Katsuki had the vague sense that he was being punished.
Possibly for crimes committed in a past life, possibly for that time he told Hana she misfiled something when she very much hadn't. Either way, he was elbow-deep in glass bottles, his palms smelled like rice vinegar, and a teenage boy with an eyebrow piercing was humming J-pop within stabbing distance.
He could've said no.
When Takeshi had asked that morning—quietly, like it was a side comment, not a request—he'd had the perfect out. He could've said he was busy. He was always busy. The firm never slept, and he hadn't opened his inbox since stepping foot in Konoura. That alone should've been a federal offense. Kai's call the night before had been enough proof that everything was running fine. Too fine. Suspiciously fine.
But he hadn't said no.
Which was how he ended up at the bottling table, next to a man who was watching him like he could see through Harvard degrees and business-class arrogance to whatever soft underbelly might still exist underneath.
Ren was across from him, lost in whatever music his headphones were blasting, completely unbothered by the manual labor. Takeshi worked in comfortable silence, his movements efficient, practiced—like this wasn't work, just breathing with extra steps.
"You don't look like someone who runs errands," Takeshi said eventually, pausing. "What are you really doing here?"
Katsuki didn't look up. He finished sealing a cap with clinical precision, wiped his hands on the nearest cloth, and considered his options.
He could dodge. He could spin something strategic. A line about delegation. A performance review.
Instead, he said, "She's the best at what she does. I needed her back at the firm."
It was the kind of line that worked in meetings. Crisp. Controlled. Impersonal.
"Hmmm," Takeshi said.
Not convinced. Not impressed. Just observant.
Another bottle clicked into place.
"When Hana came home," Takeshi added, "she told everyone she was just on vacation."
Katsuki didn't respond.
"She didn't mention quitting. Not once. We didn't know she lost her job. Not until you came here."
That one landed harder than he expected.
Katsuki flexed his jaw, kept his eyes on the next bottle. He hadn't forced her out. Not technically. She'd chosen to leave. Walked out, even. No screaming match, no demands. Just silence and fury and a pair of heels echoing down the hallway.
But hearing it like that—from her father—made it feel different. More final.
Like something he couldn't outwork.
He didn't answer.
Because anything he said would sound like damage control. And he wasn't sure how to explain that he'd driven all the way to Akita not for closure, not for control—but because he didn't know what to do with the empty desk across from his.
-----
Takeshi didn't speak again for a while. He just kept working, bottles moving in rhythmic coordination like he'd been doing this his entire life. Katsuki followed suit—silently.
Then Takeshi said, almost idly, "You know… Hana's always been a bit like a wild animal."
Katsuki looked up.
Takeshi didn't clarify. Just uncapped the next bottle and continued. "Not in a bad way. Just… untamed. Hard to pin down. Stubborn. The kind of kid who always had ten questions and never waited for permission to ask any of them."
He set the bottle aside, eyes still fixed on the task. "Her mind works different. Always has. Fast. Sideways. She struggled in school, not because she wasn't smart, but because people didn't know what to do with her. Teachers said she was 'distracted.' Other kids called her weird. Too much."
Katsuki's grip on the bottle tightened.
"It's a surprise," Takeshi went on, "seeing someone from Nagoya come all the way up here just to bring her back. Most of her employers didn't last long with her. Didn't know how to handle her."
Katsuki exhaled, slow and tight. "She's brilliant."
Takeshi raised an eyebrow.
"More than half the lawyers I know," Katsuki added, flatly.
That got a smile.
"She's always wanted to be a lawyer," Takeshi said, voice softening. "Said the business needed one. Said we couldn't rely on corporate firms because they were all sharks."
Katsuki almost huffed. "She called me a shark to my face once."
"Sounds like her."
They fell into silence again, but this one was easier. Warmer.
Takeshi glanced over. "When she was in Nagoya, she called every week. Sometimes just to vent. Said you were working her to death. Said she didn't even have time to breathe."
That sounded accurate.
"But then she'd follow it with, 'I led a deposition meeting today' or 'I reorganized the partner's entire calendar without getting yelled at.'" He paused. "She didn't say your name much. But when she did, it was always when she was proud of something."
Katsuki didn't look up.
"She'll go back with you," Takeshi said simply. "I know my daughter. Just… don't push her too hard."
Katsuki didn't answer right away.
Because he didn't know how to say that he had already pushed her too hard. That he hadn't expected her to break. That maybe he didn't want her to go back because he needed her as a secretary.
Maybe he just needed her.
But instead, he nodded once and picked up another bottle.
It was when he noticed the silence beside them had shifted.
Ren had taken off one side of his headphones. Not fully, not dramatically. Just enough that it was clear he'd been listening.
He didn't say anything. Just kept wiping down bottle necks like the conversation hadn't touched him at all.
But his posture had changed—shoulders straighter, more deliberate. Less performative.
-----
The scent of rice and fermenting yeast lingered in the quiet, settling between them like another presence. Takeshi was wiping the rim of the next bottle when his voice cut through the silence again—this time softer, more curious.
"You close with your old man?"
Katsuki didn't answer immediately. He finished capping a bottle then set it down.
"He passed," he said finally. "Before I graduated."
Takeshi didn't apologize. Didn't offer the usual soft condolences people threw out like bandaids. He just nodded. Waited.
Katsuki exhaled. "Most people assume he was the one with the money. But that came from my mother. Her side owns a hospitality group."
"Hm."
"My father worked. Hard. He ran logistics for a food distribution company. Didn't take time off unless someone died. Woke up before dawn, drank black coffee like it was oxygen, and raised us like we had nothing."
He didn't mean to say that much. But it was already out, and Takeshi wasn't interrupting, so he kept going.
"Taught me to fix the washing machine. Change my own oil. Said being rich is temporary-being useful isn't."
Takeshi let out a low chuckle. "Sounds like someone I would've gotten along with."
Katsuki's mouth curved slightly. "If he were still alive… he'd like it here."
Takeshi arched a brow.
"He drank sake like water," Katsuki added dryly. "Used to tell my mother it kept his blood clean."
That earned an actual laugh.
Katsuki capped another bottle with practiced ease, eyes flicking over the neat rows they'd already filled. The rhythm helped. Kept his hands moving, his thoughts aligned. But something about the last few minutes—about the warmth of the space, the weight of Takeshi's words, the ghost of his own voice speaking about his father—stuck with him longer than expected.
He hadn't thought about his old man in a while.
Not really.
Not beyond the occasional memory—the smell of burnt toast at 5 a.m., the sound of a worn-out car engine coughing to life, the way he'd grunt instead of saying goodbye but still waited at the door until Katsuki was out of sight.
It hit him harder than it should've.
He made a note, quiet and instinctive, to visit his grave when he got back to Nagoya. Bring something good. Say nothing, as usual.
His fingers tapped once against the wooden crate beside him.
Then he turned to Takeshi. "Can I have a bottle?"
The older man looked up.
Katsuki's voice was steady, but there was something behind it. Not soft—just honest. "He would've liked this."