Katsuki watched from a measured distance. Arms crossed, back straight, expression unreadable—though anyone with a functioning brainstem could tell he was irritated. Not at the Sukehiros, of course. They were fine. Efficient, no-nonsense people. Mostly. The problem was Hana.
Or more specifically, the way she made farewells look like a damn performance art piece.
Aoi was already misty-eyed, and the only reason she hadn't burst into tears yet was probably out of consideration for the fresh laundry hanging nearby. Takeshi stood with his usual easy gravity, trying not to look emotional and failing just enough to be respectable. Emi was listing vitamins like she was prescribing them. And Hana—unsurprisingly—was in full chaos mode.
"Cut back on the sake and cholesterol, papa," she scolded, nudging her father in the side. "You're not young anymore."
Takeshi snorted. "Still younger than your mother."
"That's true," Emi said dryly, already pulling Hana into a hug. "And you—eat something green once in a while."
"I do," Hana replied, muffled against her mother's shoulder. "Yuna cooks for me every day."
That made Emi relax. Slightly. Katsuki caught the shift in her shoulders, the way she glanced at Hana like she wasn't sure whether to believe her but wanted to.
Rei, of course, said nothing. Just stood to the side like a bouncer guarding a VIP lounge. Staring. At him.
Katsuki didn't return the look. That would be a declaration of war, and frankly, he didn't feel like indulging Hana's brother in a dick-measuring contest in front of the hydrangeas.
Instead, he accepted the bottle Takeshi handed him.
"One for your old man," the older man said, voice steady.
Katsuki paused. Just for a second. Just long enough for it to register.
It wasn't just a bottle. It was acknowledgment. Respect. A quiet gesture from one patriarch to another. Something shared between men who worked themselves to the bone and raised children who didn't know how to sit still.
Katsuki nodded once. The weight of the glass in his hand felt heavier than it should've. He made a mental note—one he would follow through on—to visit his father's grave when they got back. The old man would've liked this one. Dry. Unpretentious. Honest.
Takeshi handed another bottle to Hana. "Give this one to Yuna and tell her to visit when she gets the chance."
"She'll cry," Hana said. "And then hoard it."
"Good," Takeshi said.
Katsuki's eyes flicked to Ren, who was grinning like someone who'd just won the lottery and decided to buy fireworks instead of savings bonds.
"When you get to Nagoya," Hana told her youngest brother, pointing at him like a general giving orders, "wait for me at the station. I don't care if your new friends are cute. I'm coming with you to look for dorms."
"Obviously," Ren said, already bouncing. "I don't trust anyone else to bully the landlords."
Katsuki had heard enough.
"Let's go, Hana."
She didn't look at him.
Just bowed to her parents—clean, precise, practiced—and walked past him like he was part of the landscaping. Straight to the car. Still not looking at him.
He sighed. A long, quiet exhale that said far more than it should have.
Then turned to Emi and Takeshi, bowing respectfully. The angle of it was exact. Polished. But there was something else underneath—something less transactional. Less professional. Something… personal.
Takeshi gave a subtle nod in return. No theatrics. No words. Just an understanding.
Katsuki walked to his car and slid into the driver's seat.
And finally his eyes drifted to the thing that had been bothering him since she stepped outside that morning.
The bandaid.
Pressed low against her jaw, cartoon-pink and wildly incongruent with her expression, like someone had slapped a sticker on a porcelain vase mid-explosion.
He'd assumed she scratched herself. Or possibly cooking. Or maybe she was hiding a zit, though she didn't usually care enough to cover those.
Still. Something about it was… off.
His fingers tightened briefly on the steering wheel. She hadn't said a word to him since last night.
He didn't say anything yet. But he did make a small adjustment to the rearview mirror. Just to keep her in frame.
This was going to be a long ride.
And maybe he deserved every excruciating second of it.
------
They hadn't spoken since they left Konoura.
