He heard her before he saw her.
That laugh—too loud, too obnoxious, too her—carried in from the gravel path like a shot across the bow. He didn't turn immediately. Just kept wiping down the next crate like he wasn't actively tracking her voice, cataloguing the cadence, noting how it curved into something warm.
The door creaked open.
And there she was—hair wind-mussed, cheeks pink from the sun, carrying nothing as usual while someone else followed behind her with two stacked boxes.
The man said something. Hana laughed.
Not her work laugh. Not the breathy fake one she used on opposing counsel when she wanted them to underestimate her. This was the real one. The kind she made when she forgot to be defensive.
Katsuki's jaw twitched.
The guy was… average. Objectively. Taller than Hana, broad-shouldered, black hair in that tousled, I-don't-try-but-somehow-still-wake-up-camera-ready way. Wore sneakers without socks. Casual. Relaxed. Boy-next-door type who probably knew all the aunties by name and offered to help carry groceries out of sheer reflex.
Katsuki narrowed his eyes.
"Relative?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral. Practiced. Not possessive. Just… curious.
It was Ren who answered, tugging out one earbud. "That's Hiro. Hana-nee's high school boyfriend."
The bottle in Katsuki's hand didn't crack, but the cap clicked a little sharper than necessary.
He watched as Hiro set the boxes down and greeted Takeshi with a casual shoulder bump, like they'd done it a hundred times. Did the same to Ren, who returned it without hesitation.
"I passed by your house earlier," Hiro said, brushing his hair back like he didn't know he was being watched. "Only Rei and Aoi were home."
Comfortable. Familiar. The kind of familiarity you couldn't fake. The kind you earned after years of showing up.
Katsuki didn't like it.
Ren leaned closer, voice low. "Hana-nee broke up with him a year before they graduated senior high. I thought he had a new girlfriend already, but…" Ren tilted his head toward the door, where Hiro was still talking to their father. "He started hovering again when she came back."
Katsuki didn't reply.
Because there was nothing to say.
Because he didn't owe anyone a reaction.
Ren smirked. "They grew up together."
Right
He'd probably seen her in every stage—school uniform, braces, adolescent temper. Knew the family rhythms. Had the home court advantage.
And now he was back. Hovering.
A shadow fell over the workbench.
"Well, would you look at that," Hana said, coming to stand beside him. "Boss-man's doing manual labor. The earth is healing."
He didn't look at her. "You're late."
"I was helping my mom," she said, saccharine. "Also, I brought beer. Not for you. Just for people I like."
He glanced at her, and the corner of her mouth lifted like she knew exactly what she was doing.
They were just getting into their usual rhythm—bait, jab, escalate—when Hiro crossed the space and dropped an arm around Hana's shoulder.
The movement was smooth. Familiar. Rehearsed.
And for Katsuki, unacceptable.
"Who's this?" Hiro asked, eyes on him.
"Boss-man," Ren supplied, like he was narrating a documentary.
"Ah."
Hiro stared.
Katsuki stared back.
No smile. No nod. No handshake. Just silence.
Heavy. Unapologetic.
Takeshi cleared his throat. The kind of sound that meant stop measuring dicks in my brewery and handed Katsuki another bottle to seal.
He took it.
But he didn't look away.
-----
They were bottling again.
Well—Hiro and Katsuki were bottling. Hana was technically supervising, which involved holding exactly zero tools and standing in the exact middle of the bench like a very smug traffic cone.
Which was also, apparently, optimal positioning for conversation. Because Hiro—former high school boyfriend, current source of Katsuki's slow-developing aneurysm—had been talking to her non-stop since they'd started.
"And do you remember that time during the cultural festival," Hiro was saying, grinning as he capped another bottle one-handed, "when you tried to deep fry a frozen mochi and set off the fire alarm?"
"First of all," Hana said, pointing a finger at him with mock indignation, "I maintain that I was experimenting. Like a culinary pioneer."
"You almost took out the entire Home Ec building."
"I warned people!"
"After it exploded."
Hana cackled, shoulders shaking. "Okay, but the look on Shimizu-sensei's face? Worth it. I've never seen a human go from calm to crisis in under two seconds."
Hiro laughed with her, easy and warm, elbow nudging hers like this was a well-rehearsed routine.
Katsuki, on the other hand, was debating the logistics of replacing every bottle in the brewery with legal briefs just so he could regain a single ounce of control.
Because apparently, everyone had shared trauma from a youth he hadn't been around for. Childhood anecdotes. Near-death baking experiences. The privilege of seeing Hana in her gremlin high school phase.
And what did he get?
"Remember your third week at the firm," he cut in abruptly, deadpan. "When you CC'd a client on an internal thread and almost triggered a lawsuit?"
