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coochieannihilator · 3 months ago

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Love in a Hopeless Place

Synopsis: "Fake" affection evolves into real chemistry, forcing Hiromi and you to confront hidden feelings.

Content: Hiromi Higuruma x F!Reader, Fake Dating, A bit ooc?

Word Count: 3.8k

The wine bar is the kind of place that people think is moodier than it is: low lights, deep booths, and overpriced charcuterie boards. You’re halfway through your glass of wine, fiddling with the rim of your glass, when your friend leans over the table with a giddy little smirk that instantly puts you on edge.

You sigh, tipping your head back. “This is either going to be a brilliant idea or a slow, painful descent into secondhand embarrassment.”

She grins. “You’ve met Hiromi before. It won’t be that awkward.”

You arch an eyebrow. “We’ve met like… three times. All at your birthday parties. He barely speaks. I’m not even sure he likes me.”

“You terrify him,” she says, not even trying to deny it. “Which is exactly why this’ll work.”

You’re about to respond when the door opens. You don’t need to be told it’s him—you just know.

“There he is,” she whispers.

You follow her gaze toward the door—and stop short.

Hiromi Higuruma walks in like he’s stepping into a courtroom. Smooth. Controlled. He wears that charcoal-gray suit like its armor, that fits like it was tailored for him this morning. His tie slightly loosened, just enough to suggest he’s been fighting deadlines and depositions all day. His hair’s a little messy in a way that almost feels intentional, and his eyes—sharp, thoughtful, with a tired kind of elegance behind them—scan the room like he’s doing a threat assessment.

Your friend sips her wine, looking pleased with herself. “You’re welcome.”

Hiromi spots your table, makes his way over with that quiet, deliberate stride of someone used to commanding rooms with silence alone. When he reaches you, he offers his hand, firm and steady.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is smooth, low, and polite—like velvet over a blade.

You shake his hand. “So formal. Are we closing a business deal or fake-dating?”

A small pause. His expression barely shifts, but you catch it—an almost-smile. “I like clarity in arrangements.”

You grin. “Great. Here’s mine: you pretend to be completely in love with me for one evening, and I’ll stop calling you ‘lawyer boy.’”

His eyes flick down to your hand before you let go, then back up to your face. “And what do I get if I’m too convincing?”

You blink. “What, like convincing people we’re actually together?”

“No.” His gaze is steady, unreadable. “Convincing you.”

Your friend coughs—chokes, really—into her drink, already sliding out of the booth with a hasty “I’m just gonna give you two a minute” before you can say anything, though you barely notice.

Because Hiromi Higuruma is still looking at you like this is a negotiation he intends to win.

You lean back, arms crossing loosely. “Do all your dates start like a cross-examination?”

His lips twitch. Just barely. “Do all your fake boyfriends come with legally binding clauses?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you say. “Clause one: must be photogenic. Clause two: must make my ex question his life choices. Clause three: must not fall in love with me. It’s bad for the brand.”

Hiromi hums thoughtfully. “Clause three might be hard.”

There’s that silence again—comfortable and electric at once. You hate how interesting he is already. You hate it more that you want to see what happens if you keep pushing.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re awfully confident for someone who hasn’t even flirted properly yet.”

He leans forward just slightly, voice dropping lower. “You haven’t even seen me try.”

Your pulse flutters and somewhere in the background, jazz hums through the speakers like it knows exactly what’s happening.

You narrow your eyes. “So are you now flirting with me, or are you just incredibly good at playing pretend?”

“I’m incredibly good at reading people,” he replies. “And you’re enjoying this.”

You are. Way more than you should be.

“So,” he says, with a calmness that feels like mischief. “When’s the wedding?”

You swirl the last of your wine, pretending not to notice how Hiromi watches you over the rim of his glass like he’s studying your tells. His drink of choice is whiskey—of course it is. Neat. No garnish, no ice. The man is a walking contradiction: polished but understated, intimidating but—annoyingly—kind of charming when he wants to be.

“It’s next Saturday,” you say finally, setting your glass down. “A lovely garden wedding where I get to sit across from my ex, his perfect new girlfriend, and pretend my heart isn’t shriveled like a week-old grape.”

Hiromi doesn’t flinch. “And you think bringing a stranger with a law degree will help.”

“I think showing up with a man who looks like you will help,” you correct. “If we’re being honest.”

That almost-smile flickers again, fleeting but real. “So I’m set dressing.”

“You’re stagecraft,” you say smoothly. “Very convincing stagecraft.”

He leans back in the booth, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the movement natural and confident in a way that makes you way too aware of how long his legs are. “And what’s my character, then? The doting boyfriend? The emotionally distant but devastatingly loyal one? The reformed bad boy?”

