilted back, your glass halfway to your lips. It was only when the laughter at the table died—sudden, absolute, like someone had flipped a switch—that you turned.
Your jaw dropped.
Higuruma Hiromi stood in the doorway of the bar, his silhouette framed against the dim light of the hallway. He was still in his work clothes—the charcoal suit, the loosened tie, the sleeves rolled to reveal those forearms that had haunted your thoughts more than you'd ever admit. His hair was slightly disheveled, as if he'd run his fingers through it, and his glasses were gone, leaving his eyes bare and impossibly dark.
He wasn't alone, a man stood beside him—taller, broader, with a friendly face and an easy smile. But you barely registered him. Your attention was fixed entirely on Higuruma, on the way his gaze swept the room with practiced precision, cataloguing faces, assessing threats, missing nothing.
Then his eyes found you.
Time seemed to stop. The bar faded. The voices, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—all of it dissolved into white noise. There was only him, standing in the doorway, his eyes locked on yours across the crowded room and then, slowly, deliberately, his gaze traveled down the length of your body and back up again.
You forgot how to breathe.
Your colleagues had gone utterly silent. You could feel their eyes on you, the weight of their stares, but you couldn't look away from him. Couldn't move. Couldn't think.
"He heard," someone whispered, barely audible. "Oh God, he heard everything."
"Shut up," another hissed. "He can't have. He just walked in."
"He was right there. The door was open. You could hear everything from the hallway—" Your blood ran cold. The laughter, the teasing, the comments about his nose, his jaw, his hands—it all came rushing back in a horrifying wave of clarity.
He'd been standing in that doorway. The door that led directly to the hallway. The hallway that carried sound like a goddamn amplifier. The senior paralegal grabbed your arm.
“Just—stay calm. Maybe he didn't hear. Maybe he just got here."
But you knew, you definitely knew from the way his steps slowed, from the way his eyes found yours with laser precision, from the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly when he recognized your face.
He'd heard. Every. Single. Word.
Higuruma said something to his companion—low, murmured, you couldn't hear it—and then he began to walk.
Through the bar and past the tables, he was coming toward you. His steps were unhurried, measured, the same deliberate stride he used in the office. But there was something different in the set of his shoulders. Something almost predatory in the way his eyes never left your face.
Your colleagues had frozen. The senior paralegal's grip on your arm was bruising. Someone at the table made a strangled sound that might have been a cough or might have been a prayer.
He stopped at your table to look down at you and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
"Evening," he said finally, and his voice was low, smooth, rougher than you'd ever heard it. "I didn't expect to find you here."
"Neither did I," you managed. "I mean—I didn't expect to see you—here—"
The corner of his mouth twitched, it wasn't a smile but it sure made your stomach flip.
"I don't usually," he added. "But a colleague insisted." He gestured vaguely toward the man who'd followed him, but his eyes never left yours.
"Are you... enjoying your evening?"
"I—yes. Yes. We were just—" you gestured helplessly at your colleagues, who were staring with expressions ranging from shock to barely concealed panic. "—talking."
He tilted his head. "I see."
There was a pause, it made the silence stretched, making it thick and electric, charging it with something unspoken.
"Who's the friend?" someone at the table asked, and you couldn't tell if they were trying to help or just desperate to break the tension. Higuruma glanced at them—a brief, dismissive flicker—and then returned his attention to you. "My former associate. We were catching up."
He said it like it was nothing. Like he hadn't just walked into your after-work drinks and turned your entire world upside down.
"You look well," he said, and there was something in his voice—a softness, an intimacy—that made your pulse race. "Different. Without the desk."
You laughed, breathless.
“You mean I'm not buried in papers."
"Among other things."
His eyes flickered down to your lips, just for a second but long enough for you to notice.
"Careful," he said, and his voice was barely above a whisper. "The wine makes people bold." The words hit you like a physical blow. Your face burned and your colleagues exchanged panicked glances. The senior paralegal made a strangled sound that was definitely a prayer this time.
"I'm so sorry," you blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in your desperation. "Whatever you heard—we were just—it was stupid—I didn't mean—"
Higuruma's brow furrowed. Genuine confusion flickered across his features.
"What are you apologizing for?" he asked, and his voice was perfectly even. Perfectly neutral.
You froze.
"Nothing," you said too quickly. "I just—I don't know—I'm sorry—" His head tilted the other way.
That assessing gaze swept over your face, cataloguing every flicker of panic, every flush of embarrassment.
"You're apologizing for having drinks with your colleagues?" He sounded genuinely puzzled. "That's not something to apologize for."
"No, I just—" You stopped yourself. Swallowed. Your brain was screaming at you to shut up, to stop digging, to let the moment pass. "Never mind. I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm saying."
"Perhaps you've had enough wine," he said mildly, and there was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. "I'll let you get back to your evening."
He straightened. His expression smoothed into its usual professional mask, but his eyes—his eyes were still burning.
"I should get back to my colleague," he said. "But it was... nice. Seeing you here." He said it like he meant it. Like he'd never meant anything more. And then he turned and walked away, leaving you breathless and staring, your wine glass forgotten in your trembling hand.
The silence at the table stretched for a long moment. Then someone said, very quietly, "What the hell was that?"
