The kitchen was loud.
Not just loud in the way kitchens usually were-pans clattering, oil hissing, someone yelling about missing soy sauce. No. This was a symphony of multilingual chaos, conducted at a pitch that could trigger migraines and summon ancient spirits.
Japanese and French overlapped like a car crash. Sharp, rapid-fire syllables met flowing, elegant vowels in a linguistic death match, punctuated by the occasional hiss of something boiling over and what he hoped was a joke about poisoning someone's miso.
Hana, for her part, looked completely unfazed. Like this was normal.
Which-he realized grimly-explained a lot.
This was the primordial soup that spawned her. The cacophony, the clatter, the bilingual threats served with dinner. Chaos wasn't just in her bloodstream. It was the bloodstream. She'd grown up marinated in this.
She waved a hand vaguely toward the culinary battleground.
"Maman, Papa-boss-man."
He nodded, perfectly crisp, the way one would acknowledge a fellow executive or a courtroom rival. Respectful. Efficient. Done.
Apparently not good enough.
Hana elbowed him. Hard.
He glanced down at her, incredulous.
"Bow," she hissed.
He did. Not because she said so. Not because he was intimidated. But because he'd once cross-examined a Yakuza accountant for twelve hours without food, and this felt marginally more dangerous.
Emi-Madame Sukehiro, judging by the effortless way she commanded both kitchen and chaos-turned first.
Tall. Blonde. European-looking in a way that disrupted the entire landscape of this rural town just by existing. Her Japanese was perfect. Too perfect. Uncanny. Like a mannequin that spoke fluently after being programmed at birth. It was disorienting.
She gave him a once-over. Eyes sharp behind the charm. The kind of woman who'd hosted diplomats and threatened grocers with equal ease.
Takeshi followed, stepping out from the cloud of steam with the ease of someone who'd never burned a finger in his life. Older. Weathered. Built like he'd spent decades working with his hands and never once complained about it. His smile was easy, but his eyes weren't soft.
He looked Katsuki up and down.
Sized him up like a new tractor or a loan officer he didn't trust.
Then-laughed.
Not mockingly. Just-genuinely amused.
"Nani shite iru, Nagoya no bōzu?" the old man asked, Akita accent thick as miso and warm as firewood.
What was a Nagoya boy doing all the way out here?
Katsuki didn't flinch. "Offering your daughter her job back."
Direct. Efficient. No need for pleasantries when clarity worked faster.
Takeshi grunted, vaguely approving. Like the answer passed some unspoken test.
Then Emi leaned in.
Eyes sharp. Smile gentle.
"Is my daughter giving you a hard time?" she asked.
"Yes," he said flatly. "She told an ojisan I was kidnapping her."
There was a pause.
Emi turned to Hana. Unimpressed.
Smacked her on the head with a spatula.
Not gently.
Katsuki watched Hana wince. Blink. Shake it off. Like this was routine.
It was chaos.
But not the disorganized kind. This wasn't flailing. It was...orchestrated. In its own warped way. Like every member of this family was running on a frequency only they understood.
Then Rei walked in.
Lit a cigarette. Grabbed a glass. Filled it from the pitcher on the counter without saying a word.
The man moved like he'd been dealing with this circus for decades and had finally reached the spiritual plane beyond frustration. Enlightenment by way of domestic dysfunction.
Katsuki might've actually liked him, if he didn't look like a Yakuza enforcer in retirement.
From somewhere down the hall, a voice called out, sing-song and sweet:
"Oh, the boss-man is here?"
Katsuki tensed. That tone never meant anything good.
And then-a woman.
Pregnant. Very pregnant. Waddling down the hallway like a penguin with a mission.
Hana lit up. "Aoi! This is the boss-man."
Rei blinked. Moved instantly. Outpaced gravity itself.
He stubbed out the cigarette and crossed the kitchen before Aoi even made it to the threshold. Took her arm gently. Helped her into a chair with the kind of reverence usually reserved for royalty or bomb diffusal.
Katsuki stared.
Not because of the tenderness-he could clock devotion when he saw it-but because this mountain of a man, who'd glared at Katsuki like he was weighing where to dump the body, moved at his wife's word like it was gospel. No hesitation.
Aoi smiled sweetly.
"Husband," she said in the softest, most honey-laced tone imaginable, "if you don't stop smoking, I'm going to divorce you."
Rei nodded solemnly. Like the threat had been carved in stone.
Katsuki recalibrated.
