The ceiling was beige.
Beige and slightly cracked in one corner, like even it was emotionally exhausted.
Hana glared at it. Hard.
Sleep had long since given up on her. Ren had already made his makeshift futon on the floor and scampered off to do something infuriatingly productive with his morning, probably bottle flipping rice grains with his toes or whatever 20-year-old boys did at sunrise. Meanwhile, she was stuck horizontal, vibrating with restless energy and thoughts. The dangerous kind.
It wasn't insomnia, not really.
More like… mental whiplash. With a dash of spiraling. And a full buffet of denial.
Because Katsuki—her boss, her emotional nemesis, the infuriating slab of premium-grade control issues currently occupying her childhood bedroom—was still asleep in her bed. Her actual bed. In her house. Probably breathing her air and dreaming about spreadsheets.
And for some unhinged reason, that fact felt like a warning sign from the universe.
Her brain, traitorous little gremlin that it was, decided this was the perfect time to flash back to last night. Specifically, to the moment he told her not to shrink herself. That she wasn't too much. That the men she'd dated were weak.
Which was…
Not okay.
Absolutely not okay.
"You are not allowed to be hot and emotionally competent at the same time," she hissed at the ceiling, wrapping the blanket around herself like it could strangle the memory out of her. "Pick a struggle, boss-man."
She was fine.
Really.
This wasn't anything. She and Katsuki were not a thing. They'd kill each other before kissing, and she'd probably sue him if they ever accidentally touched hands too long.
God, could you imagine?
No.
Yes.
No.
Their entire dynamic was built on animosity and caffeine. It was like trying to date a blender set to purée. Sure, he was tall and broad and had hands that made her want to write unhinged poetry, but that didn't mean anything. He was also rude. And controlling. And terrifyingly honest, which was somehow worse.
She needed to ground herself.
Get perspective.
Think of all the reasons it could never happen.
Like how his idea of flirting was—what?—critiquing her resume formatting? Or that he once yelled at a senior partner for using comic sans in a footnote?
She imagined their wedding vows.
"I promise to love, honor, and redline your emails for grammar."
"Take this clause out of your heart, it's redundant."
Disgusting.
"I would rather staple my eyelids open and watch my ex-boyfriend give a TED Talk on emotional maturity," she muttered, already spiraling deeper. "I'd rather get trampled by a herd of buffalos while holding a 'legalize corporate monopolies' sign. I'd rather—"
She sat up.
Nope. Still not better. Still thinking about him.
Which meant it was time for an emotional support FaceTime.
She grabbed her phone, hit Yuna's name, and flopped back dramatically, pillow over her head like a defeated Victorian wife.
Three rings.
And then—Yuna's face appeared. Except not just her face.
There was a man next to her.
Correction: That man.
"Yuna Ishida, where are you and who's that?"
Yuna just smiled. Innocent. Suspicious. Glowing like she'd just finished doing something illegal and satisfying.
Then she panned the camera.
Kai Sato, smug menace and poster boy for corporate misconduct, appeared shirtless, looking like sin in 4K. He blinked slowly, like he knew he was about to ruin her day. "Miss you, Sukehiro."
Hana squawked. Actually squawked. "OH MY GOD, YOU SLEPT WITH A WAR CRIMINAL."
Yuna rolled her eyes. "You're so dramatic."
Kai winked. Winked. Like the sentient HR violation he was.
"You slept with Katsuki's emotional support lawsuit," Hana whisper-shrieked, clutching her phone like it might explode. "That's—oh my god. That's like if I made out with the concept of overtime."
Kai smirked. "just tell me you missed me, too"
She made a noise that could only be described as static. "I'm coming back to Nagoya next week, and you better still be alive so I can kill you myself."
Yuna just laughed.
Hana hung up with the dramatic flair of someone who absolutely forgot why she called in the first place.
Because now all she could think about was:
Kai.
Yuna.
Kai and Yuna.
Kai and Yuna and the fact that Katsuki definitely knew.
Which meant Katsuki didn't tell her.
Which meant—
Oh hell no.
