The heat was starting to dip, just barely—gold light softening the edges of the tents, cicadas slowing in the trees.
Katsuki stretched his shoulders and rolled his neck once, grimacing at the tight pull of muscle. "I swear if someone hands me one more folding chair—"
"You'll do it," Hana said, flopped beside him under a patch of shade. She handed him a lukewarm bottle of barley tea without looking.
He took it without thanking her, because she didn't expect it.
"You're the neighborhood's newest himbo," she added. "Just lean into it."
"Don't call me that."
"I've seen at least three aunties pat your biceps. You're basically a community mascot."
"I'll leave."
"You won't."
He opened the bottle in sharp silence, but didn't deny it.
They were halfway into what counted as companionable bickering when a shadow fell over them. An elderly man stood there, hat in hand, a neatly folded document held gingerly between his fingers.
"Hana-chan," he said, voice careful. "You mind takin' a quick look at this? Got some lease trouble, and I don't quite trust what the supplier's been sayin'…"
Hana straightened. "Uh—sure. Let me see."
She took the paper, smoothed it on her lap. It was an old lease form, half handwritten, with dubious conditions scribbled in the margins. She scanned it, lips pursing, eyes narrowing like they did when she used to hunt typos in litigation notes at 2 a.m.
"This clause is suspicious," she muttered. "And this part about deductions—yeah, no. That's sketchy. You need a lawyer. I can't give you actual advice. Technically, I'm not allowed to—"
"Let me take a look."
Her head snapped toward Katsuki.
He reached out for the document. Didn't ask. Just took.
Hana leaned in, whispering, "They can't afford you."
Katsuki didn't look at her. "I'm a lawyer."
The old man shifted. "I appreciate it, son, but I don't think I can afford a lawyer right now…"
"I'm off duty," Katsuki said simply. "So no need to pay me anything."
He said it flatly, like it was nothing. Like he hadn't once billed a Tokyo firm three million yen for ten billable hours.
He read the lease. Eyes flicking, mouth pulled into the sharp frown he usually reserved for hostile mergers and gross ethical violations. When he looked up, his voice was calm—but surgical.
"You have grounds to contest the termination clause. And they're in breach here," he said, tapping the form with two fingers. "Get a written acknowledgment of payment and don't sign anything else until they revise these terms."
The man stared.
Then bowed, low. "Thank you."
And suddenly—somehow—they were surrounded.
A florist with a tax notice. A baker with zoning questions. Someone from the convenience store who heard Katsuki used to work in mergers and wanted advice on restructuring debt.
It kept growing. Quietly. Organically.
Hana didn't hesitate.
She stood, slipped beside him, and went full assistant mode like it had never left her blood. She grabbed spare paper from a nearby booth, started writing names, notes, questions. Organized everything by type, underlining in red when Katsuki would need to sign.
He didn't have to say a word.
She already knew what to hand him next.
She already knew when he'd need more space, more silence, more context.
At one point, she muttered, "They'll need a stamped form for this."
"I'll sign it tomorrow," he said, without pausing.
And it hit him.
This—this effortless rhythm, this unspoken flow between chaos and control—was the exact cadence they'd always worked in. No title. No job description. Just two people who moved in tandem.
The questions kept coming. He kept answering.
No one asked for credentials.
No one asked for his name.
They listened. They trusted.
Something strange twisted in Katsuki's chest.
He hadn't felt this kind of gratitude in years.
Not since their first client. Not since Kai stood beside him in a cracked, underfunded conference room, and someone—just one someone—gave them a chance.
These people had nothing to give him. They didn't know who he was. Hana didn't offer him as a lawyer. She hadn't twisted his arm. She just... let him sit there.
And they came anyway.
They came because they trusted her.
They stayed because they started trusting him.
-----
Hana hadn't realized she'd stopped writing.
She was watching him. Really watching him, answering questions like he'd been born into this rhythm. No ego. No pretense. Just fact and precision and something soft hiding beneath all that granite.
She swallowed.
This was the part of him she never saw at work.
The one that didn't bark orders. The one who didn't need control because he already had command.
