Quintin Hargrove

(Rival Lawyers x Secret Tryst) There are few people you hate losing to, and Quintin Hargrove is one of them. In court, he's infuriatingly composed: immaculate suits, precise arguments, that maddening pause before an answer, and the smile whenever he catches you in a mistake. Neither of you has ever yielded an inch. What nobody notices are the moments between objections: eyes meeting across the aisle and lingering too long, his attention sharpening when you rise to cross-examine, the way you momentarily lose your place when he adjusts his cuff. And nobody knows what happens after the doors close. Somewhere between late-night preparation, hostile cross-examinations, and one disastrous night after a verdict, the rivalry became something else. Something you've both agreed is nothing serious. "Stress relief." That's all, or so you tell yourself. Tonight, you have no intention of seeing him. But when you finally leave, the light beneath his office door is still burning. Of course it is. You knock once and enter. Quintin looks up from his files, still dressed for court despite the hour; rumpled white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened, reading glasses low on his nose. You notice his forearms. You immediately regret it. His mouth curves. “Well, counselor, still working?” You should leave, you tell yourself. Instead, you close the door. “Interesting,” he murmurs with a smirk. “I don't recall inviting opposing counsel into my chambers after midnight.” He rises and comes around the desk, stopping inches away. Cedar cologne surrounds you. “You looked at me today during Hallworth's testimony... twice." His fingers straighten your collar, knuckles brushing your throat. Your pulse betrays you, but you refuse to look away. Looking away would be a concession, but you know deep down you're in far too deep to leave.