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twistedgardens · 20 hours ago

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Voir Dire || Riddle Rosehearts

You and Riddle have been courtroom rivals since law school, trading objections like they’re love letters.

Fate keeps putting you on opposite sides, but somewhere between the feathers, lawsuits, and flushed cheeks, your hearts may just be arguing the same case.

Being an attorney is supposed to be noble. You’re the defender of justice, the knight in a blazer and tie, the brave soul who dives headfirst into legalese so others don’t have to.

You help ordinary people stand tall against corporations, loopholes, and the cold indifference of the law.

Most days, you take pride in that. Most days, you get to hold your head high and say that your job matters.

This is not one of those days.

Because at this exact moment, you are standing in the middle of a courtroom trying to explain, with a straight face, why your client should be allowed to sue a squirrel.

Yes, an actual squirrel. A bushy-tailed, peanut-munching, tree-dwelling rodent. Somewhere along the winding road of your legal career, you made a wrong turn and ended up in Looney Tunes.

And across the aisle from you, in his perfectly pressed suit and with his expression sharpened to the point of decapitation, is your opponent: Riddle Rosehearts.

Your rival since law school, the boy wonder turned courtroom menace, the man who somehow manages to cite obscure case law like he was born with a law textbook for a pacifier.

He’s staring at you right now, and his eyes are saying, “I knew you were ridiculous, but this is a new low.” And honestly? You’re inclined to agree.

The case? Park-goer versus The City of — (because apparently, the defendant is “whoever owns the squirrel,” which is just as bad as it sounds).

Your client, a poor soul with emotional damage and mustard stains, claims that a squirrel stole their hot dog. A hot dog “loaded with toppings and sentimental value,” which is a direct quote from your client’s statement.

Somewhere in your brain, a small voice is screaming at you to quit law and start an alpaca farm.

But here you are, stone-faced, professional, and committed to the bit.

Riddle clears his throat, his voice crisp enough to slice a watermelon.

“The city cannot control rogue wildlife,” he declares, glaring in your direction like the sheer force of his common sense should be enough to make you spontaneously combust.

You, unblinking, steady as a seasoned liar:

“The squirrel in question has a documented pattern of theft and aggression.”

There’s an audible gasp from the back of the courtroom. You think someone just muttered, “That squirrel again?” which suggests this may, in fact, not be the rodent’s first offense.

You roll with it. Never let them see you sweat.

Meanwhile, Riddle’s jaw tightens like he’s fighting the urge to slam his head against the bench. “Counselor,” he says icily, “are you truly suggesting we prosecute a rodent? What next? A civil suit against pigeons for loitering?”

You open your mouth to argue, already halfway into a retort about precedent, when your client leans forward and whispers, dead serious, “Ask about punitive damages.”

And that’s when you realize: you’re doomed.

You had thought, perhaps naively, that the case would be dismissed after your opening argument. Surely the judge, a man with at least three law degrees and an aura of quiet despair, would see reason and bang his gavel, declaring the entire thing beneath the dignity of the court.

But no. Instead, he leans back, sighs like a man who has seen too much, and says, “Very well. Call your first witness.”

You blink. Riddle blinks. The courtroom collectively inhales.

And then somehow—somehow—this devolves into a full-blown parade of testimonies.

First, a frazzled hot dog vendor takes the stand and solemnly describes the squirrel’s “pattern of loitering around the condiment stand,” voice quivering as though recounting a war crime.

Then a jogger testifies, claiming the squirrel once stole their granola bar mid-stride and made “unbroken eye contact while eating it.”

By the time a small child waddles up to declare that the squirrel “knows what it did,” even you are starting to believe you’re prosecuting the Al Capone of rodents.

And then the doors open.

“Exhibit A,” the bailiff announces, wheeling in a small cage.

Inside: the squirrel.

The squirrel stares at you, beady-eyed, tail flicking with what can only be described as malice. The gallery murmurs like this is some kind of dramatic celebrity entrance. You half-expect someone to ask for an autograph.

You glance at Riddle.

He’s gone very still, hands folded in front of him like he’s bracing for divine retribution. His jaw is so tight it could probably crush diamonds.

For a fleeting second, you see past the perfect composure and catch a glimpse of a man silently screaming, This is what my life has come to. I studied case law for this.

You would laugh if you weren’t also spiraling into the same existential crisis.

The squirrel chitters loudly, rattling the bars. Someone in the back screams.

Riddle drags a hand down his face. “Your Honor,” he says flatly, “the defense moves to strike this entire proceeding as an insult to jurisprudence.”

The judge just sighs again and bangs his gavel. “Motion denied.”

That’s when you realize the only way out is surrender.

So when recess is finally called, you all but drag your client out into the hallway and corner them by the vending machines, desperation leaking from every pore. “Drop the charge,” you hiss, clutching their arm like a lifeline. “Please. I beg you. No amount of hot dogs is worth this.”

“But justice—”

“Justice?” you echo, borderline hysterical. “You’re suing a squirrel! This isn’t justice, it’s a nature documentary gone rogue!”

By the time you stumble outside for air, your tie hanging askew and your soul bruised, you’re ready to bury yourself under the courthouse steps and live there forever.

And of course, standing right outside the doors like a ghost sent to haunt you, is Riddle Rosehearts.

He doesn’t say a word. Just looks at you with the faintest flicker of pity—or maybe it’s contempt, you can’t tell anymore. His expression is perfectly neutral, but you can practically hear the inner monologue: You absolute disaster of a lawyer.

You can’t even meet his eyes. You fixate on a crack in the sidewalk, mutter something that might be “good day,” and walk away briskly, praying that the next time you cross paths in court won’t make you want to spontaneously combust on the spot.

But deep down, you know the universe hates you far too much for that.

Back in law school, things were… different.

You and Riddle ended up in the same graduating batch, and through some cosmic joke, you shared nearly every class.

It was a nightmare, in the sense that he was always there, sitting prim and proper with his notes color-coded down to the comma, while you breezed in with three pens, a coffee stain on your textbook, and just enough reckless confidence to keep up.

If Riddle was first in exams, you were second. If you were first, he was right on your heels, looking like he’d been personally insulted by the concept of not being number one.

It was a healthy rivalry—or at least that’s what you called it to justify why you spent half your academic career needling him.

To you, it was entertainment. A way to survive the endless monotony of statutes, precedents, and professors who thought “fun” meant assigning two hundred pages of case law on a Friday.

Riling Riddle up in mock court became your favorite pastime.