Which was fine. Great, even. Silence was efficient. Productive. Not soul-crushing at all.
Hana sat stiffly, arms crossed over her chest like she was trying to fold herself into a less chaotic version of herself. Her eyes locked on the passing scenery-trees, rice fields, the occasional vending machine—they all got the same silent treatment.
She could feel him looking, though. Not constantly, but in the way that made her skin prickle. Like he was checking to see if she'd combusted yet. She hadn't. She was just…processing. Aggressively.
What the hell was she even supposed to say?
"So, about that soul-scorching kiss you dismissed like a clerical error?"
Yeah, no. Too unhinged.
"Nice weather. Thanks for emotionally gutting me like a fish."
Okay. Dial it back.
She considered asking about their itinerary. Work. The office. Something safe, professional, emotionally sterilized. But the problem was—she didn't want to be professional. She wanted to be petty. Petty and loud and maybe a little bit mean. The grown-up equivalent of flipping over a Monopoly board and yelling "You started it!"
She tugged at the hem of her shirt, fingers winding around the fabric like it owed her emotional reparations. Her thumbnail caught on the seam. Over and over. A loop. A glitch.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. Because he didn't miss anything—especially when it came to her.
He didn't look at her. Not directly. But she could tell. The way his grip on the wheel shifted slightly. The way his jaw tensed like it wanted to say something before he did.
"You planning to ignore me the rest of the ride?"
Her head snapped toward him, too fast. Her voice came out sharp, too loud, too ready.
"Do you want to talk about work? We can talk about work," she snapped. "Less chances of me being a mistake that way."
Katsuki exhaled through his nose. No irritation in it. Just…resignation. Which pissed her off more, honestly.
He pulled the car to the side of the road in one smooth motion. The kind of calculated stop that said I am not doing this while operating a moving vehicle.
He put the car in park.
Then turned to her. Calm. Controlled. That same terrifying stillness he used in court right before eviscerating someone.
"Okay. Spill it."
She looked at him. "Spill what?"
"Your insults. Curses. Rage. Whatever you've got locked and loaded." His eyes narrowed. "But be damned sure you act like an adult when it's over."
"I am an adult."
"Then start acting like one."
Hana inhaled.
Okay.
Okay.
Here we go.
"I was acting like one," she said, hands flailing before she caught herself and clutched them into her lap. "I was being quiet and adult and dignified. But you pulled over, so now we're doing this."
He said nothing. Just waited.
"So," she continued, picking up speed like a runaway bullet train, "for your information, I wasn't ignoring you. I was trying not to embarrass myself. Because if I'd known you were going to kiss me, I would've cut back on the garlic. Or brought a mint. Or brushed my teeth with bleach, I don't know!"
Still nothing from him. His expression didn't change. Just a slight tilt of his head. Watching. Listening.
"And—and it's not like this happens all the time, okay? I haven't been kissed since my last boyfriend. And I'd finally stopped hoping and then you go and say—" Her voice dropped, mockingly deep and quiet. "'Oh, you're not the problem, don't reduce yourself,' like some self-righteous emotional guru."
Her eyes flashed. "And then you kiss me. And I'm thinking, oh my god. Maybe. Maybe someone finally likes me. Someone just as unhinged and emotionally unstable as I am. And then—then—you go and call it a mistake. Like I spilled coffee on your case files."
She was breathing hard now. Practically vibrating.
"Make up your damn mind, Katsuki."
Then softer. Not weak. Just quiet in a way that hit harder than the yelling.
"Being unliked and being called a mistake are different things. I'm really not asking you to like me. I'm not. Because I'm not there either."
She looked away. Out the window. "But I won't call it a mistake."
Silence, thick and immediate.
Katsuki stared at her.
And for a second—just one—the tightness in his chest shifted into something else. Something dangerous. Something real.
Okay.
Okay, he'd fucked up.
Spectacularly.
