Maybe Diego losing interest in her and directing it somewhere new isn't so inconceivable after all.

If he'd even been interested in the first place.

He'd been there to support her from day one, but so had Mr. Hammond and Mr. Grossberg. And that didn't mean they had designs on her. She can't deny there's a lot of wishful thinking on her end—her heart swells too much, her smile grows too wide when she thinks of the possibility of their friendship transforming into something more.

What had been excitement and anticipation is replaced by shame—for being a foolish girl who, again, went charging forward thinking her ambition would be enough to get what she wanted from life. It's not like she held some sort of expectation from Diego, that he had to reciprocate her feelings—she'd just been so certain, up until yesterday, that he did.

But she'd been so certain she could prove Terry Fawles innocent through her belief in him.

And besides, Mia will be the first to admit that she's never been good at picking up on romantic advances—she hadn't figured out Lana's attraction to her until Lana had kissed her one night after studying for their mid-terms. So maybe she'd been misreading these supposed signals from Diego the whole time—that she wasn't any different from Lana, from Detective Starr, and all the comments he'd fling at them, toeing the thin line between saucy and truthful. All he wanted from them was a reaction, and a reaction was what he got.

This doesn't lessen the sting of his comment. He'd been one of the only people she was able to lean on since the Fawles trial, and dammit, her career was about her and her family but Diego's opinion mattered. If he's shacking up with Mr. Grossberg, could Mia really fault him? Someone with a track record of success and even the cases he lost, at least the defendant hadn't killed themselves on the stand due to her inability as an attorney.

Gathering the files into her bag and shouldering it, Mia closes the office door behind her. If she's going to mope, she'd rather be nursing a hot, fragrant London Fog—and as Diego's already made clear, he and Mr. Grossberg are in want of privacy of their own.

All her recent failures—of course, because she's the daughter of Misty Fey—scroll through her mind, recited in Dahlia Hawthorne's sickly sweet voice, when they're interrupted by... nothing.

The music from Mr. Grossberg's office has stopped, and Mia does too, doubling back to the door. She inches close, pressing an ear flush against it. They're talking, but she can't make it out through the thick cherry oak of the door.

From the narrow strip of light spilling out onto the hallway carpet at the bottom of the door, she's certain the sound quality will be better from that angle too.

Setting her bag down, Mia drops to her belly, flipping her hair out of the way so it's not obstructing her ear. Ugh, when was the last time this carpet was vacuumed? Probably never, is her educated guess. She nearly unleashes a violent sneeze from the dust, able to stifle it enough that it's nothing more than a squeak.

Her nose wrinkles, and he wipes it with her arm. She can almost hear Diego comparing her actions to those of a cat, until she realizes... she literally can hear him.

"...now or never. You have to tell her or..."

Mr. Grossberg grumbles something hushed, barely coherent, that she doubts is any clearer to Diego, who must be standing right there with him.

Diego again. "If you don't, I will."

There's a pause, too long for comfort. Then a hearty clearing of the throat.

"My dear..." Mia edges as close as possible, but all she catches is the end of his statement. "...feel about you. I'm..." his words trail off again, until, "...should have let my feelings known sooner."

Suddenly nothing is remotely appetizing, not even that London Fog, and her stomach curdles. She knew all about Mr. Grossberg's shortcomings when it came to asserting himself; had this changed, even moderately, with Diego in the picture?

It sets Mia fuming. Not that it's Diego, but this newfound resolve Mr. Grossberg had discovered—weren't there other people he could be utilizing it on? Maybe, for instance, Redd White? And here he was more worried about how to tell Mia about their budding relationship, than he was about atoning for his cowardly actions. She expected this from Mr. Hammond, so desensitized to anyone with problems that he wasn't being paid to address, but not from Mr. Grossberg. Malleable as he was, she hadn't thought him this selfish.

One last sentence penetrates through Mia's veil of anger It's Diego. "...understand. She's always been good like that."