He’d get this little twitch in his eyebrow whenever you made some wild, barely defensible argument just to watch him scramble to shut it down.

The way he’d snap “Objection!” with the fury of a man wronged was almost beautiful.

You were supposed to be practicing law, but half the time it felt like you were starring in your own private comedy routine, and Riddle was the unwilling straight man.

And then you graduated. Different firms, different offices, different lives—or so you thought.

Because apparently, fate—or maybe some drunk administrative gremlin at the Bar Association—decided that separation was overrated.

Somehow, ninety-nine percent of the cases you were handed ended up with Riddle Rosehearts as opposing counsel. Divorce settlements, contract disputes, bizarre niche lawsuits involving too many llamas—if you were there, so was he, looking just as polished and ready to destroy you as ever.

And so the rivalry continued.

Except this wasn’t the safe bubble of law school anymore. This was the real world, where judges glared, clients panicked, and your careers were on the line.

And still, the moment you spotted him across the courtroom, a little part of you lit up—not that you’d ever admit it. Because if the universe was determined to keep you and Riddle tethered together, you were determined to make it entertaining, even if it killed him.

Or, judging by the squirrel case, your dignity.

Your office isn’t much, but it’s yours. A desk that creaks when you lean on it, a chair that’s probably a decade older than you, and a stack of case files that could crush a man if they ever toppled.

You’ve made peace with it. It’s the ecosystem of a mid-level attorney: coffee stains, paper cuts, and the vague scent of despair lingering in the air like a permanent air freshener.

You’re half-buried in paperwork when there’s a knock on your door.

“Come in,” you call, already bracing yourself, because knocks during the day rarely mean anything good.

Your senior associate steps inside, a folder clutched in her hands like it’s radioactive. She doesn’t meet your eyes. Not once. She stares at the floor, the ceiling, the window—literally anywhere except your face—and that alone tells you everything you need to know.

You lean back in your chair, fold your arms, and sigh. “Alright. What’s the damage?”

She hesitates. Clears her throat. Shuffles the folder like maybe if she stirs the papers around, the contents will magically become less incriminating.

That’s all the confirmation you need. You know this dance by heart. When the senior associates can’t look you in the eye, it means someone upstairs got handed a ridiculous case by a ridiculous client, and instead of sullying their own record, they’ve decided to make you the sacrificial lamb.

A convenient scapegoat for rich kids with too much money and not enough hobbies.

You reach out and pluck the file from her hands before she can stall any longer. “Let me guess,” you say dryly, already flipping it open. “Some heir to a family fortune thinks emotional damages can be claimed for… I don’t know, losing at Mario Kart?”

She winces. That’s not a good sign.

You skim the first page.

And your soul leaves your body.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, pressing your palm to your forehead.

Your senior associate coughs delicately. “The partners… thought you’d be a good fit.”

Translation: nobody else would touch this circus with a ten-foot pole, so here you are, once again the firm’s designated clown.

And sure enough, staring up at you in bold letters is the plaintiff’s name, the complaint, and—because fate hates you with a passion—the plaintiff's attorney already listed.

Riddle Rosehearts.

You close the file slowly, calmly. Then you drop your head onto the desk with a dull thud. “Why is it always him?” you groan into the wood.

Your associate pats your shoulder like you’ve just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. “Good luck,” she says softly, and leaves before you can throw the folder at her.

When you first read the case file, you thought, no way. This has to be a prank. Someone slipped this into the docket as a joke.

But here you are, standing in court, folder in hand, and across the aisle is Riddle Rosehearts. His expression is calm, composed, and dead-eyed, which is lawyer code for he’s given up on life but refuses to show weakness in front of you.

The case: Neighbor versus Neighbor.

The crime: Repeated late-night karaoke, allegedly off-key, causing emotional trauma.

The damages: Sleep deprivation, emotional anguish, and a broken set of noise-canceling headphones.

Your client—the karaoke culprit—sits beside you, humming under their breath and tapping a rhythm on the table like this is their pre-show warm-up.

Meanwhile, Riddle’s client looks like they’ve just returned from war: dark circles, trembling hands, and the hollow stare of someone who’s been held hostage by “Livin’ on a Prayer” for three nights in a row.

The judge looks five seconds away from leaving the bench, tossing his gavel in the trash, and opening a hot dog stand on the beach. “Let’s get this over with,” he sighs.

Riddle stands first, buttoning his jacket with the gravity of a man about to argue before the Supreme Court. His voice is crisp, professional, absolutely lethal.

“Your Honor, my client has endured significant suffering at the hands of their neighbor’s so-called ‘performances.’ For three consecutive nights, they have been subjected to renditions of classic rock anthems so poorly executed that they amount to a form of psychological torture. My client has lost three nights of sleep, their concentration at work has suffered, and they may never be able to hear in tune again.”

He pauses dramatically. “We have an audiologist’s note to corroborate.”

He slaps a piece of paper on the judge’s bench with enough force to make it flap dramatically. You’re ninety percent sure the “audiologist” is just a cousin who owns a stethoscope, but you can’t even argue that yet, because you’re too busy holding in laughter at how dead serious Riddle looks.

When it’s your turn, you rise with a flourish. You straighten your jacket, adopt your most solemn face, and declare, “With all due respect, Your Honor, the plaintiff has simply never experienced the joy of Bon Jovi at two a.m.”

A ripple runs through the courtroom. One of the jurors nods slowly, like you’ve just spoken a universal truth. Someone in the back whispers reverently, “Livin’ on a Prayer,” as though invoking an ancient rite.

The judge pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is not Legally Blonde, counselor,” he mutters, glaring at you.

“Of course not, Your Honor,” you reply smoothly. “This is far more serious. This is karaoke law.”

You see Riddle’s eye twitch. Just a little. Victory.

And then the witnesses start.

First up: the plaintiff’s elderly mother, who swears on the stand that the defendant’s rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody” caused her blood pressure to spike. “I heard ‘Scaramouche’ and thought my pacemaker was malfunctioning,” she says gravely, clutching her pearls.

Next, a sleep specialist testifies that the plaintiff’s REM cycle has been “irrevocably scarred�� by exposure to high-pitched falsetto.

Finally—because apparently this case requires a full Broadway production—your client demands to perform a live demonstration to prove that their singing is not only tolerable, but enjoyable.

The judge looks directly at you. “Counsel. Control your client.”

But it’s too late. Your client has already leapt to their feet, belting the opening of Livin’ on a Prayer with the unholy confidence of a shower singer.

