The silence in his office felt heavier than usual, thick with the aftermath of something that shouldn't have escalated but inevitably did.
Katsuki watched the space Hana had just occupied, the faint echo of her voice still reverberating in his skull. His gaze flicked to his desk.
Her ID. Her work phone. She actually did it.
He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose. He didn't lose arguments. Ever. But somehow, Sukehiro had a way of bending logic in the most infuriating, irrational ways, leaving him standing in the wreckage of a conversation wondering how the hell they got there.
His jaw ticked. This was fixable. It had to be.
A slow clap cut through the silence.
Kai was still there, leaned back in one of the office chairs, watching him like a man who had all the time in the world to enjoy the show.
"That," Kai said, amusement curling through his voice, "was spectacularly stupid."
Katsuki didn't react.
Kai hummed, tapping his fingers against the armrest. "You know," he continued, lazy but precise, "I was wondering why you suddenly decided Hana Sukehiro's past needed your personal intervention. You never cared about who she was dating before. Hell, you barely acknowledge that people have personal lives outside of this firm."
Katsuki exhaled, already irritated. "I don't have time for this."
"Apparently, you do," Kai said, flashing a sharp grin. "You had time to completely obliterate her ex's career."
Katsuki didn't look up, didn't acknowledge the bait.
But Kai had been expecting that.
He straightened slightly, letting the casual charm drain from his voice, replacing it with something else—a tone that was cool, composed, and impossible to argue with.
"This is getting personal, Hasegawa."
Katsuki's fingers stilled.
Kai watched him, waiting. He had argued cases in international courts. He had negotiated multi-billion-dollar deals with men twice his age. But nothing, absolutely nothing, was more enjoyable than watching Katsuki try to outmaneuver his own emotions.
Katsuki's shoulders were tense, his fingers flexing against the desk in barely restrained irritation. He wasn't going to admit to anything. Not yet. So Kai decided to make it easier for him.
"Let me guess," Kai said, tilting his head slightly, "you forced her to share that part of her life, and you suddenly thought you had to be the hero and do something about it."
Katsuki's eyes narrowed.
"I don't—"
"Spare me." Kai cut him off smoothly, shaking his head. "You're good, Katsuki, but you're not that good. I know exactly how your brain works." He leaned forward slightly. "She tells you something vulnerable—probably because you made it impossible for her not to—and instead of processing that like a normal person, you go into full damage control mode. Because God forbid someone have a messy, complicated past that you can't fix."
Katsuki's mouth pressed into a tight line. He wasn't answering. Which meant Kai was right.
"Why are you taking her side?" Katsuki muttered finally, voice low, dangerous.
Kai let out a short, sharp laugh. "Damn right I'm taking her side." His voice lost all traces of humor. "We can't find someone like her, Katsuki. You know that. I know that. So why the hell do you have to step in like that?"
Katsuki didn't answer.
Kai's eyes sharpened. He had seen that silence before. He knew what it meant.
Then, just to twist the knife, he murmured, "Don't tell me this is just like Harvard."
A muscle in Katsuki's jaw twitched.
Kai grinned. "Oh, shit."
"This isn't like Harvard." Katsuki's voice was flat, controlled, but the tension in his frame was all the confirmation Kai needed.
"No?" Kai challenged. "Then fix it."
Katsuki didn't move, didn't react.
Kai pushed off the chair, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. "I'm not finding another assistant for you," he said, casual but final. "So fix it, before she actually leaves."
Then, without waiting for a response, he walked out.
-----
Kai Sato was not a man who chased people.
That was Katsuki's problem.
But here he was, phone pressed to his ear, listening to ring after ring after ring before Hana finally, finally picked up.
She didn't say hello. Didn't bother with pleasantries. Just let out a sharp, exasperated—
"No."
Kai sighed. At least she answered.
"What can I do to fix this?"
"You're making it worse."
There was no hesitation in her voice, no room for negotiation. Hana Sukehiro was not in the mood for games.
"I'm serious, Sukehiro."
That, at least, gave her pause. He could hear it in the breath she didn't take, the fraction of a second where she recalculated before answering.
"If you can undo the damage he's done," she said, voice cool, measured.
Kai let that sit for a beat. Then—"You're coming back?"
"No!" Hana snapped, like the very idea was offensive. "God forbid he ever finds out that someone bullied in my past me for being different—he might hunt them down and ruin their lives."
Kai sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay. I'll fix this."
There was another pause before she muttered, "I owe you one, Sato-san."
"Still care about the ex, huh?" He asked it lightly, prodding.
"Ew, no!" Hana recoiled instantly. "I've made peace with it. He wasn't totally bad, and he doesn't deserve it."
Kai chuckled.
