The highway blurred around him—gray lights, slick asphalt, the low hum of the engine syncing neatly with his pulse, which had been ticking at a steady, irritated rhythm since he left the restaurant.
He hadn't even accelerated yet when the PR executive slipped a hand onto his thigh.
Desperate. Predictable. Effective, if he were a lesser man.
She leaned in closer, perfume sweet and sharp like an overripe fruit. "Your secretary doesn't seem to know her place. Calling out Mr. Andersen like that. Stupid secretaries."
And just like that, the evening derailed.
Katsuki braked harder than necessary in front of the nearest convenience store.
"What—?"
He reached into his coat, pulled out his wallet, and handed her a crisp stack of yen.
"Call a cab," he said, already unbuckling. "Charge snacks if you want. Doesn't matter."
Her mouth opened, a protest forming—but he was already out, already circling to her door, already opening it like this was a polite dismissal and not what it was: an ejection.
No one called Hana stupid. No one.
That was his job.
-----
The drive back into Nisshin was a straight shot of idiotic decisions and rapidly spiraling regret. The sky had turned the color of spite, clouds heavy enough to bruise. Fitting.
He dialed.
No answer.
Okay. Still pissed. Fair. Understandable, even.
He tried again.
"Fuck you."
He blinked. Clicked his tongue. Okay. Extremely pissed.
Called again.
The line picked up. And then—chaos.
"Where am I? Oh, I don't know, Hasegawa—somewhere between emotional collapse and early-stage trench foot. You'd like it—it's very quiet, very bleak. Wet. Miserable. Much like your entire personality."
His grip tightened on the wheel.
She was crying.
He couldn't see her, but he knew. The kind of crying that made people hate themselves for existing. Not performative. Not strategic. Just broken.
"I hope PR Barbie gave you chlamydia. I hope the Viking buys you lunch and never calls you again. I hope the next time you draft a contract, all your redlines spontaneously combust and you have to handwrite a merger agreement in blood."
He inhaled sharply through his nose.
Was that supposed to be a curse or a love confession? Hard to tell with her.
"Stay there," he said, voice low. Hung up.
-----
When he finally saw her, the rain had stopped, but the damage had been done.
She was crouched under a metal awning like some tragic figure from a melodramatic indie film—barefoot, soaked, her curls hanging limp around her face. Her arms were crossed tight. She was glaring at him like she'd already chosen the murder weapon.
Fine.
He pulled up beside her. Opened the passenger door.
"Get in," he said.
No movement. No sound.
He ground his molars together. "Get in, Sukehiro, or I'll carry you myself."
That did it.
She got in, spine stiff, arms crossed again—and that was a problem. Because Katsuki was a man who prided himself on self-control, and it had just fucking disintegrated.
Her dress was clinging.
It wasn't supposed to be sexy. It was soaked and half-transparent and probably cold enough to trigger frostbite. But the way it hugged her waist, the curve of her hips—why did she have hips?—and those—
He stared straight ahead.
Do not look.
Do. Not. Look.
He looked.
Her boobs. Were clearly trying to escape whatever sad excuse for a bra she had on. Her nipples were definitely protesting wage theft through wet chiffon. Her waist dipped in where his hand—nope. Not finishing that thought.
Jesus Christ.
Was this what she looked like under the oversized button-downs? That? That was under there this whole time?
He'd spent months thinking of her as chaos incarnate. A legal goblin in sneakers and questionable cardigans. Not...this.
Not someone he suddenly wanted to throw over the console and commit HR violations against.
He exhaled. Slowly. Steadily. Like breathing was the last defense against whatever brain chemicals were trying to murder his rationality.
He turned the heat up two degrees. Not for her. For his own survival.
She crossed her arms tighter. Her boobs moved. He nearly veered into oncoming traffic.
"Put your seatbelt on," he snapped.
She did it one-handed, muttering something under her breath that sounded like psychopath.
He would not engage.
He would drive. He would focus. He would absolutely not picture what she looked like getting out of that dress. Or what she'd say if he asked. Or what kind of noises she'd make if—
He just drove. Fast. Focused.
And definitely not thinking about how her dress rode up just slightly when she crossed her legs.
Or how if that Viking ever touched her, Katsuki was going to burn Norway to the ground.
-----
The drive back to Chikusa ward was quiet.
Too quiet.
