Let's Torture Terry (Laws of Passion)

This will be an actual scene from the next update. I wanted to write it this month, but I'm not sure I will have the time, so Spicy Tacos will probably just have the highlights of some smut between MC and Da Silva, then MC and Holloway since the next update is supposed to be about them.

But in the meantime, here's Terry's POV.

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"Being sick is the worst!"

You grunt the words while sprawled across your couch, tossing and turning to find a comfortable position. Crumpled tissues pile on the coffee table, some tumbling onto the floor.

A half-drunk bottle of Gatorade sweats beside a row of cold medicine, none of which seems to be working fast enough.

Your head pounds in sync with your congested sinuses, and your body feels like it's been trampled over.

You should be at the gala right now.

Instead, you're stuck here, feverish and weak, while MC—no, while MClastname is out there, representing the firm alone. You were supposed to be there with them, standing at their side, reinforcing the professionalism you keep reminding yourself is necessary between you two.

And yet, here you are, wrapped in a blanket, pressing a damp washcloth to your forehead while watching the event unfold on your television screen.

The broadcast is polished, the camera sweeping through the grand hall of the charity gala. The event is both a fundraiser and a tribute to Antonio Lumen, and they are pulling all the stops.

And MClastname is in the middle of it all, standing tall, confident, handling themself with the poise that made you admire them as a lawyer—and the warmth that made you feel something more.

You shift, trying to prop yourself up, wincing as a fresh wave of body aches rolls through you. The camera moves in closer, and then you see him/her.

Da Silva.

Of course, the District Attorney arguing for Holloway's guilt would attend. You have no problem with that. The problem comes when he/she keeps standing next to MC, deploying his/her smooth, easy charm. It's crazy that in every camera shot, he/she is next to MC, his/her body angled toward theirs in a way that feels far too familiar.

His/her smile is bright, natural, and his/her eyes—

Wait a damn minute! Da Silva's eyes... they linger on MC.

Your grip on the tissue box tightens. You tell yourself it's just polite conversation, just two legal professionals at a public event. But the way he/she's looking at MC, the way mC laughs at something Da Silva says—

It's like a punch to the stomach.

You cough, your body wracking from the force of it, as though it's physically rejecting the scene before you.

"MC can talk to whoever they want," you mutter to yourself, voice hoarse from the flu. You reach for your Gatorade, taking a swig, trying to wash down the bitter taste rising in your throat. "It's not like I—"

The words die before you can even finish the sentence. Because the camera is zooming in again, catching a candid moment you wish you hadn't seen.

MC, leaning in ever so slightly. Da Silva's hand, barely brushing MC's back before dropping away. The way his/her head tilts, the way his/her smile softens. The way MC doesn't immediately step away.

The headlines rolling across the screen make it worse.

District Attorney Da Silva and Defense Attorney MClastname: Enemies in Court, Friends at the Gala?

You groan, dragging a hand down your face, your skin fever-hot under your palm.

"This is ridiculous," you mutter, but it's not the broadcast you're scolding. It's yourself.

You should not be feeling this. You have spent months, years even, perfecting the art of compartmentalization.

Work is work. The courtroom is sacred. You do not mix business with personal feelings. You do not let emotions interfere with logic.

And yet—

You feel like an idiot sitting here, too sick to move, watching MC shine on a screen next to a man/woman who has every right to be talking to them. A man/woman who isn't bound by the same professional restraints you are.

Your chest feels tight, and you tell yourself it's just congestion, just the flu making everything feel heavier than it actually is. But deep down, you know better.

Then the announcement comes.

The raffle.

You'd forgotten about it, the ridiculous stunt they'd planned for fundraising—some lucky guest gets a date with Da Silva.

You had rolled your eyes when you first heard about it, not thinking twice. But now, you're watching the numbers being drawn, the host's voice bright with excitement as they call out the winner.

MC's name.

Your stomach drops.

No.

Not them. Not my MC—MC is mine!

The camera immediately swings toward MC, catching the exact moment they react. A mixture of surprise, laughter, maybe even mild horror flashing across their face before they smile.

The crowd claps, Da Silva gives a sheepish grin, and MC—

They step forward.

Your whole body tenses, and your fingers dig into the fabric of your blanket. You want to turn off the TV, to look away, to do anything but sit here and watch this unfold like some pathetic lovesick fool.

But you don't.

You watch as Da Silva takes MC's hand in his/hers, as they exchange a few words, as the cameras capture it all.

You watch as the headlines shift, as the commentators chuckle about the "unexpected but charming pairing."

And you sit there, miserable, burning up from the inside out in more ways than one.

"This is fine," you tell yourself, voice rasping. "This is good. This means nothing."

You cough again, though whether it's from the flu or the tightening in your throat, you don't know.

You think about work, about court, about the case that still looms over both of you. You think about the rules you've set for yourself, the boundaries you refuse to cross.

But then you think about the way Da Silva looked at MC, the way the cameras saw something you've been trying to ignore for far too long.

And for the first time, you wonder—

If you keep pretending you don't feel anything for MC, will you end up losing them to someone who isn't afraid to show that he/she does?

Fuck!