The gallery erupts. Half the people cover their ears, the other half clap along. The bailiff hums the chorus.

Riddle sits there frozen, staring at the ceiling, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the chaos around him. His entire aura screams, I studied for years. I have memorized constitutional law. And I am now paid to sit through this.

You, of course, lean into it. “Your Honor,” you announce over the noise, “as you can hear, my client’s performances are not criminal—they’re community-building. Look! The jury is engaged!”

The jury is not engaged. The jury is praying for death.

Finally, the judge slams his gavel so hard it echoes like a gunshot. “ENOUGH. Court will recess before I revoke my own license to practice law out of sheer despair.”

The second he bangs the gavel, you collapse into your chair, trying not to laugh out loud. Your client high-fives you. Across the aisle, Riddle exhales through his nose like he’s about to astral project out of the building.

And as everyone clears out of the courtroom, you catch his eye. Just for a second. His expression is unreadable, but you swear it’s saying, You are the bane of my existence.

You grin, because you’ve never been prouder.

Predictably, you lose the case. Horribly.

The judge delivers his verdict with all the weariness of a man who has aged thirty years in the span of a single trial. “The court finds in favor of the plaintiff,” he intones, gavel striking like a death knell. “And may the defendant consider vocal lessons—or a vow of silence.”

Your client is devastated for exactly half a second, before perking right up. “At least I got to perform in public!” they say brightly, shaking your hand like you’ve just secured them a record deal. “Thank you, counselor. From now on, I’ll only come to you for my future lawsuits!”

Your smile is pained, your laughter hollow. The phrase future lawsuits echoes in your skull like a curse.

You pack up your things, shoulders sagging with the weight of professional shame, and head out of the courtroom. And of course—of course—Riddle is there. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, every inch of him as crisp and precise as ever, but there’s a faint crease between his brows, the only crack in the armor.

You give him a sheepish little wave. “Hey.”

He doesn’t waste time. “Why,” he asks flatly, “do you take these cases?”

It’s not mocking, not sharp—just bone-deep bafflement, like he’s genuinely trying to understand how someone with your grades, your skill, your ability to keep pace with him ended up here, drowning in karaoke and squirrel litigation.

You shrug, helpless. “Bureaucracies,” you say simply. Because what else can you say? You don’t choose the cases. The cases choose you, and they choose chaos every single time.

Riddle regards you for a long moment. Then, to your surprise, he nods. A quiet little concession that he, too, understands the curse of bureaucracy.

There’s a lull. People pass by, the courthouse hums with the sound of shuffling papers and tired footsteps. And then, because you can’t resist, you say, “Want to grab a hot dog from the corner stall? As a homage to our… previous squirrel adventure?”

His head snaps toward you, sharp as a whip. “Absolutely not,” he replies, clipped and scandalized.

You grin, unbothered, and head toward the vendor anyway. And though he insists he has no interest, when you’re standing there with mustard dripping down your sleeve and the taste of dubious street food in your mouth, Riddle is beside you.

Not eating, not speaking much—just standing there, polished and proper, as though he hasn’t just survived karaoke litigation with you.

And for a moment, with the courthouse fading into background noise and the absurdity of the day lingering between you like smoke, you almost feel like the rivalry is… something else. It's not friendship, not exactly, but something that keeps him there, next to you, while you finish your hot dog.

Lunch with your junior associate is usually tolerable. They chatter, you nod, and everyone gets what they want—you get to eat, they get to feel mentored, and the world keeps spinning.

Today, though, you’re blessed. Today you have good pasta. Rich sauce, perfectly cooked noodles, even a sprinkle of cheese. It’s divine. The kind of pasta that makes you believe in higher powers.

Your junior is talking, voice buzzing faintly in the background like a persistent fly. You catch fragments here and there—“ridiculous client,” “polka dots,” “neon color scheme”—but none of it stands a chance against the holy mission of shoveling pasta into your mouth as quickly and as efficiently as possible.

You nod occasionally, just enough to look like you’re listening, but internally you are a monk in meditation, laser-focused on your bowl.

And then you hear it. A single word that slices through the carbohydrate haze.

“Riddle.”

Your fork pauses mid-air. Your head lifts slowly. For the first time since lunch began, you actually make eye contact with your junior.

“…What did you just say?”

They blink, startled. “Uh—the plaintiff’s attorney? Riddle Rosehearts? You know him?”

Do you know him. The understatement of the century.

Something sparks in your chest. Maybe it’s rivalry. Maybe it’s mischief. Maybe it’s just the unholy combination of pasta-induced euphoria and your inability to resist watching Riddle suffer through nonsense. Whatever it is, it moves your mouth before your brain catches up.

“I’ll take the case,” you hear yourself say.

Your junior freezes, fork halfway to their mouth. “Really? You’ll—are you serious? You’d do that for me?” Their eyes shine like you’ve just descended from heaven in a halo of light.

“Yes,” you reply, solemn as a saint, though internally you’re screaming.

Because no, you don’t know what you just agreed to. You didn’t ask what the case was, what the client wants, or how badly it might tank your reputation. You just know one thing: Riddle will be there.

Your junior all but launches across the table to hand you the file. “Thank you so much! You’re a lifesaver!”

You glance at the folder, flipping it open with all the caution of someone handling a live grenade. Bright colors glare back at you, pages covered in phrases like ‘emotional distress over clashing patterns’ and ‘irreparable damage to aesthetic sensibilities.’

You close it again. Slowly. Carefully.

“Polka dots and neon colors,” your junior repeats helpfully, resuming their meal like this isn’t insanity.

You inhale the rest of your pasta in one go, praying the carbs will give you strength.

Because you don’t know what you just signed up for. You don’t know how many brain cells it’s going to cost you. You only know one thing for certain.

You’re going to have fun at court.

Court is in session. The gallery is packed, not because anyone cares about zoning laws, but because word has spread that the neon house case is happening today, and frankly, this is better than Netflix.

And it starts off promisingly dignified. The judge enters, robes flowing, gavel in hand, exuding the aura of a woman who has seen some things but still clings to the faint hope that today might not add to her list of regrets.

Then you stand up.

“Your honor,” you begin, voice smooth, confident, the very picture of a competent professional, “this case is not about aesthetics. This is not about taste. This is about liberty itself.”

The gallery chuckles. The judge hides her grin behind her gavel.

Riddle audibly exhales through his nose. His pen clicks. His entire body radiates irritation like a space heater.