Oh, she'll understand, will she? Because that's what Mia Fey did, was it? Understood why people hid truths from her, because she was too inept to draw it out of them.

She stands, hand flying to the doorknob.

It doesn't even occur to her that it's locked until she's met with resistance—of course these bozos have the door locked, for their little meeting. But she knows the trick, the right pressure to exert, and she quickly rotates the knob back to the left, catching the broken lock.

The door's thrown open with a deafening wham! It's followed by Diego jumping back from beside Mr. Grossberg and swearing loudly. Then the hollow echo of ceramic on wood. "Heavens!" Mr. Grossberg exclaims as he straightens up in his chair, pushing away from his desk as coffee flows out in every direction, dripping down all sides.

"I knew it!" Mia shouts.

Mr. Grossberg stammers out a flustered, "M-Mia, my dear! What is going—"

"What the hell, Mia?!" Diego finishes for him.

Mia's focus darts frantically between the two men, but she addresses only Mr. Grossberg.

"Mr. Grossberg! I don't know how to say this; i-it's not something I can claim to understand, but..." She sucks in a breath, locking eyes with Diego for a moment. He's cradling one hand tight in the other and his shirt is saturated wet from the stomach down to his belt. In any other circumstance, Mia would feel bad about causing him to spill coffee all over himself and Mr. Grossberg's desk, but not today. Not this circumstance. She looks back to Mr. Grossberg. "You and Mr. Armando are lovers!"

"We're...?" Mr. Grossberg is in the middle of snatching papers off his desk, all of them at least partially drenched with coffee. He splutters, chin wobbling as the words won't take shape. "Of all the... Ms. Fey, what on earth are you...!"

"Don't think I don't know!" She closes in on them – or, more accurately, Mr. Grossberg, since Diego is on the floor, trying to stretch for his mug from where it's rolled beneath the desk. "All your private meetings, all your French press and peaberries, all the extra hours you've been here—I'm talking to you, Mr. Armando!" Mia leans over the desk and calls down to Diego.

Diego dutifully pops up to his feet, mug in tow. He stares at her; she stares back.

And he laughs. Not his usual terse "Ha...!", but real laughter, so hard that he'd be on the floor again if he wasn't resting upon the desk to support himself. His free arm clutches his side across his stomach, soaking it with the coffee still yet to dry on his shirt

Of all Diego's reactions, this was not the one she'd foreseen—and it's maybe the one that pisses her off the most.

Or, it would if his uncontainable laughter wasn't so infectious that Mia feels the tickle of a giggle in her own throat. If he wasn't so damned attractive that even though Mia can no longer see his face—it's buried against his arm now, he's hardly able to stand—she's still drawn to him like a magnet. It's his presence, not his face, that keeps reeling her in.

"It's not funny!" she insists petulantly, backing away as Mr. Grossberg starts blotting up coffee with paper towels. It's mostly to keep convincing herself, because a reluctant smile forces its way through. "I thought...!"

Diego lifts his head, blinking back tears of mirth. When he's finally able to speak, he's too breathless to sound incredulous. "You... you thought I'd be messing around with this wet blanket? No offense, Marv," he says to their boss, "but I only drink bold roasts."

Mr. Grossberg is too busy sweeping down his desk to bother responding. With an exasperated sigh, he tosses a wad of paper towels into the waste bin, then rips off a few more. "Ms. Fey... it is quite the opposite of these delusions you've whipped up. Diego has been helping me try to reconcile with Shirlena... You see, I'm not exactly... er, I'm not versed in the ways of romance."

"Oh, and Senhor Cafeína here is?" She raises her eyebrows at Diego in a challenging manner. For all his flirtations, she hadn't heard of him out on a date with anyone, at least since she'd been here. Another piece of information that supported her suspicions about him and Mr. Grossberg.

Remnants of his laughing fit escape as a snort. "Come on, Mia. Between me and Rob, who would you go to for any advice? Ah, damn..." Using one hand, Diego tugs at the waist of his ruined shirt until it's untucked.