“Please don’t be emotionally distant,” you groan. “I’ve dated enough of those to start a support group.”

His gaze sharpens just a little. “Then what do you want me to be?”

The question lands heavier than it should. You don’t answer right away, eyes drifting to the condensation on your glass. He’s quiet, giving you space, but not looking away. He’s watching the way you think. Another lawyer habit, probably.

“I want someone who looks at me like I’m the best part of the room,” you say after a beat. “Even if it’s just pretend.”

Hiromi’s brow twitches. “That’s a very specific request.”

You smile, slow and sure. “I’m a very specific person.”

“I can work with that.”

And it’s the way he says it—so steady, so certain—that you actually feel a little warmth creep up your neck. You look down, trying to hide it, but he notices. Of course he notices.

“So what about you?” you ask, redirecting. “Why say yes to something this stupid?”

He shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. “Your friend said you needed help, and I don’t mind being useful.”

You blink. ‘That’s… surprisingly earnest.’ “That’s very noble of you.”

“It’s not,” he says, and his voice dips a little—lower, more careful. “I like helping people when I know how. And pretending? That’s just acting, and acting is easy.”

You tilt your head. “Relationships aren’t.”

“No,” he agrees. “But lying is.”

There’s a pause. Something about the way he says it makes you wonder what kind of lies he’s had to live with. What truths he’s buried under all that careful composure, though you don’t ask.

Instead, you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. “Alright then, counselor. Let’s get our story straight.”

“Hmm?”

“If we’re going to fool a bunch of emotionally stunted wedding guests, we need a backstory. How’d we meet?”

Hiromi thinks for a moment, then gives you a dry, straight-faced answer: “You sued me.”

You snort into your drink. “Okay, that’s too believable.”

“And yet you still fell for me,” he says, unblinking.

‘Damn, he’s good at this.’

“Oh? Confident, are we?”

“No,” Hiromi says, and this time when he smiles—really smiles—it’s slow and surprising and just the tiniest bit shy. “I just think I’ll have an easier time faking it than I expected.”

And suddenly, the whole fake-dating idea doesn’t feel quite so fake.

The reception was golden in a way that made everything look softer than it really was. Lights strung across the ceiling cast a gentle haze over the room, catching on sequins and champagne flutes, blurring out imperfections. It was the kind of beauty designed to be photographed—curated, polished, perfect.

You belonged to it like it was your element.

Hiromi watched you from a distance, half-hidden near the bar, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other held a drink he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. His tie was slightly loose, collar unbuttoned, and he looked every bit like someone who didn’t quite belong here, but you did. Damn, you did.

You were standing near the flower arch with your friends, laughing as someone tried to get the perfect group shot. Your dress shimmered with the movement—light catching on delicate fabric in a way that made you glow. You threw your head back laughing at something one of them said, and Hiromi felt it somewhere deep in his ribs, like a tug.

You weren’t even trying to be beautiful. That’s what made it worse, or better, or impossible.

Someone told you to look over your shoulder for the next shot. You did—smiling just slightly, lips parted, eyes narrow—and Hiromi’s grip tightened around his glass. The kind of smile that didn’t belong in photographs. The kind meant to be seen in private, from close up. The kind you remembered even after you’d sworn to forget.

He didn’t even realize you caught him staring until the photo snapped and you turned, holding his gaze for a second too long. Something passed between you two—acknowledgement, maybe, or an invitation.

Minutes later, you wandered over to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Barefoot now, heels dangling from your fingers. You were a little breathless, a little hot on the cheeks, and your hair had started to come undone.

“You look miserable over here,” You said, reaching past him to set your shoes down. “Had to come rescue you from your brooding.” There was something playful in your tone, but it didn’t land fully. Too much unsaid, too many what-ifs lingering just out of reach.

Hiromi raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize I needed rescuing.”

There’s soft music, clusters of clinking glasses, and enough flower arrangements to trigger a seasonal allergy. Long tables lined with white linens stretch across the lawn, while servers weave between guests carrying hors d’oeuvres on delicate ceramic trays, and you don’t notice most of it, not really.

Because Hiromi is doing this thing—this infuriating thing—where he plays the role so well you forget it is a role.

His presence is steady, commanding—like he’s spent his whole life moving through rooms like that. He always kept one hand at your back as you navigated through tables and flower-draped walkways, always just a touch away, always aware of your pace. Every time someone greeted you, he offered a polite nod or a handshake, never overdoing it, but always enough to make them remember him.

His hand always rested gently at your waist as he guided you through the crowd. Not possessive, not showy, just there. Present. Steady. The kind of touch that says ‘I’m here, you’re safe, let’s do this together’, and somehow doesn’t come off as an act at all.