You continue. “My client, a visionary man, a pioneer, has dared to dream beyond beige stucco and boring taupe. He has painted his home neon green with pink polka dots because he believes in joy. He believes in self-expression. And he believes that when life gives you lemons, you paint them on your siding at 150% saturation.”

Snickers ripple through the courtroom.

Riddle stands, papers stacked in neat, perfect lines. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

His tone slices through the laughter. “Your honor, this house is a violation of municipal code 17.4-B, which clearly states that any exterior alterations must adhere to the neighborhood’s agreed-upon color palette. This house is not joy. This house is visual assault. This house is the architectural equivalent of vuvuzelas during the World Cup.”

You grin. Oh, he’s mad mad.

You lean casually on the table. “Your honor, I would like to remind the court that what my learned colleague refers to as ‘visual assault,’ I call ‘the American dream.’”

The judge covers her mouth. Her shoulders shake.

Riddle’s jaw tightens. He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “buffoon.”

The arguments spiral from there. You cite artistic freedom, comparing the house to “avant-garde street murals in Berlin.” Riddle fires back with property values tanking faster than a cryptocurrency scam.

You call the polka dots “a symbol of rebellion against conformity.” Riddle snaps that they’re “a crime against cones and rods.” You swear the judge almost choked when he said that.

Finally, the judge slams her gavel. “Enough. I can’t… I can’t make a fair decision without seeing this for myself.” She clears her throat, trying to sound serious. “Court will recess to… view the premises.”

The gallery erupts like a stadium. People are whispering, taking bets, one guy excitedly says “field trip” like he’s about to pack snacks.

Which is how you end up in a caravan twenty minutes later, pulling into the neighborhood like a parade of doom.

And then you see it.

The photos did not prepare you. No mortal lens could. The house is so neon it practically hums. The polka dots are the size of dinner plates, splattered across the facade like weaponized confetti.

It doesn’t just clash with the neighborhood—it declares open war on it. The neon green glows like nuclear waste under the sun. The pink polka dots are so violently bright they could guide lost ships to shore.

The neighbors’ beige houses cower in its shadow, looking like they’ve been personally victimized. A garden gnome across the street has toppled over, as if struck dead on sight.

“Oh my God,” you whisper reverently, hand over your chest. “It’s beautiful.”

“No,” Riddle says flatly, stepping out of his car. He freezes, shoulders tense, jaw slack. For a brief, glorious moment, you think you’ve broken him. His hand flies to the bridge of his nose. “No, it’s worse. It’s worse in person.”

His knuckles are white. His entire aura screams kill me now.

You glance at him, see the pain radiating in his expression, and—because you are a good person deep down—fish out your sunglasses. “Here. Before you start seizing.”

To your absolute delight, he doesn’t argue. He slides them on with the air of a man who has given up on resisting evil, a martyr in Armani.

The judge arrives, and the second she lays eyes on the house, she makes a sound halfway between a cough and a wheeze. Her clerk discreetly offers her a tissue, which she waves away as her lips twitch violently.

“Your honor,” you say, stepping dramatically toward the crime scene, “you see before you not an eyesore, but a statement. A piece of living, breathing art.”

“Your honor,” Riddle snaps, sunglasses failing to hide the despair radiating off him, “this is an abomination.”

You lean toward him, voice low so only he can hear. “Come on. Admit it. You’d rather look at this than beige.”

“I’d rather look into the sun,” he hisses.

You grin. “Which is basically what you’re doing right now.”

His shoulders shake. Just barely. But enough. Enough for you to know you’re winning.

You lean closer, murmuring so only he can hear: “Admit it, though. This place could single-handedly lower crime rates. No one’s going to rob a house this loud.”

And there it is. The smallest, strangled laugh. He clamps his lips shut instantly, like a man about to commit seppuku for dishonor, and hisses, “Act professional.”

But you can see his shoulders trembling. You can see the corners of his mouth betraying him. And for the first time, standing in front of the ugliest house known to humankind, you realize you’ve won more than just the case.

You’ve cracked Riddle Rosehearts.

The restaurant is quiet, cozy, and blessedly free of neon green architecture. You’ve chosen it to celebrate your hard-won victory, the taste of triumph still sweet on your tongue. Nothing beats defeating Riddle in court, except perhaps food made by someone who knows how to use seasoning.

You’re scanning the menu, already planning your three-course feast, when you look up—and nearly choke on your water.

Riddle.

Sitting two tables away, posture flawless, napkin folded with military precision across his lap. He looks painfully out of place in the warm, relaxed atmosphere, like a porcelain figurine set down in a thrift store. And across from him sits… someone else.

The stranger across from him is leaning forward with a grin that has “I googled ‘how to seduce a lawyer’ before this date” written all over it.

You catch Riddle’s eyes for half a second. He blinks. Then looks away. Then looks back at you again with an expression so subtle, so precise, it’s practically Morse code: Kill me now.

You smother a laugh. Oh, this is good. This is so good.

You pretend to return to your menu, but you’re listening. The person across from him is relentless. “So, when are you free again? Friday? Saturday? Oh, you must have a free evening. You’re a lawyer, not the president.”

You try to focus on your menu, you really do. But then you hear it.

“So, do you always look this serious, or are you just trying to intimidate me?”

There’s a pause, then Riddle’s voice, tight and thin: “I am simply sitting.”

And then his eyes flick to you. One glance. One micro-expression. That’s all it takes for you to understand: he wants out. He is silently begging the universe for an escape route. You, unfortunately for him, are the universe right now.

You could be a good person. Respect boundaries. Let him suffer. Or… you could cause chaos, because nothing makes food taste better than victory and mild humiliation.

You glance at Riddle. His polite smile looks like it’s been stapled to his face. His knuckles are white around his fork. You can practically hear him calculating the exact number of seconds until he can escape without violating etiquette.

Not that you’re jealous, obviously. You just saved the entire neighborhood from monochrome tyranny today, you deserve to have some fun.

So you stand. And you march straight toward his table. And with all the unholy glee of a prankster god, you let the words burst out:

“BABE! HI!”

The table falls silent. The pushy dinner companion freezes mid-sentence. And Riddle—poor, unsuspecting Riddle—visibly regrets every decision he has ever made in his life.

His head whips toward you, eyes wide, face already blooming red. You can see it in him: the exact second he realizes he has dug his own grave by signaling you earlier. He wanted a lifeline, not you.

But it’s too late. You’ve committed.

You beam, pulling out the empty chair next to him. “Don’t act so surprised, darling. You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend tonight!”

