Everything was going according to plan.
The Tokyo integration was ahead of schedule. In less than a year, the senior partners at Kirishima Law—those glorified fossils clinging to power with brittle hands—would be "graciously" stepping down. Or shoved, depending on how cooperative they felt when the time came. Katsuki had already outlined the transition strategy. Kai had reviewed it and called it "terrifyingly efficient," which was the closest thing to praise that man ever gave.
Naomi had started making calls. Discreet, quiet. Checking in with the people they'd cut loose. Asking if they were still interested, if they could hold on just a little longer. He'd told her to ask if anyone needed anything—money, references, bridge roles. She'd raised an eyebrow, but didn't question it.
Kai, predictably, had. "You're getting soft," he'd said with a smirk.
Katsuki had replied, flatly, "I don't have time to train replacements."
Which was true. Mostly.
Now all that was left was the last conversation. The one he'd put off for months. The one he couldn't control. The one that was currently standing twenty meters away in muddy work boots, laughing at something Rei said.
Hana.
He watched her from across the brewery yard, partially hidden behind a row of stacked crates. Like a goddamn coward. Which was ironic, considering the number of people in Tokyo who still broke into a sweat when he entered a room.
She was working. Focused. Hair tied up, sleeves rolled, face flushed with effort. That look of hyperconcentration she got when she forgot the rest of the world existed—it hadn't changed. It used to infuriate him. It still did, in a way. Mostly because he'd caught himself rearranging his entire day around it more times than he cared to admit.
She lifted a crate, adjusted something in the labeling machine, barked a comment over her shoulder to Rei. Sharp. Efficient. Her hands moved with practiced ease, like she'd done it a thousand times. She probably had.
She looked better.
Which annoyed him.
Then—something shifted. Her shoulders tensed. Her gaze drifted, eyes narrowing as she stared off toward the trees.
Shit.
He ducked back behind the crates instinctively, like some underpaid intern hiding from their senior partner.
What the hell was he doing?
He wasn't ready. That was the truth of it. For all his planning and logic and strategic brilliance, there was no spreadsheet for this. No contingency plan for the moment she looked him in the eye and decided he wasn't worth forgiving.
He told himself he was waiting for the right moment. That it had to be calculated, clean. That she'd come back to Nagoya eventually, and then they'd talk, like adults. Negotiate terms. Reach an understanding.
But now?
He stood there, breath shallow, heart slamming against his ribs like it forgot who it belonged to, and realized—
He wasn't ready to see her.
Not when she still looked like that.
Not when she looked fine. Like she'd moved on.
Like she never needed him to begin with.
He took a step back. Then another. The weight in his chest felt heavier than it should have. He didn't need this. Not now. Not when he was this off-balance. Not when she still looked like she was hers, not his. Not anyone's.
He turned to leave.
And then he heard it.
"You're lost, son."
The voice was gravel and smoke and mild amusement, with just enough weight behind it to make his blood run cold.
Katsuki froze. Turned slowly.
Takeshi Sukehiro stood a few meters away, arms folded across his chest, like he'd been there the whole damn time. Like the ground itself had coughed him up for the sole purpose of delivering judgment.
Katsuki opened his mouth. Closed it again. Calculated and discarded at least six potential statements, all of which ended in him being buried somewhere beneath the brewery grounds with a half-labeled sake bottle as his tombstone.
He settled on the least incriminating thing he could think of.
"Didn't expect to see anyone out here," he said flatly.
Takeshi smiled. Not warmly. But not unkindly, either. Just a little too knowing.
"I know a bar by the sea," he said, brushing past him. "If you're up for it."
A pause. Then, over his shoulder—
"But you're paying."
Katsuki stared at him.
A test. Or a trap. Probably both.
Still, he heard himself reply, dry as bone, "Do they hold Dassai Beyond?"
That got a proper smirk.
"Now you're talking," Takeshi said. "I think they do."
-----
The bar was quiet. Small, tucked into a stretch of weathered buildings facing the sea, with a heater buzzing weakly by the entrance and a single radio humming low in the background. It smelled like cedar and soy, the kind of place that hadn't changed its menu or its lighting since the 80s. Katsuki sat across from Hana's father at a narrow counter, a glass of Dassai Beyond in front of him—arguably the best sake in the country. Possibly the most expensive. Definitely the strongest.
It burned.
He welcomed the sting.
Takeshi lifted his own glass but didn't drink yet. Just looked at him with that same quietly dangerous calm Katsuki had seen once before—when he'd helped him bottle sake and had been evaluated like a bull in a ring.
"I remember last year," Takeshi said. "Hana sent me a photo of her holding a bottle of Dassai Beyond. Said her boss treated her."
Katsuki didn't answer.
He remembered that photo. He'd taken it. Hana holding the bottle like a trophy and laughing about how ridiculous the price tag was. She'd looked happy. No makeup. No filter. Just…herself.
He took the picture without thinking. She had sent it to her father without asking.
He took a slow sip instead of responding.
Takeshi continued, tone casual. "She said you were expanding. That her services were no longer needed."
"Temporarily," Katsuki corrected. The word came fast. Too fast. "You know how she is. If she's mad, she's mad. It's hard to get her to listen."