The silence she's struck into is her tacit answer. Mr. Hammond was the only one in the office still married, but Mia would hardly say that qualifies him in soliciting any sort of advice when it comes to romance. He spoke about his wife so little, that Mia and Diego would always joke she didn't even exist—that she must be a blow-up doll, if she was anything at all.

Mr. Grossberg collects all the soiled paperwork, disposes of it along with more paper towels. He lifts the phone to wipe beneath it. "I don't know how you came to such a conclusion, hrm... Why, Diego is like family to me! How could you think that a few extra hours here and there meant something so... so..."

"Impossible," Diego supplies, turning Mr. Grossberg's question into a definitive statement.

"It wasn't just that!" Mia protests. "I... I heard things and—"

"You were eavesdropping?" Diego asks, and she's instantly reminded of one of his rules: Don't ask a question you don't already know the answer to. Embarrassment suffuses Mia's cheeks. This misunderstanding is no longer humorous to him, and for how she'd just contended it wasn't funny—she likes the Diego who thought it was much better.

"I wasn't trying to," she says, contrite. Except, if that were true, she wouldn't feel the need to add on, "I... I'm sorry."

She's thrown off when Diego doesn't respond, instead setting his mug down and rounding the desk to approach her. When he does speak, it's to their boss with an artificial pleasantness.

"You good in here, Marv?" His eyes don't leave Mia. The intensity of his gaze could bore a hole through the wall and she hasn't seen him like this since they were in the lobby following the Fawles trial.

"Er, I think so," Mr. Grossberg says. "If you want to take the rest of the day off, my boy, then—"

"I thought you might say that." His arm goes around Mia's shoulder as he keeps on speaking to Mr. Grossberg. "I think Ms. Fey and I here need to have a little chat, and clear things up. Off the clock. Reprint those forms, and we'll pick up where we left off tomorrow. And hopefully you and Shirlena can pick up where you left off tonight."

She's looking at the floor now, but she can practically hear the wink in Diego's voice and is brutally aware of his arm still around her as he leads her out of Mr. Grossberg's office. It's steady, solid—would be comforting, even, if Mia didn't find the idea of picking up Mr. Grossberg's hemorrhoid cream from the local pharmacist (which she'd had to do two weeks ago) a less discomforting ordeal than the one she's currently in.

Diego escorts Mia down the hall and into his own office. He says nothing as he shuts the door behind them, and begins unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a black, fitted tank underneath. Any attempt at a further apology or explanation from Mia is extinguished, her teeth clenching as she fixates on the spray of dark hair peeking out from the boundary of where soft cotton meets Diego's skin.

There's a closet in the corner of Diego's office (Mia longs for the day she's promoted, and presented with an office containing a closet of her own). He moves to it, laying his dirty shirt over a hanger and searching through the few others within for a replacement.

"Well." Diego turns to her, holding a wrinkled gray athletic tee. He tugs it on, then runs a hand through his hair to smooth it down. "Never a dull moment here at Grossberg Law, huh?"

A lock of hair still pokes out astray, and Mia chooses to focus on it instead of looking directly at Diego. She hopes they still keep in contact, even a little, after today. After she's fired.

"I... I guess I should pack my things."

"And why is that?"

Her gaze slips to the floor again, but she hear Diego's footsteps as he closes in on her. Then his fingers are on her chin, lifting it.

"My eyes are up here, Mia."

She knows how women affect her. Their soft glow that she could melt into, warm and sweet like laying on the green grass of the campus common in summertime. Diego sets her on fire in an altogether different way; he ignites something at her core, makes it spread through every inch of her until it's almost unbearable. Nearly impossible to contain. Except that she's not going to let Diego Armando think he's won; she'll prove she canstand the heat.

Of course, if he knew how much he challenged her (and he must have some idea), he'd only add fuel to the fire. A lot like he's doing now.

His fingers fall away. He repeats himself, more serious. Concerned. "Why would you need to pack your things, Ms. Fey?"

