The ramen was gone. All of it. Every last bite. The bowl sat empty on the coffee table like a challenge no one was brave enough to touch, and still—they hadn't spoken.
Fine. He would go first.
"You could've called the Viking to drive you home."
Her head snapped up like she'd been summoned by name in a séance. Eyes narrowed. Shoulders squared. Oh good. Rage reactivated.
"Why would I go with him? I don't even know him."
She stared at him, incredulous, like he'd just accused her of plotting to defect to Norway via seduction and container ship. Was he seriously jealous right now? Over Mr. Fjord Logistics and his tragic cheekbones?
Unreal.
"You think I just climb into foreign vehicles with men who ask about cargo permits and have good bone structure? Because I smiled once? Please."
There were a hundred things she could've said next, but he cut in first.
"Then you should've told me."
Her jaw dropped. Not in a cute, TV-drama way. In a full, unfiltered what-the-actual-fuck kind of way.
Was he—was he gaslighting her?
"So this is my fault now?" Her eyes flared, lips parted in disbelief. "You left me. With no ride. In heels. In the rain. And now you're gaslighting me like I should've sent a smoke signal while Barbie was eye-fucking you over sake?"
She didn't stand. Just narrowed her eyes and lobbed the final grenade.
"I really hope PR Barbie gave you chlamydia."
"I came back for you, didn't I" he snapped. "Nothing happened."
She stared.
Oh, that was supposed to be noble now? Returning after abandoning her barefoot and bleeding in front of a Michelin-starred establishment?
She wasn't impressed.
"How would I know?" she said coolly, twisting the emotional knife like a pro. "Wouldn't take you more than two minutes anyway."
Something behind his left eye twitched. It was subtle. Delayed. Like his brain needed time to fully register the insult before reacting.
"I'm sorry—two minutes?" he repeated, tone flattening to a dangerous monotone.
Her bravado cracked. Slightly. "I didn't mean—"
"No, apparently I'm some kind of premature disappointment now."
"Oh my god—that's not what I said—"
"I've written closing arguments longer than two minutes. I edit redlines longer than two minutes. I don't even boil ramen in two minutes."
He stood now. Slow. Controlled. Like a man defending both his honor and his statistical averages.
And now he was pacing. Sharp turns. Precision pivots. The kind of rage only an overachieving psychopath could weaponize in defense of his sex life.
"You think I'd get you halfway out of that ridiculous dress and then what—just black out?"
"I was mad!" she exploded, throwing her arms up so hard the hoodie slipped off one shoulder. "You left me stranded in the rain! My shoes died a painful death! I was emotionally compromised and maybe slightly bleeding! And now you're giving me a monologue about your performance timeline?!"
He stared at her. Breath sharp. Brows furrowed like she'd offended his ancestors.
He exhaled hard through his nose. "I just think it's a bold assumption to make without firsthand data."
And she shot back immediately, voice venom-sweet, "Well, sorry for not being interested."
That did it.
That snapped something loose.
Oh, this woman.
This infuriating, chaotic, maddeningly brilliant woman who talked back like it was her second language, weaponized spite like a sixth sense, and could turn a misplaced adjective into psychological warfare. She made him insane. Absolutely, clinically insane. There were moments she made him want to bury his head in work forever — and others, like now, when all he wanted was to pin her against the nearest wall and argue about jurisdiction clauses until she moaned his name out of sheer spite.
He inhaled. Then turned.
Left the room. Not because he was retreating. But because he'd combust if he stayed.
-----
He returned a moment later with the first aid kit, sat on the floor by the couch without a word, and placed the bandages on the coffee table with quiet, pointed precision.
Then he looked at her.
Held out a hand.
"Give me your foot."
"What? Are you serious?" she practically shrieked, yanking her foot a fraction further under the couch like he'd asked for a kidney. "Why do you want my foot? Do you—oh my god, do you have a foot fetish?"
He stared at her like she'd just accused him of embezzling from the Ministry of Finance.
"Sukehiro," he said, voice flat, patient, and carrying the emotional warmth of granite, "if I wanted to have sex with you, believe me—you'd be naked right now."
She froze. Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just a flicker—like her brain hiccupped and her soul briefly left her body.
Had he meant that as an insult?
Because that was… not offensive. Just... incredibly loaded.
And now he looked unbothered, which somehow made it worse.
She huffed. Crossed her arms. "I should file an ethics complaint. Get you disbarred. That would be fun."
His sigh was pure exhaustion. Not the usual you-typed-the-wrong-format-again sigh. This one was deeper. Closer to I could be reading murder depositions right now instead of arguing with this barefoot banshee territory.
"Give me your fucking foot if you don't want it infected."
"I can do it my—"
"Sukehiro. I am losing my patience. Foot. Now."
Ugh. The use of the surname. Capital letters. Authority voice.
She sighed with the theatrical flair of a woman who'd just been sentenced to five years of hard labor, and lifted her foot into his hand.
Fine.
Whatever.
Enjoy your moment, oh mighty Lord of Litigation.
He didn't gloat. Didn't smirk. Just got to work with the kind of cool precision that should not have made her heartbeat wobble like that. He dabbed antiseptic with deliberate care, the sting sharp enough to make her wince, and still—he didn't look at her. Not once.
Then, almost absently, like it had been waiting behind his teeth the whole time:
"I shouldn't have left you there."
She didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Just leaned back against the couch, trying not to crumble over three quietly delivered syllables.
She didn't answer. Not out loud.
But the truth was—she'd already forgiven him.
Somewhere between the ramen and the bath. Or maybe even before that, when he stood in the rain looking furious and wet and unreasonably hot, like a Greek tragedy with control issues.