"He heard," you whispered. "Oh my God, he heard everything."
"You don't know that—"
"He said 'the wine makes people bold.' He definitely heard."
The senior paralegal let out a low whistle. "Well. You're either fired or getting promoted. There's no middle ground here."
"Shut up. Please shut up."
"He didn't seem mad, though," another colleague offered. "If anything, he looked almost... amused?"
"He looked amused," you repeated, your voice climbing an octave. "Amused. You think that's better? You think that's better?"
"Honestly? Yes. He could have been furious. He could have fired you on the spot. Instead, he called you pretty and walked away."
"He didn't call me pretty—"
"Different. Without the desk. Sounds like another way to call you pretty."
You buried your face in your hands. The heat radiating from your cheeks could have powered the entire bar.
"I need another drink," you mumbled. "Several. Multiple. I need to forget this night ever happened."
The senior paralegal signaled the waiter without missing a beat.
“Two bottles. And keep them coming."
The table erupted in nervous laughter, the tension breaking like a wave. You reached for your glass and drained it in one go, the wine burning a path down your throat.
It didn't help.
Nothing would help.
You barely slept. The wine had worn off somewhere around 2 AM, leaving you with nothing but a pounding headache and the relentless replay of every single word you'd said at that bar. His nose. His jaw. His hands. The way he looked at you over his glasses. The way he made you forget your own name.
You'd groaned into your pillow at least seventeen times.
Now, standing in front of the elevator to go tothe 27th floor, you considered turning around and walking straight back out. Quitting. Moving to a different country. Changing your identity and starting over somewhere no one had ever heard of Takagi & Associates or Higuruma Hiromi or—
The elevator doors slid open.
And there he was.
Higuruma Hiromi stood in the center of the car, impeccably dressed in a black suit that made his shoulders look impossibly broad. His hair was perfectly swept back, his jaw set with its usual discipline.
He looked at you.
You froze.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The elevator doors began to close, and he reached out, one hand catching them with practiced ease. His eyes never left yours.
"Are you getting in?" His voice was neutral. Perfectly professional. The same tone he used in court, in meetings, in every interaction that required nothing but cold competence.
You stepped forward like a marionette whose strings had been pulled. The doors slid shut behind you. The elevator began its ascent.
You were trapped. In a small metal box. With the man whose physical attributes you'd dissected in graphic detail less than twelve hours ago.
This is fine, you told yourself. Everything is fine. Just act normal. Pretend last night didn't happen.
"Good morning," you managed. Your voice came out about three octaves higher than usual.
"Good morning." He didn't look at you. His eyes were fixed on the floor indicator, watching the numbers climb. "You're early."
"I—yes. Couldn't sleep."
A pause. The air in the elevator was thick enough to choke on.
"Neither could I," he said quietly.
Your heart stopped. Then restarted at double speed.
"Work," he added, and there was something almost deliberate in the way he said it. "I had work to finish."
"Right. Of course. Work." You nodded too vigorously. "That makes sense. Work keeps you up. Me too. Work. Definitely work."
Shut up, your brain screamed. Shut up shut up shut up.
The elevator shuddered. You grabbed the railing, your heart lurching. Higuruma's hand shot out, steadying himself against the wall. The lights flickered—once, twice—and then the elevator came to a sudden, jolting stop.
Silence.
Then the emergency lights flickered on, casting everything in a dim, amber glow.
You stared at the floor indicator. It was frozen between floors. The numbers had gone dark.
"No," you whispered. "No, no, no—"
Higuruma pressed the emergency button. Nothing happened. He pressed it again. Still nothing.
He pulled out his phone, frowned at the screen, and held it up. "No signal."
You fumbled for your own phone. Same thing. No bars. No service. Nothing.
"We're stuck," you said, and your voice came out thin and panicked. "We're stuck in an elevator."
"Calm down." His voice was calm. Too calm. Infuriatingly calm. "They'll notice we're missing. Someone will call maintenance."
"And how long will that take?" Your voice was climbing. "Hours? Days? What if we run out of oxygen?"
"We won't run out of oxygen."
"You don't know that…”
"I know the building's emergency protocols," he said, and there was something almost gentle in his tone. "We'll be fine."
You pressed your back against the wall, sliding down until you were sitting on the floor. Your legs had given out. Your heart was racing. Your face was burning.
Of course, you thought. Of course this would happen. Of course I'd get stuck in an elevator with the one person I'm trying desperately to avoid.. which is impossible I’m his fucking secretary.
Higuruma watched you for a moment. Then, slowly, he lowered himself to the floor across from you. He loosened his tie—with that same suit you'd mentioned, the one that made him look so devastatingly handsome—and leaned his head back against the wall.
"We have time," he said. "We might as well make the best of it."
You stared at him. "You're not panicking."
"Would that help?"
"No, but—" You gestured helplessly. "Aren't you at least a little bit concerned?"
He considered this. "I'm concerned about the time. I have a deposition at eleven according to the schedule you sent."
"Exactly! You have a deposition! We need to get out of here!"
He looked at you over his glasses, and there was something in his expression—
"You're afraid of small spaces?”
"I'm not afraid of—" You stopped. Swallowed. "I'm not afraid. I just don't like them."
