Author's note:
This chapter contains a sex scene—one that's been building for a long time. It's intimate, vulnerable, and deeply emotional. Katsuki and Hana aren't just giving in to desire—they're choosing each other, finally, fully, and without fear.
-----
He kissed her.
Not sharply, not with command—but like the moment had been waiting for them. Like the silence finally shattered and this was the only thing left to do.
His mouth was warm, steady. Hers was soft, parted, like she hadn't expected it but somehow already belonged there.
She didn't pull back.
Didn't joke. Didn't flinch. Just kissed him back, fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him in deeper like gravity had finally decided to stop fucking around.
She'd imagined this, of course. Secretly. Shamefully. During late nights when she couldn't sleep and his voice was still lodged in her chest from some offhand comment that should've meant nothing but didn't. But this—this was slower. More deliberate. His hands didn't wander. They lingered. Brushed against her jaw. Slid down her neck like she was something to learn by heart.
And then hers moved, too.
To the hem of his shirt.
He let her lift it. Let her hands explore bare skin like she had every right to. She'd seen him in pieces before—sleeves rolled, shirt half-undone, a towel slung low after a hotel shower. But never like this. Never stripped of context. Never offered.
She peeled it over his head, mouth dragging softly against his collarbone as she did.
His breath hitched.
Then he was undoing her hoodie, fingers tugging the zipper down with maddening slowness, watching her the whole time like he needed to memorize every second.
When it dropped to the floor, he didn't rush.
Didn't lunge.
He just stared.
Hana flushed under it—under the weight of him, fully clothed from the waist down and still somehow making her feel like she was already undone. Her bra was plain. Old. The underwire bit a little.
He looked at her like she was carved from goddamn moonlight.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, voice rougher than she'd ever heard it.
It made her stomach twist. Not because she didn't believe him—but because she wanted to. Because for once, she didn't want to deflect.
"You're ridiculous," she whispered back.
But her hands trembled when they reached for his belt.
He caught them. Brought them to his mouth and kissed her knuckles—brief, reverent.
Then her jeans joined the hoodie on the floor.
Then his.
They stood there for a second, completely bare to each other now. No more suits. No snark. No jokes.
His eyes moved slowly down her body, across every curve and freckle like it hurt to look at her and not touch her. His throat worked. Like he was trying to swallow everything he didn't say out loud.
She was shaking.
Not because she was scared. But because this wasn't some frantic hotel fling. This was him. And her. And every breathless fight and unspoken almost, stretched between them like a held note.
He stepped in close.
Ran his hands up her sides. Over the swell of her hips, the curve of her waist, until his thumbs grazed just beneath her breasts.
He kissed her again—deeper now, tongue sweeping against hers with a low sound in his throat that might've been a moan. Might've been a curse.
She gasped.
He did it again.
His hands mapped her with devastating precision, trailing along her back, down to the dip of her spine. She pressed closer, skin to skin, heart to heart, like she couldn't bear the space anymore.
She bit his bottom lip.
He groaned. Low. Frayed. Like he was trying very hard not to pin her to the wall and lose every ounce of control he'd ever had.
She didn't tease. Not this time.
She just whispered, "Touch me."
And he did.
Carefully at first. Reverently. Like she was made of glass—but glass he wanted to devour. His hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples until she arched, breath shaky and mouth open.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting slightly into muscle, and he welcomed it. Welcomed every mark, every shiver, every ragged sound she made just for him.
She dragged her lips along his neck, kissed the spot below his ear, murmured something that sounded like his name and more all at once.
He wasn't thinking anymore.
He was feeling.
And when she looked up at him, eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed, curls sticking to her forehead—he thought, I don't deserve her.
Not because she was fragile. Not because she needed saving. But because she was chaos and wonder and firelight, and he was a man made of rules and silence.
And still, somehow, she chose him.
She kissed him again—this time messier, needier. Her tongue slid against his, and he lost what little sense he had left.
They backed toward the bed, hands roaming, breathing ragged, everything soft unraveling into something desperate.
He gently pushed Hana until her back was on the bed, breath shallow, curls fanned out across the pillow like a storm had passed through her.
Katsuki hovered above her, braced on his forearms, gaze raking over her with quiet, consuming intensity. She was glowing in the soft amber light of the suite. And she was looking at him like he wasn't just wanted—he was needed.
It should've gone to his head.
It didn't.