And Hana never did quiet.
She did sighing, muttering, typing furiously at eighty words per minute while chewing on a Pocky stick she didn't remember buying. She did humming half the Spirited Away soundtrack under her breath while triple-checking a filing deadline. She did chaos. Consistent, irritating chaos.
But now?
Silence. Arms crossed. Gaze fixed on the passenger window like she was telepathically willing the rain to start again just so she could dramatic sob in sync with it.
Katsuki glanced at her. Once.
Then again.
Still not moving. Still soaking his leather seats.
"Do you realize you're ruining the upholstery?" he said finally, tone clipped.
No answer.
Okay.
"You look like a mess."
Still nothing. Not even a twitch. Her hair—usually a fluffy, chaotic halo—was plastered to her face like she'd been dragged out of a drain. Which, to be fair, wasn't far from the truth.
"You could've waited inside the restaurant," he added, casually, like that wasn't the understatement of the century.
Silence.
His jaw ticked. She wasn't even giving him a glare. Just that blank, checked-out expression that made his skin itch. Not because he cared. Obviously. It was just… inefficient. Disruptive. Unprofessional.
And also maybe a little—no. Never mind.
He refocused on the road, fingers flexing once against the steering wheel.
Two more blocks.
She still hadn't spoken.
-----
She hated him. She hated him with a bone-deep, rain-drenched fury that tasted like wet gravel and humiliation.
And she hated this job.
This stupid job that paid well to keep her trapped and praised her just rarely enough to keep her trying. This stupid job with its murder-documentary-watching boss and passive-aggressive fridge labels and emotionally repressed corporate culture.
She should quit.
She should.
Except—this was the only place that had ever taken her seriously. The only office that didn't treat her like an overenthusiastic intern with a cute face and a loud brain. The only firm that let her sit in on billion-yen negotiations and throw legal grenades across a table without blinking.
And that, unfortunately, came with him.
She shifted slightly, arms tighter, colder now that the heater was finally working.
And then he spoke again. Of course he did. The king of awkwardly weaponized small talk.
"You could have waited inside."
Oh, she could have, could she? She could've just waited around in her drenched wrap dress and slowly evaporated into shame while PR Barbie sucked his soul through a designer lipstick print? Hard pass.
She didn't answer. Just stared at the passing streets, the creeping skyline of Chikusa approaching like the punchline to a bad joke.
She could cry. She could feel it crawling up her throat—stupid, traitorous emotion. Nope. Not here. Not with him.
Then the car stopped.
Her brows furrowed.
This wasn't Osu. This was his building. He didn't even have the decency to drive her home to Osu.
He wasn't even done saying whatever self-important thing he was about to say when she threw the door open, climbed out barefoot like a pissed-off sea spirit, and slammed it shut behind her with enough force to rattle his mirrors.
-----
Katsuki didn't move.
Not at first.
She was still pissed. Fine. She had every right to be. But if she thought she was going to stomp off into the night and disappear until Monday—possibly forever—without so much as a signal flare?
Absolutely not.
He got out of the car. The air was still damp, thick with the scent of wet pavement and cold metal. She was already ahead, stomping toward the sidewalk like she had any idea where she was going.
Then she stepped into the light.
And something in him snapped.
There were faint streaks of red on the concrete. Her heel, bare and bruised, left a smear as she walked. She'd stepped on something. Probably glass. Maybe a rock. And she hadn't noticed.
She didn't flinch. Didn't limp. She was too furious to feel pain. And for some reason, that made his stomach twist harder than any legal ambush ever had.
"Sukehiro."
She didn't stop.
He caught up in three strides, wrapped his hand around her wrist—not hard, but firm enough that she stilled.
"You're coming with me," he said.
She turned, eyes wild, soaked curls sticking to her round face, mascara halfway down her cheeks. "What?"
"You're coming with me," he repeated, sharper this time. "And you can't argue."
There was a pause. A heartbeat of stubborn resistance.
And then, tiredly, like she couldn't even summon the energy for proper verbal violence, she muttered, "Narcissistic psychopath."
He didn't let go.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't smile.
But for the first time that night, something settled in his chest.
She was still here. Still angry. Still calling him names like it was a reflex.
And maybe she was bleeding. And maybe she hated him. And maybe he deserved it.
But at least she hadn't walked away.
Not yet.