Hana reentered the ballroom with the dignity of a woman who was ninety percent goosebumps and ten percent regret.
Okay, maybe seventy-thirty.
The rooftop wind had nearly skinned her alive. Her dress clung to her body like it was trying to escape too, and her heels clicked against the marble like tiny judgmental gongs. She wrapped her arms around herself in the universal language of yes, I'm cold, but don't you dare offer me a coat because I made this choice.
The lighting inside was warm. Golden. Inviting in a sterile, tax-deductible way. Someone nearby was talking about investment portfolios like they were foreplay.
She beelined for the bar. Smiled at a passing server like she wasn't a social imposter about three heartbeats away from snapping a breadstick in half just for the release.
"can I—" she leaned in, dropped her voice to a whisper, like she was asking for drugs, "—have coffee?"
The server gave her a sympathetic smile that said I see you, office gremlin, and nodded. "I'll bring one to you."
Bless.
Hana exhaled and turned back to the room.
And there they were.
Katsuki and Meagan.
Of course the universe would time this just as she regained the will to live. The moment her blood thawed enough to process anything other than don't die of exposure, it served her this.
Meagan was the exact kind of woman who probably took vitamins without gagging. All glacial elegance and high-efficiency cheekbones. Her dress looked like it had been custom-stitched from the ego of a fashion house. Hana's brain helpfully noted that the hem was dragging just slightly on one side, but honestly, it felt petty even thinking it.
Her nails were immaculate.
The kind of immaculate that said I file my taxes early and don't cry during confrontation.
She probably had a skincare routine and a therapist who said things like emotional boundaries are not cruelty, Meagan, they are maturity.
Hana squinted.
She wanted to find something wrong. Anything.
One hair out of place.
A smudged lip.
A cracked heel.
A visible pimple.
Even a flyaway lash would do.
But no.
Meagan looked like she'd been curated by God during a phase of minimalist Scandinavian design.
Hana swallowed.
Okay. Fine.
She was gorgeous.
Like, ridiculously, unfairly, blondely gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that made you rethink your entire personality just to be allowed in the same skincare aisle.
And there she was, laughing—soft, relaxed, familiar—with Katsuki.
Katsuki, who didn't laugh. Katsuki, whose version of fun was reading merger clauses out loud like bedtime stories. Katsuki, who blocked off three days on his calendar and marked it private.
Three days.
Hana's brain did not need to go there. And yet—
It did.
Katsuki and Meagan. Somewhere isolated. Fjords. Glacial water and body heat. Him shirtless (and infuriatingly well-sculpted, because of course), her in one of those sleek swimsuits that doubled as a personality. Laughing. Lounging. Sharing inside jokes that didn't require subtitles. The kind of couple that made other couples feel underachieving.
Maybe they drank wine on a balcony.
Maybe he actually smiled at her.
Maybe she called him Kats, and he let her.
God.
Hana pressed her fingers to her temple like she could massage the mental image out of existence.
This was fine. She wasn't jealous. She wasn't. She was just… curious. Concerned. Investigative. Like a good assistant. Like a loyal golden retriever who just happened to have abandonment issues and a crippling fear of being forgettable.
It's fine.
She was fine.
Everything was absolutely, totally, emotionally evacuated levels of fine.
Where the hell was that coffee?
-----
Of all the places.
Of all the people.
Of all the goddamn events.
Katsuki hadn't spoken to that group in years. And not out of neglect—it was deliberate.
Even Kai, who could charm his way through a military tribunal, had stopped answering their messages sometime around 2018. And Kai had a high tolerance for idiots.
But no. Apparently, the universe—vindictive and ironically well-connected—had chosen this moment, this opera house, this city in the northern edge of the frozen capitalist wilderness to reunite him with the last people he wanted to see.
Former Harvard classmates.
Still loud. Still smug.
Still speaking like they had proprietary ownership over success.
According to one of them—Daniel? Dylan? Something with a D—their mutual acquaintance had launched a maritime-adjacent tech startup that was "revolutionizing logistics." Which apparently meant flying a group of thirty-somethings across the globe to drink free champagne and talk about AI like it was a new religion.
Thirty-somethings. With time for fun.
Ridiculous.
Katsuki exchanged pleasantries like a man holding a scalpel—precise, detached, fully aware of how dangerous it was to misstep. He didn't scowl. Didn't comment on the fact that one of them still had his LinkedIn headline as "future unicorn founder."
And then, one by one, they peeled away.
Laughing. Winking. Nudging. As if orchestrated. As if this had been planned.
Until he was left standing with her.
Meagan.
She hadn't changed. Not in the ways that mattered.
Still beautiful. The kind of beautiful that never had to try—just existed, curated and competent. She still smelled faintly of that expensive fig-scented perfume she used to keep in his bathroom.
Still warm, still soft-spoken—still pretending she didn't burn things down and walk away like it was a health choice.
He didn't speak.
So she did.
"I wanted to say I'm sorry."
Katsuki did not answer, just looked at him.
"For what I did," she clarified. "Back then. I think I was… immature."
Immature.
That was one word for it.
He didn't respond. Not immediately. He wasn't sure anything he said wouldn't sound like a closing argument.
