Her laptop was balanced on the hotel dresser, propped up by the coffee table book that had "Scandinavian Elegance" written on the spine and smelled faintly of pine and capitalism. Yuna's face filled the screen, wearing a clay mask and a fluffy cat-ear headband like it wasn't seven in the morning back in Nagoya.
"Babe," Yuna said, tilting her head with a slow grin. "You're hot."
Hana blinked at the mirror. Then at the screen. Then back at the mirror.
"I feel like a hooker."
"Babe," Yuna said, completely unbothered, "I would not let you out looking like a hooker. Trust me. That's high-end escort energy, at worst."
Comforting.
Kind of.
Hana sighed and fiddled with the strand of hair that had fallen loose again. The rest of her hair was still pinned in that salon-perfect updo from earlier—one of those loose, bridal-magazine looks with curled pieces framing her face like she lived in a romance drama and had meaningful moments on balconies. The woman at the salon had been terrifyingly sweet, too. Kept calling her honey and gave her a cookie while setting the blowdryer like she was defusing a bomb.
"It's your dress," Hana muttered, turning sideways and adjusting the fabric at her waist. "It feels tight."
"That's because I'm a size smaller than you and you have amazing boobs," Yuna said, completely unrepentant. "You're welcome."
"They're not amazing," Hana said. "I like yours better. Perky."
Yuna beamed. Then cupped her own boobs like they were up for auction. "Kai liked these too. Called them 'a handful.'"
"Oh my god," Hana groaned, nearly knocking over her lip tint. "Why would you say that. Why would you put that image in my brain."
"Because it's hilarious. And you're flustered. Which is rare. I like it."
"I'm going to scrub my brain with bleach."
"You're welcome again."
Hana leaned closer to the mirror, trying to decide between her usual berry-toned lipstick or something nude and grown-up and appropriate for the whole diplomatic gala, foreign investors, maybe don't show up looking like a J-pop backup dancer thing. She ended up doing neither. Just lip balm. A dab of cheek tint.
Anxiety was creeping up her ribs like slow, wet ivy.
She could feel it. That quiet static behind the eyes. The part of her brain that pinged between you're late, you're ugly, you're overdoing it, and you're not doing enough, all in the same breath.
So she backed off. No makeup, except for the balm. Good enough.
"Norway update," Yuna said, wiping her clay mask with the back of her hand like a medieval gremlin. "Give me chaos."
"It's nice," Hana said, distracted. Then caught herself. "Like, aggressively nice. Everyone's polite. The water tastes like glacier runoff. The chocolate is emotional."
"So, thriving."
"Yeah, sure," Hana said, and then—because it was lodged in her throat—she added, "He blocked a three-day event in his calendar."
Yuna paused. "...Katsuki?"
"No, the Viking King of Oslo. Yes, Katsuki."
"What kind of event?"
"I don't know. That's the point." Hana held her hands up. "I asked. He said—and I quote—'it's private.'"
"Suspish," Yuna said, narrowing her eyes.
"Right? Who blocks Thursday through Saturday in another country and calls it private when the flight back isn't until Monday? What is he doing? Meeting someone? Escaping?"
"Why don't you ask him?"
"I did. Again: 'It's private.'" Hana mimicked his deadpan perfectly, including the soul-deep disdain.
Yuna hummed, like she was watching a dating show and knew someone was about to throw wine.
Hana glanced at the mirror again.
The dress was... a lot. But she was hot. Objectively. Sexy, even. Not in a demure "hire me for your consulting firm" way, but in a bold "I know exactly what I'm doing and your PowerPoint can't save you" way.
Then—
"Have you had sex yet?"
Hana choked on air. Actually choked. Nearly knocked over her laptop. "Yuna."
"What?" Yuna grinned, wiping clay off her chin. "It's a normal question."
"No!"
"Maybe tonight."
"Oh my god." Hana groaned, pressing her palms to her face. "Why are you like this."
"Because I love you. And because you're mentally unhinged, and I need to live vicariously."
"I'm not—unhinged. I'm just—high-functioning."
"Babe, you just argued with your own lipstick."
"That's called internal democracy."
Yuna snorted. "Anyway. Have fun, birthday girl. When you get back, let's get absolutely wasted."
"Counting on it," Hana said, finally smiling. Then she leaned forward, inspecting her reflection one last time. Lip balm. Cheek tint. Updo that screamed expensive brunch and emotional repression. Her heart was already beating too fast.
She could do it..
Probably.
-----
He lit another cigarette he didn't need.
