a. pugliese + first date

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by rodrikstark

by rodrikstark

"just because you're the face that's never lost a case doesn't mean you're right about everything, mallory."

"true," she says, though without any trace of humility. "it does mean my arguments are sound, meticulously researched, and that i'm extremely convincing."

if you felt like entertaining this conversation, you'd mention that mallory's technically breaking a rule, bringing her work computer to movie night.

admittedly, she's not using it for anything important, but she did push away the bowl of popcorn on your coffee table to pull up GLK&H's website—specifically, the staff page, with all the attorneys, their bios, and headshots... including the one she's trying to set you up with.

a second rule she's broken: your disastrous dating life is not a permitted topic of discussion here.

"since when do you want your personal life anywhere near your professional one?" you probably know the back of mallory's laptop better than you know any of her coworkers.

mallory thwarts your attempt to grab a drink from the kitchen by kicking her feet onto your lap. her fingers tap brightly on the keyboard. "he's a nice guy."

does it matter, if he's nice? surely, he'll disappoint you in some other spectacular fashion, the way everyone else has. "whatever."

mallory stops typing, ever so briefly—just long enough for you to feel her weighty look. distantly, you wonder how often she uses that in court: a cutting moment of silence to let the guilty party reveal itself.

fine. maybe she's not the only one bringing baggage to movie night.

sheepishly, you grab the popcorn and stuff your mouth full. "show me his picture again?" he was sorta cute, you thought, but you just wanna make sure.

damn it.

and so, a couple weeks later, a still-undefeated mallory pokes your side. "so?"

you squirm away. "he's..." you stare down the microwave clock, counting the seconds between pops. "yeah."

pug said you'd be meeting over coffee, which was true, but you had hardly stirred in your sugar before he nudged you toward the pottery painting studio next door.

with aprons tied and rickety stools pushed together, you held your artwork close to the chest, trying not to seem so charmed by his easygoing smile, nor so flustered by every accidental touch of hands reaching for paintbrushes, or knees bouncing beneath the table.

like you, he was no gifted artist, and you didn't really give him much of a prompt—maybe some plants, flowers? still, by the end, every square centimeter of his mug was tulips, daisies, and trees, plus a tiny bumblebee.

suddenly, you were a little nervous, but he burst into laughter when you revealed, with a weak flourish, your careful hand lettering: This MUG belongs to PUG.

mallory arches one perfect eyebrow. "yeah?"

you're seeing him tomorrow, actually. your projects are fired and ready to pick up.

and while you so want to wipe all that smug lipstick off her face, first you have to bite back the stupid smile sneaking onto yours. "yeah."