The office was small. Not cramped, just real.
The kind with slightly scuffed floors and overstuffed filing cabinets, the hum of a rattling fan in the corner, and a kettle that needed to be unplugged before it boiled over. The desk was worn, dependable. The blinds swayed with the occasional breeze.
Mikha sat behind that desk, sleeves rolled to her elbows, glasses slipping low on her nose as she flipped through pages of a statement. The case was heavy. A woman accused of killing her ex-boyfriend in a violent confrontation. He had a record. She had bruises.
The firm—their firm now—had taken it pro bono.
Mikha read over the timeline again, her pen paused just above the margin. Her mind racing through argument structure, tone, positioning. It was second nature now. But still, important.
The door creaked open.
She didn't look up right away.
Until a familiar hand slid a cup of coffee beside her, and then two arms wrapped around her from behind—soft, sure, home.
Aiah.
Chin on her shoulder. Breath warm against her cheek. Body curled against her back like she belonged there—which, of course, she did.
"Your statement looks solid, bub," Aiah murmured, her voice still scratchy with morning.
Mikha leaned back slightly, smiling. "You always say that before you rip it apart."
"Not this time," Aiah said. "You're leaning into her voice more. Less textbook, more truth."
"I'm trying," Mikha said, reaching up to rest her hand over Aiah's. "I keep thinking... this one deserves more than just a clever defense."
"She deserves someone who won't let the system flatten her," Aiah said. "And that's you."
They stayed like that for a beat.
Comfortable. Quiet.
Mikha sipped the coffee. "You made this strong."
"You've got a long day ahead."
"You always know."
"I always watch," Aiah corrected, grinning. "You're still cute when you're stressed."
Mikha tilted her head back to kiss her quickly. "Flatter me later. I need to convince a judge that trauma doesn't erase self-defense."
"You will," Aiah said, pulling away to grab her own folder from the shelf nearby. "And after that, we're getting tapsilog."
"Deal," Mikha smirked. "You doing the bail hearing this afternoon?"
Aiah nodded. "Guy's been in holding for three days. First offense, barely a record. System's just slow."
Mikha glanced over. "And here I thought you said you didn't want to do criminal law."
Aiah gave her a look. "I didn't want to only do criminal law. But defending the people no one else listens to? That I can do."
Mikha smiled—proud, quiet, in awe.
They weren't saving the world. But they were doing something close.
On the desk behind them sat a photo in a mismatched wooden frame.
Taken at a potluck, one year into the founding of their small legal practice.
Sheena had brought pancit. Colet and Gwen brought overpriced wine. Stacey made everyone play Cards Against Humanity. Maloi and Jhoanna were holding karaoke mics. And in the middle—arms around each other, smiling like people who'd earned it—stood Aiah and Mikha.
