Katsuki was dying.
Not figuratively. Not poetically. Not in the emotionally-deprived, Hana-style "I'm perishing for aesthetic reasons" way.
No—he was being systematically dismantled by Scandinavian air.
Late October in Oslo felt like a personal attack. The wind sliced sideways through the terminal doors, precise and malicious, like it had a law degree. The sky was a bleak gray, the kind of gray that said you will not see the sun again, and we are not sorry.
He should've been in Nagoya.
Where the leaves were still politely turning orange. Where the air didn't stab you in the face. Where he could breathe without his sinuses forming an alliance against him.
Instead, he was at Oslo Lufthavn, sitting on a bench, freezing his very expensive spine off, waiting for a bunch of Viking-adjacent executives who were now officially late.
He should've sent Kai.
But of course, Kai had smirked and said, "You are Lerwick's lead counsel. I'll handle Yamato because god knows Fujimoto is planning a circus . Besides—the viking wants Hana onboard, are you really fine leaving Sukehiro in my good graces for two weeks?"
He had visualized the crime scene.
Not because Kai wasn't trustworthy. But because Kai plus Hana for two weeks would result in murder—and not in the direction anyone would expect. Five-foot-one of unpredictable legal chaos versus six-foot-one of manipulative charm? Easy math.
So now he was here. In Oslo. Dying. With frostbite in his soul.
And Hana?
Hana was thriving.
Wrapped in a sherpa-lined jacket, cheeks pink, curls tucked under a ridiculous beanie that made her look like a snow-gremlin tourist. She had taken pictures of everything: their plane seat, the lounge espresso machine, the sign that said Velkommen.
She was narrating it all under her breath like she was hosting a chaotic travel vlog called "Hana Survives the North".
He'd tuned it out at some point around the part where she described the soap dispensers as "emotionally intuitive." It was either that or freeze solid in silence.
She was still talking.
Something about the Northern Lights. Or possibly Norwegian architecture. Or fish. He didn't know. He didn't care. He was too cold to process nouns.
But he let her talk—and he had no intention of telling her to shut up.
Because somewhere between the fifth derailed briefing and her tenth mid-sentence monologue, he'd realized: tuning her out wasn't the same as ignoring her. It was survival. A calculated preservation of sanity. She talked, and he filtered. Tracked tone. Tempo. Paused for keywords. But he never muted her entirely.
And he never stopped her.
Not when she took blurry photos. Not when she leaned across him mid-airport to snap a vending machine. Not when she narrated a bench's "sad CEO energy" and posted it with a sparkle emoji.
He just… watched her.
Because she was alive in this weather. Glowing. Charging off the cold like it powered her. Meanwhile, he was internally drafting his resignation from Earth.
"Katsuki, are you okay?"
Her voice cut through the static of his suffering. He looked up.
"No," he said. "I want to go back to Japan. This is stupid. We can do everything remotely now. That's the purpose of the internet."
She smiled. Bright. Gleeful. Menacing.
"It's nice here."
Of course it was. Akita-born, raised by some ancient ice spirits. She probably had frost-resistant blood. Oslo felt like a vacation home to her. Meanwhile, he had already lost circulation in three fingers.
He hadn't even meant to bring her. The Viking—Henrik-something-absurd—had insisted on her coming. Wanted her insights. Her perspective.
Katsuki had nearly buried her in filings for the rest of Q4 just to keep her hidden.
But when he'd casually mentioned the trip, her eyes had lit up like someone flipped a switch. "That should be fun," she'd said.
And like a complete, defenseless idiot, he'd asked, "Do you want to go?"
She packed that night.
And he—because he was worse—blocked three extra days on his calendar for the trip. Labeled them Sukehiro's Day in the itinerary. Color-coded. Green. Marked private-because she'd never let him live it down if she found out.
She came to stand in front of him between his knees, scarf trailing loosely. Still smiling. Still glowing. Still acting like Oslo hadn't tried to murder him with wind.
Without a word, she reached forward, tugged the scarf he'd barely looped once tighter around his neck, and—
Placed both hands on his cheeks.
Warm. Firm. Deliberate.
He blinked. Narrowed his eyes. Voice dry and razor-edged.
"What in the hell of a warm-blooded animal are you?"
She smirked. "If you're too embarrassed, I'll stop."
She started to move, pulling her hands away, but he caught her wrists mid-flight. Pressed them back to his skin, jaw tight.
"No," he said. "Stand here. And don't move."
And she didn't.
She just smiled softer. Said nothing. Let her palms stay there, warming the sharp edges of his face, her thumbs brushing just slightly against the curve of his jaw.
His eyes slipped shut.
The cold was still there. The Vikings were still late. His inbox was probably in flames.
But her hands were warm.
Her scarf smelled like her.
And for one terrible, traitorous second, his entire body stopped resisting.
I hate this, he thought.
-----
She'd been holding his face for, like, a solid three minutes.
Which was impressive, really. Not just because he hadn't snapped at her or given her that I'm-being-patient-but-barely look, but because he had actually shut up. Just... existing. With her hands on his cheeks like she was rewiring his central nervous system through sheer warmth.
