The bucket was warm against his palm, the scent of fried grease and regret curling into the thick Nagoya night. Katsuki turned the corner of the parking lot with a narrowed gaze and immediately zeroed in on the chaos blooming on his hood like a personal affront.
She was sitting on his car.
His Porsche Panamera. In a KFC parking lot.
Like it was a damn bench.
Katsuki didn't break stride, didn't say a word. Just let the silence stretch, his shoes crunching against loose gravel as he approached, eyes narrowing on the unapologetic shape of her: wild curls haloed by humidity, legs dangling, fingers already shiny with oil from the fries she'd stolen from the bag.
She didn't even flinch.
Instead, she looked over, mouth full. "You know this is the best thing to eat when you're drunk."
"No shit," he muttered, tone dry enough to evaporate moisture from the air.
And yet—he didn't push her off. Didn't scold her. Didn't mention the ten million yen of polished German engineering she was disrespecting with her chicken fingers.
He sat down beside her.
She shoved the bucket toward him without ceremony. "Eat."
"If I eat," he said, tone flat, "will you stop deflecting?"
"Maybe," she said breezily, licking salt off her thumb. "And I'm not deflecting. Some things are just not important."
He gave her a long look. One that said I know better. Then he grabbed a piece of chicken and bit into it—clean, efficient, like even eating had to serve a purpose.
"Tell me something I don't know."
"You don't know a lot about me," she said. Like it wasn't a loaded sentence. Like it didn't feel vaguely like a dare.
He didn't respond. Not directly. Just studied the horizon for a beat too long. Rationalizing.
This was strategic. A necessary clarification process. She worked too closely with him to be this... unreadable. Unstable. Unoptimized. And if she unraveled mid-trial or lashed out in front of a client, that fallout would be his to clean up. Best to get ahead of it. Preemptive damage control. Nothing more.
"Okay," she said finally, like she was cracking her knuckles before diving into something she didn't want to overthink. "Fun fact. But I'm not sure if you've already noticed."
She paused. Just long enough to make his spine straighten.
"I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was in high school."
There it was.
The chaos theory.
He didn't react outwardly. Just registered the words like input he hadn't calculated. Filed it. Reanalyzed.
It made sense. The unfinished thoughts. The scattered brilliance. The precision when it mattered, and the fallout when it didn't.
She glanced at him. "And I'm telling you this because I don't want you misunderstanding my chaos. You have a habit of jumping to conclusions."
His jaw ticked. "I draw conclusions based on observable patterns."
"Exactly," she said, smug. "And I have a lot of those."
He took another bite, slower this time.
"You're still not answering why my words earlier offended you."
"Why do you want to know so badly?"
He exhaled, barely a sound. "Because I know I'm hard to work with. I know I expect more than I should. And if there's one—one—thing I can avoid doing that pisses you off to the point of sabotaging my firm from the inside out, I'd like to be aware of it in advance."
He meant every word.
And none of it was about feelings.
At all.
Probably.
-----
Hana glanced at him sideways, chewing thoughtfully. He could feel the gears in her brain turning—quick, twitchy, sharp-edged things that never quite stopped moving.
She realized, in that moment, that he wasn't going to let it go. That whatever this was—a throwaway comment fueled by alcohol and memory—had burrowed under his skin and was currently being dissected under a metaphorical microscope.
It wasn't that she didn't want to talk about it. It just… wasn't significant. Not to her. Not now. But he was going to keep poking until she gave him something.
"Okay," she sighed, brushing her fingers on a napkin. "Short story? I just heard it before. From an ex-boyfriend. That's it."
"Long story?" she continued, staring out at the parking lot like it might offer an exit route. "We were together for seven years. Then last year, he proposed. Of course I said yes."
Another fry.
"Two months after that, he ghosted me. When I found him—with someone else, mind you—he said, 'I'm sorry, Hana, but you're too much. It's exhausting.'"
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I was grieving failing the bar a second time. Of course I was exhausting. But he could've been nicer about it, you know?"
A beat.
Then she turned to him, mouth curved into a sharp, almost mocking smile. "Don't look at me like I needed a shoulder to cry on. I already cried. I moved on. That's it."
He didn't respond. Not because he agreed. But because the words sat in his chest like something unchewed. Something raw.
He watched her devour the last piece of chicken with all the dignity of a raccoon in a trash bin.
Then—offhandedly, like she wasn't about to sideswipe him emotionally—she said, "Because you treated me to a very awesome sake and this—" she gestured to the greasy remains between them "—I'll say one nice thing to you."
She licked her fingers, then glanced sideways, voice softer. "I like working here. You and Sato-san are the only people who gave me a chance far beyond just being an assistant. So you can be an ass all you want. You can't get rid of me that easy."