She took the silence as permission to continue.
"You own a firm now, right?"
"Yes," he said. "Kai and I."
She smiled—tentative, hopeful. "I was wondering if… you might have room for an American lawyer. Someone to handle the U.S. side of your business. I just—" she hesitated, her voice dipping low like it was still soft enough to wrap around him—"I don't feel like I'm going anywhere with them."
He was no longer paying attention, because across the room, he saw Hana.
Standing near the bar. Holding a coffee cup like it was hand sanitizer and staring in his direction with the kind of unreadable expression that meant a hundred different things at once.
She was still.
Too still.
And he knew her well enough to know that stillness meant one of two things:
She was seconds away from saying something wildly inappropriate.
She was seconds away from breaking something she wouldn't apologize for.
He didn't take his eyes off her.
"I have everything I need," he said flatly.
Meagan followed his gaze.
Her breath caught—just slightly. She smiled, but it was tight.
"Lucky girl."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Meagan reached for her clutch. Smoothed her dress.
"Well. Take care, Katsuki."
He didn't watch her leave.
Because he was already walking toward Hana.
She wasn't looking at anything. Not the champagne-slick crowd. Not the towering glass fixtures. Not even him.
Which was unusual.
Katsuki approached quietly, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp. She didn't glance up.
"Hey," he said.
No response.
Not even a twitch.
He narrowed his eyes. Then—gently, precisely—flicked her forehead.
She jolted. "Ow. What was that for?"
"You're zoning out."
"I'm not," she said immediately, defensively, like a child caught sneaking snacks before dinner.
She was.
He stepped closer and finally noticed the flush on her cheeks. The red tip of her nose. She was freezing.
He didn't think. He just moved.
His hands cupped her face—one on each cheek, palms warm against her skin. She flinched, slightly. Then stilled.
"Jesus, Hana," he muttered. "You're cold."
Okay.
So maybe she'd had an off night. Some anxiety. A small existential spiral. Maybe her blood had turned into an iced latte at some point on the rooftop and now her boss was holding her face like he was checking for a fever, or a pulse, or a reason not to kiss her.
It was fine.
She was fine.
She was… significantly less anxious now.
"I saw this nice rooftop and went there for a bit," she said, trying to sound normal. "I talked to someone."
His thumb moved absently against her jaw. "Someone?"
"She told me her name was Eleanor Hartwell."
Pause.
Then his hands stilled.
Eleanor Hartwell.
Katsuki's brain switched tracks like a courtroom pivot. Hartwell Group—UK-based luxury real estate. Untouchable. Prestigious. Infuriating. He and Kai had tried, more than once, to get a foot in that door. Kai with his lethal charm. Katsuki with his airtight precision. Hartwell had dismissed them both.
She hated Kai's flirtation. Hated Katsuki's bluntness. Hated being impressed.
And she spoke to Hana.
His gaze narrowed. "What did she want?"
"She got my contact details," Hana said, blinking up at him. "For a possible Japan expansion."
There it was.
That low, quiet flicker in his chest. Not warmth. Not pride. Something colder. Sharper.
Satisfaction.
She wasn't just his assistant. She was his edge. And she didn't even realize it.
Then—Henrik.
Katsuki saw him before he even stepped into their radius. The way he looked at Hana—assessing. Planning. Like he was about to try something that would require a restraining order.
Katsuki didn't move.
Instead, he smiled at Hana—tilted, deliberate. "You may have just landed a seven-figure client," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. "Congratulations. You're officially too competent to fire."
Then he leaned in and kissed her.
Quick. Intentional.
Her lips parted in surprise. He didn't give her time to react.
When he pulled back, he glanced sideways—Henrik was still watching.
Katsuki met his eyes.
Henrik raised his glass, smirking.
Acknowledged.
Message received.
Retreat initiated.
Katsuki looked back at Hana, utterly calm. "How do you feel about McDonald's?"
Her eyes widened. "With actual food? And Coke?"
"With actual food," he confirmed, "and Coke."
She exhaled like she'd just survived a hostage negotiation. "Ugh, I love you."
It slipped out.
Reflex. Thoughtless. Like when she told Yuna that every time she brought home takeout. Or when she told Kai she loved him for carrying two backpacks of deposition documents across Tokyo Station.
It meant nothing.
Absolutely zero things.
Except it had left her mouth and now it was hanging there like a blinking red alarm.
"I mean—not love love," she rushed. "Just like—platonically. Comfort food love. Like I'd also say it to gyoza. Or my heated blanket. Or those fries from that one 7-Eleven near the courthouse that are weirdly better than normal fries—"
"Too late," Katsuki deadpanned. He turned and started walking, grabbing her hand as he passed and pulling her with him. "I heard it."
"But I didn't mean—"
"You said it."
"Okay, but if you replay the sentence—"
"I'm not arguing semantics with someone who nearly froze to death on a roof for fun."
"I wasn't freezing for fun, it was existential dread, and it was very productive!"
He didn't answer. Just kept walking. Hand still wrapped around hers.
And if he was holding it a little tighter than necessary—well. That wasn't anyone's business but his.