"Mm.." He didn't push. He just sat there, calm and composed, like being trapped in an elevator with his mortified secretary.
The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the low hum of the emergency lights and the distant, muffled sounds of the building settling around you.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, the thin fabric of your blouse doing little to ward off the growing chill. The ventilation system had gone quiet, and the air was growing cooler by the minute.
Higuruma sat across from you, his posture relaxed despite the circumstances. His tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, revealing a sliver of collarbone that you absolutely did not notice. His glasses were still perched on his nose, and he was watching you with that unreadable expression that made your stomach do complicated things.
"You're cold," he observed.
"I'm fine," you said quickly. "Just a little chilly."
He didn't push. He simply nodded, settling back against the wall, his eyes drifting to the ceiling as if he had all the time in the world.
The silence returned.
It was unbearable.
You started talking. You couldn't help it. The words just spilled out, tumbling over each other in your desperate attempt to fill the space.
"I'm really sorry about last night," you said, and immediately regretted it.
He glanced at you.
"Why would you apologize for having drinks with your colleagues?"
"I just—" You swallowed. "I was pretty drunk. And I might have said some things. I don't really remember." A lie. I just lied to a lawyer.
It was a pathetic lie. You remembered everything. Every single mortifying word.
He tilted his head, and there was something in his expression—curiosity, maybe. "What sort of things?"
"Nothing important," you said too quickly again. "Just stupid stuff. Office gossip. You know how it is."
"I don't, actually." His voice was mild. "I don't participate in office gossip."
"Right. Of course. You're too—" You gestured vaguely. "—professional for that."
"Professional," he repeated, and there was something almost amused in his tone. "That's one word for it."
Another silence. You fidgeted with the hem of your blouse, your fingers cold.
"I just feel bad," you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "I don't want you to think I'm—I don't know. That I'm some kind of—"
"Some kind of what?"
You shook your head.
"Never mind. It's stupid."
"Tell me anyway."
You looked at him. He was watching you with that steady, patient gaze, and for a moment, the professional mask slipped. He looked genuinely curious.
"I don't want you to think I'm unprofessional," you said quietly. "I know I'm clumsy, and I know I make mistakes, but I take my job seriously. I respect you. I don't want you to think that I—" You stopped. “That I don't take this seriously."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, "I don't think you're unprofessional."
"You don't?"
"I think you're one of the most dedicated employees I've ever worked with." His voice was measured, careful. "You work late. You ask questions. You remember details that others overlook." A pause.
“You remember how I take my coffee."
"Black," you said automatically. "One sugar. Not the cheap stuff."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Yes."
You felt a rush of relief so intense it made your head spin. He hadn't heard. Of course he hadn't heard. The bar was loud, and he'd just walked in, and there was no way he could have caught every word—
"Did you say anything particularly memorable?" he asked, and his voice was so casual, so neutral, that you almost missed the way his eyes sharpened behind his glasses.
"No," you shook your head. "Nothing memorable. Just—you know. Work stuff. Complaints about the coffee. The usual."
"..I see."
He said it so calmly that you almost believed him. Almost believed that he hadn't heard a single word of your mortifying confession. Almost believed that you were safe. But still what if..?
Another ten minutes passed. Maybe more. Time was strange in the dim amber glow of the stalled elevator. You were shivering now, trying to hide it, but your teeth were starting to chatter. The cold had seeped into your bones, and your thin blouse was no match for the dropping temperature.
Higuruma noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything. He shrugged off his suit jacket in one smooth motion, the black wool folding neatly over his arm.
"Here," he said, holding it out to you.
You stared at the jacket like it might bite you. "I can't—"
"You're shivering."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not fine." His voice was firm, brooking no argument. "Take it."
You hesitated. He raised an eyebrow, and there was something almost challenging in the set of his jaw.
"It's just a jacket," he said softly. "I won't bite."
You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you took the jacket. His skin was warm—so warm—and the contact sent a jolt through you. You pulled the jacket on, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips, the shoulders pooling around yours.
"Better?" he asked.
You nodded, not trusting your voice. You pulled his jacket tighter around yourself, the fabric warm and heavy. It smelled like him—musky, with an undertone of coffee that clung to the wool. The scent was distinctly masculine, the kind that made you want to bury your face in the collar and breathe deeply.
"You should have said something earlier," he said, his voice low.
"I didn't want to impose."
"You're not imposing." He glanced at you, and there was something in his expression—something soft, almost gentle. "That's what the jacket is for."
You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could form words, the elevator lurched. The lights flickered—once, twice—and then the overhead lights blazed back to life. The floor indicator lit up. You were moving again, ascending with a smooth hum that felt almost anticlimactic after the long stillness.
You scrambled to your feet, your heart racing. Higuruma stood more slowly, adjusting his tie, smoothing down his shirt. His expression had already shifted back to that careful neutrality, but his eyes—his eyes lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open.
The 27th floor stretched before you, quiet and ordinary, the soft hum of office activity drifting from somewhere down the hall. It felt surreal, stepping out of that dim metal box and back into the world.
You walked toward your desk on unsteady legs, acutely aware of the jacket still draped over your shoulders. The weight of it was a constant reminder of what had just happened—the closeness, the quiet intimacy of being trapped with him in that small space. The smell of him clung to the fabric, musky and warm, with that faint hint of coffee that made your stomach flip.
