The bottle had thinned halfway down, casting longer shadows on the lacquered table between them. Conversation had drifted—loosened like a tie two hours past office decorum.
Birthdays came up. Somehow.
"April first?" Hana blinked, already halfway through her next pour. "You were born on April Fools' Day?"
Katsuki lifted his glass without ceremony. "It's not funny."
"It's hilarious." She leaned forward, voice lowered like she was letting him in on a secret. "Do you realize how karmically appropriate that is? You came into the world as a joke, and then took personal offense and decided to ruin everyone's life out of spite."
He gave her a flat look. "Yours included."
"Especially mine."
She smiled around the rim of her glass.
He let her have that one. Barely.
"What about you?"
"October thirty-first," she said, smug. "Halloween. I was literally born for chaos."
"Explains everything."
"Oh, please. You're a walking authoritarian regime. Your first word was probably 'compliance.'"
"You'd be dead without my compliance."
"Maybe. But I'd die on my own terms."
There it was—that spark. Sharp, glinting mischief. Only it wasn't all teeth tonight. She didn't seem like she was gearing up to battle him for dominance. More like she was settling into the chaos, enjoying the stretch of not having to brace for impact.
Hana swirled the sake in her glass, eyes gleaming. "I feel like I can call you out more freely now that we're on neutral ground. It's diplomatic immunity."
"That's not how immunity works."
"Spoken like someone who never lets anyone talk back."
She grinned.
He watched her, a little too long. Noticed—just now—how much she was enjoying the sake. Not in a loud, performative way. She wasn't giggling uncontrollably or slurring. If anything, she was calmer. The energy was still there—Hana Sukehiro didn't come in any other flavor—but it had softened around the edges.
Looser. Open.
And more importantly—personal.
She was talking.
Not about case notes. Not about clients or deadlines or Kai's ridiculous meeting habits.
She was talking about home.
"My mom used to label everything in the brewery with neon pink post-its," Hana said, casually. "She said it was the only way to keep my dad from misplacing the inventory. He still managed to lose a full shipment once. Found it a week later in the community center's back lot. Apparently, he got distracted because there was a stray cat."
Katsuki set his glass down.
She didn't notice.
He didn't say anything about it, but he was done. One of them had to be. Because while Hana was still articulate—still brilliant and unfiltered—this version of her was more vulnerable than she probably realized.
And he'd seen enough people say too much to know where that road ended.
Not that she was spiraling. Yet.
She was just drunk enough to start making space for things she'd normally hide under deadlines and sarcasm.
"So," she continued, propping her elbow on the table like it was her own personal podium, "you ever worked in a family business? No, wait, you probably acquired a family business and restructured it for fun."
He didn't answer.
Because watching her talk like this—soft, sharp, unguarded—it felt dangerously close to something he hadn't intended to want.
-----
The bottle was nearly gone now. Only a shallow pool of golden clarity remained at the bottom, catching the low bar lights like it had something else to say.
Across from him, Hana was flushed—cheeks tinted pink, eyes a little glossy, and words starting to stretch around the edges. Not wasted. Not sloppy. Just softened. Warm. Like her internal monologue had decided to go public with no regard for corporate liability.
She was talking about law school now.
"…and this one professor, Uchida-sensei? He hated me. Said I was 'uncoachable.' Which, I mean—fair. But also, rude. I once finished an entire final essay just citing case law from memory because I forgot the textbook in a vending machine room. Still passed. Barely. Probably out of pity."
Katsuki nodded slightly, watching her more than he was listening. Not that the content wasn't fascinating—it was—but her delivery was even more so. The way her mouth twisted around stories, animated and unfiltered. The way she waved her hands while talking, like punctuation. The way she made chaos feel like a strategy.
He had to admit—her alcohol tolerance was impressive. A lesser man would've been horizontal after the third glass. She was on… glass six? Seven?
He wasn't sure when the shift happened. But now, with the sharp edges dulled and the distance temporarily closed, she felt—closer. More accessible. Not tamed, not cracked open. Just… less braced.
