Something was wrong.
Not catastrophically wrong—no blood on the walls, no client screaming in the hallway, no memo about a catastrophic cybersecurity breach—but wrong in that slow, creeping, skin-prickle way that made Hana's brain fire off every internal alarm like a full-blown conspiracy board.
It started with Kai.
He'd stormed out of Katsuki's office. Stormed. Kai Sato. The man who floated through chaos like it was a curated dinner party. Who didn't get mad, because getting mad required effort and Kai never did anything that didn't come with a side of dramatic flair or at least a decent cocktail.
But that day?
His jaw was tight, his hands were fists, and when she called after him, he didn't even look at her.
That was Day One of The Vibe Shift.
Then Katsuki started hiding things.
Well—more than usual.
She knew his moods better than her own at this point, which was either a testament to her skill or a warning sign that she needed a new therapist. And lately, he was distracted. Calculating in a way that felt personal. Like he was trying to solve an equation where she was part of the variable and he hadn't decided whether to carry the one or burn the whole board down.
Also, Kai wasn't talking to him.
Which, excuse me?
Was Hasegawa and Sato—her firm, her actual workplace—breaking up?
She cornered Yuna in the kitchen while stuffing soba noodles into her mouth at ten p.m. and trying not to panic.
"Did Kai say anything to you?"
Yuna blinked. "Like, in the past five years?"
"About the firm," Hana hissed. "He walked out of Katsuki's office like he was about to slap a resignation letter on the table and light it on fire. He hasn't spoken to him since last week, which means I'm either about to lose my job or get promoted into a dramatic restructuring, and I am not emotionally stable enough for either."
Yuna raised an eyebrow. "Hana."
"What?"
"You're spiraling."
"I am collecting data."
Yuna sipped her tea, too calm for someone dating a potential defector. "Kai didn't say anything. You'd know if he did. But I'll ask him."
Which should have helped.
Except it didn't.
Because a month later, whispers started slipping through the firm like oil under a door. Tokyo. A merger. Expansion.
Cool.
Objectively, it was cool. Katsuki had wanted to enter the Tokyo scene for years. She'd heard him talk about it with the kind of quiet intensity that usually preceded new litigation strategy or expensive whisky. The firm expanding to Tokyo? Great. Fabulous. More work, more power, more legal chaos. She was for it.
Except…
Aya stopped coming to work.
Just vanished. No big goodbye, no awkward farewell cupcakes in the break room. Just a casual "oh, she took a job with another firm". Better hours. Higher salary. More time for her son.
Good for her.
Sure.
Then Makima—the always-broke, permanently exhausted front desk goddess—treated the entire team to lunch.
Why?
Because she was graduating. And her student loans were paid off.
Hana nearly choked on her miso soup. Makima had cried last month over her interest rates. But now she was glowing and debt-free and suspiciously vague about what came next.
Then, Kento, the firm's most frugal paralegal—the same guy who once tried to Venmo charge her for a shared banana—announced he was taking a sabbatical to Morocco.
Morocco.
The man wouldn't pay 300 yen for a convenience store sandwich, and now he was off to North Africa on a soul-searching adventure?
Something was deeply wrong.
And the worst part?
She knew nothing.
She hated knowing nothing.
So she asked Katsuki. Straight up.
He was sitting at his desk, sleeves rolled, hair pushed back from stress and arrogance, and she leaned over, voice light.
"Do you need anything for that Tokyo thing you're working on?"
He didn't look up. "It's Kai's client."
She blinked. "That wasn't my question."
"You shouldn't worry too much about it."
Oh.
Cool.
Great.
Everything is on fire but no worries, Hana. Why don't you go alphabetize your trauma while the men make power moves and strategic decisions behind soundproof doors?
She smiled anyway.
And then she did the only thing she could do.
She worked.
Harder than ever.
Rewriting briefs, double-checking case law, replying to emails before people could hit send. There were days she beat Katsuki into the office, which was saying something because the man was probably part machine. She stopped cracking jokes. Stopped taking breaks. Stopped talking back in meetings.
