Katsuki typed with the kind of intensity that came from years of muscle memory, his fingers gliding over the keys with the same precision he demanded from everything in his life. A deposition first thing tomorrow. Cross-examination strategy already drafted, counters anticipated, opposing counsel's weaknesses outlined in brutal detail.
This should've been easy. A quiet night, uninterrupted, with nothing but the soft hum of his laptop and the steady, calculated pace of his own thoughts.
His gaze flicked up, drawn by something just beyond the glass walls of his office.
Hana.
Still at her desk.
The glow of her laptop cast sharp shadows across her face, her wild hair a tangled mess around her shoulders. She was hunched forward slightly, eyes narrowed, her expression twisted into something that could only be described as combative.
Then—her lips pursed.
The same way they did when she was about to say something sarcastic. Except she wasn't speaking.
Katsuki's brow twitched.
He watched, unable to look away, as she suddenly—flipped off her laptop.
…What.
What exactly had the machine done to warrant that level of hostility? Had it insulted her family? Stolen her identity? Was she losing an argument to Microsoft Excel?
For a fleeting moment, the image of Hana furiously debating a spreadsheet was so absurd he almost—almost—huffed a laugh.
Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning back in his chair.
Three months.
Three months since she walked into this firm—unapologetic, and completely unimpressed by him.
He had completely underestimated her.
She was like a weed. One that refused to die, no matter how many times he tried to cut her down. Most people who worked under him either adapted or broke. He had expected her to break.
She hadn't.
She learned. Adapted. She found ways around him, sidestepping his control in ways that infuriated him—because they worked.
He remembered that goddamn meeting. A disaster in the making. A high-profile client. A case with too many moving parts, too much liability. He'd left it to her. Not to handle—to wrap up. Take notes. Pass along a polite excuse for why their lead attorney had left.
Instead, she'd run it.
Kept the conversation moving, diffused a tense negotiation, and left their client with the impression that everything had gone exactly as planned.
Kai just laughed and said, "she had also handled a deposition under my supervision," he had told Katsuki, leaning back in his chair like this was all some fascinating social experiment. "She's got potential."
Katsuki had barely looked up from his paperwork. "She doesn't even have a license."
Kai had just grinned. "She will." He tilted his head. "And when she does, we'll make sure she's ready. Imagine the kind of lawyer we'll breed out of her."
Katsuki exhaled slowly, pushing the thought aside.
It wasn't his concern.
It wasn't.
He closed his laptop, grabbed his coat, and exited his office without another glance back.
"Sukehiro."
Hana jumped.
He watched, unimpressed, as she practically jolted out of her seat, eyes wide like he'd just materialized from the void itself.
"Jesus!" she blurted, hand clutching at her chest. "Can you stop walking like a cat? Make some noise—footsteps, or something?"
Katsuki raised an unimpressed brow. "You want me to alert you every time I move?"
"Yes," she said, still glaring.
He stared at her for a long moment.
"Maybe you should cut back on your caffeine."
Hana didn't even look up, just rolled her eyes as she continued typing, her fingers moving in a controlled frenzy over her keyboard. The glow of her screen reflected in her glasses, making her look vaguely deranged.
"I'm serious," he said. "Why are you still here?"
She exhaled through her nose, finally sparing him a glance. "Because I don't want to go home only for you to call me after an hour needing something."
Katsuki didn't have a response to that, mostly because she was right. He had done that before.
Multiple times.
Still.
"I'm going," he said, pulling on his coat. "Go home too."
"You're not firing me again, are you?"
Katsuki gave her a flat look. "I didn't fire you."
Hana scoffed, snapping her laptop shut with a dramatic flourish. "Wow, gaslighting 101. Are you going to tell me next that I imagined the whole thing?"
He didn't dignify that with a response, which she was taking as a win.
"Anyway, see you tomorrow, boss man," she said breezily, stretching her arms over her head before grabbing her bag. And because she was an idiot, she decided to walk backward toward the exit—because what was life without a little unnecessary risk?
"Just so you know," she added, smirking, "if you fire me again, I'm never going ba—"
Her heel caught on something.
Shit.
There was the brief, horrible realization that she was going down—fast, gracelessly, and in full view of the only person she would rather die than embarrass herself in front of.
Then—before she even had time to panic—she felt it.
