Chapter Text
“Partners will be assigned.”
A collective groan echoes throughout the large lecture hall.
Criminal law felt less like a class and more like a competition. Everyone was chasing the same internships and recommendations, and no one was exactly shy about trying to outdo each other.
To you, it was just another step toward the career you knew you’d end up in, but being paired with someone could either save your grade or completely destroy it.
The room goes quiet as people begin glancing around, clearly anxious about who they'd be partnered with.
You’re focused on your laptop, trying to finish an assignment for another class, barely paying attention to anything else.
Then you hear your name.
“—you’ll be working with Higuruma.”
The reaction from the room is immediate.
A few students whispering quietly to the people next to them.
You frown slightly. You don’t recognize the name at all.
Across the room, a chair scrapes against the floor. You glance over your shoulder as footsteps approach.
He’s tall. His dark hair is a mess, like he’s run his hands through it too many times. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows as he tugs at his shirt collar.
His eyes look you over, slow and deliberate, before he pulls out the empty chair beside you and sits.
Closer than he probably needs to.
When he leans forward to read, you catch a faint smell of coffee and woodsy cologne. The professor is already moving on to the next pair of names, but the tension between you two lingers.
You look down at your laptop, pretending to reread the paragraph on the screen as your mind races.
It’s almost impossible to focus.
“You challenged the prosecutor’s argument last week.” His voice is low and steady.
It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you.
“You remember that?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look up from the page he’s reading, his brows drawn together slightly.
”You were right.”
For a moment, neither of you says anything. When you glance back up, he’s already looking at you.
The professor’s voice cuts through the room a second later, announcing the end of class, which breaks the spell.
Around you, students begin packing up and heading for the door. You’re sliding your laptop into your bag when he speaks again.
“Your number.” He holds his phone out toward you, already unlocked.
“Oh, sure,” you say, adjusting your bag as you stand. You feel his eyes on you as you type, before handing it back.
“We should meet after your classes.” His tone is calm but firm.
You glance up.
“For the mock trial?”
“Yes,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
“It’s not for another three weeks.”
“Better to start early,” he argues, voice low as he holds your gaze.
You hesitate. “Tomorrow’s the weekend…”
He slips the folder under his arm as he stands. When he straightens, he towers over you. Up close, you notice faint dark circles under his eyes.
“Your dorm. Seven.”
He turns before you can respond.
You watch as he walks away without another word, his tall frame disappearing into the crowd of students. You don’t realize you’ve been staring until someone bumps your shoulder on the way out.
“Sorry.”
You look down at the files still sitting on your desk.
Your dorm. Seven.
He wasn’t asking.
You hadn’t even told him which dorm.
You follow the last set of students out, trying not to think too hard about it.
By the time seven rolls around, your room is cleaner than it’s been all semester.
You hadn’t planned to clean, but you wanted to make a good impression.
You were rushing to make everything look somewhat organized, shoving a bag of laundry into a corner near your desk. A stack of books you’d rather no one see gets shoved under your bed.
A knock at the door makes your pulse race. When you open it, you have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.
His tall frame nearly fills the doorway, one hand rests on the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder, a thick folder tucked under his arm.
You step aside to let him in.
“Sorry for the mess.”
He moves past you without hesitation.
He’s silent as he looks around the room, observing where everything is. For a moment, it almost feels like he’s been there before.
You close the door behind him, suddenly aware of how small your room feels. You hover near the door for a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed.
He notices.
He flips through the stack of papers in the folder, pulls one free, and holds it out toward you.
“The witness statement.”
That’s all he says.
You take the page and skim it quickly.
“Her statement… it contradicts the timeline.”
You glance up to find his eyes already on you.
“Which means?”
“…The witness is unreliable.”
“Good.”
Your cheeks warm slightly.
“You already knew that.” you accuse.
His eyes meet yours briefly before handing you another page. The next hour passes the same way, you both quietly working through case files.
He has you review multiple documents, occasionally pointing out details you might have missed. His voice stays calm and level the entire time and you find yourself relaxing a little.
At one point, you’re flipping through the evidence packet when a page slips and falls into his lap.
You reach for it without thinking. Your fingers brush the inside of his thigh before you quickly pull your hand back.
He stills for a moment.
Then he picks up the paper and sets it neatly on the table.
“Careful,” he says quietly.
Your face feels warm.
“Sorry.”
After a while, you excuse yourself to the bathroom briefly. When you return, he’s already standing.
“That’s enough for tonight.”
You blink, the confusion evident on your face.
Already?
He closes the folder and stacks the documents neatly before grabbing his bag.
You watch his hands for a second before realizing you’ve been staring.
“Oh. Okay.”
His eyes meet yours as he moves toward the door.
“We’ll meet again this week.”
That wasn’t a question.
You don't reply.
The door closes behind him a second later, leaving you alone again.