Because if there was a merger, she needed to be bulletproof.
Katsuki and Kai wouldn't replace her.
Right?
They wouldn't take one look at the Tokyo roster and decide she was just the overqualified secretary with a personality problem.
They knew what she could do.
They saw her. Right?
She was irreplaceable.
She had to be.
Because if she wasn't—
Well.
She didn't want to think about that.
-----
They were still tangled up in the aftermath—naked, boneless, and half-buried under the soft sheets like casualties of war. The very best kind of war. The kind with thighs shaking and walls still fogged from the second round of actual wall sex.
Katsuki's arm was wrapped around her like a seatbelt she wasn't entirely convinced she needed. His chest was warm at her back, steady and solid, and his breath skimmed the curve of her neck like he didn't plan on letting her recover anytime soon.
Which, rude. Post-sex was sacred brain-melting time. Not Q&A time.
Then, like a man with no sense of timing whatsoever, he murmured, "Hana… do you trust me?"
She blinked.
She had just finished what could only be described as an Olympic-level performance, complete with full splits, a near-out-of-body experience, and several deeply regrettable noises that may or may not have been whimpers. Her thighs were jelly. Her mouth was dry. Her brain was still rebooting.
Did she trust him?
"I just had an Olympic-level performance," she croaked, voice half-gone. "And you just proved how flexible I am. Of course I trust you. I let you flip me like a pancake."
His breath caught—probably a laugh—and then he did that thing again. That awful, wonderful, unfair thing where he kissed the side of her neck and made her brain short-circuit like a defective blender.
Then: "What do you think about taking the bar again?"
Hana froze. Not dramatically. Just enough to go completely still in that oh-no-what-the-hell-do-I-say way.
Her brain went from post-sex noodle to panic spreadsheet in 0.2 seconds.
"And who's gonna pay for Ren's tuition while I study?" she asked carefully, heart thudding a little faster than it should.
"I will," he said, and his hand—oh god, that hand—started moving again, fingers gliding down her body like a bribe wrapped in silk.
Oh no.
"Ohhh," she exhaled, eyes fluttering shut. "This is coercion. This is textbook coercion."
His fingers traced her hipbone. His mouth found that spot behind her ear that made her see God.
"He's not your responsibility," she whispered, weakly. Not very convincingly.
"And?" he murmured, because he had no soul and zero mercy and also fingers.
"I'm not prepared to take the bar," she said, a little too high-pitched as his hand slipped between her legs again.
And then he smirked.
The actual devil. He kissed her jaw, slow and smug, and murmured, "Think about it, okay?"
Which—no. Absolutely not. She couldn't think about anything when her whole body was lighting up like a crime scene.
But she was already gone.
Because before she could process any of it, he was standing. Actually standing. With her still wrapped around him like a naked, clingy koala. How the hell was he still upright?
"Don't let go," he whispered.
She didn't.
Then he thrust into her again—and she saw stars.
Actual, honest-to-god stars. Her brain shut down. Her mouth dropped open. Her spine turned into jelly. She came again—violently, gloriously—before she could even catch her breath from the last time.
It was maddening. Unfair. She should sue.
He didn't stop until she was trembling in his arms, completely undone, her head buried in his shoulder and her voice reduced to desperate, incoherent pleading.
Later—maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe an entire lifetime after—he laid her down, kissed her forehead like he hadn't just wrecked her soul, and said, softly but firmly:
"You're mine, Sukehiro. Remember that."
Then he added—barely a whisper against her skin, almost tender:
"And I want you to trust me… for what's about to happen."
But she didn't answer.
Because she was floating somewhere in the clouds, dazed and dizzy and high on sex and the kind of affection that scared her more than any exam ever could.
Trust him?
God help her… she already did.
Even if she didn't know what it would cost.
-----
The bar in Meieki was dim and quiet, just the way Katsuki liked his disasters. No noise, no drama, just the low hum of whiskey settling in his chest and the kind of silence that let you replay every bad decision in surround sound.