You sat down, your fingers trembling as you reached for your mouse. The computer screen glowed to life, tasks and emails waiting for you. Normalcy. Routine. You could pretend everything was fine. You could pretend the last twenty minutes hadn't happened.
But then you saw it.
A folded blanket, neatly placed on the corner of your desk. Soft, grey, clearly expensive. You blinked at it, confused. You hadn't asked for a blanket. You hadn't even mentioned being cold to anyone except—
You looked up. Higuruma was walking past your desk, his pace unhurried, his eyes fixed ahead. He didn't glance at you. Didn't acknowledge the blanket. But you knew. He must have called someone. Texted someone. Arranged for a blanket to be waiting for you before you even left the elevator. Something warm and complicated twisted in your chest.
"Sir," you called out, your voice softer than you intended. He stopped. Turned. His expression was perfectly neutral, but his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—flickered down to the jacket still wrapped around you.
"I—" You stood, shrugging off the jacket, holding it out to him. "Thank you. For the jacket. I can give it back now—"
"Keep it."
You blinked. "What?"
"For now." He took a step closer, and suddenly the distance between you felt very small. "I have work to finish. You can return it after."
"After what?"
"After I'm done." His voice was calm, measured. "Bring it to my office before you leave tonight."
You stood there, his jacket still clutched in your hands, watching him walk away. The blanket sat on your desk, soft and warm and waiting.
You sat down slowly, pulling the blanket around your shoulders. It was still warm, as if someone had just brought it up. You didn't want to think about how he'd arranged that. How he'd thought of it. How he'd made sure you were comfortable even before you'd asked.
You huddled into the blanket, his jacket still in your lap, and tried very hard to focus on your work. You looked up automatically, and there he was—standing in the doorway, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his tie slightly loosened. He was adjusting his tie, his fingers working the knot with practiced ease, and that was when you noticed.
His arms.
Without the jacket, the white fabric of his shirt did nothing to hide the lean, powerful lines of muscle beneath. The way his biceps strained against the cotton. The way his forearms flexed as he worked the knot. He was buff. The kind of strength that came from discipline and control.
Your mouth went dry.
"Secretary," he said, his voice carrying across the office.
You snapped your eyes up to his face.
"Yes, Sir?"
"Could you bring me coffee, please?"
You nodded quickly, grateful for something to focus on that wasn't his forearms.
“Yes.”
He held your gaze for a moment. Then he gave a single, slow nod and disappeared back into his office, the door clicking shut behind him.
You sat there, heart pounding, the image of his arms burned into your memory. His jacket was still in your lap, his scent still clinging to the fabric. You stood on shaky legs and walked toward the break-room, trying very hard not to think about the way his muscles had shifted when he adjusted his tie.
The day had dragged on in agonizing slow motion. You barely saw Higuruma after the coffee incident. He'd emerged from his office twice—once for a meeting with the senior partners, once to grab a file from the printer. Both times, he'd walked past your desk without so much as a glance, his jaw set, his eyes fixed ahead.
You told yourself it was fine. He was busy. He had cases to prepare, depositions to review, a firm to run. He didn't have time to acknowledge his clumsy secretary who'd spent the entire morning obsessing over his forearms.
But a small, traitorous part of you wondered if he was avoiding you.
By 8 PM, the office had emptied. The paralegals had gone home. The associates had trickled out one by one. Even the senior paralegal had given you a knowing look and a whispered "good luck" before disappearing into the elevator.
You were alone. Except for him.
His jacket was still draped over the back of your chair. You'd been carrying it around all day like a security blanket, catching whiffs of that musky coffee scent whenever you moved. It was ridiculous. You were ridiculous. But you couldn't bring yourself to leave it on his desk without saying something.
You needed to return it. You needed to thank him. And maybe—just maybe—you needed to come clean about last night before he heard it from someone else and fired you on the spot.
You gathered your courage, grabbed the jacket, and walked toward his office.
The door was ajar. You could see him through the gap—slumped in his chair, his glasses pushed up into his hair, his tie completely undone. He looked exhausted. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing those forearms you'd been trying not to think about, and there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there this morning.
He was rubbing his temples with one hand, the other resting on a stack of documents he'd clearly been reviewing.
You knocked softly.
He looked up, and for a moment, his expression was open—raw, tired, almost vulnerable. Then the mask slid back into place.
"Secretary," he said, his voice rough. "It's late. You should have gone home."
"I wanted to return this." You held up the jacket, stepping into the office. "And thank you. For earlier. The jacket was—" You stopped, suddenly aware of how warm the room was. Of the way the new scent diffuser was working its magic.
The office smelled incredible. You'd changed it that morning, swapping the harsh chemical air freshener for something softer—sandalwood and vanilla, with a hint of something floral. It suited him. It made the space feel warmer, more inviting. He noticed. His eyes flickered around the room briefly before settling back on you.
"The diffuser," he pointed at it. "You changed it."
"I—yes. The old one was too strong. I hope that's okay."
"It's fine." A pause. "It smells better."
You felt a small rush of pleasure at the quiet acknowledgment. You stepped closer, holding out the jacket. He took it, his fingers brushing yours. The contact was brief, barely a second, but it sent a jolt through you.