Because despite every inch of practiced arrogance, every wall he'd spent years fortifying, all he could think was: Make her happy. First. Always.
He didn't say it.
He just kissed her.
Slowly. Purposefully. Mouth brushing against her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her lips like he was tracing a path across her soul.
Her breath caught again as he trailed lower.
Down her neck.
Along her collarbone.
Then the soft slope of her chest.
She arched into him, gasping as his lips found her breast, then the other, tongue circling with maddening care. His hands held her like she might vanish. Like every part of her mattered.
And then he kept going.
Lower. Slower. Kissing every inch like it had a name, like it belonged to him and he intended to prove it.
By the time he reached her thighs, she was already trembling.
"Katsuki—" she breathed, voice breaking halfway through.
But he didn't answer.
Just pressed a kiss between her legs—soft, reverent, devastating—and she shattered. A sound tore from her throat, raw and unguarded, her hand flying to his hair, gripping like she needed to anchor herself.
He kept going. Careful. Focused.
She was unraveling fast, hips bucking, breath ragged, eyes wide with disbelief that this was actually happening, that he was actually doing this to her like it was the only thing in the world he wanted.
Then, just as she started to fall—
He stopped.
She gasped, sharp and broken. "What—?"
He moved up again, kissed her stomach, her ribs, her throat, like he hadn't just driven her to the brink and left her there trembling. Her fingers clawed at his shoulders in protest.
"Don't—" she begged, her voice raw. "You can't—don't stop—"
He didn't speak.
He just looked at her—flushed, furious, undone—and smirked. Barely. Like this was a game and he already knew the ending.
Then he went back.
Took his time.
Wrecked her all over again.
And when he brought her to the edge a second time—closer, sharper, worse—she could barely breathe, let alone speak.
He stopped again.
Her moan broke into a sob of disbelief, her whole body trembling.
"Katsuki," she warned, voice wrecked.
He kissed the inside of her thigh.
Then the skin just below her navel.
Then her lips—soft and slow and dizzyingly sweet.
"I've waited weeks," he murmured against her mouth. "You can wait a few more seconds."
She would've yelled if she could think.
But she couldn't.
All she could do was fall apart a little more.
-----
One hand still buried in his hair, the other fisted in the sheets like she was holding onto gravity itself. Her legs were trembling beneath his palms, her mouth open with a half-swallowed curse.
And still, he hesitated.
Hovering just above her, skin flushed, heartbeat hammering. One hand brushed her cheek. The other anchored her hip like a silent vow.
"Are you sure?" he asked, low and raw.
She didn't even hesitate.
"Stop asking, you control freak," she whimpered, half-laugh, half-despair. "Just—Katsuki."
He exhaled hard, the last thread of restraint snapping somewhere deep in his chest.
And then he moved.
Slow at first. Gentle. Like every inch of her needed permission, like he was still giving her a moment to change her mind—even though she clearly wasn't going to. She gasped beneath him, fingers clawing at his back now, dragging along skin like she wanted to burn her name into him.
Everything about her was too much and not enough.
Warm and soft and impossibly real.
He sank into her with a sound he didn't recognize as his own—low, guttural, stunned. Like the weight of her, the way she clung to him, the way she fit, had knocked the breath out of him completely.
And Hana—god.
He filled her like she'd been missing something, like he'd been carved out and waiting for this.
It was too much. Not enough. Everything.
She moaned against his mouth, and he lost the rhythm already.
Everything he'd built—discipline, self-control, logic—gone. Her body moved beneath him, welcoming, demanding, and his mind went static.
He was supposed to take it slow.
Supposed to honor the moment or some poetic shit.
But she kissed his jaw and whispered "more" into his neck, and he snapped.
His hands slid beneath her thighs and pulled her legs higher, wrapping them around his waist like he couldn't get close enough. Couldn't get deep enough. Couldn't have her enough.
He thrust harder, faster, the slow rhythm forgotten, breath ragged, hips meeting hers like the world might end if he didn't touch every inch of her.
And Hana—
She shattered.
Came apart with a cry that echoed through the glass walls, head thrown back, curls sticking to sweat-slick skin, body trembling as she clung to him like he was all she had left.
He followed seconds later, jaw clenched, muscles shaking with the force of it. Eyes squeezed shut as he buried his face in her neck and let go.
But he wasn't done.
Not even close.
As the aftershocks faded, she collapsed against the pillows, chest rising and falling like she'd run a marathon and then drowned in it.
