Riddle Rosehearts

The legal agency had survived embezzlement cases, corporate wars, and one memorable week where Ace accidentally locked himself in the evidence storage closet—but nothing compared to the hell that was watching Riddle Rosehearts and you skirt around your own feelings like two exhausted cats circling the same sunbeam.

Cater was the first to complain. Then Trey.

Then their boss, who couldn’t take another second of hearing Riddle say, “My colleague is simply a reliable professional, nothing more,” in the stiffest voice imaginable while you tried not to combust beside him.

So the boss devised a plan: Send only one of them away on a month-long assignment overseas.

When their law firm received a new international case, their boss didn’t even pretend to hide his smirk.He looked at Riddle like a man putting the final chess piece into place. “It’s a month-long investigation. We need someone competent, disciplined, and professional. So obviously, Riddle, you’ll take it.”

Every co-worker in the room exchanged the same invisible finally. Because everyone knew Riddle Rosehearts was in love with you. And everyone knew you were in love with him. And everyone knew both of you were so painfully, violently oblivious that it had become a workplace hazard.

So of course their boss sent him away.

“Twenty bucks he cracks in three weeks,” Cater whispered. “Twelve days,” Trey said. “Five,” muttered Deuce, looking like he’d seen this prophecy in a dream.

They all lost.

---

The countdown began the moment Riddle Rosehearts stepped into Narita Airport— A month abroad, 20 million ways to cope, Zero preparation for the emotional crisis awaiting him.

A whole month without seeing you in the office. A whole month without hearing your quiet hums while you typed. A whole month without the way you tipped your head when concentrating. A whole month without your voice saying, “Riddle, did you eat yet?”

Riddle insisted he was fine. Absolutely fine. A model of professionalism.

He walked through the arrivals gate like a model employee: posture perfect, briefcase in hand, expression razor-sharp. He was a lawyer, a Rosehearts, the pinnacle of discipline.

He lasted six hours.

Because the moment he opened his suitcase in the hotel, tucked neatly between his ties and color-coded folders, was a tiny pastel sticky note:

“Good luck! Don’t forget to eat. —{User}” with a badly drawn smiley face.

Riddle went scarlet so fast he had to sit down on the nearest flat surface—which, unfortunately, was the carpeted floor. He sat there in a crisp suit, staring at the note like it was a legal threat rather than an affectionate gesture. His heart thrashed against his ribs.

He blamed jet lag. He blamed altitude change. He blamed pollen.

He blamed anything except the truth: he already missed you.

---

Week 1 — The Descent Begins

Riddle attempted professionalism.

Morning: strategic meetings with the Japanese firm. Afternoon: reading documents in conference rooms with panoramic city views. Evening: trying to sleep.

He failed miserably at the sleeping part.

Because as soon as he lay down, he heard your voice. Not literally—well, sometimes literally. He imagined you rambling about travel snacks, teasing him for not tasting local sweets. He imagined you leaning over his shoulder, saying, “You overwork too much.”

And then he’d jolt upright, mortified, aggressively reopen the case files and recite procedural statutes in his head like a prayer meant to exorcise embarrassing thoughts.

At one point, Trey texted: “How’s Tokyo?”

Riddle replied: “Productive.”

Meanwhile, his legal pad looked like a teenage diary:

{User} {User} {User} ♥ Rosehearts– {User} (scratched out like a crime scene) {User}–Rosehearts (scratched out harder)

He stared at the hearts like they were evidence of a felony. Then snapped his pen in half.

---

By Day 6, he had already drifted off during a strategy meeting, his pen moving on its own. When he looked down, he froze.

He had doodled tiny red hearts around your name in the margin of his legal pad.

He slammed the notebook shut so fast his client jumped. “Everything alright, Mr. Rosehearts?”

“…Perfectly fine,” he lied through his teeth.

That night—like every night—he tried to bury himself in paperwork.

But every clause, every sentence, every signature reminded him somehow of you. He could hear you in the room with him. He could almost see you leaning over his shoulder.

The hallucination made his face flame so violently that he had to reread a single paragraph seven times.

---

Week 2 — Hallucinations & Hysteria

By Day 15, Riddle had become a creature of pure contradiction:

During the day: A perfect lawyer, sharp, efficient, terrifyingly focused. At night: A lovesick disaster clutching his phone like a lifeline.

He would call you every evening under the guise of “updates,” but every call only made things worse. Hearing your voice made his ribs tighten; ending the call felt like stepping into a cold bath.

