The private dining room at Kage no Mori wasn't built for war rooms, but Katsuki made it one anyway.
It was an unconventional battlefield: polished hinoki floors, silent staff in soft-footed precision, lacquered trays arriving like clockwork. The only sign this wasn't a typical kaiseki dinner were the five people sitting opposite him—executives from Lerwick Maritime Group, Norway's largest shipping conglomerate—lean, pale men in muted suits and polished English, trying to project nonchalance beneath centuries of Nordic diplomacy. They'd finally agreed to fly in after months of remote negotiation—too cautious to commit, too strategic not to.
Across from them sat the representatives from Yamato Shūun, Japan's third-largest cargo vessel operator. Katsuki could practically smell the unease from their lead counsel, Fujimoto, a man who wore his suit like it was heavy and his smile like it might shatter.
They didn't like that Hasegawa & Sato was representing the Norwegians.
Katsuki let the early minutes run exactly how he preferred: the Norwegians leading with polite optimism, the Japanese team countering with rigid formality, both sides pretending the structure of the contract wasn't already a battlefield of landmines. His job was to unearth them before anyone got too comfortable.
He shifted slightly, noting the figure beside him.
Hana hadn't spoken beyond a few perfectly harmless pleasantries—good evening, thank you for having us, the food looks beautiful—all delivered in that disarming tone that made people underestimate her.
Now she was quietly recording, her iPad perched discreetly on the edge of the table, stylus moving in quick, looping strokes. Her handwriting looked like it belonged to someone in a fever dream.
She was also eating. Aggressively.
Every time he glanced sideways, she was taking another bite—grilled ayu, uni chawanmushi, a ridiculously delicate abalone dish she practically inhaled. It wasn't messy. It wasn't inappropriate. But it was definitely enthusiastic.
Most people would be nervous in a room like this. Hana was working her way through a multi-course meal like it was a reward for surviving capitalism. She didn't even pause. Just juggled notetaking and sashimi like some chaos deity of administrative efficiency.
He watched her for another beat. She had no idea. Or she did, and simply didn't care.
-----
This place was actual sorcery. Like, if edible perfection had a scent, it would be this broth.
Hana nearly moaned—nearly—as she tucked another piece of simmered duck into her mouth and pretended she wasn't actively dissociating from the conversation in favor of this bite.
She kept her eyes respectfully lowered, ears open, stylus moving as she juggled the recording app, her notepad, and her very urgent mission to finish this stupidly divine meal before the next course showed up.
Katsuki kept glancing at her. She could feel it—sharp and assessing, like she was personally offending him by enjoying the grilled eggplant a little too much. Well, he could deal. She wasn't here to impress anyone. She was here to survive, take meticulous notes, and devour a Michelin star meal on someone else's tab.
And technically? She was nailing it.
She offered a polite smile to Fujimoto across the table, nodded at something Henrik said (probably about logistics or shipment routes—she'd go over the recording later), and immediately returned to her true calling: scraping the last of the miso glaze off her plate like a woman with priorities.
-----
Katsuki let them talk. He gave Henrik just enough rope to start spinning a noose—polite probing about indemnity structures, careful sidestepping around arbitration venues, a half-baked proposal about streamlined customs documentation that he let sit just long enough before slicing it down with three sentences and a signature clipped tone.
The Norwegians adjusted their postures.
The Japanese team looked deeply relieved.
This wasn't a negotiation. It was a demonstration.
Then—
"So," Henrik said, turning just slightly, "what does your assistant think?"
Silence.
Katsuki's hand stilled above his tea.
Hana looked up.
Henrik's gaze was on her, warm and amused. His Japanese was accented but smooth, and that smile—sharp jaw, pale blue eyes, blond hair swept back like he walked off a Viking ship that catered to high fashion editorials.
God help her.
"Me?" she said.
"You," Henrik confirmed. "I know you're a legal assistant. But I want to hear your thoughts."
Hana looked at Katsuki, before setting down her chopsticks, folded her hands neatly, and met Henrik's gaze with that deceptively sweet, slow smile that usually preceded verbal carnage.