A strong, steady hand at her back. A force pulling her upright, stopping her fall before it even fully happened.
And then—him.
It was purely instinct.
He caught her without thinking, without hesitation, his hand steady at the small of her back, his other gripping her wrist just enough to keep her from careening into complete disaster.
But then—she looked up.
And fuck.
Too close.
Hana smelled like something sweet—vanilla and coffee and whatever ridiculous perfume she probably just grabbed at random from her dresser. Her hair was everywhere, wild curls brushing against her cheek, and her eyes—wide, startled—locked onto his like she had just now realized what happened.
His grip tightened—just for a second. Just enough to register the warmth of her skin, the way she fit so neatly against him, how stupidly small she felt compared to him despite how much space she took up in every other way.
And then—he let go.
One second, she was held.
Not just held—secured. Locked in place by large, impossibly steady hands, fingers pressing into her waist with absurd, effortless strength. Her brain short-circuited immediately, overloading with unnecessary data points.
Fact #1: Katsuki fucking Hasegawa was solid. Like, structurally sound in a way that defied physics and possibly workplace safety regulations.
Fact #2: He smelled unfairly good. Clean and sharp, like expensive cologne layered over something deeper—cigarettes, ink, and the faintest trace of a warmth she absolutely refused to dwell on.
Fact #3: His eyes were on her.
And not just on her. Through her. That signature Hasegawa glare, except it wasn't its usual brand of sharp, unimpressed judgment. It was… intense. Focused. Like he was assessing something.
Calculating. And for the first time in her entire career of dealing with him, Hana had no idea what conclusion he was coming to.
Then—he dropped her.
Not literally. But his hands disappeared so fast, it was like she'd burned him.
Her balance wavered, and she stumbled—again—because apparently, her dignity was the real casualty here. She barely managed to catch herself against the desk with a graceless thud.
"Klutz."
The word was muttered, dismissive, so impossibly neutral that it took her a full second to register it.
By the time she did, he was already turning away, posture annoyingly unaffected, like he hadn't just grabbed her like some kind of high-stakes action hero only to discard her like a defective office chair.
And then—he was gone.
"Klutz?"
That was it?
That was all he had to say after practically manhandling her? After yanking her into him with those ridiculously strong hands and holding her like—like—
Like something she wasn't going to think about right now.
Her face felt hot, which was unacceptable, so she did what any self-respecting woman would do: aggressively shook it off like a wet dog in denial.
Nope. Nope, nope, absolutely not.
This was not going to settle in her brain like some intrusive thought.
She would go home.
She would drink wine.
She would forget this ever happened.
…Any second now.
The elevator doors slid shut, enclosing him in silence.
Katsuki exhaled, rolling his shoulders once before adjusting his cufflinks. His pulse was steady. Controlled. His thoughts, however—
A mess.
The realization hit in the span of a breath, an inconvenient truth lodged somewhere between his ribs.
She wasn't supposed to be that close.
Not pressed against him, not gripping his sleeve like that, not looking up at him with wide, startled eyes like he was the only thing keeping her from tumbling headfirst into the floor.
It was instinct—nothing else—that had made him catch her. He was efficient, after all. Letting her crash into something would have wasted valuable time.
But then, he felt it.
Her.
Small but curved, warm in a way that wasn't just body heat but something more intrusive, something that settled too heavily in his awareness. And her scent—faint shampoo, a hint of coffee, and something undeniably her—lingered like an irritant, a detail his brain filed away without permission.
Letting go should have been easy.
She was his assistant. A competent one, irritatingly so, but ultimately replaceable. If she ever quit—which she wouldn't—he would hire someone else. Simple.
So why the hell had it taken him longer than necessary to let go?
Why had his fingers curled in, just slightly, before releasing her?
Why had he noticed the exact way she fit against him? The curve of her back? The way she smelled, faint but distracting, like coffee and something too warm, too familiar?
He clicked his jaw once, sharp and decisive.
He had let go because it was practical.
Because it had been a miscalculation to hold on for even a second longer than necessary.
Because he was in control, and she was—
His assistant. A workplace necessity.
That was all.
And yet—
His fingers still felt the ghost of warmth where she had been.
Katsuki exhaled again, deeper this time. A reset.
By the time the doors opened, his expression was blank, his steps even, his grip on his control ironclad once more.
This was nothing.
It would stay nothing.
And he would make sure of it.