This woman was the most dangerous person in the house.
She had Rei. The shovel.
And the shovel would break Katsuki's knees if she asked nicely enough.
He looked around again. Tall people. Everywhere. Towering over counters and conversations alike. They all looked like Takeshi-long limbs, strong jaws, good bones carved by labor and luck. The only foreign marker was the auburn, wild curl inherited from Emi. Even Ren, the chaotic one, had hit the genetic jackpot.
Then there was Hana.
Short.
Soft-looking.
Round cheeks, hair like a wildfire, expression like she'd bite your hand if you tried to pet her.
He leaned down slightly, just enough to whisper without the others hearing.
"You sure you're not adopted?"
She didn't blink. Just whispered back, deadly quiet:
"You want to sleep outside?"
Katsuki straightened, lips twitching before he locked them into a flat line.
No further comments.
Not because she'd won.
------
The room was... functional.
Not quite minimalist, not quite messy. Just enough personality to be unmistakably Hana without veering into hoarder territory. The futon was neatly laid out on the tatami, but the rest of the space was a curated disaster-papers stacked beside half-finished sketches, a tangled charging cable hooked around the leg of the desk, and post-its clinging to the walls like bright, angry confessions.
Large windows lined one side of the room, thrown wide open now. The breeze drifted in soft and slow, carrying the scent of saltwater, cedar, and late-summer dust. Crickets chirped somewhere in the distance, loud and obnoxious.
She'd flicked on the AC when she left, muttering something about "being civilized," but he'd shut it off immediately and opened the windows. Artificial air gave him migraines. And besides, the silence in this house didn't feel sterile.
It felt lived-in.
His elbows rested on his knees. From this angle, he could see the corner of a book under the bed. Something with a garish cover and a bent spine. Not law. Probably fantasy. Of course.
He exhaled.
Dinner had been a trial.
Not unpleasant. Just... relentless.
Emi ran the kitchen with the authority of a five-star general who also knew how to flambé. Every dish had come out perfectly timed and unnecessarily delicious, and every conversation had layered on top of another like a linguistic Jenga tower threatening collapse.
He'd barely sat down before Emi was pointing her chopsticks at Hana.
"Hana, serve your guest properly. Make sure he has enough rice."
"I do not remember inviting him," Hana said through gritted teeth.
"Then you lured him here, which is worse."
And suddenly she was shoving food onto his plate like a disgruntled waitress, muttering under her breath the entire time. He didn't say thank you. Mostly because the fish was too good and he didn't want to give her the satisfaction.
Then came the planning talk. Tomorrow. Saturday.
The festival didn't actually start until Monday, but preparations were already in full swing. Booths, stage construction, logistics. And naturally, Hana and Ren had been enlisted to help. Apparently this was tradition-Sukehiro children serving the town, probably with mild supervision and the occasional fire hazard.
Then Takeshi had spoken, voice like a soft command.
"You'll go with them," he said. Not a suggestion.
Katsuki had looked up.
He could've said no. Should've. He had work-cases, partners, clients to keep in line. But Sato could handle the firm for a day. It was Saturday. Not much would catch fire without him.
And there had been no way to phrase I'm here to grovel for your daughter's return, not build community trust through manual labor without sounding like a condescending ass.
So he'd said yes.
Now, alone in Hana's room, he stretched out on the futon, one arm behind his head, and let the sounds of distant clatter from the rest of the house fade into background noise.
He'd heard Hana crash into Ren's room earlier. Some loud thud followed by a scuffle and a yell. Possibly a wrestling match. Possibly just sibling affection with a concussion risk.
They were close. Too close.
Katsuki and his sister couldn't be in the same room for longer than fifteen minutes without someone storming out. But Hana and Ren? No distance. No hesitation. She could invade his space like it belonged to her. And he didn't just let it happen-he welcomed it.
Rei, silent and looming, had tracked them both from the hallway earlier. He didn't say much, didn't need to. Just watched with the quiet intensity of someone who knew exactly what his family was worth-and would kill for it without needing to be asked.
It was strange. Seeing a family like that. No cold formalities. No strained silence.
They bickered. Yelled. Smacked each other with utensils and called it love. And somehow, it worked.
Katsuki turned toward the window, the breeze brushing across his forehead.
Tomorrow should be fine.
He'd survive some booths. Maybe carry a few planks. Supervise Ren to make sure he didn't staple himself to a festival float.
It was one day.
He could play nice.
Even if he already knew-he didn't hate it here.