"There's a clause in your draft—section 7.4, regarding environmental liabilities in transshipment zones. It contradicts the amendment your team made in the appendix about jurisdictional responsibility in Norwegian waters. If it's not corrected, and a dispute arises, neither party will want to claim ownership, and both will be liable. That's a lawsuit waiting to happen."
Henrik paused, then laughed. Full-bodied, delighted. He lifted his wine glass, still smiling at her. "Very good."
Hana offered a small shrug, just shy of smug.
Then she felt the shift.
Katsuki leaned in. Not dramatically. Just close enough that she could feel the heat of him at her side, hear the subtle amusement threaded through his voice.
"That was good," he said. "Though you could've added that the appendix should've been redlined against the main body. Better to preempt the jurisdiction issue altogether."
"Right, sorry."
He looked at her fully now. Calm. Clinical. But his voice was quieter, low enough that only she could hear.
"Don't," he said. "You're getting better. Try not to let it go to your head."
And maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a comment. A deadpan remark dropped between courses and corporate maneuvering.
But it felt like something.
-----
The dinner had long since stopped being useful.
The contracts were discussed, dissected, and—thanks to him—surgically neutralized before either side could start posturing. The Japanese legal team looked relieved enough to start praying. The Norwegians were satisfied, smug in that infuriating, low-effort Scandinavian way. And now, the room had devolved into what Katsuki could only describe as performative diplomacy. Laughter. Casual small talk. Alcohol loosening the edges of stiff executives who'd spent the last two hours clenching their jaws.
And then there was that.
Next to him, Hana was leaning just slightly toward Henrik, who had somehow migrated one chair closer under the guise of social fluidity. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled, and he was looking at her like she was a brochure for a country he suddenly wanted to tour extensively.
"So," Henrik was saying, easy smile in place, "where would you take someone visiting Nagoya for the first time?"
Katsuki didn't look. Didn't have to. He could hear her smile in her voice. "Depends. Do you want tourist traps or real food?"
Henrik laughed. Charming. As if Hana had offered him a secret password to the city.
And then she added, offhand, "If I had more time off, I'd take you to Akita. Bring back proper sake. None of this department store nonsense."
Katsuki's jaw didn't tighten. He didn't glare. Didn't interrupt.
He simply stared down at his untouched tea, thought very seriously about hurling it across the room, and mentally added Viking to the list of slurs he would never say aloud but absolutely meant with malice.
What the hell was that smile? And the hair thing? She tucked her hair behind her ear. What was that supposed to be? Cute? Flirtatious? Thoughtful? Was that some sort of signal now?
On his other side, someone laughed. A light, practiced sound. The PR executive from Yamato Shūun—Miyako, maybe?—leaned in a bit closer, her shoulder brushing his. Her nails, manicured and pearl-tipped, grazed the fabric of his suit.
"And what about you, Mr. Hasegawa?" she asked, voice low, teasing. "Any plans after this? Or do all your evenings end in penthouse legal briefings?"
He could go somewhere with her. She was attractive. She knew it. Hell, she was practically offering. It had been months since he'd had an outlet that didn't involve litigation, nicotine, or watching true crime documentaries at 2 a.m. This could be easy. Clean. Forgettable.
Except two seats over, the Viking was still smiling at Hana like she'd just handed him a signed peace treaty.
Katsuki's grip on his teacup didn't shift. But his appetite to entertain the PR executive's advances evaporated.
When the dinner ended, the goodbyes began—the usual bows, handshakes, and future promises none of them were required to keep. Henrik clapped him on the back like they were old friends.
"We'll arrange for you to come to Oslo," Henrik said. "Fourth quarter, maybe early next year. I'd like you to see our operations firsthand."
Katsuki gave a clipped professional nod.
Then Henrik turned—to her. "You should come too."
She laughed, soft and unbothered. "We'll see."
She smiled.
Tucked another strand of hair behind her ear.
The fuck was that?
The room finally cleared, bodies drifting out in polite waves, and the PR executive was still beside him. She touched his sleeve again.
He turned to her. "Let's go."
Then, sharp, to Hana—without even a glance: "Find your own ride."
And he walked out, not waiting to see her expression.
He didn't need to.
She could flirt with Vikings all she wanted.
But she wasn't going to smile at him like that and still expect a ride home.