He leaned in when you spoke, his breath grazing your cheek. He laughed in low, knowing tones like every comment you make is a shared secret. Every move he made was smooth and natural, like he’s done this a thousand times before—but never with anyone else.

It’s the stillness that makes it work. The way his touch lingers just enough to anchor you. The way his eyes drift to your face more often than to the room around him.

He glanced at you again, not just a glance, though. His eyes lingered—just for a second too long—on your mouth, your collarbone, the way your shoulders tensed when you caught him looking. You didn’t pull away.

“You’re hard to read sometimes,” he murmured.

“Maybe I don’t want to be read.”

“But you still want to be looked at.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “You saying you’ve been looking?”

“Would it be a problem if I have?”

You didn’t answer. Just shifted closer, slow and smooth, like it meant nothing—but it did. Your shoulder brushed against his arm. Your hair fell forward a little, loose hair pieces brushing his shoulder when you turned your head. He could smell you—something soft and clean and faintly floral, and he swore the air between them changed, grew heavier somehow.

You tilted your face toward his, eyes searching his like you might find something you left there.

“You ever get the feeling,” you said, low and steady, “that you’re one bad idea away from something really good?”

Hiromi’s mouth twitched. “Every time you look at me like that.”

You didn’t smile and neither did he. You looked at him then, really looked, and the kind of silence that followed was sharp at the edges. He leaned toward you, like it had weight, like if he leaned in just a little more, gravity would take care of the rest.

You were close now. Closer than made sense for two people who weren’t something. Close enough that he could feel your breath ghost against his lips when you spoke. His eyes dropped to your mouth again—just a flicker—and yours did the same.

Neither of you moved. Just… leaned. A millimeter more. Then another.

Your hand was resting on the bar now, his just beside it, fingers almost touching. The music from the dance floor swelled, but it felt far away. Like you guys were suspended in something quieter, something just yours.

“Say it,” You whispered, barely audible. “Whatever it is you’re not saying.” Your breath fanned across his lips, warm and soft and heavy with the sweet tang of champagne. His heart knocked against his ribs, slow and loud and stupid.

Hiromi opened his mouth.

And then—

Someone called your name.

Not loud, not urgent. Just enough to slice through the moment like a letter opener through ribbon.

You turned your head, reluctantly, heart still suspended somewhere behind your ribs. A cousin, maybe. Or one of your friends, already tipsy and flushed from dancing, waving you over for a photo, for a toast, for something.

Hiromi’s breath eased out slow as you stepped back, like a camera lens refocusing. He looked down at his hand still on the bar, like he wasn’t sure when it had tightened into a fist.

You hesitated, eyes flicking back to him with something close to apology. “I should—”

He nodded. “Go ahead.”

But there was something in his tone that had shifted. Not cold, just… neutral. Controlled. Like a courtroom door swinging closed.

You didn’t want to leave. Not really. But you also didn’t know how to stay—not after what almost happened. Not with your pulse still stuttering and your skin still lit up in the shape of him.

So you went.

Hiromi watched you fade back into the golden blur of the reception. Watched you laugh and pose and dance barefoot with your friends beneath the fairy lights.

And for the first time that night, he wished he wasn’t pretending.

⩇⩇:⩇⩇

The wedding had wound down. Laughter faded into the hush of music playing for no one, and sparklers had long burned down to silver sticks, discarded on the edge of the patio.

You didn’t remember grabbing his hand. Or maybe he offered it first—you couldn’t tell anymore, but you were walking now. Past the dance floor, past the tents and tables, through a narrow path lit only by string lights overhead and the soft glow of garden lanterns tucked among the hedges. The gravel crunched beneath your bare feet. You didn’t care. Your shoes were somewhere behind you, and so was the noise.

Hiromi walked beside you in silence, his jacket draped over your shoulders. He didn’t offer it with words, just settled it there when you shivered once, the fabric still warm from his body. His sleeves were rolled up now, forearms bare and hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

“I didn’t expect to enjoy tonight,” you said eventually, your voice low and quiet in the hush of midnight. “But you’re… kind of annoyingly good at this.”

“At pretending?” he asked, without looking at you.

“At making it feel real,” you corrected.

He stopped walking. You did too, almost out of reflex.

The garden opened up a little ahead—just a small clearing with a bench, some flowers you couldn’t name, and the distant sound of water from a hidden fountain. You turned to look at him, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself.

“It’s easier with you,” he said after a beat. His eyes met yours in the dark—soft, unreadable, and so full of quiet longing it almost hurt to look at.

“Why?” you asked.

Hiromi’s gaze dropped to your mouth, flicked back up. His voice was soft. “Because I like the way you look at me… even when you’re trying not to.”