Takeshi nodded slowly. "Thing is, she's not mad." A beat. "She's hurt."
Katsuki said nothing.
What was there to say? That he knew? That he felt it in his chest every time he walked past her empty desk? That her name was still saved in his phone under Sukehiro—Executive Assistant, and he still hadn't changed it because it felt too final?
"She thought she was part of your team," Takeshi said softly. "That you were building something together."
Katsuki set his glass down.
"We were," he said. Then added, quieter, "We are."
Takeshi studied him for a long moment. Then asked, "After Tokyo… what's next?"
Katsuki didn't hesitate. "Osaka. Then maybe Fukuoka. We're tracking demand projections. There's space for litigation boutiques in both."
"And after that?" Takeshi's tone didn't change, but the question landed heavy.
Katsuki paused.
"Europe," he admitted. "Or Southeast Asia. Kai's been pushing for Singapore."
Takeshi smiled, not unkindly. "Do you ever plan on stopping?"
Katsuki blinked. "What?"
"Stopping," Takeshi repeated. "Not expanding. Not growing. Just… stopping. Maybe telling yourself: I don't need more."
It wasn't a question Katsuki had ever asked himself. Because the answer had always been obvious.
Success meant forward motion. Power meant control. Growth was proof of relevance. If you weren't building, you were decaying. That was how the world worked. That was how he worked.
But now—
His mind flicked to the penthouse. The one that echoed when he walked in. The sketch she left on his table. The toothbrush still in the holder. The hoodie that still smelled like her shampoo. He had Tokyo. The merger. The clients. Everything he'd ever wanted.
And yet.
"I don't know," he said.
That was the truth. The one that lived under all his systems and structures and five-year plans.
"I really don't know."
Takeshi exhaled. "Hana didn't want much. She just wanted to exist. And be wanted. Not for what she could do. Just… for being there."
Katsuki's jaw clenched. He took another sip. Said nothing.
"I don't blame you," Takeshi added after a moment. "You've got a business to run. My daughter's an unfortunate casualty. Happens to all of us eventually. I've had to let good people go, too."
The words were calm. Honest. Forgiving, even. Which somehow made it worse.
Then Takeshi looked at him with that same assessing weight.
"Maybe you two are still meant to be together. Don't deny it—no man would travel all the way from Nagoya for his ex-assistant twice."
Katsuki didn't respond. Mostly because there was nothing to argue.
He had come. Twice.
No plan. No leverage. Just… him.
"But maybe not now," Takeshi continued. "Let her figure herself out. She needs that."
Katsuki stared into his glass. The clarity of the sake caught the low light. He couldn't taste it anymore.
"She'll come back stronger," Takeshi said. "She always does."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Takeshi asked, "When's the last time you spent time with your family?"
Katsuki looked up.
"I see them," he said. "Dinners. Holidays. I show up."
Takeshi raised an eyebrow. "I said spend time. Not just show up. When's the last time you stayed longer than dessert?"
A pause.
"Years," Katsuki admitted. Quietly.
Takeshi nodded. "Then maybe start there. Spend time with them first. Unless you want to be successful and lonely. That's always an option. It's just a shitty one."
Katsuki didn't answer.
Because every instinct in him wanted to reject it. To argue. To say that this was the cost of greatness. But the image of Hana—of her walking away, of her not being there when he finally won—sat in his throat like a splinter he couldn't swallow.
Takeshi stood, stretching his back.
"Thanks for the Dassai," he said. "And drive safe."
Then he walked out, leaving Katsuki alone at the bar, surrounded by everything he'd built, and none of the people he'd built it for.
-----
He sat in the car for ten minutes before doing anything. Engine off. Head back. Hands still.
The scent of the sea lingered faintly in the air, clinging to the lining of his coat. The Dassai still buzzed low in his blood, not enough to blur his thoughts—unfortunately—but just enough to make the silence feel heavier than usual. He could hear the tick of the dashboard clock. Could practically chart the seconds like billable hours.
He didn't drive.
Didn't start the car.
Just… sat.
As if staying still long enough might make the world stop demanding something from him.
Eventually, he reached for his phone. Scrolled past unread emails, ignored five messages from Kai—three texts, two increasingly exasperated voice notes—and opened his contacts.
He hesitated only once. Long enough to think, Don't be dramatic. Which was precisely what someone dramatic would say.
He hit the call anyway.
"Mom," he said when she picked up.
A pause. Then her voice, light and curious. "Katsuki?"
"I'm going on vacation," he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Another pause.
"You're what?"
"Vacation," he repeated, voice flat. "Do you have any plans this week?"
"Are you dying?"
"No."
"Did you get fired?"
"I own the firm."
A beat of silence. He could practically hear her smile through the phone.
"Well," she said, "I suppose I can move things around."
He nodded once, even though she couldn't see him.
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Am I meeting someone?"
"No" he said "not yet."
He ended the call. Set the phone down beside him. Stared out at the empty road.
Vacation.
Right.
That's what this was.
Not penance. Not regret. Not the realization that building an empire meant nothing if there was no one left to come home to.
Just… vacation.
He started the engine, shifted into drive, and pulled out into the night, as if he hadn't just chosen—for the first time in years—to stop chasing more.
Just for a little while.