Then—softer, more to herself—"Why is Hasegawa acting like that? I know he's a control freak, but I never realized he was a narcissist."
Kai smiled, slow and knowing. "He's not."
"Really? Because it's giving narcissistic tyrant energy."
"My father was a raging narcissist," Kai said, voice smooth but edged with something sharper. "So I'd know. I wouldn't be involved with Katsuki if he was."
Hana went quiet. Weighing his words.
"Then why?"
Kai grinned.
Oh she absolutely has no idea. "I'll find out," he said, smooth and confident. "I'll see you around, Sukehiro."
There was another pause. A slight hesitation.
"If you have another opportunity for me, let me know, okay?"
Kai's grin didn't falter, but something shifted beneath it.
He had plenty of opportunities for her. One word from him and every high-end firm in Japan would be lining up at her feet.
But Kai was selfish.
And Hana Sukehiro? She belonged here.
She was sharp, she was brilliant, and she was his project. He had been mentoring her, shaping her into something stronger, something more dangerous. She wasn't done learning yet.
"Got it," he said smoothly.
Then he hung up.
Kai leaned back in his chair, phone dangling loosely between his fingers as he replayed everything in his head.
And then, inevitably, he thought of Harvard.
Katsuki's first almost-girlfriend.
Kai had seen it coming from a mile away—the way Katsuki had gotten too invested, too fixated, too deep before it had even begun. But instead of just letting things happen, Katsuki had tried to fix her life before she even asked for it.
And, unsurprisingly, he had destroyed it before it could even begin.
Some things never changed.
Katsuki cared about Hana. He might not know it yet—or he might be too damn stubborn to admit it—but he was already in too deep.
And this? This was just history repeating itself.
Kai exhaled, smoothing out his shirt as he pushed to his feet.
Time to go clean up his best friend's mess.
Kai strolled into Katsuki's office like a man who owned the building.
Katsuki didn't look up.
"So," Kai drawled, lowering himself into one of the chairs, "Sukehiro doesn't want to come back."
Katsuki scoffed. "Let her. I'll find my own assistant."
Kai smirked. Liar.
"Okay," he said easily, reclining in his seat. "I'll sit in on the interviews. Should be fun."
Nothing. No response.
But Kai saw it—the slight tension in Katsuki's jaw, the way his fingers flexed against the desk. He wasn't going to entertain the idea. Because he knew as well as Kai did—there was no replacing Hana.
Still, he let the silence drag, let the weight of it sink into the room before finally shifting tactics.
"I also need to fix the damage you've done," he said, casual but pointed. "She asked me to, and we owe her that much."
Nothing.
Katsuki didn't even acknowledge him.
Kai let out a mock sigh, readying himself for another verbal chess match.
Then—
"I've already fixed it," Katsuki said flatly. "You can call his firm and check if you don't believe me."
Kai's smirk widened.
Ah. Progress.
-----
The city sprawled beneath him, a grid of neon and shadow, stretching endlessly into the night. The balcony was quiet—aside from the occasional distant siren, the hum of traffic below, and the soft click of his lighter as he lit his second cigarette in quick succession.
Katsuki exhaled, the smoke curling against the chilled air, dissipating just as quickly as it formed. His whiskey glass was half-empty, the amber liquid catching the faint glow of the skyline, and yet somehow, the tension in his jaw hadn't eased.
He had gone too far.
He could admit that much—to himself, at least. Not to Kai. Not to Hana.
But if not him, then who?
Hana Sukehiro was an idiot. She didn't know what she needed. She never had. If she did, she wouldn't have spent seven years with a man who couldn't even recognize her worth. She wouldn't have let him disappear, let him return, let him tell her she was too much like it was a fact and not a reflection of his own mediocrity.
And now? Now she had the audacity to be angry that someone finally handled it.
Katsuki took another slow drag of his cigarette, the nicotine settling into his bloodstream, grounding him.
It wasn't like he cared.
That wasn't it.
He was just…annoyed.
Annoyed that she was still defending that bastard, that she still cared at all.
Because she did—maybe not in the way she thought, but it was there, some remnant of old loyalty she refused to shake off.
She had made peace with it. That's what she said.
What a load of bullshit.
Katsuki had never once made peace with anything in his life. He won. He conquered. He eradicated.
And yet, somehow, he was the unreasonable one for thinking that a man who abandoned her shouldn't get to walk away unscathed.
He exhaled again, slower this time.
Hana Sukehiro was replaceable.
She was.
His firm had the highest standards in the country—he could find someone else, train them, mold them into efficiency.
She was replaceable.
And yet.
His grip on the glass tightened, jaw locking.
The thought sat there, unwanted and unshakable.
He could replace her.
He would replace her.
So why the hell was his irritation still there, crawling beneath his skin like an unfinished argument?