It started with an offhand remark.
A single sentence. Casual. Thoughtless. Delivered with the same breezy finality Hana reserved for things like "I don't eat convenience store sushi" or "You're not allowed to text me after midnight unless it's an emergency or you're on fire."
"That's too much man for one person."
Katsuki had replayed it in his head approximately seven hundred times over the past forty-eight hours.
He wasn't spiraling. Don't be ridiculous.
He was analyzing. That was different. Productive, even.
Because what did that mean—too much? Too much what? Intelligence? Authority? Height? Looks? Muscle mass? Emotional complexity? (Okay, unlikely.) Time management? Personal power?
He wasn't too much. He was the appropriate amount. In fact, he was the fucking standard.
And if anyone needed proof, he could provide receipts.
Exhibit A: Women threw themselves at him all the time. Literally. At conferences, charity galas, legal symposiums. A junior associate once left her number on his case file. He hadn't even looked at her face, and still, she'd shot her shot.
Not that he'd followed up. He didn't have the time. Or the interest. Or the patience to pretend he liked rooftop bars and whatever overpriced cocktail she'd ordered "for the aesthetic."
Still. The options were there.
Exhibit B: The Ritz incident. Tokyo. A particularly reckless phase in his late twenties involving two models, a penthouse suite, and a night that could only be described as…logistically ambitious. Both women had left deeply satisfied, one of them in tears, the other texting for three months afterward.
But sure. He was too much.
Apparently, Hana wanted a more relatable man.
So he tried.
God help him, he actually tried.
Day One: The Commute
He took the subway. During rush hour. Like a civilian.
It was hell. The train was at full capacity. Some teenager's backpack was pressed against his ribs like a medieval weapon, and an elderly woman smacked him in the shins with her umbrella twice before he gave up his seat.
By the time he got to the office, he was sweating, scowling, and five minutes late.
Hana blinked at him. "You good?"
He grunted something noncommittal and went to hide in his office before he stabbed someone.
Day Two: Casual Friday
He wore jeans.
They were still tailored, obviously. He wasn't an animal. But they were denim nonetheless. He paired them with a black t-shirt.
Hana looked at him like he was a haunted doll.
"Did someone die?" she asked.
"No," he said flatly. "Why?"
"You look… approachable."
He nearly threw his coffee out the window.
Day Three: The Collapse
He offered Hana a mint.
Voluntarily. No sarcasm. No derision. Just… held out the tin like a functioning social organism.
That was the final straw.
Hana stared at him across her desk like he had just grown a second head.
"Okay, what the hell is going on."
He raised an eyebrow, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. "Nothing."
"No." She pointed a pen at him accusingly. "You've been acting weird. Like possessed-by-ghosts weird. Or abducted-by-aliens-and-replaced-with-a-clone weird."
"Hilarious."
"I'm serious. You've been—" she gestured wildly, "—normal. In a creepy way. You haven't criticized my note-taking in three days. You took the subway. You made small talk. Are you trying to impress someone?"
He froze for a fraction of a second. Just a hitch.
It was enough.
"Oh my God," Hana said, eyes going wide. "You are. You're trying to impress someone."
"I'm not."
"You are. Oh my God."
Katsuki resisted the urge to strangle her with his tie.
Hana leaned forward, eyes narrowed in delighted suspicion. "Okay, tell me. Is she here? Like, in this building? Do I need to do recon?"
He glared. "You're deranged."
"No, no, I need to know if I should be worried. Is she a rival? Do I have to assess her? Because listen—" she waved her pen like a dagger—"if she doesn't like the grumpy, brooding alpha types, she doesn't deserve you."
Something in his chest stuttered. Not that he acknowledged things like chests stuttering. He was just—adjusting his posture. Regulating his blood pressure. Something physiological and boring.
Katsuki stared at her, trying to parse the equation.
If brooding alpha males were the standard—and clearly they were; decades of romance publishing and at least two of Hana's browser tabs backed that up—then why the hell did she reject him?
He fit the description. Flawlessly. The brooding. The glowering. The emotionally constipated charm. He was practically a textbook case.
So what—was she just confused? Lying to herself? Temporarily blind?
Didn't matter.
He wasn't obsessing. He was observing.
Still not spiraling. Just… collecting data.
Methodically.
Because if she thought he was too much, and then described him as the exact type women should want, then clearly the problem wasn't him.
It was her logic.
Faulty. Inconsistent. Deeply flawed.
He made a mental note to fix it. Quietly. Strategically.
Because if Hana thought she knew what "too much" was?
She hadn't even seen him try.
-----
Something was wrong with Katsuki Hasegawa.
Hana had been watching him for three days like a scientist observing a particularly moody lion try to blend in with a pack of Labradors.
First, it was the subway. The subway. He, of all people, took public transportation like he didn't have a luxury sedan that probably came with mood lighting and Bluetooth-connected vengeance. Then came the outfit—jeans. Actual denim. Followed by small talk. With another human.
The man had offered her a mint. A mint.
No sarcasm. No backhanded commentary about her filing system or the fact that she was using the wrong pen thickness for client notes. Just—"Want one?"
Horrifying.
At first, she assumed it was some sort of slow-moving brain parasite. Or maybe an early-onset personality transplant. But now…
Now she was pretty sure she knew what was going on.
And God help her, it was worse.
She leaned back in her chair, watching him with narrowed eyes as he passed by her desk, expression neutral, movements crisp, every cell of his being screaming nothing is wrong in the loudest possible way.
But Hana Sukehiro knew bullshit when she smelled it.
And this? This had the rich, unmistakable scent of rejection.
Not "I got ghosted" rejection.
No, no.
This was high-stakes, publicly humiliated, ego bruised by someone terrifyingly competent rejection.
Someone had told Katsuki Hasegawa that he was not, in fact, God's gift to high-functioning sociopaths.
And instead of combusting—like a normal, emotionally-stable adult man—he had decided to become relatable.
Hana took a deep breath, the realization hitting like a slap made of caffeine and gossip.
This wasn't about a woman.
This was because of one.
She almost felt bad for him.
Almost.
Then she remembered all the times he'd edited her reports with a red pen like she was a high school student. All the Sunday night texts. The post-it notes that just said things like "Fix this" with no context.
Yeah. No. Sympathy revoked.
Hana exhaled slowly, fully invested now.
Because if Katsuki Hasegawa was suffering?
It was her moral responsibility as his assistant to make it worse.
She shot to her feet, grabbing her phone like a woman on a mission. A chaotic, deeply unqualified mission—but a mission nonetheless.
From the other end of the office, Naomi glanced up briefly from her laptop, which was currently displaying what appeared to be five simultaneous spreadsheets and an email titled "URGENT – CLIENT LITIGATION FIRE."
"Where are you going?" she asked, in the tone of someone who had seen this movie before and knew the ending involved yelling.
"To fix his love life!" Hana declared.
Naomi didn't even blink. "Fantastic. That's what we need during merger week."
But Hana was already striding across the office like a woman who had never once thought through the consequences of her actions.
Because this wasn't about boundaries.
This was about justice.
And if Katsuki Hasegawa was heartbroken?
She was going to find out who did it.
And then maybe send her flowers.