"Are you staying late?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.
He glanced at the documents on his desk. "I have work to finish."
"That's not an answer." He looked at you, and something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, at your boldness.
"I'm staying late," he said. "Yes."
You nodded, lingering by his desk. You should leave. You should go home. You should stop standing here like an idiot, clutching your hands together, trying to find the right words. But the silence stretched, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them.
"Sir, I need to tell you something."
He looked up from his papers. "What is it?"
"About yesterday. At the bar." You swallowed hard. "I lied. When I said I didn't remember."
He was very still. Very quiet.
"I remember everything," you continued, your voice climbing. "And I'm really sorry. I know it was unprofessional. I know I shouldn't have said those things. And I understand if you want to fire me or transfer me or—"
"Secretary."
You stopped and looked at him.
He had set down his pen. He was watching you with an expression you couldn't read—but it wasn't anger. It wasn't cold disappointment.
"What exactly did you say?" His voice was careful. Measured. "I'd like to hear it from you." Your face went up in flames. Every instinct screamed at you to run, to hide, to pretend this conversation wasn't happening.
But you'd started this. You had to finish it.
"I said—" You took a breath. "I said your nose was perfect. And your jaw. And your hands. And that if you looked at me like that every day, I'd probably forget my own name."
The words hung in the air between you, naked and raw and utterly mortifying.
You couldn't look at him. You stared at the floor, your face burning, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.
"I'm sorry," you whispered. "It was stupid. It was just—the wine, and the gossip, and I didn't mean—"
"Secretary."
You looked up.
He was watching you with that dark, unreadable gaze. But there was something else there now. Something warmer.
"Look at me."
You met his eyes.
"I'm not going to fire you," he said quietly. "Over something I already know."
You stared at him, the words taking a moment to register.
"What?"
He leaned back in his chair, studying you with those dark, unreadable eyes. The dim light of his office cast shadows across his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw, deepening the intensity of his gaze.
"I heard you," he said, and his voice was calm. “Last night. At the bar."
Your blood ran cold.
"Every word," he continued. "About my nose. My jaw. My hands. About how I look at you over my reading glasses." A pause. "About how you'd forget your own name if I looked at you like that every day."
Your face burned. Your hands were trembling. You opened your mouth, but no words came out.
"I lied to you," he said, and there was something in his voice—something almost regretful. "When you asked if I heard. I said I didn't. I knew exactly what you'd said. I knew everything." You stumbled backward, your legs hitting the hilt of the door. Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.
"I'm so sorry," you breathed, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "Sir, I'm so sorry—it was completely unprofessional—I had no right—I shouldn't have—"
"Secretary—"
"I understand if you want to transfer me, or—or fire me—I know I crossed a line, and I'm so grateful you even let me keep working here after—"
"Secretary."
His voice was sharper now. It cut through your rambling. He was standing now. You hadn't noticed him rise. He moved around his desk with that same deliberate grace, his eyes never leaving yours, and suddenly the distance between you felt very, very small.
"You're not being transferred," he said, his voice low. "You're not being fired."
"Then—"
"I told you I didn't hear because I wasn't ready to admit what I did hear." He stopped, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. "Because if I admitted I heard you—if I told you the truth—then I'd have to admit something else."
You swallowed hard. "What?"
He was quiet for a long moment. His jaw tightened. His hands, hanging at his sides, curled into fists.
"I treat you differently," he said, and his voice was rough, barely controlled. "You noticed. You said it yourself at the bar. You said I was different with you."
"Yes," you whispered.
"You're right." He took a breath. "I am different with you. I've been different with you since the day you knocked over that plant and looked at me with those.. wide eyes.” Your heart was racing. You couldn't breathe.
"I watch you," he continued, and his voice dropped lower, more intimate. "I watch you at your desk. I watch you laugh with the paralegals. I watch you bite your lip when you're concentrating. I notice when you change your perfume. I notice when you're tired. I notice when you haven't eaten."
"Sir—"
"I notice everything about you." He sighed softly, his composure was cracking, just slightly, just enough for you to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked as he fought for control. "And I've been fighting it. Every single day."
"Fighting what?"
Something flickered in his eyes—desire, frustration, longing—and then it was gone, masked behind that careful neutrality.
"Never mind," he said, and his voice was clipped and controlled. "You should go home."
You stared at him. Something twisted in your chest—disappointment, confusion, a desperate need to know what he'd been about to say.
"Sir—"
"Go home, Secretary." He ordered.
You nodded, your throat tight. "Yes, Sir."
You turned toward the door, your hand reaching for the sliding glass. Your fingers brushed the cold surface, and you were about to push it open, about to leave, about to pretend this conversation had never happened—
His hand closed around yours.
Warm and firm, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, stopping you mid-motion.
You froze.
"Wait." His voice was different now. Rougher. Less controlled.
You turned slowly, and he was closer than you expected. So close. He towered over you, his broad shoulders blocking the light, his body casting you in shadow. You could feel the heat radiating from him, could see the rise and fall of his chest beneath his white shirt.
He didn't let go of your hand.
"Stay," he said, and his voice was barely above a whisper. "Stay overtime. With me."
Your breath caught.