And the way he didn't flinch at people asking for help—even if they couldn't pay for it—made her chest feel uncomfortably full.
This wasn't him as a boss.
This was him as a person.
And maybe—maybe—that was worse.
Because now she couldn't hate him properly.
Not when he was doing something like this. Not when he kept glancing toward her—not for approval, but because she was still the one he worked beside.
She exhaled.
And kept writing.
-----
The sun had dipped low enough that the lanterns began to glow—soft halos swaying above booths and crates, casting long shadows across the square.
An hour had passed since the crowd began thinning. Since the last zoning concern, the final thank-you, the third elderly woman who pressed pickled plums into Hana's hand "for stamina." Now the festival square felt calm again, like the town had exhaled.
Hana wiped her hands on the back of her shorts and stretched, arms overhead.
"We should head back."
Katsuki stood beside her, shirt still slung over one shoulder, the last of his annoyance buried under something quieter. He didn't say anything—just nodded once. That strange, rare kind of peace still sitting just beneath his skin.
Then the man from earlier returned. The one with the lease document and the hunched shoulders. But this time, he was smiling, holding something wrapped in patterned cloth.
"Thanks again," the man said, offering it out with both hands.
Katsuki took it, dipping his head slightly in return. A gesture he rarely offered.
Then he reached into his back pocket for his wallet, and pulled out a card.
The good kind. Not the generic firm stationery. The real one—white matte, thick stock, engraved.
"If you need anything," Katsuki said, "call this number."
The man took it with careful fingers, eyebrows lifting as he examined the raised lettering.
"That number connects directly to Hana," Katsuki added. "If it's not her, say you're calling from Konoura. If I'm busy, my partner will help you."
Hana turned. Slowly.
She didn't say anything right away—just watched the man bow, smile, and walk away.
Then she raised a brow. "Bold of you to assume I'm coming back with you."
"I'm not assuming," Katsuki said without missing a beat. "I'll drag you by your hair if I have to."
She snorted. "You're so violent."
"Says the woman who slapped me and nearly crushed my balls."
She cackled. Loud. Sharp. Entirely unbothered.
Then, grinning—wide and wicked—she tossed his words back at him, deceptively sweet:
"I'm not gonna apologize for something I don't regret doing."
Katsuki stared at her for a moment. Just a moment.
Then he looked away, jaw twitching—like he was either suppressing a smile or preparing a full legal counterattack.
Probably both.
They walked back side by side, the square behind them emptying out, but the weight of something else—unspoken, unresolved, undeniably theirs—still lingering in the space between them.
-----
The house was finally quiet. Lanterns outside still glowed, low and warm, and the faint hum of cicadas had faded to the kind of hush that made silence feel intimate.
Katsuki sat on the edge of the futon in her room—his room now, technically—shirtless, still rolling one shoulder slowly with an expression like pain personally offended him.
The knot in his back had been getting worse since late afternoon. Some auntie had shoved a tarp-wrapped crate into his arms with the kind of enthusiasm that bypassed spinal safety. And because he hadn't warmed up first—because he hadn't expected to be yanked into local gladiator games—he'd pulled something. Not enough to knock him flat. Just enough to piss him off.
He heard the knock.
Her voice followed a second later. "I just need to grab something from the closet. Then I'm gone."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
She slid the door open and stepped inside barefoot, hair loose and damp from a quick shower, oversized t-shirt swinging around her thighs like a warning label.
She paused when she saw him. Her eyes flicked to his back.
"You look like a cautionary tale," she said.
"I feel worse."
She moved across the room without ceremony, crouching behind him. "Let me see."
"I'm fine."
"You sound like a rich man trying to convince himself he's above basic human suffering."
He gave her a withering look over his shoulder. "I am."
"Sit still, CEO."
Before he could protest again, her fingers were on him—warm, firm, and alarmingly good. Her thumbs dug into the spot just below his left shoulder blade, and he bit back a noise.
She was annoyingly good at this.
He wasn't sure what was more unsettling—the effectiveness of her touch or the fact that he'd let her start in the first place.
Her hands moved over the slope of his shoulders, slow, sure. Not lingering, not flirtatious. Just steady. Familiar. The kind of intimacy that didn't ask permission because it didn't need to.