"You were there! What I accused Mr. Grossberg—both of you—of. He'll fire me! He must think I'm a lunatic, on top of being a joke of an attorney, and—"

"Ha...! I don't think this has even cracked the Top Ten, as far as office shenanigans go. In case you're wondering, I probably hold nine of those Top Ten, Rob might have snuck in there somewhere. I doubt he'll remember half of it by the time he and Shirlena are all squashed up to each other tonight. As for me, I've already forgiven you... but the eavesdropping part..." Diego shakes his head. "That's far more upsetting."

"I..." Mia starts, then pauses, drawing in a deep breath. She should get it over with, confess to everything. "I'm sorry. I am, I just... I needed to know. I searched over your desk too, for... I don't know, evidence. Not for Post-its, although I should probably take some for Mr. Hammond, but um... I'm sorry, Diego. I should have asked, but I didn't exactly know how."

Diego nods once. "Apology accepted."

"... Just like that? You're not... upset or—"

"A little peeved, maybe. I was, anyway, but I'm over it now." He pauses, then continues after her widening eyes broadcast her disbelief. "Look, we've known each other, what, seven months, and this is the worst thing you've done to me? I'm pretty sure we're still on solid foundation here, as friends and colleagues. I still don't know how you reached the conclusion that I was messing around with him, though."

Mia does, and she explains it to Diego the best she can. About the background of the Bell case taking up residence in her every thought, and influencing how she perceived what was nothing more long-standing, professional relationship.

There's the contributing factor, a subject she feels comfortable broaching with only a select few people, Diego being one of them. "Not only that, but I didn't want to assume that... well, I've been the victim of it myself. But it's natural, and I guess I did it too, until talking with Ms. Bell made me think otherwise."

"Ah," is his simple reply, and it sends a wave of relief through her. She's so grateful to know someone like him, who can sound so much more understanding in one syllable than so many others she's known have failed to over the course of years and years. "Well, kudos for not making assumptions, and never say never, right? But my preferences thus far have been entirely singular, Mia. Women, just to clarify."

"Right... it was stupid of me." She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she's had since she was a little girl. Which is what she feels like.

"I wouldn't go that far; 'stupid' is a bit harsh."

"But you have to admit," she says, lightening up a bit at his assurance, "it was all pretty suspicious. Especially, you got kinda spooked over me suggesting I stay and help you guys. And you turned down my offer to go to a coffee shop. That's not typical Diego Armando behavior."

"You seemed to have a pretty good handle on your part of the case, though. You just wanted my company, but Marv needed my help... I'm not joking – for once, right?" For as much time as Diego spends ragging on Mr. Grossberg, his worry is transparent. She rests her hand softly on his arm, letting him know she's listening."He's been hopeless these past weeks, and I know things have been rough on you too, but he's just... utterly useless. It's pathetic to watch, but I'm literally the only person he's turned to for any kind of support. He's not exactly a popular guy, y'know?"

Some days Mia felt Mr. Grossberg deserved it; that he made his bed, and should lie in it, all the ties he'd cut when he'd pledged his allegiance to Redd White. It wasn't as simple as that, though; it was easy for Mia to say what he should and shouldn't have done with all the dirt she'd dug up over the years. But Diego was right; Mr. Grossberg was helpless, not just when it came to himself but with others, which was punishment enough. Sure, she could split hairs and say that whatever he'd suffered paled in comparison to Mia's family and countless others, but wasting time and energy on resenting Mr. Grossberg didn't bring her closer to bringing down Redd White, to reuniting with her mother.

"Yeah..." Mia says, distant. "Yeah, I know."

"And I'm guessing all those sweet nothings you heard were the script I drafted up for Marv to recite to Shirlena. Which is exactly why I didn't want you to stay and help us. The last thing you needed to see was that train wreck. I spent a good half-hour coming up with that apology, and he didn't even get to talk to Shirlena directly; he had to leave a message. After I had to nearly twist his arm off to call her in the first place, then he leaves her a message sounding like he has a mouthful of marbles."