The balcony was quiet, save for the low hum of Oslo below and the faint, maddening echo of Hana's voice bleeding through her hotel room wall. Muffled. Animated. Definitely on a call. Probably with Yuna—no one else could get that particular mix of exasperation and fondness out of her.
He checked his watch.
Again.
She was late.
Not that it mattered. The gala wasn't for another twenty minutes. But still—she was late. He was ready. And if he had to endure one more second of listening to her pacing, babbling, and laughing behind a closed door while he stood outside like some idiot chain-smoking on foreign real estate—
The door clicked open.
And for a single, unguarded second, he stopped breathing.
Midnight blue.
The dress clung like it had been stitched directly onto her body. No shine, no sequins, no theatrics—just fabric and skin and the dangerous suggestion of both. Structured bodice, slight ruffle at the shoulders, a slit that made his thoughts go to hell and stay there. The hem grazed the floor. Her legs didn't. And those shoes—his shoes—the Manolos he gave her after that night—were back on her feet like they'd never left.
Her hair was up, soft tendrils framing her face. The kind of effortless updo that cost eighty dollars and a lot of smiling politely at a stranger wielding a hot tool. No jewelry, save for a single stud in each ear. And no makeup—at least not the kind he was used to. No eyeliner, no foundation, no painted-on perfection.
Just her.
And fuck.
He immediately regretted saying yes to the gala.
Not because he didn't want to go.
But because now, everyone else would see her too.
Hana stepped forward like nothing was wrong. Like she didn't just weaponize every goddamn nerve in his body. "I can't close my zipper all the way up," she said, turning slightly. "Can you help me?"
He looked down.
The zipper was maybe halfway up. Her back was bare. She was asking for help.
Which was unfortunate. Because right now, Katsuki wanted to do the exact opposite of help.
His hand hovered.
Zip it up. Be decent. A functioning adult. The professional he'd spent years building himself into.
Or—
Pull it down.
And see if the dress fell as easily as it fit.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. Moved in. Pulled the zipper up in one smooth motion, fingers brushing warm skin on the way. He didn't say a word.
"Thanks," Hana said, still facing away from him. Then, quieter, "Sorry I'm late."
She turned, adjusting the bodice slightly. Then—true to form—started talking. Fast.
"I couldn't decide on anything and then the zipper got stuck and I think I smudged my cheek tint and the shoes felt too formal at first but then I figured if I wore the boots you'd say something like 'did you lose a bet' and I haven't been to something like this in forever and it's four hours, four hours, Katsuki, I don't even sit that long for Netflix—"
He watched her carefully.
She wasn't rambling because she was late.
She was rambling because she was anxious.
He knew the signs by now. The subtle shift in cadence. The too-quick breath. The way she didn't quite meet his eyes. Like she was already bracing for something to go wrong.
So he did what he did best.
He leaned in and kissed her. Just once. Just enough.
Her breath caught.
And when he pulled back, he said softly, "I got you."
-----
He always did that.
She should've been annoyed. Or flustered. Or something resembling coherent. But instead—
She exhaled. Finally.
Her brain didn't stop, not really. But it slowed. The static softened. The hum in her chest that had been vibrating all afternoon started to ease, just a little.
Because that's what he did. This emotionally constipated man who smoked on balconies and dressed like a final boss at a merger meeting—he knew when she was spiraling and he never said it out loud. He just… steadied her.
"I got you," he said, low.
And she believed him.
She knew she could be herself with him. That wasn't the problem. The problem was: what if she was herself—and it embarrassed him?
She wasn't good at these things. Events that required stillness. Restraint. Polished laughter and standing up straight without talking with her hands. She could survive client meetings because those had structure, scripts, an endpoint. But a four-hour gala?
With string quartets and wine glasses and people who thought compliance training was riveting?
Do you even bow to an ambassador? Shake their hand? Smile like you're not seconds from chewing on your own cuticle?
It felt like drowning in velvet.
And then there was the damn calendar block.
Thursday to Saturday.
Private.
Still there. Still unanswered. Still echoing in her skull like a slow-drip faucet.
Katsuki moved before she could spiral again. Grabbed her coat—the tailored one she liked because it made her look taller—and slid it over her shoulders without a word.
"If you want to leave, we can leave anytime," he said. "Let's just make an appearance."
She nodded. Quiet. Grateful.
And then he did the thing that undid her completely.
He held her hand.
Not loosely. Not passively.
Firmly. Like he meant it. Like he wasn't going to let go unless she made him.
Grounding.
She clung to it.
And for the first time all day, she started to breathe.