He leaned in, and you felt his breath against your ear—warm, unsteady, sending a shiver down your spine.
"Please," he added, and the word was so soft, so vulnerable, that it made your heart ache. You couldn't speak. You could only nod, your hand still trapped in his, your body frozen in place.
He didn't move away. His breath was warm against your ear, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, and the tension between you was so thick it was almost unbearable.
"Sir," you whispered.
"Hiromi," he corrected, his voice rough. "When we're alone. Just Hiromi."
You turned your head, just slightly, just enough to see his face. His eyes were dark, intense, searching yours.
"Hiromi," you breathed. His name on your lips sounds unfamiliar at first, foreign and intimate all at once. He watches your face, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around your wrist.
"Again," he murmurs, leaning closer.
"Hiromi." The syllables roll off your tongue, slower this time, deliberate. You notice how your breath catches when he moves nearer, his presence surrounding you.
His other hand comes up, hovering near your face for a moment before brushing an errant strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is featherlight, yet it sends heat flooding through your body. His gaze follows the movement of his fingers, watching them trace the curve of your jaw.
"You're shaking.” he observes quietly.
"What would the office think… if they knew the secretary and her boss were to stay this late in the office alone together?" Your pulse hammers so violently you can hear it in your ears.
His fingers still rest against your jaw, warm and steady. He's so close now you can see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
"Who said anything about being alone?" His voice is rough, but there's a teasing lilt beneath it that makes your stomach flip. His thumb traces the edge of your face, his other hand still locked around your wrist.
"We're just... working late."
You swallow hard. The rational part of your brain screams at you to pull away, to leave, to remember your place—but your body betrays you, leaning into his touch just slightly.
“How bad do you want me Secretary?” The title sends a shiver down your spine, his lips twitch in anticipation as if he’s been waiting far too long. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, and your breath hitches.
You can feel the heat of his body pressed against yours in the tight space between the desk and the window. The words he just said burn in your ears—how bad do you want me?—and your body answers before your mind can catch up. His pupils dilate, darkening his eyes as he watches your reaction.
"I—" You stop, your mouth suddenly dry. Your pulse is a wild thing in your throat, hammering against his fingers where they press against your skin. Higuruma takes that hesitation as an invitation.
His free hand moves to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasp as the contact sends shockwaves through your body, his broad chest pressing against yours. His grip on your wrist tightens just slightly—not painful, but possessive. Claiming.
"Like this," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. His breath warms your neck as he nuzzles against it, teeth grazing your skin. "Is this what you want?"
Your hands come up instinctively, pressing against his chest—whether to push away or pull closer, you're not sure. But your body arches into him instead, betraying you completely.
"Yes," you whisper, the word catching in your throat. “I did want this."
You finally admit out loud, you twist your hand over to the lock of the sliding glass door and pull down the curtains as you lean in for a kiss. Higuruma's hands slide down your waist to grip your hips, his thumbs pressing into the curve where your body dips. His mouth crashes against yours, all the pent-up frustration and desire spilling over in that single, searing kiss. His lips are firm, demanding, his tongue tasting the gasp you release when his teeth nip at your lower lip.
You push against him, your hands fisting in his shirt as he walks you backward toward the desk. Papers scatter with a rustle as he lifts you onto the polished surface, his body settling between your thighs.
"Sir— I mean.. Hiromi," you looked at him flushed with embarrassment panting from just a rough kiss. "Maybe we're going too fast."
He nuzzles onto your neck, leaving small kisses on your collarbone and jaw.
"Patience is a virtue…” You say, your voice rough with need.
His eyes darken. "Not one I possess."
His mouth returns to yours, hungrier now, more desperate. His hands slide up your sides, tracing the curve of your waist before moving to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing against your flushed skin. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes burning with need.
"You have no idea," he groans, his voice husky with restraint, "how long I've wanted this."
His hips press against yours, and you can feel the hardness straining against his trousers. He doesn't hide it, doesn't try to mask how badly he wants you. One hand slides down to your neck, his grip tightens just slightly, his thumb pressing against the frantic beat of your pulse as he tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his intense gaze.
The room is thick with tension, the dim glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows across his angular features. His other hand slides down your back, pulling you closer until there's not even a sliver of space between you. You can feel every contour of his body pressed against yours, the heat radiating from him like a furnace.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks, "and I will. But I don't think you want that." You don't. The words don't even form in your mind before your body arches against him, your fingers tightening in his hair as you pull him down for another kiss. He doesn't resist, doesn't hesitate—his mouth crashes against yours with the same desperate hunger as before.
This time, his hands slide beneath the hem of your blouse, his rough palms skimming up your bare sides. A shudder runs through you as his fingertips brush the underside of your breasts, his touch sending liquid heat pooling low in your belly.
You gasp when his teeth graze your lower lip, biting down just hard enough to send a jolt of sensation straight between your thighs. Higuruma's hands travel up your blouse, if he could he would've ripped it open but he's taking his sweet time making sure you don't come out of the building disheveled for strangers to see out in the streets. He unbuttons you with his free hand as his other goes up under to unclick your bra. His fingers work swiftly through the fastenings of your bra, freeing your breasts into his waiting hands.
