He didn't look up when she entered. Didn't need to. Her presence hit his senses before she said a word-static charge in the air, scent of citrus shampoo and department-store chaos, the faint shuffle of papers she definitely wasn't meant to touch.
And of course, no knock. Never a knock. That would imply boundaries, decorum, or some acknowledgment that he was her boss and not the unfortunate object of her unsolicited commentary.
He made a mental note-half-idle, half-strategic-to install a biometric lock.
"What do you need, Sukehiro?" he asked, eyes still fixed on the document in front of him.
There was a pause. Not her usual dramatic pause-theatrical and obvious, like a spotlight waiting to be switched on-but a quieter one. Calculating.
Then: "Are you heartbroken?"
He looked up.
Slowly.
Dead silent.
He blinked once. Twice. As if checking whether he'd accidentally walked into the wrong genre of conversation.
"...What?"
And then she was off. Full sprint. No warm-up. Just chaos in heels and that tone that made it sound like she was both deeply concerned and also barely restraining the urge to set something on fire for the sake of justice.
"I mean, I wasn't sure at first, but the evidence is compelling. You've been taking the subway-the subway, Katsuki-which means either your driver is dead or you're going through an identity crisis. You wore denim. Denim. You smiled at someone. And then today, you offered me a mint. No sarcasm. No follow-up critique about my penmanship. Just-'Want one?' Like a real, functioning human person. It was deeply unsettling."
"I was being polite."
"You were being possessed."
His jaw flexed.
She kept going.
"So obviously, I did some mental math-which I am very good at, by the way-and it all adds up to one conclusion. Someone hurt you. Someone you liked. Which, honestly, is a little terrifying because I didn't even know you had feelings, but now that I know you do, it's my moral responsibility to do something about it."
"Moral responsibility," he repeated dryly.
She nodded, sincere. "As your very lovable assistant, I am offering my help."
He stared at her for a long moment. Long enough for her to fidget, just slightly, like a crow who had accidentally landed in the snake pit and wasn't sure if she should peck or flee.
He sighed. Pushed back in his chair and steepled his fingers against his lips, the universal signal for fine, entertain me.
"Let me just humor you for a second," he said, voice level. "Let's say I am heartbroken-which I am not-how are you going to help me?"
"Uhh. Offering advice?"
"You." Deadpan.
"Yes."
"You don't even have a boyfriend."
-----
Okay. That was offensive.
She looked at him, as if trying to reset her brain from the sheer audacity.
He was single too. That wasn't exactly classified intel. In the six months she'd worked here, Hana had never-not once-seen Katsuki with a woman. No post-it notes in unfamiliar handwriting. No late-night calls with soft voices and muffled laughter. Not even a suspicious dinner reservation in his calendar that could be excused as "client-facing." Unless you counted that one incident with PR Barbie, whom he ditched halfway to wherever because he suddenly decided to be a decent person and pick her up at Kage no Mori.
How dare he.
She lifted her chin. "Excuse you. I am in a very new, very happy and very contented relationship. With the Murakami-reading English teacher."
"I don't believe you," he said flatly.
Her eyes narrowed. "And why is that?"
"You're a terrible liar. You have a tell."
She flinched, barely.
"And you said the English teacher bored you."
"People grow."
"You also spend a lot of time here."
"I'm dedicated."
His voice dropped. Quiet. Sharp. "And you're too much."
The words sliced straight through her.
Hana's brain replayed it on loop: You're too much. You're too much. You're too much.
It wasn't the first time she'd heard it.
Seven years. Seven years of blending herself into manageable shapes, of talking quieter, loving softer, asking less. Until one day, he ghosted her. And when she finally found him-by accident, outside a supermarket, holding a bottle of wine and a woman's hand-he'd said, almost apologetically: "I'm sorry, Hana. But you're just... too much. It's exhausting."
And fine. Whatever. It wasn't Katsuki saying it now. It was a throwaway line. An observation, not a judgment. Probably. Possibly.
Still-her spine locked into place like she'd been vacuum-sealed. No reaction. No flinch. Just static silence and the sudden need to move.
