Romancing The D.A. (Laws of Passion)

I can't wait to go back to LOP. 😭 I want to write chapter 4 so bad.

Anyway, enjoy this little scene between MC and Da Silva.

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It's supposed to be a date.

That's what the little black card said when they called your name at the charity gala: One evening with District Attorney Da Silva. Dinner, drinks, good conversation. Non-transferable. Non-refundable. All for a good cause.

And yet… here you are.

In Da Silva's apartment. At their sleek kitchen counter. Elbows-deep in case files and court transcripts. Talking about another client you're representing on a petty crime charge, since Da Silva didn't want to talk about the Holloway case.

This shouldn't be cozy. Shouldn't be domestic. Shouldn't be anything but tense.

But the playlist Da Silva's got running in the background is smooth jazz, low and smoky. There's wine—not poured yet, but visible—and their place smells clean, and it's too big and too neat not to feel charmed. The lighting is warm. Intentional. And Da Silva, of course, looks infuriatingly good even wearing casual clothes.

You're trying not to notice. Really, you are.

"So let me get this straight," you say, flipping through one of the witness depositions. "You're charging my client with felony obstruction based on a secondhand statement from a guy who couldn't even ID him in a lineup?"

Across from you, Da Silva leans one elbow on the counter and lifts a brow.

"Technically, that guy's statement is corroborated by security footage."

"Technically, that footage is grainy as hell and could be literally anyone in a hoodie."

They smile. "Sounds like you're prepping for cross."

You are.

And they know it.

You close the folder, drop it on the stack beside you, and grab the next one.

"I didn't come here to flirt," you mutter, more to yourself than them.

Da Silva doesn't miss a beat. "Ah, so you admit you know I'm flirting."

You shoot them a look, and they smile wider—one of those devastating, lazy ones that says this is more fun than court.

"I'm here because this case matters," you say. "And you agreed to the files."

"I agreed to dinner," they correct. "You showed up with a laptop and five folders and called it romance."

You pause. "You could've said no."

"I could have," Da Silva agrees, then finally pours the wine, and reaches across the counter to nudge your wine glass toward you. "But you're too interesting when you're fired up. And besides..." Their voice drops just a touch. "I wanted the company."

You hesitate. For a second. Maybe two.

Then you pick up the glass. Take a small sip. Keep your eyes on the next page.

Da Silva watches you in that way they always do—like you're a puzzle, like you're fun to figure out. It should be annoying. It is annoying. But it also makes your pulse skip a little, and they know that too.

"You're deflecting," you say without looking up.

"From what?"

"The fact that your case is a mess and you're flirting with opposing counsel."

"I can multitask."

"Unethical multitasking."

"Irresistibly charming multitasking," Da Silva says, voice dropping low. "And to be fair, you're the one who turned a fundraiser prize into a working dinner. I just happen to be delightful under pressure."

You set the folder down and look at them head-on.

"You do know this doesn't give you any strategic advantage in court, right?"

They tilt their head. "Are you telling me you're immune to my charm?"

"I'm telling you I'm focused on the case."

Da Silva leans in, forearms resting on the counter, closing the distance just enough that you can smell the soft scent of whatever fragrance they are wearing.

"That's not a no."

You don't answer. Because it isn't a no.

Because part of you—damn it—likes this. The banter. The way they challenge you and still manage to make you laugh three minutes later. The warmth in their voice when they say your name. The fact that they haven't made a single move to take the file from your hands, even though you're sitting on the opposite side of a case they're building brick by brick.

You're quiet for a second too long.

They notice.

"You okay?" Da Silva asks, softer now.

You nod, but you let the file close in front of you.

"Just thinking," you say.

"About the case?"

You meet their gaze. "About a lot of things."

They study you for a second. Then—gently—they reach out and tap the edge of the file with one finger.

"Do you ever stop thinking about the case?"

You smirk. "Not when my client's facing ten years."

"That's not what I asked."

You go still. You hate how easily they do that—find the exact line between banter and something deeper. Something real.

"Why'd you really agree to this?" you ask. "Tonight. Me. All of it."

Da Silva doesn't answer right away—just hold your gaze long enough to make your pulse trip. Then they move, walking around the kitchen island with the kind of confidence that makes it hard to look away. When they stop beside you, they're close. Close enough to feel. Too damn close.

"Maybe I like smart people," they say casually. "Maybe I like people who make me rethink things. You're not just good at your job—you're... sharp. Honest. And yeah, kind of hot when you're tearing my case apart."

You snort. "So this is your version of flirting. Letting me drag your argument in exchange for wine and jazz?"

"And proximity," they add, eyes twinkling. "Don't forget that part."

They're even closer now. Their knee brushing yours. Their shoulder warm beside you.

You take another sip of your wine, and when you set the glass down, Da Silva's still watching you—calm, patient, quietly amused.

"Can I ask you something?" you say.

"Always."

"If this case goes to trial—and it probably will—do you think this..." You gesture vaguely between the two of you. "Whatever this is. Does it get in the way?"

Da Silva considers you for a long moment. Then they lean in just slightly.

"Not if we're both honest about it."

You blink. "Honest how?"

"Honest that I want to win," they say. "And that I still want to kiss you after."

Your breath catches. Just for a second. But you don't look away.

"That'd be highly inappropriate," you murmur.

Da Silva smiles.

"Then stop me… before I do something wildly inappropriate."

And then they kiss you like it's already too late. 💕