It's ironic, Mia thinks, how Diego always claims that Mr. Grossberg was the one so patient with him. The rough-around-the-edges adolescent that he met so long ago, who he began to see almost as a child of his own. Now Diego's the one exercising an endless supply of patience, of tolerance, all because of that longstanding loyalty. And Mr. Grossberg's the one needing guidance like a bewildered child.

"Do you think they'll reconcile?" Mia asks.

Diego shrugs. "Those two kids are crazy about each other—or just crazy, I think. It's no guarantee, but there's a lot better chance now than there was before, when all Marv wanted to do was gripe and grumble about it and wallow around in misery. Then he tries to act like he couldn't care less, like," Diego adopts Mr. Grossberg's low, rumbly tone, "'Oh, that's life, my boy.'"

It's usually funny when Diego imitates Mr. Grossberg. This isn't; it's just sad.

Yet, Diego's pointed grin returns. It's strange seeing it without a mug of coffee half shielding it, but hardly unwelcome, and Mia finds a smile of her own creeping up.

Until Diego says, "What I want to know is what you found."

Mia blinks."What I... found?"

"Yeah. You must have found some pretty decisive evidence, scrounging around my desk. Since you were so ready to damn me to a secret romance with that casanova of a boss of ours."

There's no point in hedging around the truth. Mia just tells Diego, reciting what she read off his desk calendar. "'Il Duce's at seven, with M'. Your dinner reservation for Saturday night."

"With Mr... ha! You think I made reservations for a Saturday night out with Grossberg?"

"Well, considering I thought you were his rebound..."

"Or just a good old-fashioned homewrecker," Diego smirks.

"Or that," Mia manages to laugh lightly. She refrains from adding in the tidbit about Il Duce's reputation—that's not important right now. "But what was I supposed to think? 'With M', there's no one else—'"

She cuts herself off. There is someone else. If it's not Marvin, the M could only mean...

Diego's slow smile confirms it. "It was going to be a surprise—but I guess I can't get anything by you, can I?" He pauses, likely to let Mia reply, but she's speechless. "I was going to ask you to Il Duce's. Not Marv, but you."

"Me?" Now she knows Diego has no clue about Il Duce's clientele—not that she thinks every customer who sets foot inside is there on the downlow, of course.

"Since we're coming in Saturday and spending the whole day adrift in the sea of mysteries surrounding Dahlia Hawthorne, I thought it'd be infinitely more bearable if we have a nice Italian dinner waiting at the end of it – even better if it were a surprise, but no looking back now. They have the best gelato in town; we could go just for dessert if you wanted to skip the meal."

Mia can't remember the last time she went out for dinner, at least somewhere that didn't have a dollar value menu. "That's... that sounds great! I'm glad the surprise is ruined, now I can starve myself all day Saturday in preparation for it." But she does wonder... "How do you know about Il Duce's, though?"

"Rob picks up from there every so often, and I always throw a few bucks at him so he can grab me an affogato. It's usually half-melted by the time he gets back, but it's still better than any of that sugary garbage from a chain. If their pasta's half as good as the gelato, we're in for a real treat."

Mia's not one hundred percent sure what an affogato is—likely it involves gelato and coffee, but it'll be something to ask Diego about when they go on Saturday.

But her anticipation is short-lived, as her memory tweaks at the wound that was opened not too long ago. "Are you sure you want to be caught dead with someone like me, Mr. Armando? Someone who isn't even paralegal material?"

"...What are you talking about? Who's thinkin' that?"

"You are! Need I remind you, that you thought I was all worked up earlier because I was out of my depth, trying to do all this work for Mr. Hammond."

"I meant that you're not a paralegal, Mia. That's not what you went to school for. You're just as much a part of this team as any of us, and everyone has to pull their weight, sure, but screw Rob if he's gonna keep you from being co-council."