So he asked.
"So why were you offended when I told you you're too much?" he said, calm, low. "You practically said the same thing about me."
Hana didn't react immediately. Just blinked, slow and owlish. Then she squinted at him like he was being particularly dense.
"I didn't mean it as an insult," she said, dragging the words slightly. Not enough to slur. Just enough to betray how far from sober she was.
He didn't interrupt. Just let her talk. Gave her the space, and maybe—quietly—wanted to hear whatever came next.
"What I meant," she continued, gesturing vaguely with her chopsticks like they were a laser pointer, "was you're too much for me. Sato-san was asking some very unhinged questions—I should've filed a harassment complaint, honestly. But anyway—" she waved the thought away "—I like people who like me. Simple. And I'm not delusional. Why would I say I like you?"
She looked at him then, straight-on.
"You're like…" She raised her hand high over her head. "Here."
Then dropped the other below the table. "And I'm here. Don't take it as an insult."
He didn't respond. Not externally.
Internally?
There was a precise sort of silence. The kind you get when a system short-circuits so fast it doesn't even spark. Just a clean, sharp break.
I like people who like me.
Why would I say I like you?
He wasn't offended. He was… confused. Momentarily derailed. Because her words weren't cruel, and yet—
She doesn't even consider it a possibility.
Not even as a joke.
She went on, oblivious.
"And no, I don't like you like that. Don't get ahead of yourself. You're my boss. We're not in a fictional novel."
He stared at her.
Not because she was wrong.
But because she'd said it so definitively, so carelessly. Like the idea was so absurd it didn't even warrant embarrassment.
We're not in a fictional novel.
He should've found that funny.
He didn't.
"That doesn't answer my question," he said, quieter this time. "Why were you upset about it?"
Hana paused.
Not long.
Just long enough for him to see something flicker behind her eyes—something not quite sarcastic, not quite playful.
Then she looked down, exhaled.
"I think we should go home."
-----
The parking lot was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the clatter of Hana's scooter—her ridiculous, half-dead scooter—as she kicked the stand into place with all the grace of a sleep-deprived gremlin.
"I'm riding home," she announced, straddling the thing like she was preparing for battle. Her hair was frizzing from the humidity, cheeks flushed from the alcohol, and she looked absurdly triumphant for someone who'd had two near-death experiences just getting here.
"No, you're not."
She squinted at him. "Why not?"
"Because that thing barely functions sober," Katsuki said, stepping closer, jaw tight. "And you can barely stand up straight."
"I can stand," she replied, standing. Wobbling. "Look, zero percent tipsy—okay, maybe seven percent. That's within legal limits."
"I'm going to throw that bike into the river."
"Violence?" Her eyes went wide with mock horror. "Are you threatening my personal property? That's a crime, Hasegawa. I'll file a complaint. I'll go straight to HR."
"I am HR."
She gasped. "Tyrant."
"Get off the damn bike."
She crossed her arms. "No."
His eye twitched.
"Because I'm not going home yet."
"And where exactly are you planning to go?" he asked
"I'm hungry." Her voice pitched like this was the most obvious thing in the universe. "I want something greasy and unhealthy. Like fries. Or ramen. Or deep-fried disappointment."
Katsuki exhaled slowly. Counted to three.
It was useless to argue with a drunk woman. Even more useless to argue with this drunk woman, whose willpower was apparently constructed entirely out of spite and leftover adrenaline.
"Park the bike here," he said, already texting Naomi to have someone from the office pick it up. "I'll have it delivered to you tomorrow. I'll drive you to KFC. Or Mcdonalds. Or whatever cholesterol-drenched hellscape your taste buds are demanding."
She looked at him for a beat, suspicious. Then narrowed her eyes. "You're unusually nice today."
"I have no patience for this drunk bullshit, Sukehiro," he snapped. "Get off the bike."
"Fine, fine," she muttered, stepping off and walking past him in a crooked line. "You're so grumpy. No wonder why you're single."
He stared at the sky. Briefly considered asking whatever higher power was out there for strength.
God help him.