Hana looked at him.
Hiro paused mid-cap.
Katsuki raised a brow. "You called them 'a special brand of corporate slime' and hit send before the thread ended."
"...Oh my god," she muttered. "I forgot about that."
"I didn't."
He turned back to his row of bottles, like he hadn't just drop-kicked the conversation into a pit and set it on fire.
There was silence.
Then—
"Wow," Hiro said slowly. "That's, uh. Different."
"She's grown since then," Katsuki added mildly. "Mostly."
Hana stared at him like she was trying to mind-meld a threat directly into his brain. "Thank you, boss-man. That was extremely helpful."
He didn't look at her. Mostly because he didn't trust himself not to say something worse.
Like: How many stories like that do you have with him?
Or: How come you never told me any of this?
Or: Why do I feel like an intern crashing a reunion lunch I wasn't invited to?
Instead, he capped another bottle, aggressively.
And Hana, for once, said nothing.
Because the air had shifted—just a little. The laughter tucked away. The space between them suddenly too full of old memories that didn't include him.
She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, suddenly hyperaware of where she stood.
God. This was weird. This was stupid.
This was definitely not the time to think about how Katsuki somehow looked ten times more infuriatingly attractive when he was annoyed. With that little vein in his forearm, and the way his mouth tightened when he didn't know what to say but hated that fact more than anything.
"Anyway," she said, too loud, "the mochi didn't even taste that bad. A little scorched, maybe. But very crispy."
Hiro chuckled.
Katsuki didn't.
He just handed her the next bottle without looking.
And Hana, with a sigh, took it like a peace offering neither of them knew how to give.
-----
The sky was a bruised lavender when they left the brewery, the kind of dusk that made everything look softer, quieter, like the whole world had been dipped in nostalgia. Hana walked a few paces ahead, the gravel crunching under her sneakers, the breeze catching her curls and flicking them around like they were trying to escape her head.
Behind her, she could hear Katsuki's steps—steady, measured, hands tucked in his pockets like he had all the time in the world and nothing to prove. Typical.
"I'm shocked," she said, not looking back. "You didn't throw a clipboard at anyone today."
"Ren ducked before I could," came the dry response.
She smiled to herself. Of course he heard that. Of course he was still walking like he owned the road even when it was literally not his.
They hit the narrow lane that led to the house—quiet, flanked by fields on one side and a line of old trees on the other. Hana kicked a pebble forward. It bounced twice and vanished into the weeds.
"You ever think I'm cursed?" she asked suddenly, too casual. "Like romantically."
"No," Katsuki said flatly. "You're just bad at picking men."
"Wow. Thank you for that profound analysis, Doctor Hasegawa." She rolled her eyes at the road. "I mean, Yuna set me up on these blind dates before. And it's not even funny how fast they crash and burn. Like—one guy walked out in the middle of dinner because I corrected his definition of tort."
"You corrected him during dinner?"
"I was being nice."
He snorted.
She ignored him. "One guy said I was too intense. Another told me I talked too much. One said he thought I was going to be more… I don't know. Delicate?"
"Did you stab him?"
"No. But I asked if his university even offered real degrees or just vibes. So."
A beat of silence.
She didn't turn around, but she could feel him there—behind her, steady as gravity.
"I get that I'm a lot," she said, quieter this time. "Like, objectively. I have… opinions. And noise. And I don't sit still unless I'm dead or dehydrated. I'm trying to be more...pleasing. You know? More agreeable. Demure." She said the word like it's offensive. "But it's exhausting. And honestly depressing. I should just give up and live like a cat lady. Except I'm allergic to cats, so that plan's out."
She laughed at her own joke, sharp and half-bitter, because that's what she did when things got too close.
Behind her, Katsuki exhaled.
"Have you ever considered," he said, "that maybe the problem isn't you?"
She paused for a bit but kept walking.
"That maybe these men were just weak-ass excuses who couldn't keep up?" he added.
Her steps slowed.
Katsuki kept walking. Passed her.
"And that it's fucking annoying when you act like you should shrink yourself just to meet whatever imaginary standard they had in their heads?"
She stopped.
He didn't.
Didn't look back, didn't pause. Just kept going, voice lower now, half-directed at the air.
"Don't try to be someone you're not. It's weird. And annoying."
Hana stood still in the road, heart thudding too hard against her ribs. The breeze picked up again, brushed past her skin like a whisper. Her stomach twisted.
Because he wasn't trying to flatter her. He wasn't even trying to be nice.
He was just telling the truth.
And it did something dangerous to her—something sharp and warm and terrifyingly soft all at once.
She swallowed, pressed her hands to her cheeks, and couldn't stop the stupid smile creeping up her face.
"Oh shit."