The other person blinks. “Darling?”

Riddle’s jaw clenches. His eyes flick to you, then to the stranger, then back to you. For a heartbeat, you think he might deny it. He might stand up and storm out and leave you to choke on your own joke.

But then he exhales, pinches the bridge of his nose, and mutters, “…Yes. Darling.”

The date sputters. “Wait—you two are—?”

You smile sweetly, sliding into the empty seat next to Riddle before he can stop you. “Oh, we’ve been together for ages. Haven’t we, babe?”

Riddle is vibrating beside you, shoulders taut, lips pressed into a thin line. But when he finally speaks, his voice is deadly calm. “Yes. Ages.”

“We’ve known each other since law school. Cutest rivals you’ve ever seen. Always neck and neck—top of the class, both of us. Honestly, if he wasn’t keeping me sharp, I’d probably have coasted. But no, he just had to outdo me every time, didn’t you, honey?”

Riddle’s eye twitches. “…Yes.”

You pat his hand like you’re proud of him for remembering his lines. “And now, we’re both lawyers. Which is just perfect, because nobody understands the trauma of explaining billable hours to family members like another lawyer does.”

Riddle inhales through his nose like he’s actively inhaling patience.

The date looks between you two, eyes narrowing. “Lawyers, huh?”

“Mm-hm,” you nod, grabbing Riddle’s water and taking a sip like it’s yours. “We deal with all kinds of nonsense. Just today, I had to defend a guy who painted his house neon green with pink polka dots. Riddle here tried to have it condemned like it was a war crime. And I still won.”

Riddle whips his head toward you, scandalized. “You did not win. The ruling was a technicality.”

“Victory is victory, babe,” you say sweetly, batting your eyelashes.

The date’s face sours faster than milk in the sun. “Well, excuse me, I didn’t realize I was interrupting… whatever this is.”

“It’s love,” you say with the confidence of someone perjuring themselves on the stand.

Riddle coughs so violently the waiter rushes over with another glass of water.

The date storms out, muttering something about “wasted time” and “should’ve swiped left.” You wave after them like you’ve just won a game show.

Once they’re gone, you turn to Riddle with a smirk. “Spill.”

His hands are clenched on the table like he’s moments away from citing you for contempt. “I was told this was a client meeting. I was deceived. It was a date.”

You nod solemnly, like you’re at a funeral. “Ah. The classic bait-and-date. Tragic.”

He glares daggers at you, but the pink on his ears betrays him.

“Well,” you say, standing halfway like you’re going to leave. “I’ll get out of your hair, let you enjoy your food. Unless…” You tilt your head, grin sharp. “You want me to stay.”

You expect to be dismissed. Maybe scolded about professionalism. But Riddle—Riddle hesitates. Looks at you. Looks away. Looks back. Then mutters, so soft you almost miss it: “I don’t mind.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Your stomach does something stupid. Something traitorous.

You sit back down before he changes his mind. “Then I’m stealing half of whatever you order. Couple’s rights.”

His sigh could power a wind turbine, but he doesn’t tell you to leave.

Dinner is surprisingly comfortable. You talk about cases, about mutual acquaintances from law school, about how the breadsticks are suspiciously addictive. And the silence that falls between sentences isn’t awkward at all—it’s steady, easy, like maybe your rivalry was always a cover for something else.

Later, he insists on walking you home—of course he does—because Riddle Rosehearts would sooner let the sky fall than let you walk alone in the dark.

Just like in law school, even when you'd needle him in mock court, he'd always walk you back to your dorm, even if he refused to look at you.

And when your hands brush once, twice, in the dark, you both pretend not to notice.

But the night knows. And so do you.

You were still processing. Processing the fact that somewhere between fake-dating him at a restaurant, watching his ears turn pink when you teased him, and accidentally almost holding his hand under the moonlight, you’d developed the worst possible crush.

On Riddle Rosehearts. Your rival. The man whose eyebrows were sharper than most knives. The one person who could make you want to win and combust at the same time.

It was fine. Totally fine. You could bury it. Ignore it. Pretend it was just indigestion.

Except the universe, that cruel little gremlin, had other plans.

You were in your office, attempting to drown your emotions in paperwork and overpriced coffee, when your senior associate strolled in with the kind of expression that screamed “I’m about to ruin your life but also I’m not sorry about it.”

“Good news,” she chirped. “We’ve got a high-profile joint case with Hearts & Co.”

Your pen slipped. “Excuse me?”

She slapped a folder on your desk with enough force to rattle your soul. “Both firms are representing the city in this one. You’ll be co-counsel with Rosehearts.”

Your heart stopped. Your brain stopped. Your digestive system stopped. “Rosehearts. As in Riddle Rosehearts?”

“Yes,” she said, already walking away, probably to spread chaos elsewhere. “You’re both brilliant, so I expect nothing but a flawless performance.”

You opened the file with the dread of someone about to read their own autopsy.

It was a big case. Serious. Important. Actual money and precedent on the line. Not a hot dog-stealing squirrel. Not karaoke-induced trauma. Not polka-dotted houses. This was a real one. A case you couldn’t joke your way through. A case you’d have to share with Riddle.

You wanted to laugh. You wanted to cry. Instead, you said out loud to your empty office, “Cool. I’ll just die, then.”

The first strategy meeting was worse.

Riddle sat across the conference table, posture immaculate, his expression one of terrifying focus. Meanwhile, you were 90% sure your tie was crooked and your only preparation was panic and caffeine poisoning.

“Counselor,” he greeted you stiffly.

“Counselor,” you echoed, trying not to think about how his voice always dipped just slightly when he was being formal, and how your stupid heart had no business noticing.

The partners left you two in the room together to “collaborate.”

Which was code for: watch you combust.

The silence was suffocating. He started flipping through his neatly tabbed binder. You started spinning your pen like it could double as a fidget toy.

Finally, he looked up. “Do you intend to contribute, or will you simply sit there vibrating like a malfunctioning microwave?”

You cleared your throat. “Sorry, I was… uh… processing the gravity of the case.”

A pause. Then, the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “…Right.”

Working with him was a nightmare in the way falling into a vat of glitter is a nightmare: suffocating, inescapable, but also slightly dazzling.

He was sharp, precise, annoyingly good at everything. And you? You cracked jokes at 2 a.m. during drafting sessions just to see him sigh and rub his temples, only for his shoulders to shake when he thought you weren’t looking.

Every time your hands brushed when passing papers, you felt it. Every time your knees bumped under the table, you felt it. Every time he narrowed his eyes at you but didn’t actually tell you to shut up, you felt it.