The moment she started speaking, he'd known. The moment she said garlic and mint and I haven't been kissed since my last boyfriend, it had been like slamming headfirst into a wall made of facts he'd been too much of a coward to face.
She wasn't just angry. She was hurt.
And somehow, that was worse.
She thought he didn't like her.
She thought the kiss meant nothing.
Because of one sentence.
And whose fault was that?
Oh, right.
His.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't try to defend himself—because there was no defense. She'd laid it all out, raw and relentless, and the worst part?
She still hadn't asked for anything.
Not even an apology.
Just…respect. Acknowledgment. Something he should've given her the second his mouth touched hers.
Katsuki exhaled, eyes still on the dashboard like he was weighing the words in his mouth before letting them out.
"I said it was a mistake," he said evenly. "I didn't say I regret it. Those are two different things, too."
Hana paused.
Her brain—already a pinball machine of spiraling thoughts—skidded to a halt so abruptly she could practically hear the tires screech. Wait. Wait-wait-wait. He didn't regret it?
What the hell does that even mean?!
Her chest tightened. Which was annoying. Because he didn't get to say things like that and make her feel like she might need to recalibrate her entire worldview. She stared at him, squinting, like maybe if she looked hard enough, he'd glitch and reveal a more comprehensible version of himself.
Then he kept going.
"I don't do emotions properly," Katsuki said. "All I know is argue and win. But I didn't regret it. And I would do it again if you'll keep on ignoring me."
Well shit.
She wanted to snap back with something sharp and deflective—something about weaponized affection or his deeply disturbing need to win at literally everything—but nothing came. Just this warm, treacherous ache low in her chest. The kind of ache that whispered maybe you aren't completely unlovable, actually.
She stared out the window again, but this time her jaw wasn't as tight.
They sat in silence. But not the angry kind this time. Not sharp-edged or charged. Just… still. Like her brain had stopped glitching for five seconds and taken a breath.
Then she said, quietly, "I'm not a mistake."
Beside her, Katsuki didn't even hesitate.
"It was a mistake," he corrected. "You're never a mistake, Sukehiro."
Her shoulders dropped. Just slightly. Like someone had finally loosened the invisible strings pulling them so tight.
She exhaled.
"…Okay."
Katsuki nodded once. Satisfied. He let the silence settle again, this time lighter. Less like a pressure cooker and more like… breathing room.
Then he glanced sideways. Sharp eyes flicking to the pink bandaid still plastered over her jaw.
"What's with the bandaid, anyway?"
Hana startled. "Zit."
He gave her a look. Dry. Unconvinced.
"You had a giant, ugly pimple on the top of your nose before. We had a client meeting and you never even tried to hide it."
She crossed her arms. "Cut?"
"What kind of cut?"
"...A normal one?"
He narrowed his eyes.
"What is that?" he asked again.
"Nothing."
And then, before she could stop him, Katsuki reached over and grabbed her face.
"Hey—!"
Too late.
His thumb hooked the edge of the bandaid and peeled it off in one quick motion.
The second he saw it—his mark, his handiwork, faint but unmistakably there on the curve of her jaw—something in his brain short-circuited.
It wasn't a kiss.
It was possession.
A bruise shaped like a secret, pressed into her skin like she belonged to him and no one else. Not that she did. But the sight of it—undeniable, impossible to miss—sent a sharp pulse of satisfaction through his chest that he absolutely refused to examine too closely.
Mine, something primal inside him said.
He didn't say that out loud, of course. He just… let the corner of his mouth tilt upward.
Slowly.
Smugly.
"Not even funny," Hana muttered, snatching the bandaid and slapping it back on with indignation.
"Looks good on you," he said, already turning the engine back on, voice maddeningly casual. "Should've made it bigger."
She smacked his arm.
Hard.
"Stop hitting me," he said, almost bored.
But his smirk lingered.
And for the first time in days, the air between them didn't feel like a battlefield.
It felt like something else entirely.