He gave himself pep talks in the mirror. He scolded himself for being irrational. He organized his files perfectly, then reorganized them to avoid thinking.

But the imaginations kept getting worse.

He saw you everywhere.

Turn a corner in the office? You. Pass by the reflective glass doors? You. Even in the lobby—someone with your hairstyle—and for a split second, his heart leapt before his brain screamed

STOP. YOU ARE HAVING AN EPISODE.

In meetings, he was a disaster.

A client said, “You seem distracted, Rosehearts.”

To which Riddle—holding his documents upside down—declared, “I am perfectly focused.”

He was not.

That same night, Deuce texted him: “Miss {User} yet?”

Riddle, who had just tore a page from the margin of an official document where he had doodled your name in cursive 37 times, replied: “Nonsense.”

Like a guilty arsonist disposing of evidence.

His hands were shaking.

---

Week 3 — Phone Calls & Crumbling Control

It began with one call at lunchtime.

Then another at dinner.

Then a late one “just to confirm tomorrow’s case schedule,” which was the flimsiest excuse ever conceived.

The calls were painfully, obsessively professional. “How is the office?” “Did you receive the updated files?” “Remember to drink water.”

But the moment you hung up, Riddle would collapse on the hotel bed and clutch the phone to his chest like a grieving Victorian heroine.

His boss would have fired him on the spot if he saw the emotional carnage.

At this point, even the hotel staff began to notice.

“Long-distance partner?” a concierge asked kindly one morning.

Riddle nearly had a stroke.

---

Week 4 — Catastrophic Breaking Point

Something inside Riddle snapped around Day 21.

By day 22, Riddle folded.

He stared at the ceiling at 3AM, eyes bloodshot, whispering to himself.

“I refuse to be undone by love. I refuse. I—”

He cracked.

Completely.

Overwhelming affection? Humiliating longing? Crushing loneliness?

He chose violence.

He pulled an all-nighter. Then another. Then a third.

He reorganized every case file in color-coded perfection. Drank four espressos and felt his soul levitate. Decided emotional stability was for civilians.

Fueled by spite, caffeine, and yearning, he devoured paperwork like a ravenous beast. He cross-checked documents with feral determination. He finished the entire month-long workload in 72 hours straight.

At dawn on day 25, Riddle marched into his client’s temporary office and slammed the completed case file onto their desk with enough force to rattle the pens.

“We are advancing the court date,” he announced.

“Sir—that’s not—wait—five days earlier?!”

“Yes. Effective immediately.”

“Bu—bu—Riddle-san, you haven’t slept—”

Riddle stared him down with the fury of a man who had not slept in 60 hours and missed his crush so badly that his bloodstream was 30% yearning and it might kill him.

The client caved instantly.

---

Riddle walked into court like a tiny red devil with murder behind his eyes. He requested the session to be moved up by five days.

The judge blinked. The opposing lawyer stuttered. His own client pleaded, “Is that… legal?” “Extremely,” Riddle said.

He must have radiated such concentrated menace that no one dared contradict him.

He won.

Spectacularly.

---

Homecoming — The Moment He Almost Died

His coworkers didn’t expect him for another week. He didn’t care. He bought the earliest ticket, boarded half-asleep, and spent the entire flight gripping the armrest and muttering case notes because admitting “I want to see {User}” would destroy him spiritually.

Riddle landed back home earlier than scheduled, exhausted, trembling, surviving solely on adrenaline and longing.

He rehearsed what he’d say. How calm he would be. How professional. How he absolutely would not sprint out of the terminal like a man possessed.

He exited the gate—and froze.

There, waiting just beyond the barrier, holding a bouquet of perfectly arranged flowers, was you.

Riddle’s heart did an Olympic-level somersault. He swayed on his feet. He genuinely thought he might faint.

You stepped forward, smiling softly. Riddle’s breath hitched so violently he nearly dropped his suitcase.

He tried to speak. Failed. Tried again.

“I—I completed the case early,” he managed, voice shaking behind practiced formality. “I realized… I couldn’t… I didn’t want to spend another day without—” He swallowed. His ears were burning.

“I’m… in love with you,” he said quietly, almost timidly. “But I understand if that’s presumptuous or—unwelcome or—”

He stopped when you stepped closer—so close Riddle forgot how air worked.

For the first time in 27 agonizing days, Riddle let himself breathe.

And for the first time in far longer, he let himself hope.