That did something to you. A warm crack down your spine, a flutter in your ribs.

“I’m not pretending anymore,” you said, and the moment the words left your mouth, you realized how true they were.

Hiromi took a step closer, and your breath hitched—just slightly. He raised a hand, slow and careful, like he was testing gravity again, brushing your hair back from your face. His fingers were warm, gentle, grazing your jaw before dropping away.

“You can still walk away,” he said, low and honest. “Tell me it was just for show. We go back to being strangers tomorrow.”

You looked at him, and he looked back, and whatever tension had lived between you all night thickened, slow and certain, like molasses in warm air.

His words hung between you like smoke—heavy, suffocating. You didn’t step back. Couldn’t. Your chest ached with the weight of everything unsaid, everything felt too deeply for something that was supposed to be pretend.

You stared at him, heart hammering like it wanted to crawl out of your throat. “Is that what you want?” you asked, your voice raw.

Hiromi’s jaw flexed, a muscle twitching near his temple. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“The hell it doesn’t,” you snapped, and suddenly you were close, closer than either of you realized. Your hand had found his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. His breath hitched, yours did too.

His eyes flicked to your lips, then back up, dark and unreadable. “Say it,” he said. “Say it wasn’t real.”

“I can’t.” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but shaking with emotion. It came out like a confession, like a wound.

He moved then—not forward, not away. Just leaned in, so close your noses brushed, so close the heat from his mouth ghosted over yours with every breath.

“I wanted to stay scared of you,” he murmured, and you swore your heart stopped. “But you kept looking at me like I meant something… and now I can’t stop needing that.”

Your hand slid up his chest, fingers clutching at his collar. “Then don’t.”

He exhaled shakily, like he’d been holding it in for too long. His forehead touched yours, eyes closing just for a second. But he didn’t kiss you. Not yet.

“This feels like a bad idea,” he whispered.

“It is,” you breathed. “But I still want it.”

There was a beat of silence. One beat. Two.

Then his hand slid around your waist, firm and deliberate, pulling you against him—not tender, not hesitant, but like he was tired of pretending he didn’t want to. Like if he didn’t touch you now, he’d lose his mind.

Your mouths hovered inches apart, breaths mingling, hands gripping fabric like anchors, like you’d both fall if you let go.

Still no kiss. Just the unbearable closeness of it.

His breath was warm against your mouth, uneven. Like he was fighting it, like kissing you would mean losing something he couldn’t get back, but you were done pretending too.

So you tilted your chin up—just enough to close that impossible gap—and your lips brushed.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft.

It was desperate.

Hiromi’s mouth crashed into yours like it was the only language he had left. His hand slid up your spine, rough palm splaying between your shoulder blades, holding you like he didn’t trust you to stay otherwise.

You gasped into him, and he swallowed the sound with a low noise from deep in his throat. Not quite a growl—no, something more human than that. Like pain and hunger and relief all tangled together.

Your fingers tangled in his shirt, knuckles white, dragging him closer even though there was no space left. He tasted like heat, like fury held back too long, like he was finally letting himself feel and it was too much.

He broke the kiss with a curse, resting his forehead against yours again, chest heaving. “Shit,” he said, voice ruined. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You kissed him again.

Faster this time. Needier.

His hands found your hips, fingers digging in just enough to ground himself. One of them slid up, tracing your jaw, brushing your cheek, like he didn’t know whether to hold you or memorize you.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes glassy. “Do we still go back to being strangers tomorrow?”

Hiromi’s eyes searched yours—wild, flickering. And then he shook his head. Just once.

“No,” he said, hoarse. “Not after this.”

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

His hand was still at your jaw, rough and trembling, and your breath was uneven against his. Every inch between you charged, heated, collapsing.

You leaned into him, and he met you halfway—mouths clashing again, nothing sweet or soft about it. It was a kiss that bruised. A kiss that breathed. His mouth was hot, demanding, like he was trying to consume the moment, like he didn’t want to remember what it felt like to be without you.

Fingers curled in his shirt. His grip tightened at your waist. Each touch dragged you closer, a slow burn spilling through your chest and twisting in your stomach.

You kissed him like you wanted to stay lost in him. He kissed you like he never planned to stop.

There was no space left between your bodies. His thumb brushed your cheek like he couldn’t help it, like he wasn’t ready to let the moment end, and your hands slid into his hair, holding, grounding, needing.

The world around you was silent, but everything between you—every breath, every brush of skin, every beat of your heart—was impossibly loud.

And still, you didn’t let go. Not yet.

His hand found yours, warm and certain, and for a moment, the night felt like it belonged to only the two of you.

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