She wasn't proud of it. But it was the truth.
He finished wrapping the bandage with clean, efficient movements, his fingers brushing her ankle in that absent, unthinking way that made her suddenly very aware of the nerve endings in her leg. Of how warm his hands were. Of how ridiculous this entire night had been.
He was impossible.
And maybe a little wonderful.
But mostly impossible.
-----
God. She was a feral cat. Especially when cornered. She hissed, scratched, and insulted him with disturbing specificity. Not interested, she'd said—like that was a neutral statement, like it didn't land somewhere between insult and challenge.
And now she'd accused him of having a foot kink.
Charming.
"You're coming in on Monday, right?" he asked, quieter this time.
Nothing.
"Hana."
Still no answer.
Then—a light snore. Soft. Almost delicate. He wasn't even sure it was real at first.
He looked at her again.
Head tilted awkwardly, neck at a compromising angle that screamed chiropractor bill, the now-clean foot slipping slightly off his thigh. He adjusted her instinctively, one hand behind her back, the other steadying her knee just enough to shift her without waking her.
She grumbled. One arm draped over her face. Then—
"Bastard."
A whisper. Half-asleep.
Her mouth twitched into a faint pout. Brows furrowed. Like even in unconsciousness, she was still mid-argument. Still battling him in dreams.
He stared at her.
Ridiculous woman.
"Such a noisy mouth," he murmured, almost to himself.
Then his gaze lingered, just for a second too long.
And a thought slid in before he could stop it:
What would it be like to shut her up completely… without using words?
He blinked. Stiffened.
No.
Absolutely not.
He exhaled sharply, stood up, and walked to his bedroom with the decisive finality of a man who needed seven hours of sleep and a psychological evaluation.
He left her the blanket.
But he did not look back.
-----
Monday, 8:04 a.m.
Katsuki stood at the window of his office, arms crossed, jaw set, the fingers of his right hand tapping an erratic rhythm against his left elbow. He wasn't looking at the skyline. Or the morning light filtering through the building across the street. He was looking at a desk.
Her desk.
Empty.
Screen off. Chair untouched. That ridiculous cactus—long dead, naturally—sat on the corner like a silent eulogy. He hadn't realized how much noise she made just by existing until there was none.
When he woke up Sunday morning, she was gone. No note. No text. Not even a passive-aggressive Post-it stuck to the coffee machine. Just the blanket folded, her bag missing, and a faint smell of cedar from the hoodie she'd worn, lingering like an afterthought.
She probably walked home barefoot again. Wouldn't be the first time she'd chosen suffering over practicality.
He'd called. Three times. No answer.
He'd texted. A single message, perfectly neutral: You left your charger. And your pride.
Not even an emoji in return. Not even her usual "Go to hell, Hasegawa."
And now… she was just gone. No call-in. No heads-up. Not that she owed him one. He was her boss, not her keeper. And yet—
His jaw ticked.
"Good morning," Kai said as he strolled in like he owned the place, coffee in hand, suit too casual for a Monday and somehow still expensive enough to insult.
Katsuki didn't respond. Just kept glaring at the desk.
Kai followed his line of sight. Smirked. Then—tap tap—a light pat to Katsuki's shoulder like he was a nervous intern, before casually slipping back out again.
Katsuki didn't move.
What if she'd quit?
What if she finally decided he wasn't worth the trouble? The stress. The being stranded and insulted and left to piece together his own emotions with nothing but sarcasm and nicotine patches?
Then—
"GOOD MORNING, YOU SLEEP-DEPRIVED GREMLINS!"
The voice rang through the glass like a church bell built from chaos. Loud. Cheerful. Obnoxious.
He looked up.
She was there.
Casually walking past Kai's office, tossing him a mock salute before sliding into her desk like nothing had happened. Hair still damp. Laptop already booting up. Dressed in business casual like a woman who hadn't ghosted him for twenty-four hours straight.
No limp. No visible injuries. No acknowledgment.
Katsuki exhaled through his nose, reached for the coffee he'd been holding for twenty minutes, and stepped out of his office.
-----
Laptop. Power on. Emails open. Calendar syncing.
Hana typed like she hadn't just caused the managing partner of the firm to consider drafting her resignation letter for her out of spite. She could feel him before she saw him—his energy was oppressive like barometric pressure before a thunderstorm. Still, she didn't look up.
Let him stand there.
Then—thud.
A coffee cup was placed on her desk. Not the office sludge. Iced caramel macchiato. The exact order. Extra drizzle. Light ice.
Except the ice was half-melted, like it had been sitting too long. Like he'd bought it hours ago. Like he'd been waiting.
She ignored it.
Thud.
A shoebox. White ribbon. No tag.
She glanced up.
He was already walking away, sleeves rolled, jaw set, like he hadn't just casually dropped an emotional nuke on her desk.
She stared at the box. Suspicious.
Then curiosity won. It always did.
She opened it slowly and she gasped.
Manolo Blahnik BB 90 pumps. Black suede. Low vamp. Five inches of power. Sleek, impossible elegance. Shoes designed by the gods themselves for women who had something to prove and ankles worth ruining for it.
Not just expensive. Obscenely expensive. The kind of gift that said: "You are impossible, but you matter." The kind of comfort that could make her feel like she belonged in any room—even if she'd crashed into it like a wrecking ball five minutes late with coffee on her blouse.
She looked around. No one seemed to be paying attention. She slipped off her sneakers—one at a time—and eased her foot into the left pump.
Her spine straightened. Her soul ascended.
It was like her foot was being hugged by a thousand-dollar cloud. Her calves looked longer. Her self-worth climbed three interest points. She was going to win everything today.
Her throat tightened.
She almost wept.