She looked like a scorned ghost.
No, worse. A scorned ghost who'd died barefoot in the rain, got dumped post-mortem, and then was forced to haunt a luxury penthouse in soaking chiffon. The elevator ride up had been deathly silent, except for the subtle squelch of her waterlogged dignity dripping onto the marble. She'd caught at least two curious stares in the lobby. One from a middle-aged man in a Uniqlo trench who gave her the kind of side-eye usually reserved for feral cats and low-level arsonists.
Whatever.
Let them stare. She was one bad comment away from unleashing a monologue so unhinged it would get her legally banned from Nagoya.
When they reached the penthouse, he'd just said, "Wait here," in that smooth, bossy tone that suggested she'd do it because he said so.
She didn't answer.
Because she wasn't speaking to him. Obviously. There were rules to rage. And Rule #1 was no words for the emotionally constipated man who abandoned you at a Michelin-star dinner like you were an unpaid intern with a fondness for public transportation.
She hadn't even stepped all the way inside. Just hovered by the door, arms crossed, tracking puddles like a personal vendetta.
Then-he returned. No words about what happened. No apology. Not even an "are you bleeding?" Just a fresh towel, a too-soft hoodie, and a sentence so confusing she almost had to reboot.
"Bath's ready. Take as long as you need."
Wait, what?
She narrowed her eyes like he'd just offered her a live grenade.
Hasegawa. Her asshole of a boss. Had prepared. A bath.
A warm bath.
This had to be a trap. Or a fever dream. Or some elaborate HR sting.
Still. Her feet were actively disintegrating. Her dress was clinging like a damp betrayal. And her hair? Her hair had crossed into Medusa levels of fury.
Fine. Whatever. She didn't say thank you. Or anything at all, really. Just grabbed the towel and the hoodie and followed the sound of luxury like she was being led to emotional slaughter.
And then-the bathroom.
Oh. Oh this bastard.
Of course he had a bathroom like this. With its stupid marble counters and oversized mirrors and that warm, golden light that made her look like a Renaissance painting, despite her rain-slicked raccoon aesthetic. The bathtub itself was the size of a small car. Deep enough to commit sins in. Angled just right. A literal soaking temple.
Her own apartment in Osu didn't even have a real bath. Just one of those insultingly shallow ones that barely covered your thighs and squealed every time you shifted your weight like it was judging your life choices.
But this? This was a betrayal of her entire living situation.
She turned the water off just before it overflowed. Steam was already rising, softening the air and fogging up the mirrors. A bottle of something expensive-looking and probably illegal in three prefectures was sitting on the edge of the tub. She sniffed it. Citrus and cedarwood and some faint, impossible-to-name scent that probably cost more than her utility bill.
No thoughts. Just bath.
She stepped in. Sank down.
And nearly cried.
Heat wrapped around her like a weighted blanket made of apologies she wasn't getting. Her muscles, traitorous bastards, sighed. Her legs stopped screaming. Her spine unknotted in stages. The hoodie was folded neatly on the counter, which felt weirdly intimate. Like he'd thought about how cold she was. Like he noticed.
Nope. Not thinking about that.
This wasn't kindness. It was guilt. Weaponized guilt in the form of high-end plumbing and towel-warmed hospitality.
Still, she leaned back, let her head rest against the curve of the tub, and let the silence wash over her like a ceasefire she didn't trust.
She wasn't ready to talk to him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But damn it, the bath was nice.
She could sleep in it. Maybe live in it. Just stay here forever, marinating in silence and citrus-scented luxury until the world forgot her and her problems dissolved like overpriced bath salts.
And if Katsuki Hasegawa wanted to say something?
He could wait.
Because she had at least three more hours of petty soaking to do.
-----
The water was running.
Not for long-just enough to fill the tub. He'd timed it. Twelve minutes, give or take. Then silence. Not the regular kind, not the kind this penthouse was built for. This was the kind of silence that rang. Echoed. Pressed against his eardrums like something was about to snap.
He didn't move from the kitchen. Didn't check. Didn't listen harder. Didn't need to.
Because the minute the water cut off, his brain-traitorous, hormonal idiot that it was-immediately conjured the image.
Her. In the bath.
Not theoretical. Not abstract. Detailed.
Wet curls pinned up. Steam curling around flushed skin. Legs stretched out in a tub that could fit two-and had, in certain situations, though never like that. Her back arched just slightly, chasing the heat. Mouth parted. Eyes closed.
He exhaled through his nose.
Absolutely not.
He opened the fridge like it had answers. It didn't. It mocked him with neatly labeled containers and a half-empty bottle of sake Naomi had left there six months ago. He wasn't hungry. But the image had to go. Immediately. Before he lost his mind and knocked on the bathroom door just to remind her who owned the damn space she was luxuriating in.