Then she turned, face forward again.
"And no, I'm not gonna say that again. It's the sake talking."
-----
His thoughts didn't organize themselves. Not immediately.
She liked working here.
She liked working with him.
Not because he made it easy. But because he let her be. Gave her room to fail without folding. Trusted her in the chaos.
That shouldn't have mattered. But somehow, it did.
He glanced at her. The frizz at her temples. The stubborn, open curve of her mouth. Her eyes, fixed somewhere beyond the headlights and drive-thru signs, a thousand miles away.
He could've stayed silent. Let the moment fade.
Instead—
"That ex of yours," he said quietly, "you met at Todai?"
"Yeah," she replied, voice even. "He's a lawyer now. Still is, I think."
And Katsuki didn't know why, but that particular fact made something settle—cold and sharp—at the base of his spine.
-----
The room was dark, save for the cold light of his phone screen against his face.
Katsuki lay flat on his back, one arm behind his head, the other still holding the phone he should've put down fifteen minutes ago. Maybe thirty. He wasn't keeping track. Time blurred when his thoughts decided to act up like unpaid interns.
He'd driven her home.
Stupid. Predictable. Necessary.
She'd insisted she was fine—because of course she did, because Hana Sukehiro was pathologically incapable of accepting help unless it was offered with barbed wire and a death threat. She still managed to argue the whole ride, fingers greasy from chicken, posture slumped against the door like she was preparing for ejection.
Mock salute at the curb. A sharp little smirk. And then: "The Viking sends another proposal from Yamato Shūun. I'll take a look at it this weekend. Don't die before Monday."
Not thank you. Not goodnight.
Just business. Bratty, efficient, infuriating business.
He sighed, shifted slightly, and unlocked his phone again.
Inbox. Four unread. One from legal counsel in Fukuoka. One from their newest Osaka client, requesting an updated fee schedule that didn't make them weep. And one from Kai, subject line: Don't be mad. It was strategic.
He ignored all of them.
Instead, he scrolled to his photos.
There it was.
The picture.
She was holding the Dassai bottle like it was a holy artifact, grinning wide and unfiltered, cheeks pink from humidity—not alcohol, not yet—and flashing a peace sign like she was seventeen and not a legal prodigy wasting her brilliance on clerical work and insults. Her curls were a little wild at the edges, her eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like joy.
The lighting wasn't even good.
And still, the image refused to be forgettable.
He hovered over the delete icon. Just for a second.
It was standard practice. Nothing stayed on his phone longer than necessary. Documents were archived. Messages were cleared. Photos were deleted unless they were for record-keeping or court purposes. There was no room for clutter.
And yet—he didn't press it.
Instead, he forwarded it to her. No message. She'd demanded it. He was being efficient.
Then, on a whim—and not because of some pitiful emotional curiosity—he opened the Todai alumni portal.
He had credentials, of course. Graduated top ten percent. Law faculty. Honors. Commendations. Kai had barely edged him out in one trial, and they'd been at each other's throats ever since. Civilly. Violently. Like brothers in a blood sport.
He searched her name.
And there she was.
Hana Sukehiro. Todai Law. Top of her class. Mock trial champion. Peer-reviewed essays. Debate team. Internship at one of Tokyo's big five firms before she bailed and ended up here.
He stared at the photo—smug, sure of herself, future glowing at her feet. Sharp-eyed and unbothered. She looked like she had no idea she'd ever fail anything. Like the world would be stupid to let her.
Then she did fail.
Twice.
And didn't try again.
That—that—was the part he couldn't stomach. Failing was one thing. He could understand failure. It was statistical. Expected. Manageable. But quitting? Just because some emotionally stunted coward told her she was too much?
No.
Unacceptable.
He clicked through the alumni listings. Sorted by year. Filtered the results.
There weren't many. The law faculty was competitive. Brutal. Only a handful of male graduates lined up with her academic cohort.
He scanned them.
One of them, statistically, had to be the one. The one who saw her brilliance and decided it was exhausting. The one who threw her away like she wasn't terrifyingly exceptional. The one who made her believe she should settle for a desk, a headset, and a string of half-muttered apologies for being herself.
Katsuki's jaw tightened.
One of you will have his career ruined, he thought. It'll be quiet. Surgical. You won't even see it coming.
Then he closed the portal, set the phone aside, and stared at the ceiling like it had answers he could work with.
He wasn't angry.
Not really.
It was just strategy. A long-term risk assessment. Damage control for a firm built on excellence.
And maybe—maybe—a little personal.
But only in the most efficient, calculated way possible.