"You should let people help you more often," she murmured, more thought than instruction. "Not everyone's trying to take something from you."
He didn't answer right away. Not because he didn't have a response, but because her thumbs pressed a little deeper and he nearly swore.
Then: "Speak for yourself."
-----
She just kept massaging, and that was somehow worse. Or better. Or both.
Hana focused on the tight curve of his neck, thumbs circling instinctively. He was too warm. Too close. And she wasn't used to this kind of silence between them. It wasn't heavy. Just… alert. Like a single spark would set everything off.
She should've said something smug. Or something mean. She should've called him a meathead or an expensive furniture piece with neck tension. But her hands kept moving, her breath was shallow, and the only thing louder than the silence was her own heartbeat ricocheting off the walls of her ribcage.
She cleared her throat. "Turn around."
He raised a brow at her. "Why?"
"So I can break your fingers," she said sweetly.
He turned.
She sat in front of him, cross-legged, and took one of his hands without waiting for permission.
His hands were warm, sure—but too smooth. Almost surgically neat. Nails trimmed, knuckles pale. Not soft, exactly, but untouched. The hands of a man who paid people to lift for him.
She started working her thumbs into his palm, but she wasn't prepared for the intimacy of it. This wasn't his back. This was his hand. His wrist. This was where the pulse lived.
She looked for something to say.
"You have rich person hands," she blurted.
His eyes narrowed. "I was born in a hospital, not a coal mine."
"Could've fooled me, Captain Slipped-a-Disc."
He said nothing.
And that's when it happened.
He caught her hand.
Not suddenly. Not in surprise.
He just… held it. Light. But firm.
And then he turned it over and looked at it.
Studied it. Brushed a thumb along the line of her palm, over the roughened pads and faint marks. She knew what he was seeing—callouses from crates, from ropes, from sake barrels too heavy to lift solo but which she insisted on helping with anyway.
"Been working in the brewery," she said, voice quiet. "You know. Bills. Rent. Life. Not that my parents would ever let me drown or anything. But I don't want handouts."
He kept looking.
Not at her. At her hand.
And something about that—about being noticed like that—sent heat crawling up her neck.
This wasn't like the kiss.
This wasn't ego. Or control. Or silencing.
This was him seeing her.
Actually seeing her.
And she didn't know what to do with it.
She didn't want to know what to do with it.
-----
He didn't mean to hold her hand.
He really didn't.
But when she touched his palm—those calloused fingers moving with too much focus—something in him short-circuited. She shouldn't have rough hands. She was too precise, too cerebral. She filed things alphabetically and color-coded schedules. She talked fast and wrote faster.
And he wasn't supposed to care.
But his thumb moved over her palm like he'd done this before in another life. And the callouses? They undid him. Because they were proof of something he hadn't asked for and didn't deserve—survival. That she'd stayed standing, even after he ruined everything.
He didn't look at her.
Because if he did, he'd do something reckless.
-----
And for a second—just one suspended, terrifying second—her heart did something reckless.
Because he wasn't letting go.
Because this felt like more.
Because she wasn't sure what she'd do if he leaned forward.
So when the phone buzzed on the floor beside him, the sound felt like an explosion.
She jerked her hand back.
Fast.
And stood, too fast.
"I should—I need to—yeah. I'll just—"
He didn't stop her.
She walked out.
Closed the door behind her.
And then leaned against the hallway wall like she'd just walked away from a bomb that hadn't exploded yet.
-----
Katsuki didn't answer the phone until she was gone.
Kai.
The name flashed on the screen like a curse. Or an omen.
He picked it up. "I'm going to kill you."
Kai laughed immediately. "So you are alive. How's rural exile? Drunk yet? Married yet?"
Katsuki didn't answer.
Because his hand still felt warm.
Because her callouses had felt like proof of something she never said.
Kai was still talking in his ear—something about deals or dinner or the fact that Katsuki had vanished from Tokyo without warning.
Katsuki didn't hear a word.
Because he was still sitting there, hand empty, heartbeat uneven, and all he could think was—
I'm in trouble.
I'm in so much trouble.