She launched herself off the futon, bare feet stomping down the hallway with righteous fury and zero plan. Because this wasn't about the sex. Or the betrayal. Or the fact that Kai Sato somehow managed to look good just waking up.
This was about principle.
And about how Katsuki Hasegawa—her boss, her nemesis, the man currently hoarding her bed and her sanity—didn't tell her shit.
She shoved open his door without knocking, ready to demand justice.
And completely forgot why she was mad the second he looked up.
-----
He had just stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, when Hana barged in like her chaos had been summoned by divine spite.
No knock. No warning. Just pure, caffeinated indignation in a too-thin t-shirt and a hair tie hanging off her wrist like she was one meltdown away from tying it back and starting a fight.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded, arms on her hips like a pint-sized interrogator.
He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Tell you what?"
"About Yuna and Sato, obviously."
Ah. That
He opened his mouth to respond, but then—she moved.
Shifted, just slightly, and something in his already-strained brain short-circuited. Because the shirt she was wearing—thin, clingy, criminal—left absolutely nothing to the imagination. No bra. No awareness. Just chaos wrapped in cotton and indignation.
And his body betrayed him instantly.
Unforgiving. Immediate. Completely against protocol.
Katsuki stiffened—literally—and cursed every single cell in his body. Shifted his stance. Adjusted the towel. Did not make eye contact.
"If I told you," he said, voice scraping low, "would you have done something about it?"
There was a pause.
A flick of her eyes downward. Barely a second.
But it was enough.
Her gaze caught. Froze. Registered. And then—
Absolutely nothing on her face. Not a flinch. Not a blink. Just the eerie calm of a woman deploying maximum denial in real-time.
"Oh my god," her brain screamed internally, already setting fire to itself. HELLO? HELLO, SIR? GRAY SWEATPANTS IN THE MORNING? I NEED HOLY WATER AND AN EXORCISM. IMMEDIATELY.
Nope. Nope nope nope. She wasn't going to acknowledge it. She was better than this.
Glorious, her brain whispered. Absolutely majestic. Ten out of ten. Good morning to you, sir.
Shut up.
"Okay," she said casually, voice an octave too bright, "I'm just gonna… go scream into a bucket of ice."
She pivoted. Walked. Marched directly out of the room with the dignity of a woman pretending she had not just made eye contact with the outline of her boss's dick.
The door clicked shut.
Katsuki exhaled, running a hand down his face, towel hanging forgotten at his neck.
"…God help me."
-----
The label printer was jammed. Again.
Which was fine. Totally fine. It gave her something to do with her hands. Something productive. Something not related to gray sweatpants and the anatomical betrayal they had unleashed upon her morning like a Greek tragedy in cotton-blend.
Hana pressed the release latch and muttered a prayer to the gods of cheap office equipment. The roll unspooled with a sad little wheeze, flopping onto the table in surrender.
Okay. Focus. Just relabel the Junmai batch. Easy. You've done this a hundred times. It's literally your family's business and you're a genius, remember? A prodigy. An icon. A legend.
She grabbed the Sharpie.
Wrote the date.
Wrote the batch code.
Paused.
And stared at what she'd just written.
HASEGAWA.
She blinked. Once. Twice. The bottle didn't change. Neither did the label.
There it was. Her delusion. Bottled and branded.
"Oh my god," she whispered, cradling her face in her hands. "I've officially lost the last remaining brain cell not committed to perving on my boss."
And now she was talking to herself. Fantastic.
She paced. Tried to reset her thoughts by doing something mechanical—peeling labels, restacking crates, pretending her frontal cortex wasn't currently staging a slow-motion coup. It didn't help. Every time she tried to think of anything, her mind filled with flash images like a cursed slideshow.
Gray sweatpants. Wet hair. Towel. Voice. That look. That goddamn voice.
"Okay, no," she said aloud, again, to no one. "We're not doing this. He's my boss. He's mean. He's the human equivalent of a tax audit. He thinks emotional intimacy is a productivity threat."
And yet—her traitorous brain whispered—he told you not to shrink yourself.