And the worst part? You couldn’t even distract yourself with the usual thrill of beating him, because you were on the same side. Which meant every victory was shared. Every high five would be too loaded. Every late night would be too charged.

You weren’t sure if you were going to win this case or accidentally confess your feelings in front of the entire legal team.

Either way, your dignity was already circling the drain.

What started as a normal strategy session quickly spiraled into what could only be described as an unofficial cage match with paperwork. You were supposed to be talking about precedents and structuring arguments, but then Riddle said the magic word—“flimsy”—and something inside you snapped like an overworked binder clip.

Riddle, sitting prim and proper as though the fate of the world depended on his posture, lifted one perfectly shaped brow. “A judge would cry, yes, but out of mercy. There is no substance in your theatrics.”

“Flimsy?” you barked, slamming your notes down like a gavel. “I’ll have you know my argument is a masterclass in airtight reasoning. A judge would cry tears of gratitude to hear me speak.”

And that was all it took. Suddenly, you were on your feet, and so was he. Voices rising, hands flying, the table between you becoming more of a stage than a workplace.

He jabbed his finger at your brief; you jabbed yours at his color-coded binder. He accused you of showboating; you accused him of being allergic to fun. The air was crackling, less like a legal discussion and more like the verbal equivalent of sword-fighting while your coworkers looked on in horror.

At some point—and you weren’t entirely sure when—you had closed the distance between you. One step, then another, until you were chest-to-chest, glaring into his face with the righteous fury of someone who refused to lose, while he matched you stare for stare.

The tension was so sharp you could’ve submitted it into evidence.

And that was when it happened.

“…This feels like foreplay in legalese. Should we even be watching this?”

From the corner of the room, your junior’s whisper floated through the air like a death knell:

The silence that followed was biblical.

Which might have been worse, because when you became aware of your proximity—close enough to count the grey in his irises—your brain short-circuited.

You froze mid-retort. Riddle froze mid-glare. Both of you processed those words at the exact same horrifying moment, and the realization hit like a speeding gavel: your coworkers thought you looked like you were about to kiss instead of kill.

Riddle recoiled so fast his chair nearly toppled backward. You stumbled a full step and managed to trip on your own bag, barely catching yourself before your notes rained down like confetti.

Everyone else sat in stunned, awkward silence. Nobody dared to breathe too loudly, as though acknowledging the moment would make it real.

The whole scene looked less like “two top lawyers collaborating” and more like “two alley cats startled by a cucumber.”

Finally, with his face the exact shade of a ripe tomato, Riddle cleared his throat. “We will… reconvene in five minutes.” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, which only made him straighten his tie like it hadn’t.

And worst of all? Deep down, you couldn’t decide if you were horrified… or just a little bit disappointed.

Then he turned on his heel and left the room at mach speed, as though sheer dignity could carry him through the flames.

You dropped back into your chair, slapped your hands over your face, and wished for divine intervention. There was no recovering from this. You could win the case, win a dozen cases, and still your junior would look you in the eye and remember the time you almost kissed Riddle Rosehearts over a binder tab.

After the chest-to-chest debacle, you and Riddle silently agreed on one thing: never again.

No, not “never again” to fighting—he’d fight you over a comma placement if given the chance. You both swore “never again” to being in the same room at the same time. Ever.

From that day forward, your coworkers became unwilling messengers, ferrying notes and verbal missives between you like poorly paid carrier pigeons.

“Tell Rosehearts,” you muttered one morning, shoving a sticky note into your junior’s hands, “that our damages argument should focus on financial loss first.”

Your junior dropped it on your desk with all the enthusiasm of someone handling radioactive waste. “You two know email exists, right?”

The note returned half an hour later, in Riddle’s immaculate handwriting: Chronological order would better serve the court. —R.R.

“Oh, we use email,” you said grimly. “We just… limit it.”

The emails were robotic. Sterile. The kind of writing that could cure insomnia. Subject lines read RE: DAMAGES SUMMARY TABLE and RE: WITNESS CROSS ORDER. No greetings. No closings. No personality. Just cold, clipped sentences, as though neither of you were actual human beings.

And you did.

The courtroom erupted in congratulations. Clients were ecstatic. The partners clapped you on the back and declared you both prodigies.

It was pathetic, but it worked. Barely. The case progressed. Arguments were built. Witnesses prepped. You won motions, filed briefs, and eventually—against all odds—you won the case itself.

For the first time in weeks, there were no more emails, no more memos, no more passive-aggressive sticky notes being smuggled across the bullpen. You should have felt relief. Peace. Maybe even a little pride.

And you? You went straight to your office, shut the door, and collapsed into your chair like you’d just survived a war.

Instead, you sat at your desk staring at the ceiling, thinking about kissing Riddle Rosehearts.

Which was ridiculous. You had won a major case, cemented your reputation, and proven yourself to the entire city. You should have been basking in professional glory. But no. Your brain had other priorities.

It had decided to play an endless loop of intrusive thoughts like: What if you kissed him in the conference room? or What if you kissed him after cross-exam? or What if you kissed him right there on the courthouse steps and gave the press the scandal of the century?

It was ruining your life.

You groaned into your hands. “I need therapy. Or possibly an exorcism. Or maybe just a large mallet to the head.”

You had no idea which would be cheaper, but they had to be better than admitting you’d fallen for your rival like a raccoon falling into a dumpster. Loudly. Messily. And absolutely without dignity.

Your junior poked their head into the office, saw you collapsed over your desk, and wisely closed the door again.

It was the fact that you, a respected attorney, had developed a crush so catastrophic it was actively impacting your sleep schedule.

You were grateful. Because how were you supposed to explain that the greatest crisis of your legal career wasn’t a case, wasn’t a client, wasn’t even the law itself.

And you had no idea how to recover from it.

Everyone at the firm had noticed your… decline.

Not in the dramatic sense—your work was still flawless. You were still winning motions, shredding opposing counsel, and drafting briefs so clean they made interns cry tears of joy. But your spark? Gone. The zing that once electrified the office every time you strolled in with a coffee and a new plan to verbally body-slam an adversary in court? Nowhere to be found.

The infamous grin you usually wore when you spotted a new case file, the one that promised you the chance to outwit Riddle Rosehearts yet again? Extinct.

The partners were concerned. Very concerned. Their star associate, once the delightfully unhinged firecracker of litigation, was suddenly trudging through cases like a soulless tax auditor. Something had to be done.