She doesn't tell Diego that it was more her idea. Mr. Hammond went along with it readily, Diego having soured his view of some unproven rookie as co-council long ago. The last thing she wants is for Diego to have a chat with Mr. Hammond, lobby for her to join him in the courtroom tomorrow; she's not ready. "I... I mean, he has every right to, though. So do you, so does Mr. Grossberg... You say I'm a lawyer but I... I'm a mess, Diego. A hot mess," she forces out a stilted laugh, "but a mess nonetheless."

"You're the only one who thinks that," he says firmly. "Alright, so I won't deny the hot part, but I sure as hell don't see a mess when I look at you. All I see is someone with the makings of a successful attorney. I wouldn't be agreeing to come in this Saturday and help you research if I thought you were a mess."

Mia doesn't like being pitied, which works out well for Diego, since he never shows her any. He always tells her what he feels she needs to hear, and luckily this time it's what she wants to hear as well.

"I might regret saying this, but... you're right." She folds her arms under chest, meeting his smile with her own.

Diego's smile flickers out, a sudden pensiveness taking over. Like he just remembered something of dire importance.

"What?" Mia prompts, not that she thinks Diego will keep whatever he's thinking to himself anyway.

"Nothing..." But it's obviously something, with how he's looking at her. "Just, you know what really gets me about you thinking I was dying for a piece of the Grossberg pie?"

She thought he was over it, so she's honestly curious. "What?"

"I'm not sure what you think I saw in him in the first place. Sure, there's someone for everyone—Shirlena's proof of that. But, come on, Mia: even if my field of interest was as expansive as yours, Marv is like one of those gas station cappucinos—all filler, no kick. Like I told him back there, I need the strongest roast available to keep my senses awake and my mind sharp."

"Oh..." Mia fidgets in place, feeling strangely vulnerable. "I don't know what I—"

"Someone like you."

Everything stops—everything except Mia's heart, beating like a drum, pulsing in her ears. This is what she wanted, isn't it? She needs to say something! "I... Thank you..?"

"No, thank you. I'm glad you're here, Kitten," Diego continues. "With me right now, yeah, but at this firm. This place needs you here; I need you here to keep me grounded, to keep me from going insane trying to figure out why I haven't ditched this place. Mia, you give a damn, and God, do you know how many attorneys out there don't? Two of them work in this office, I'll tell ya that much. So, get it out of your head that I'd have my sights set on a steaming pile of apathy like Marv."

Mia finds her voice again, infuses it with a hint of teasing. "Can I take this as a confession, Mr. Armando?"

"A confession of...?"

"Of your feelings for me, professionally and... not profesionally."

"You can take it however you wish. Maybe just a confession of my feelings not for Marvin Grossberg."

Mia hadn't realized how close they were standing to each other until now, until it occurs to her that if she wanted to, she could push up on her toes and kiss Diego without taking another step forward. She stares at his collar to keep herself from being tempted any further.

Besides, her logical side argues, they haven't even gone out yet. There's still time for that, no need to rush, not when there's more important things to take care of. Her case with Mr. Hammond; Saturday, the everlasting pursuit of Dahlia Hawthorne's tangled past.

"You still up for that London Fog?" Diego asks, breaking Mia from her reverie. "You really got me wondering how its smoggy partner will taste."

"Oh," Mia laughs, mostly to herself. "I'd only asked you to see just how dedicated you were to staying here with Mr. Grossberg. I wasn't really inviting you."

"Ouch!" Diego presses a hand to his chest. "After pouring my heart out to you like that—"

'—And pouring coffee all over yourself."

"And that. You're uninviting me?"

Mia laughs again, more in earnest. "No, I'm kidding. Of course you're invited" She sneaks by Diego, reaching for him to pull him along. "Let's blow this joint."

She misses his arm, latching to his wrist instead. It freezes both of them, but all Mia can feel is awarm thrill. She looks back at Diego, and puffs of amused laughter leave them both. But their hands linger, then move, Mia's slipping neatly into Diego's.

Ms. Fey, says a little voice inside her, giddy and bubbling with hope. You and Diego Armando could be lovers.