SHUT UP, BRAIN.
She whipped out her phone and hit the video call button without even checking the time.
Yuna picked up on the third ring, makeup-free and eating cereal straight out of the box like a raccoon who worked in fashion.
"Please tell me you've emotionally imploded," Yuna said cheerfully, mouth half-full. "Because I just reorganized Kai's skincare drawer and found four unopened serums he's never used. This man has collagen privilege. I need a distraction."
"I wrote his name on a bottle," Hana whispered.
"…Katsuki?"
"I labeled the Junmai with his name like I was branding it with lust." She dropped her head to the table. "I need an exorcism. Or bleach. Or to be sedated until I stop thinking about his stupid hands and his stupid voice and his morning wood."
Yuna choked on a cornflake. "You saw that?!"
"I PRETENDED I DIDN'T," Hana shrieked into the woodgrain. "But it's in my brain now, Yuna. It's there. Like a screensaver."
Yuna was full-on wheezing. "God, you're so dramatic."
"I'm traumatized," Hana hissed. "But also… like… impressed? Is that allowed? Can I be both?"
"You're you," Yuna said, sobering slightly. "You're always both."
There was a pause.
A rare one. One where neither of them filled the air with jokes.
Then Yuna leaned closer to the camera, her tone dropping into something softer, heavier. "You're allowed to want things, you know. Like—really want them. Even if they're scary. Even if they're complicated."
Hana looked at her.
Yuna shrugged, still casual but uncharacteristically sincere. "You spend so much time bracing for impact, I think you forget you're allowed to want something without apologizing for it."
Hana didn't respond right away.
Because her stomach had just flipped in that awful, thrilling way that meant she'd just heard something true.
She swallowed. "That's grossly mature of you."
"I've been sleeping with an emotionally stunted genius. Personal growth is inevitable."
Hana snorted.
And then, quietly: "Thanks."
"Anytime, dumbass."
The call ended.
-----
She sat there for a moment after the call ended, her fingers still curled around the mislabeled bottle, "HASEGAWA" glaring back at her in Sharpie like some kind of cursed prophecy. She turned it in her hands once. Twice. Then set it down carefully, like maybe it was rigged to explode.
Want.
Yuna was right. That was the problem. The wanting. She didn't know how to do it without already preparing for the crash landing.
Wanting was reckless. Dangerous. And wanting him?
Career-ending. Life-altering. Probably a punishable offense under at least three different workplace codes of conduct.
She wasn't ready to face him. Not with that face. That voice. That outline of sin branded into her hippocampus. Not with whatever mess had taken root in her chest and was now growing tendrils up through her ribs, winding their way into places she'd kept locked tight for years.
So instead, she stayed in the brewery.
All. Day.
Organizing shelves that didn't need organizing. Reboxing crates that had already been boxed. Inventing new, deeply unnecessary labeling systems. At one point, she caught Ren watching her like she'd joined a cult, but he wisely said nothing.
She texted her mom to let her know she'd be sleeping in the spare room at the brewery—said she wanted to get a head start on inventory. Emi replied with a thumbs-up and a suspicious lack of follow-up questions.
And when the sun finally dipped below the ridgeline and the street lamps buzzed to life, Hana was still there. Alone, exhausted, a little dusty, and aggressively Not Thinking About Anything.
She stretched her arms over her head, stared up at the ceiling beams, and muttered, "You win today, avoidance. Full sweep."
She knew he was still at the house. She'd overheard him earlier asking Ren if he could connect to the Wi-Fi before locking himself in with back-to-back meetings.
And maybe that was for the best.
Because she wasn't ready..
Tomorrow, maybe.
Tonight?
She was staying here. With the sake. With the Sharpie. With her incredibly humbling bottle labeled HASEGAWA.
She pulled her hoodie over her head and laid down on the office couch, arms crossed tight.
She was fine.
Totally fine.
She just needed one night of holy water and strategic avoidance.
Then maybe—maybe—she'd figure out what to do with the dangerous, terrifying thing growing between them.
But not tonight.
Not yet.