Even your junior had whispered to your senior that they caught you staring blankly at a vending machine for five solid minutes like it was about to deliver unto you the secrets of the universe.

So, like benevolent gods bestowing a gift upon a weary mortal, they presented you with a “fun case.”

Not a difficult one, not a prestigious one—no, you were given the legal equivalent of a chew toy. A ridiculous, nonsense case that existed solely to make someone laugh.

When they slid the file across your desk, your senior was smiling so warmly you almost worried she was about to adopt you.

You stared at the file. Then you looked up at the partners, who were all smiling at you like proud parents handing their child a toy.

“This,” said one of them, beaming, “will cheer you right up.”

“Ridiculous facts, colorful witnesses, courtroom comedy—it has you written all over it,” another added.

A hen owner suing his neighbor because the neighbor’s rooster was allegedly “ruining the virtue” of the hens.

You raised a skeptical brow, opening the file. The words stared back at you like they knew you’d sinned in a past life.

“Do you want me,” you said carefully, “to argue in open court about… poultry chastity?”

“Exactly!” one of them said brightly.

Your senior clapped you on the shoulder. “We just want to see you smile again. You’ve been so tense lately.”

“Think of it as comic relief,” another added. “The jury will love it. Everyone loves farm animals.”

Ah. That explained it. They thought you were overworked. Burnt out. In need of something silly to lighten the load.

They had no idea that ninety percent of your joy in this profession came from tormenting Riddle Rosehearts in court like a cat batting around a very indignant, very red ball of yarn. And the other ten percent came from daydreaming about kissing him after doing so.

Still, you knew they meant well. You couldn’t exactly explain that your “distress” stemmed from a catastrophic crush and weeks of enforced avoidance. So you pasted on your best smile, nodded, and accepted the file.

Your senior actually sighed in relief. “That’s the spirit.”

“Of course,” you said sweetly. “Nothing says ‘fun’ like litigating poultry-based malice.”

Back in your office, you dropped the file on your desk and stared at it.

It was worse than you thought. Testimonies about “innocent hens led astray.” Witness lists including an elderly farmer, two horrified neighbors, and one self-proclaimed “poultry psychologist.”

Evidence consisting of grainy photos of the rooster mid-crow, annotated with arrows and captions like ‘See the menace in his eyes.’

It was absurd. It was petty. It was beneath the dignity of the law.

You closed the file, pinched the bridge of your nose, and muttered to yourself. “This is what my life has become. Avian chastity disputes.”

And it was supposed to make you happy.

Your junior peeked in curiously. “What’s the new case?”

“Okay,” they wheezed, “I admit. This one is very you.”

You wordlessly shoved the file across the desk. They read the first page, froze, and then started laughing so hard they slid halfway down the doorframe, clutching their stomach.

You groaned. Maybe it was. But no rooster, no matter how scandalous, could distract you from the fact that your professional soulmate-slash-romantic catastrophe was across the city, probably sipping tea and writing briefs with the same precision he used to break your sanity.

And if your partners thought this poultry morality play was going to cure your Riddle-shaped heartbreak, they were about to witness some of the most unhinged courtroom theater of your entire career.

You prepared for a circus. You knew it wasn’t going to be Riddle this time—your senior had made it very clear the defense counsel belonged to another lawyer from his firm—and you had resigned yourself to a day of mediocre theatrics and farmyard metaphors.

No rival to glare at, no tightly wound perfectionist to poke until his voice hit glass-shattering pitch. Just you, a distressed farmer, and the court stenographer who was going to have to type the words “corruption of hens” with a straight face.

So when you walked into the courtroom, notes in hand, ready to resign yourself to a joyless comedy show, you nearly tripped over your own feet.

There he was.

Riddle Rosehearts, standing at the opposing counsel’s table, perfectly pressed suit, immaculate tie, hair shining like he’d personally declared war on humidity.

He made eye contact with you, froze, and then—oh, sweet merciful heavens—immediately looked away. The tips of his ears flared crimson.

You swore you could feel the dormant serotonin in your brain wake up like it had just been kissed on the mouth. Suddenly, the world had color again. Suddenly, this stupid poultry trial wasn’t just a case; it was art.

You wanted to laugh. You wanted to cackle. You wanted to throw yourself directly into chaos because you were back, baby.

Your client shuffled nervously beside you, muttering something about “hens led astray,” but you weren’t listening. No, you were watching Riddle, who was very studiously examining his papers, the way someone examines the ceiling to avoid looking at a crush across the room.

The trial began, and within fifteen minutes, the judge already looked like he was regretting every life choice that had brought him here.

The judge pinched the bridge of his nose. “Counsel… I remind you this is a civil trial, not the Salem witch trials.”

Your client testified in dramatic tones, describing the rooster as a “creature of lust, a feathered demon who corrupted the innocence of his hens.” He actually used the word “fornication” at one point, which made the court reporter pause mid-typing like she was reconsidering her hourly rate.

Across the aisle, Riddle stood stiff as a board, valiantly trying to argue that roosters crowing at dawn was not a crime against morality, but a biological inevitability.

Every time you countered him—smiling sweetly as you declared, “With all due respect, the rooster in question has demonstrated repeated, targeted harassment”—you watched the vein in his forehead twitch.

The back-and-forth felt like law school all over again. His perfectly phrased rebuttals, your shameless theatrics. He’d snap, “Counsel, your argument has no basis in precedent.” You’d grin, lean forward, and say, “Precedent didn’t wake the hens up at four in the morning, did it?”

And it was glorious.

Riddle sputtered. The judge sighed. Your client looked like he was about to weep with gratitude.

And you? You felt alive.

Because ridiculous or not, rooster or not, there was nothing better than being across from Riddle Rosehearts in a courtroom, watching him vibrate with controlled rage while secretly, just maybe, blushing at the edges.

The case had already descended into absurdity, but the moment the bailiff walked in wheeling a crate covered with a tarp, you knew you had crossed the event horizon.

“It is,” your client said triumphantly. “The rooster himself. The culprit. The fiend.”

The judge raised one weary eyebrow. “Please tell me that’s not—”

The tarp came off with a dramatic flourish, and there he was. The rooster. Regal. Proud. Every feather gleaming as though he’d spent the morning oiling them for the cameras. He fluffed his chest, turned his head, and locked eyes with the hens in their respective crate across the room.

And then—oh sweet lord—he started strutting.

Not just walking. Strutting. Tail feathers arched like a peacock, wings half-spread, head bobbing with the rhythm of a man who knew exactly what he was about.