And then—
He leaned down, kissed her cheek, and whispered, "Don't miss the lights, Hana."
Before she could process it, he pulled her upright, chest to chest, hands firm on her hips as he guided her to the window. The cold glass met her flushed skin and made her shiver.
"what—?"
He didn't answer.
He bent her gently, deliberately, until her palms were flat against the glass. The aurora blazed just beyond her reflection, green and gold spilling across her body like it belonged to her.
So did he.
And he wasn't finished showing it.
----
She was supposed to be looking at the lights.
That was the whole point. The aurora was dancing across the sky like someone had poured molten color into the dark—but Hana couldn't see it anymore.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't breathe.
Because she was pressed up against the glass wall, naked and bent forward while Katsuki moved inside her like he owned every inch of her body and intended to prove it.
His hand came around her front—confident, focused—and cupped her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple in slow, devastating circles. She gasped, loud and broken, forehead pressed to the cool window.
"Katsuki—" she whimpered.
He didn't answer. Just thrust again, deep and smooth and maddeningly good.
Her knees buckled.
Her brain short-circuited.
Her moans turned into full-body sounds, the kind she didn't know she could make, the kind she didn't care he was hearing.
It was too much. Too good. The friction, the heat, his hand on her chest, the pressure building like a storm—
"You can handle this," he growled behind her, voice wrecked and low and far too pleased with himself.
"I'm going to die," she gasped.
He didn't slow down.
If anything, he pushed harder.
And honestly? Fine. Let her die. Right there. Northern Lights, naked, bent against a glass wall by her terrifying boss turned fantasy—this was how she was going out.
She felt herself coming again—sharper this time, unbearable. Her eyes rolled back as it hit, as her whole body locked and then broke. It was ecstasy and pain, her muscles shaking, her breath lost to the air. She cried out, legs trembling, skin burning.
And fuck, he still wasn't done.
She barely had a second to recover before he pulled out and caught her mid-stagger, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back like she weighed nothing.
"Wait—wait, what—"
He didn't answer. Just carried her across the room and dropped onto the couch, pulling her into his lap like she was exactly where she belonged.
She barely had time to blink before he adjusted her—lifted her—and then sank her down onto him again.
Her mouth dropped open. Her hands flew to his shoulders.
"This one," he muttered, biting the edge of her jaw, "is for making me do that polar plunge."
She let out something between a laugh and a moan, already dizzy, already melting.
"Oh my god," she breathed.
His hands settled on her hips—firm, guiding, no hesitation. Not that she needed much direction. She was already too far gone, her body hypersensitive, slick with sweat, heart racing like she was about to lose something and didn't know what.
He set the rhythm first—slow, deliberate rolls of her hips that made her gasp, his fingers digging into her skin like he was anchoring himself, like if he let go, they'd both fall apart.
But then—
Then something shifted.
He leaned back in the chair, head tilted, eyes half-lidded with something feral and reverent all at once. Giving her space. Letting her take it.
And she did.
Hana moved.
Rhythmic. Unrelenting. Like she couldn't stop even if she tried. Her palms braced against his chest, sweat-slick and burning, curls sticking to her shoulders as she rocked on top of him with something that felt like desperation and defiance and everything she'd been holding in for weeks.
He watched her like she was the goddamn northern lights themselves.
Then he leaned up, caught her mouth in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and frustration and finally—and kissed her like he was drowning.
She matched it.
Met every roll of his hips with her own. Every sound he made with something raw and real and hers.
The world narrowed.
Just heat. Just pressure. Just his hands clutching her tighter, her moans rising with every thrust, the ache building and building until she couldn't breathe.
Until neither of them could.
She came first—shattered again in his lap with a gasp and a whimper, head thrown back, body shaking.
He followed, arms wrapped around her like he couldn't let go even if he wanted to. His breath came hot against her shoulder, voice a low curse as he buried himself one last time and broke apart beneath her.
They stayed like that. Spent. Boneless.
Her cheek against his shoulder. His lips brushing her temple. Their bodies still tangled, hearts pounding in the same erratic rhythm.
The aurora still danced outside.
Casting shifting light across the room like the sky itself was applauding.
"That was…" Hana managed, voice hoarse.
He exhaled a slow breath, then kissed her forehead, sweeping a thumb across her cheek to wipe away the sweat clinging there.
"It's your fault," he said, soft but dry.
"For making me wait this long."