She cleared her throat, voice perfectly even. "I'm mistaken, then."
"Hana-"
"I just remembered I need to prepare your deposition documents for tomorrow. I'll get back to work."
And she turned-shoulders straight, chin up, steps quick-and left before anything could crack.
No snark. No muttered complaints. No passive-aggressive commentary about his preferred font size.
Just silence.
He noticed it.
The stillness.
The way she froze-not in theatrical defiance, not in the deliberate pause before launching into one of her overcaffeinated tirades-but in something else. Something quiet. Subtle.
Hana Sukehiro never avoided eye contact. She looked at him like she was born to challenge him. Like he was a puzzle she was halfway to solving and fully prepared to mock. But now?
Now she was looking anywhere else.
He knew what that meant. He had seen it in depositions, in negotiations, in the courtroom. That flicker of retreat. The moment someone closes the door behind their eyes.
She was the one who said it. Too much man for one person. Tossed it out like an afterthought, like a piece of lint she brushed off her coat. And when he echoed it back-precisely, evenly, without malice-she recoiled like he'd cut her open in public.
God, she was so goddamn frustrating.
And yet-
His fingers drummed against the desk. Slow. Controlled. The way you tap on a surface when you don't want to admit it's shaking.
For some reason, his mood was considerably worse than it had been five minutes ago.
-----
The office had finally quieted. The kind of quiet that should've been a gift. No phones ringing. No footsteps. No mind-numbing chatter in the hallway about someone's overpriced bento delivery. Just the faint hum of the city through the windows and the subtle tap of fingers against a keyboard that-by all logical estimates-should've stopped an hour ago.
Katsuki looked up.
Hana was still at her desk.
Unusual. Not entirely unprecedented-she had her bursts of manic hyperfocus when deadlines loomed-but today, she wasn't moving with her usual flair. No muttering. No dramatically sighing as she flipped between windows. No quietly offensive playlists filtered through one earbud when she thought no one noticed.
Just... quiet.
Which, theoretically, should've been a relief. Peace. Silence. The thing he threatened interns with when they forgot to mute their phones.
But it wasn't peace.
It was off.
And he didn't like it.
She'd been subdued all day. Quieter. More polite. She hadn't called him a fascist or a control freak even once, which was statistically improbable. She hadn't rolled her eyes. Hadn't commented on his third espresso or that one button he always left undone on his collar.
Any other day, he would've welcomed the silence. Might've even rewarded it.
Today, it grated.
And if he had to assign blame-and he always did-he had a suspicion he knew where it landed.
Still, he brushed it off. Tried to, at least. Maybe she was just tired. Maybe she'd finally discovered inner peace through some terrible Instagram wellness account and would be back to herself tomorrow. With sarcasm. And commentary.
But when Kai came by to say goodnight, flashing his usual grin and tossing out a casual, "Booked that 5 a.m. with Henrik the Great. Try not to die," Katsuki nodded, barely registering it.
Because Hana was still at her desk.
Probably tweaking a presentation that didn't need tweaking. Pixel-perfect alignment. Overkill, as usual. She overcorrected when something was wrong.
He leaned back slightly. "Sukehiro."
She stood immediately. That alone was suspicious. No sigh, no dramatic stretch like she was emerging from a decade-long coma.
"Yes, boss-man?"
"Don't call me boss-man."
"Yes, Hasegawa-sama."
He ignored that. Barely. "If you're pissed at me, just tell me."
She looked at him innocently. A bad sign.
"I don't like working with someone who looks like they're actively plotting my murder."
Her mouth twitched. "Oh, I'm debating whether it's burning or arsenic."
He gave her a look. Flat. Sharp. The one that usually made associates wither.
"Cut the shit, Sukehiro. Why are you mad at me?"
"I'm not," she said too easily. "What are you even talking about?"
Katsuki exhaled slowly, crossing his arms and leaning against the edge of his desk. "You can't just throw out that 'I'm too much' line, and when I throw it back at you, you get offended."
She scoffed. And then-
She laughed.
Like he'd just said something stupid.