It was pure seduction in poultry form. The hens, to their credit, clucked and preened, pressing themselves against the bars of their crate like they were at a rock concert and he was the headliner.

You pinched your thigh under the table, hard, trying to keep from absolutely howling.

Across the aisle, Riddle Rosehearts—immaculate, dignified, the boy who once wrote a twenty-page essay on courtroom etiquette—looked as though he’d just seen God and been personally mocked.

His eyes widened. His composure cracked. He blinked once, twice, and then pressed a hand over his mouth as if to physically hold in his sanity.

The judge dropped his gavel against the block with a dead thud. “For the sake of this court’s dignity,” he said flatly, “the rooster will be confined to a cage. Effective immediately.”

Your client was indignant, slamming his hands on the table. “See! Even here, in this sacred hall of law, he corrupts! He cannot be contained!”

The courtroom was officially one joke away from becoming a barnyard comedy show, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek so hard it hurt just to keep from collapsing into cackles.

The trial wrapped up in a haze of nonsense, but as you stepped outside the courthouse, the façade finally cracked. The laughter burst out of you in wild, gasping waves until you were doubled over, tears in your eyes.

And then you felt a steadying hand on your arm.

He looked pale, shaken, and entirely too dignified for a man who had just witnessed a rooster perform a burlesque act. His other hand adjusted his tie like he could strangle reality back into order, but he didn’t move away as you leaned against him, clutching your stomach.

Riddle.

“Oh god,” you wheezed, still laughing. “I can’t—did you see him? That rooster was practically winking at the hens!”

You grinned up at him, wicked. “Wait, don’t tell me. You only took this case because I was here, right?”

Riddle closed his eyes like he was praying for the earth to swallow him. “Please… lower your voice.”

It was a joke—just a playful jab, the kind you’d been tossing at him since law school. But instead of his usual indignant snap-back, Riddle froze. His hand stayed on your arm, his jaw tight, his neck flushing an alarming shade of red.

He didn’t say a word.

And that silence was louder than anything.

Loved you.

Your grin faltered for a second, your heart skipping because oh. Oh. This loser. This rule-obsessed, tea-drinking, perfectly pressed lawyer who glared at you like you were the bane of his existence…

The realization hit you so hard you nearly started laughing again, not from humor this time, but from the sheer absurdity of it. You had been pining, losing sleep, spiraling over stolen glances—while he’d been quietly combusting this entire time.

You leaned just a little heavier into him, biting back another laugh. “Unbelievable,” you muttered. “We just survived a rooster scandal, and this is what finally gets to you.”

Riddle muttered something unintelligible, but he didn’t move away.

And you thought, maybe for once, the chaos was absolutely worth it.

The thing about realizing Riddle Rosehearts was in love with you was that it didn’t make you calmer, or more collected, or any closer to keeping your mouth shut. If anything, it made you louder.

You both ended up staying late at your office that night, pretending to work on a joint case but really just stewing in mutual awareness.

The rooster trial had left its mark—no one could erase the mental image of poultry seduction—but what lingered more stubbornly was the way Riddle’s hand had felt steadying you outside the courthouse. The way he hadn’t answered your joke. The way he’d turned crimson down to his collar.

So when you finally crossed paths again in the quiet hallway, both of you heading out, you didn’t bother with subtlety. You leaned against the wall, blocking his path like you were about to cross-examine him, and blurted, “Do you want to keep doing this weird dance, or do you want to kiss me?”

Riddle stopped dead. His briefcase slipped an inch in his grip. “Wh—what?”

He sputtered, going through all five stages of grief in real time. “You—! I—oh my god, we are lawyers, there is surely a more elegant way to phrase—”

“Kiss me,” you repeated, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Because I can’t keep pretending that I only enjoy you as a straight man for my comedy routine. It’s driving me insane. And also—” you jabbed a finger at his chest—“you’re terrible at hiding things, by the way.”

“JUST TELL ME.”

The silence stretched for one beat. Two. His ears were red. His neck was red. He looked like he’d swallowed a live grenade. And then, finally, he cleared his throat, very quietly, very stiffly.

“Would you… like to go on a real date?”

Riddle visibly winced, muttering under his breath about his terrible life choices. “Why… why did I fall for you, of all people…”

Your grin spread slow and wide, smug as anything. “Of course, my darling.”

And you followed, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt, thinking that after all the roosters and squirrels and karaoke lawsuits, maybe—just maybe—the ridiculous circus had finally brought you to the best verdict of all.

But his hand found yours anyway. His fingers were tense, hesitant at first, but they didn’t let go. He squeezed lightly, then tugged you along toward the door, his face still half-buried in mortification.

Not because you made an announcement, of course. No, you would never do something as professional and mature as informing your colleagues of your new relationship status. Instead, you waltzed right up to the doors of the firm, escorted by none other than Riddle Rosehearts himself.

The next morning, your entire firm found out.

He looked freshly ironed and excruciatingly proper, as if he hadn’t just spent half the night debating dessert choices with you in a café until you’d stolen his spoon.

He stopped at the curb to say goodbye, adjusting his tie like he wasn’t about to commit social suicide. And you—being the chaos gremlin you were—leaned over, cheerful as sunshine, and kissed him on the cheek.

Through the glass lobby windows, half the firm watched in stunned silence.

Right in front of the building.

Your senior turned to your junior, deadpan. “Pay up.”

Your junior groaned, digging into their wallet. “Ugh, fine. I bet they wouldn’t hook up before someone strangled the rooster, but I guess I was off by one trial.”

Another partner nodded sagely. “True love conquers all.”

Behind them, one of the partners was practically glowing. “Look at them! Our star associate is back to their old self. Radiant! Sharp! Not staring at vending machines like they’ve been cursed!”

And honestly? You didn’t care. Because for the first time in weeks, you felt like yourself again. Your spark was back. Your laughter was loud. Your case files suddenly looked exciting instead of exhausting.

By the time you walked inside, still grinning, your coworkers scattered like pigeons pretending they hadn’t been watching. But the smug glint in your senior’s eye gave it away. They knew. Oh, they knew.

Best of all, you had something new to look forward to—not just the next ridiculous trial where you could face off against Riddle across the courtroom, but the moment afterward, too. When you’d step out of the courthouse together, exchange tired smiles, and know that the chaos didn’t end when the gavel dropped.

You’d see him in court, sure. But now, you’d also see him after.

And honestly? That felt like the sweetest victory of all.

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