And then, of course, the Viking arrived.
Well. Not that Viking. Not Henrik of the Glacial Jawline. This one was older, rounder, and wore a scarf that looked like it had survived three winters and a sword fight. Kristof, he introduced himself, in a gentle Norwegian accent and a kind smile that felt grandfatherly in a could-make-you-coffee-or-murder-you-in-the-woods way.
He apologized for being late—something about an accident on the road—and honestly, Hana barely registered the words. Because the second the man picked up their bags and started walking, Katsuki stood up…
…and grabbed her hand.
Just. Grabbed it.
No warning. No glance. No "this is strategic hand-holding for diplomatic purposes" memo. Just fingers closing around hers like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And the thing was—it wasn't shocking. Not anymore.
Because ever since they'd had that talk, the one where she became a blanket burrito of emotional honesty and he actually stayed, Katsuki had been… different.
Not less Katsuki. He was still the same boss-man from hell. Still terrifying in court. Still operated like time was a finite resource and everyone else was wasting it. Still left sticky notes with comments like "This sentence is legally stupid" and "Try again, Sukehiro, like you graduated from a real university."
He still called her at 2 a.m. demanding updates on the Lerwick-Yamato venture like "Did the Yamato VP respond to your 4 p.m. draft?" as if she wasn't asleep and drooling into a bag of chips.
But.
He'd stayed with her that day.
Let her crawl into his chest like he was a weighted blanket made of quiet strength and unspoken feelings.
She'd fallen asleep on him. Full mouth-open, dead-to-the-world, drooling-on-his-shirt kind of sleep.
And he hadn't moved.
Didn't even shift until morning.
And now? Now he was still that emotionally constipated tyrant of a man—but also the guy who:
Looked at her whenever he walked by her desk.
Listened to her rant about protein bar flavors for fifteen minutes, then casually bought the one she said she missed.
Didn't just tolerate her chaos—he let it exist.
He didn't tell her to quiet down. Didn't roll his eyes when she jumped from contracts to penguins to the philosophical implications of ramen.
He tuned her out, sure. The way a sane person tunes out elevator music.
But somehow, he absorbed the important bits. Catalogued them. Used them like emotional cheat codes.
And just to test it, just to see if he really meant it when he said she can block time off his calendar for her, she blocked off a 6:00 p.m. slot.
It was stupid.
He never left before 9. She was just being ridiculous. Impulsive. Hopeful.
The calendar entry said:
"Have ramen with me?"
No emoji. No explanation.
And at 6:00 p.m. sharp, Katsuki walked by her desk.
Glanced at her and said, "Let's go."
Like it was already a given.
Like it had never been in question.
And now, in Oslo, when he took her hand without looking, without asking, without making a show of it—
She didn't overthink it.
Didn't spiral.
She just held it back.
And let it mean everything.
-----
Oslo was something out of a magazine. Sleek lines. Cold light. Buildings that looked like they'd been designed by sad, beautiful architects with silent existential crises. The sky was pale, the roads wet but clean, the air somehow clearer than anything she'd ever breathed in Japan.
Everything looked like it was part of some curated art installation titled "Look How Functional Scandinavia Is."
Kristof drove like a man with nowhere to be and all the time in the world. The heater hummed softly. The van smelled faintly of leather and eucalyptus.
He didn't talk much. Just smiled at them through the rearview, polite and reserved. Said he wasn't very good at English, which Hana immediately respected.
But then Kristof hit play on something in the van—and a slow, rich French song filled the space like velvet.
Hana grinned.
"Oh, this is Brassens, isn't it?" she said, switching to French without thinking. "My mom used to play him when she was cleaning. She liked the way he said 'melancholy' like it was a flirtation."
Kristof lit up like a Christmas tree.
He launched into a flurry of French—low and animated, delighted to talk to someone who didn't need subtitles. Within thirty seconds, Hana had learned:
He grew up in a tiny village near Lyon.
His wife hated this song.
He once met Serge Gainsbourg in a hotel lobby and said nothing because he panicked.
She laughed, chimed in, kept the conversation going like her mouth was wired to joy. She loved this part—connecting, listening, piecing together the threads of someone's life like a language puzzle.
But then she noticed.
Katsuki wasn't talking.
He was watching.
Still. Quiet. Hyper-focused, the way he got when he was reading people or court transcripts. His eyes weren't annoyed. Just... locked. On her.
She ignored it. Tried to. Her hand was still warm from his. Her pulse hadn't entirely recovered.
Then Kristof asked, still in French: "Are you two a couple?"
"No," she said reflexively.
Kristof chuckled. "Could've fooled me."
Before she could reply with something clever—or impulsively crawl out the window—Katsuki nudged her knee. Just a tap, firm and deliberate.
"What are you two talking about?" he asked, voice low.
She grinned. Wide. Innocent. Not at all trustworthy.
"The weather."
Katsuki narrowed his eyes. "Did you just lie to me?"
"No."
He kept staring. That slow, skeptical, I'll let you dig your own grave kind of stare.
But before he could press, Kristof slowed the van and announced, in heavily accented English:
"We have arrived. The Thief."