He sat on the far end of the counter, one hand wrapped around a glass slick with condensation, the other pressed to his temple. He'd just driven Hana home. Held her. Kissed her. Fucked her. Whispered trust me like it was a vow and not a distraction.
He felt sick.
She deserved better than that. A conversation. A plan laid out with bullet points and contingencies. Not cryptic pillow talk and a vague promise wrapped in pleasure. But then again, when had he ever handled feelings like a normal person?
He had a plan. Several, actually.
He'd ask her to take the bar. Support her. Cover Ren's tuition. Clear the path so all she had to do was walk. And when she said no—of course she said no—he still couldn't bring himself to be disappointed. This was Hana, after all. She'd fight success on principle and dare you to call it laziness.
He took another sip, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Then the stool beside him shifted.
Kai.
The bastard didn't say anything at first, just waved at the bartender like he owned the place and pointed to the whiskey bottle without needing to speak.
"I've been wanting to punch your face for months now," he said casually.
Katsuki didn't even look at him. "You'll never win."
Kai raised his glass with a smirk. "True."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was sharp-edged and familiar, like slipping back into the rhythm of an old fight you never actually finished.
But what came next—that made Kai pause.
"If you really did walk out that day," Katsuki said, voice low, "I would've closed the firm entirely."
That was… not expected.
"There would be no firm without you," Katsuki added, still not looking at him. Just staring at the glass in his hand like it held the answer to everything.
Kai swirled his drink, letting the weight of that sit between them for a second.
"I'll take that as you telling me you love me," he said lightly.
Katsuki finally lifted his glass and clinked it against Kai's.
No denial. No sarcasm. Just acknowledgment.
Kai tilted his head, eyes scanning the man he'd known for more than a decade. Same suit. Same control. Same inability to say anything outright unless it was wrapped in threat or strategy.
But this—this was rare. Honest, in that Katsuki way. Terrifying.
"The rest of the people are happy," Kai said. "With what we offered. Some took the job placements we lined up. Some didn't, said they'll wait until we call them back. Even the receptionist—you remember Makima? She cried when I told her we'll pay for her student loans."
"We will bring them back," Katsuki said simply. No hesitation. No bravado. Just fact.
Kai nodded once.
Then: "Hana doesn't know yet?"
"No." Katsuki's voice tightened, a thread of something—guilt? regret?—tugging beneath the surface. "I'll tell her tomorrow."
Kai exhaled through his nose. "What are your plans for her?"
A beat passed. Katsuki looked down at the glass like it might crack if he held it too tightly.
"I asked her earlier if she wanted to take the bar again," he said. "Told her I'd handle everything. Her. Her brother. She said no."
Kai didn't even blink. "Not surprising."
It wasn't. Not if you knew her. Not if you listened. Not if you paid attention—which Katsuki did, obsessively. Which made this harder.
"Naomi said she'll retire next year," Kai added. "If Hana doesn't want to take the bar, give her the position. She's already doing the work."
"I'll give her options," Katsuki said. "I just… hope she takes it well."
That made Kai pause.
Because he'd been angry at him. Really angry. Furious enough to storm out, to lock himself in Naomi's office and vow not to come out until Katsuki choked on his own ambition. Furious at the Tokyo deal. At the silence. At the way Hana was left in the dark.
But this?
The job placements. The personal phone calls. The quiet way Katsuki had asked each of them what they wanted before letting them go. Aya. Makima. Even Takahashi's paralegal who hated everyone but cried when Katsuki personally handed him a letter of recommendation.
No press. No announcement. Just action.
Still the same cold bastard. Still the same obsessive control freak.
But fair.
Just like he always was, in the ways that mattered.
Kai sat back, took a long drink, and let the whiskey burn slow.
"I hate you," he said, voice almost fond.
"You should."
"Too bad you're still the same asshole I partnered with at twenty-seven."
Katsuki said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Kai glanced sideways, smile ghosting at the edges. "You're going to break her heart, you know."
Katsuki's jaw ticked. His grip on the glass tightened, but he didn't look away.
"It's for her," he said finally. Low. Measured. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.
Kai didn't smile this time.
He just looked at him—long and quiet.
"Is it?"