So: distraction.
He pulled out the instant ramen.
Technically, it was high-end-some imported, low-sodium, Michelin-star-influenced bullshit Kai made fun of him for. But it boiled. It salted. It occupied his hands. And most importantly-it gave him a reason to pretend he wasn't pacing like some idiot dog waiting for her to come out and yell at him.
He didn't want her to yell. Obviously.
Except maybe he did. Just a little.
Because this silence? It wasn't passive. It was a weapon. One she wielded with the kind of precision usually reserved for contract clauses and assassination attempts.
And it was working.
He stirred the broth. Focused on the texture. On the timing. On not glancing down the bathroom door like she might suddenly materialize in that hoodie he gave her, looking soft and angry and infuriatingly unreadable.
The ramen wasn't an apology. He didn't owe her one.
She was the one who flirted with a man whose ancestors pillaged villages for sport. She was the one who tucked her hair behind her ear like that meant something. She was the one who smiled.
Not at him.
At the Viking.
Still, she liked food. She worked better when she was fed. Calmed down faster. Processed emotion more efficiently with something in her hands-a pen, a file, a bowl.
Maybe this would get her to talk to him.
Not that he cared. He just needed clarity. Function. The normal rhythm of verbal barbs and ill-concealed superiority complexes.
He poured the broth, set the bowl down with precision, and added a soft-boiled egg. Center just barely runny. He wasn't a monster.
Then he stared at the hallway.
She'd been in there twenty-four minutes.
Twenty-five.
If she didn't come out soon, he was going in after her.
Not because he cared.
Because drowning in luxury bathtubs was a liability.
And because his brain-still disloyal-hadn't stopped imagining her in that damn water.
He adjusted the egg.
And waited.
-----
The hoodie was too soft. Unforgivably soft. Like it was made of clouds and betrayal and probably some unethical blend of cashmere and emotional manipulation. She wanted to hate it-she was hating it, actively, with every fiber of her waterlogged, chafing being-but it was warm, and it smelled like his stupid expensive cologne, and it was currently the only thing separating her from a full body breakdown.
Also, thank God for backup underwear.
Because yes, she had packed one. Just in case the jazz-playing, Murakami-reading English teacher turned out to be hot and emotionally literate. There had been a very small chance-statistically insignificant, really-that she was finally going to get laid by someone who didn't immediately flinch when she started talking about maritime liability clauses in casual conversation.
Small mercies.
She stepped out of the bathroom, towel-dried curls half-defeated, bare feet cautious against the warm tile, and was immediately ambushed by the scent of ramen.
Real ramen.
Not instant cup noodles. Not whatever insult to broth she'd microwaved last week at 3 a.m. This was imported, layered, umami-rich smugness in a bowl.
Her stomach betrayed her first-growling like it had something to prove. Then her brain started composing haikus about pork fat and emotional reparations.
She did not moan.
Nope. Not today.
Because pride. Because principle. Because she was still mad and her feet were probably infected, and if she gave in to one more thing Katsuki Hasegawa offered her, she was going to lose her entire personality.
So she kept walking. Eyes forward. Zero acknowledgment.
Straight for the door.
-----
He watched her stop. Hesitate. He saw it.
The pause. The moment of almost. She'd looked at the ramen. Then-dismissed it. Dismissed him.
And turned for the exit like she wasn't barefoot, underfed, and emotionally compromised.
He was on his feet before she reached the threshold.
"Where are you going?" His voice was calm. Cool. Managerial.
She didn't look at him. "Away from you, you manipulative, emotionally repressed, half-feral corporate menace in a Tom Ford hoodie."
He blinked. Once. Honestly? He had to respect the phrasing.
"And do you plan on walking barefoot again?" he asked, dry.
She stopped.
Her head tilted just slightly, like she'd only just remembered her body existed. Like she was suddenly aware of her foot again. The sting. The faint, wet ache under her heel. She'd checked it earlier-definitely a cut. Probably glass. Definitely bleeding.
Still didn't turn around.
He took one step forward. Just one.
"Eat the ramen," he said.
She sighed. It was the sound of a woman giving up on the world. On justice. On dignity.
Then she threw her bag onto the floor, grabbed the bowl without a word, and stalked over to the couch. She dropped into it with the grace of a vengeful ghost and began eating like she was punishing the food for existing.
He sat too. Opposite end. As far as he could get without moving to a separate zip code. She looked like she wanted to launch the bowl directly at his skull.
He considered it: ceramic. High heat. Could crack bone.
He waited until she'd taken three bites.
"Are you ready to talk to me now?"
She chewed with vengeance. Then swallowed.
And gave him a look.
A look that said: I have imagined your funeral in detail. There were hors d'oeuvres. People clapped.
But she didn't say no.
And he counted that as progress.