You arch into his touch as he palms you, his thumbs circling your nipples until they harden into tight peaks. A moan escapes you as he pinches one gently, rolling it between his fingers as his mouth claims yours again. His tongue thrusts between your lips in time with his hips pressing against yours, the hard length of him grinding against your core through the layers of fabric between you.
You're panting now, your hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He helps you, shrugging out of the expensive fabric as soon as your fingers release the last button. The reveal of his toned chest sends another rush of heat through you—his skin is warm under your fingertips, his muscles tense and defined. You trace the lines of his abdomen with shaking hands before letting them slide up to his shoulders, pushing the shirt off completely.
Higuruma groans when you scrape your nails lightly down his back, his hips jerking forward instinctively. He captures your mouth again, this kiss deeper than before, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth as if he's been starved for this taste. One hand moves to your back, supporting you as he pushes you down onto the desk.
Papers scatter as he follows you down, his body covering yours. His mouth leaves a hot trail down your neck, teeth nipping at your collarbone before soothing the sting with his tongue. His hands work at the button of your slacks, undoing it with practiced ease before sliding down the zipper. His fingers brush against the damp fabric of your panties, and he groans at the evidence of your arousal. You're soaked through, your body responding.
“I remember you complimented my nose during that night? Could you explain in detail to me right now sweetheart. Why?" He says with a sultry voice as he drags your panties down. His words heat your face as you remember that declaration at the bar. Now, he's poised at the apex of your thighs, his eyes locked onto yours as his fingers trace the wet folds of your sex. You arch off the desk when his thumb finds your clit, circling it with maddening precision.
"Because—" Your voice breaks as he adds pressure. "It's perfectly formed."
His chuckle vibrates against your skin as he bends to kiss your inner thigh. "And? Is there anymore?”
"Your mouth," you gasp as his tongue flicks over your clit. "So expressive when you talk. When you scold people." He pauses, his eyes flashing with something dark and hungry. "And now? What do you think of my mouth now?"
Before you can answer, he closes his mouth over your clit, sucking gently at first before applying more pressure. His tongue flicks against the sensitive bundle of nerves in quick, sure motions. His nose nuzzling onto your sensitive spots as he eats you out, your hands fly to his hair, gripping the short strands as your back arches off the desk. The feeling is intense, overwhelming—his mouth is hot and skilled, and he knows exactly how to make your body sing.
"Yes," you breathe, your hips rolling instinctively against his mouth. "Yes, it's perfect. Perfect." He hums against your skin, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through you.
His fingers find your entrance, pressing two inside with one smooth motion. You gasp, your body clamping down around him as he begins to move—fingers curling upward, thumb still working your clit in perfect rhythm.
"Hiromi—" Your voice is broken, desperate. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he murmurs against your thigh, not stopping his movements. "You will."
He increases the pressure, his fingers moving faster, his mouth never leaving your clit. You can feel it building—coiling tight in your belly, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
His name tears from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, your entire body shuddering under the intensity. Higuruma doesn't let up, his fingers working through the contractions, his mouth sucking gently as you come undone on his tongue.
When you finally still, boneless and shaking, he rises above you. His face is flushed, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with satisfaction and need. You reach for him, pulling him down for a kiss. The taste of yourself on his tongue is intoxicating, and you moan into his mouth as he claims it.
"I need you inside me," you whisper against his lips. "Now."
He huffs, loosening his tie as he grips your thigh. His big hands explore your arm with the tie wrapped around it he gently pulls both your wrists together.
“You dared talk about patience before when you’re this needy?” His chuckle rumbles through your chest as he uses the tie to bind your wrists together gently. "Look what happens when I don't get my way."
His hand wraps around his length, stroking it a few times before positioning himself at your entrance. He doesn't tease—he pushes inside in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. You gasp, your body stretching around him, your fingers tightening in the silk binding your wrists.
"Fuck," he groans, his head dropping between your shoulder and neck as he bottoms out inside you. You can feel him pulsing, thick and hot and perfect. He gives you a moment to adjust, his hips pressing flush against yours, his weight pinning you to the desk. Then he moves. Slow at first—deep, measured thrusts that have you seeing stars. His arms cage you in as he leans down, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes search yours, dark and intense, his breath coming in short bursts against your lips.
"Good?" he murmurs.
You nod, unable to speak as pleasure builds again already. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him closer.
"Yes," you finally manage, your voice thick with need. "More."
He groans low in his throat at your demand, picking up the pace. His thrusts become harder, deeper, each one hitting that sweet spot inside you that has your back arching off the desk.
The papers beneath you rustle with every movement, your bra abandoned somewhere on the floor, your slacks and panties pooled around your ankles. He looks down where they're joined, watching as he slides in and out of you with hungry, ravenous eyes.
"Look at you," he rasps, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. "Taking me so well."
Your hands twist in the silk binding your wrists, your body responding to every thrust. He leans down, his teeth grazing your collarbone as he fucks you in earnest now, his control slipping.
The rhythm of his hips becomes erratic, driven by the same primal need that's coiled tight in your gut. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you steady as he drives into you, each thrust harder than the last. The desk creaks beneath you, the metal legs scraping against the tile floor with every movement.
