Disclaimer: If I owned Phoenix Wright, I'd be one lucky duck. But I don't own it. I'm still lucky, though.

Summary: Phoenix sees a photo of Mia and a man he doesn't recognize, and he can't help but ask: Who is he?

"Who is he?"

Phoenix had wanted to ask his boss this question for so long, ever since he had caught a glimpse of the photograph in its gilded frame that sat upon her desk. It had taunted him every day he came to work, begging him to ask its owner who one of the people in the photograph could be. And every day, he had to try to ignore that stupid photograph, and the desire to ask the question in his mind that was itching to be answered.

The reason he hadn't asked? Even he didn't know. Perhaps he was scared that his boss would get angry with him. Or, maybe, he just didn't find a good moment to ask.

. . . Then again, asking this sort of question when you were kneeling on the floor of the Fey and Co. Law Offices, staring at the broken frame that the photograph had, just moments ago, been safely and securely sealed inside, with your boss towering over you, was not the greatest time and place to ask it.

Keeping his eyes averted from his boss, Mia Fey, Phoenix began to gingerly pick up the shards of glass, steeling himself for the inevitably loud scolding he was about to receive. What he didn't expect was for Mia to say, after a long moment of ominous silence, "Diego."

"What?" Phoenix's head snapped up, and he dropped the shard of glass he had just picked up. Mia knelt down and gently brushed the glass off of the photo with her sleeve.

"Diego," she repeated softly. "Diego. . . Armando."

At this level, Phoenix could clearly see her face. There was something a little off in her small smile. It was almost as if it was happy, but a saddening sort of happy, similar to the looks on people's faces when they were remembering good times with a loved one who had passed on. He was distracted from trying to read her expression, however, by the man's name. "Diego Armando?" Where had he heard that name before.

Mia nodded. "He was. . . a defense attorney. A good one."

If Phoenix was in a cartoon, a lightbulb hovering over his head would have lit up. "He was the attorney who was poisoned the day I met Dol–Dahlia, wasn't he? You knew him?"

". . ." Mia gazed at the photograph that still lay upon the floor. "Yes. Quite well."

Phoenix glanced at the photograph. He'd seen it so many times over the past month he could describe it with a blindfold on. He could describe the young man standing with a younger Mia in the photograph, with one arm around her waist. In his free hand, he held a cup of coffee with steam rising from it. His semi-goatee, his light brown skin, his brown eyes and messy brown hair, and that slightly cocky smile on his face. . . could this man really be another victim of Dahlia Hawthorne's?

"He was a good man." Mia's voice was steady, but why did Phoenix have a feeling that she was forcing it to sound so? "A bit of a coffee afficionado, and very smug, but he was a lot more than that."

She picked up the photo and held it close to her face, still gazing at it steadily. Phoenix cleared his throat, partly to break the uncomfortable silence that had suddenly fallen on the office, and partly because his throat was itchy. "Um. . . should I get a broom? It's not good to leave glass lying on the floor."

Mia lowered the photograph and nodded. It was then that Phoenix got a good look at her eyes in their over-bright state. Flustered and hoping she wouldn't cry, he scrambled to his feet, wishing he had never asked the question.

She stood up as well, never averting her gaze from the photograph. "And, Wright? Could you do me a favor?"

"Yes, Chief."

"Could you make me a cup of coffee?" Mia tore her gaze away from the photograph.

A bit surprised by the request, he nodded and turned toward the door. He had one hand on the doorknob when Mia added, "And, Wright? I'll take it black."

"Yes, Chief."

He turned the doorknob, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. Mia had turned her back to him and had both her hands placed firmly on the top of her desk, the photo lying between them. Trying to be as quiet as he could, he opened and closed the door softly. Barely a second after the door was closed, a teardrop landed on the photograph – on the place where Diego's heart would be.

I was in the mood I was normally in when I write Miego, and I've had this idea in my head since before I put my last Miego one-shot up. I just had to write it. Hoped you liked it! :)