Chapter Text
Howard adjusted the cuff of his shirt for the third time in as many minutes.
The HHM conference room was spotless. Sunlight pooled through the frosted glass like diluted gold, catching the sharp corners of the long table and turning them soft. A pitcher of water sat centered on a silver tray, flanked by two crystal glasses. The folders were perfectly aligned. The whiteboard gleamed. And Howard’s reflection in the glass wall to his left was just this side of immaculate.
Elias, one of the newer associates, tapped the corner of his notepad, glancing up. "Still waiting on Mr. de Guzmán, sir?"
"He confirmed this morning," Howard replied, smoothing a hand over his tie. "He’ll be here."
A beat later, the door opened.
Jorge entered like someone who'd been here before, even if he hadn't. Today, he was dressed like a client meant to be taken seriously: navy suit, pale shirt, no tie, top button open. No flourish, but everything just a little too tailored. Understated. Controlled.
"Hope I’m not too late," he said, stepping forward with that unhurried elegance that never quite tipped into arrogance.
Howard didn’t smile too wide. Not in front of Elias. "You’re on time. Please, have a seat. Let’s begin."
They took their seats. Elias passed out the necessary documents, then settled to the left from Howard, Jorge to his right. Jorge's eyes flicked once toward him, then stayed locked on Howard. Not aggressive. Just interested. Attentive.
Howard opened the folder. "We’ll walk through strategy first. Then witness profiles, then discuss what kind of motion we want to prep for first filing."
"Sounds good to me," Jorge said, flipping his copy open with a practiced hand. "You run a tight ship."
"That’s the idea," Howard replied. "Let’s start with the footage requests."
He launched into it. Crisp, clipped, polished. The way he always was when it mattered. He outlined the timeline of the APD incident, cross-referenced the officers' statements, pointed out the inconsistencies. When he moved to the whiteboard to sketch out witness clusters, he didn’t miss a beat. Elias nodded along, scribbling.
"So," Howard concluded, tapping the end of the marker against the board, "if Meinhardt’s report is flawed and we can establish a pattern of overreach, coupled with his most recent promotion, the charge leverage shifts to us."
Jorge nodded slowly, eyes still locked on him. "Impressive."
Howard turned back to the table, wiped the whiteboard clean. He sat. Then adjusted his pen. Then adjusted it again.
Jorge tilted his head. Just a touch. "You alright, Howard?"
"Of course," Howard said quickly. Elias looked up.
"Fine," Howard repeated, more calmly. "Just considering the next step." He pulled out the next document. "Tuco's potential character witnesses," he said. "You listed a grandmother, two cousins, and a manager from the restaurant. Are they prepared to testify?"
"The grandmother, maybe," Jorge said. "The cousins won’t talk much. The manager knows what to say."
Howard jotted something in the margin. "We can prep them. Keep it short, focused. You vouch for their reliability?"
"With my life," Jorge replied easily.
Howard looked up.
There was a pause. Jorge didn’t blink.
Then, too casually: "Mind if I take a look at that last form? The one on procedural precedent."
Howard passed it over. Jorge leaned in to read. Too close, but Howard didn’t move. He could feel the heat of him, smell the faint hint of something expensive and peppery. Cologne. Or maybe just Jorge.
The moment lingered a breath too long. Elias coughed, politely.
Jorge pulled back. "This language—very airtight! You write this yourself?"
"I oversee everything filed under HHM, especially cases like these," Howard said. His voice sounded like someone else’s.
"I like that," Jorge murmured, tapping the paper once. "Hands-on."
Howard didn’t respond. He flipped to the next page and motioned Elias to note the updated hearing date. The rest of the session passed in precise, practiced language.
The front door closed with a gentle click behind him. No alarm beep. No voice from another room. Just the soft hush of the house Howard had designed to be quiet.
He slipped out of his shoes and set them neatly by the hall bench — soles aligned, laces tucked. The jacket came next, brushed down with practiced flicks of the wrist and hung precisely. His tie followed, draped carefully over the valet stand. From the outside, everything looked ordinary. Routine. Stillness with the corners tucked in.
But inside, something was stuttering.
Howard walked into the kitchen and reached for a glass. He didn’t need to look; his hand knew the cupboard by heart. A splash of scotch followed — just one finger, neat — but he didn’t drink it. He set it down beside the sink and stared at it instead.
The air felt wrong. Not cold. Not warm. Just off. Like the pressure had shifted and no one had told him why.
He sat at the kitchen island, fork in hand, but barely chewed. Across the room, his phone buzzed once — a calendar reminder. He didn’t even glance at it.
Instead, he was thinking about the Monte Carlo. No — about Jorge in the Monte Carlo. The way he drove like it was breathing. The way he’d leaned one arm over the seat back, like they were already old friends or something worse.
Howard rubbed the back of his neck.
He didn’t think about men that way. Had never. Not in college, not in the firm’s early days. Not with Chuck. Not with anyone. That was his story and he was sticking by it. And yet the space behind his ribs felt pulled tight.
He thought about calling Cheryl. Thought better of it. He hadn’t told her about Jorge — hadn’t seen a reason. Tuco’s case was small potatoes in the firm’s docket, and she was too busy dining with sponsors or seeking donations towards the museum's new east wing display. That’s what he’d told himself. But that wasn’t why he hadn’t brought it up. She would’ve heard it in his voice. The thing he didn’t know how to name.
The bed was neatly made. He sat at its edge, feet on the carpet, and tried to meditate. Thirty breaths. Four seconds in, seven out.
This is nothing. It’s just chemicals. Adrenaline. Stress.
He’s a client.
And still, the voice came back: Maybe that’s just who you are when no one’s watching.
Howard rolled to his side and stared at the far wall. His eyes adjusted slowly. Shapes became outlines. The chair. The valet stand. The door, cracked slightly open.
He breathed.
In. Out. In. He lay that way for nearly an hour.