Your bound wrists press into the wooden surface, the silk of his tie rubbing against your skin as your body jolts with every collision. He nuzzles his face into the curve of your neck, his breath coming in ragged puffs against your sweat-slick skin.
“God, you feel good," he murmurs, his voice strained with effort.
Your body undulates beneath him, meeting each of his thrusts with unbridled abandon. The silk tie binding your wrists digs into the wood of the desk, your fingers flexing as you struggle to ground yourself against the onslaught of pleasure.
His hips snap forward, driving deeper inside you with a ferocity that threatens to shatter your resolve. His skin burns against yours, his sweat dripping onto your heaving chest as he buries himself to the hilt.
"Hiromi," you gasp, your voice cracking as he pounds into you relentlessly. Your bound hands strain against the restraint, your back arching off the desk to grind your clit against his pelvis. “Yes sweetheart?" He says as he kisses your cheeks.
Your breath hitches as he nips at your earlobe, his teeth scraping over sensitive skin. He knows exactly what he's doing, his thrusts timed to drive you wild. The desk protests beneath you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the dim office as he fucks you harder. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you slightly off the desk to change the angle and drive even deeper.
"Oh god," you whimper, your fingers tightening around the tie binding your wrists. Every nerve in your body feels alight, pleasure building in waves that threaten to drown you.
"That's it," he whispers, his voice low. "Let me hear you."
You try to hold on, to make it last, but your body betrays you. The pleasure builds and builds until there's no stopping it—no holding back the tide that's about to break. Your bound wrists jerk against the silk tie as you shatter beneath him, your back arching off the desk as pleasure rips through you. Higuruma doesn't stop, his hips still snapping forward even as you tremble around him. He groans your name, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate.
"I'm close," he gasps, his face buried in your neck. "I'm so close."
He's panting against your skin, his thrusts shallow and jerky as he chases his release. Your walls clench around him, milking him toward his peak as his hips stutter. Then he groans, deep and low, his body going rigid as he spills inside you. His thrusts slow, becoming more deliberate as he rides out his orgasm, his forehead pressed against yours. He's breathing hard, his entire body tense with release, his arms shaking slightly as he holds himself above you.
"Fuck," he finally mutters, his words hoarse with exertion. He sags slightly, but catches himself before collapsing fully onto you. You both lie there, panting and flushed, the air thick with the aftermath of what just happened.
The office feels smaller somehow, the desk creaking as Higuruma finally shifts his weight off you. He reaches up, untying the silk from your wrists with careful fingers, massaging the marks gently as he removes it.
"Did I hurt you?" he asks, his voice still rough with desire.
You shake your head, flexing your fingers as feeling returns to them. "No. Just... that was intense."
He exhales, something almost like relief in the sound. "Yeah." His hands move to your face, cradling it as he looks down at you.
"Secretary, it seems we've made a mess in the office," he smiled at you his lips kiss your forehead. "Is it alright if we continue this on a more comfortable setting?"
"Where are you taking me?" You laughed as you sat up, looking at him with an amused expression
He releases your face, stepping back to adjust his clothes with swift, practiced motions. The flush hasn't faded from his skin, his hair disheveled from your fingers, his shirt half-unbuttoned exposing the planes of his chest. He reaches for his discarded tie, sliding it back around his neck with smooth, confident fingers.
"The apartment has better... amenities," he says, his voice carrying the same dark promise as before. His eyes sweep over you—your mussed hair, your hastily re-buttoned blouse, the red marks on your wrists from the silk. "And a bed."
You swallow hard, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of what just happened.
“Alright take me there, I’m yours for tonight Hiromi.”
“Maybe not just for tonight”
The next morning the office gossiped again, talking about the ditzy secretary who was in the elevator with Higuruma this morning tripping as soon as she got there.
"I guess she'll never change that flimsy girl."
"She does her job well, but anyways that's not surprising at all it's like she can't maintain balance in her legs."
"..You know what's crazy? I saw Higuruma catch the secretary and smile at her."
"He smiled?"
"Right? Can you believe that?"
"Higuruma doesn't smile at anyone. Ever. Not unless he wants something related to work."
You smirk at that last comment as you walk past them, the small group dispersing with nervous giggles and hurried footsteps.
They don't realize you can hear every word. They don't know what you and Higuruma did last night. The memory sends heat curling through your belly—his hands on you, his mouth on you, the way he'd pinned you to the bed and made you come again and again until you were begging for mercy.
“Sir, I have the files for the next case..”
“Lay it down there secretary.” He pointed at the side of his desk, next to it was a new plant pot. You smile and lean over to whisper something.
“Pssst, are we still going on that date this Saturday?”
He lets out a low chuckle, his fingers pausing over the paperwork.
“That depends. Can you behave yourself at dinner? Or am I going to have to remind you about professional decorum?"
You meet his gaze, knowing exactly what he means by "remind." Your skin still feels warm at the memory of his hands on you last night—how he'd pressed you against the apartment wall after undressing you in the elevator, his mouth hot and demanding against your neck.
"Professional decorum?" You rest your hip against the edge of his desk, speaking quietly. "I don't recall that being on the agenda when you were bending me over this desk yesterday."
“Touché sweetheart. Touché.”
Who knew being clumsy meant avoiding rumors that the reason you’re wobbly today was because of Higuruma?