Hana woke up to the familiar, deeply unpleasant sensation of her own brain doing somersaults behind her eyes. Not in a headache way. In a wait, what dimension is this and why do I taste acid kind of way.
She blinked up at the ceiling. Ren's ceiling.
How the hell did she get back here?
For a second, she considered the possibility that she'd teleported. Then, more reasonably, she assumed divine intervention. Or a small miracle. Or maybe Hiro carried her again like some kind of ex-boyfriend Saint Bernard-
She rolled over slowly, cautiously, like her spine might eject itself in protest. Her stomach gave a weak gurgle. Not nausea, thank god-hunger. Violent, ravenous, post-vomit hunger. She felt hollow in that deeply specific way that only happened after expelling everything but her soul into a toilet bowl.
She patted the floor blindly for her phone. Found it wedged under the futon. Lit up the screen.
10:04 PM. Perfect.
Maybe-hopefully-Maman had left something out. A rice ball. Some miso soup. Half a grape.
She hauled herself upright and remembered, with a blank stare and two full seconds of lag, that Ren wasn't here. He'd texted earlier-something about crashing at a friend's place after taiko practice. Which explained the empty room. And also why there was no one to bear witness to her slow, starving resurrection from the dead.
She padded out into the hallway in bare feet and the same clothes from earlier-a rumpled t-shirt and shorts she barely remembered putting on. The house was quiet, just unmistakable click of a laptop keyboard-
Katsuki.
At the dining table.
She paused. Glared at him on instinct. He closed the laptop without even looking at her, like he felt the stare hit him.
"Feeling somewhat decent now?" he asked, tone infuriatingly neutral.
"No. I'm hungry," she muttered, already beelining to the kitchen with single-minded purpose.
She opened the fridge. Nothing. Checked the microwave. Empty. She started opening every cabinet like a raccoon ransacking a campsite.
Where the hell was the food? Did Ren eat everything before leaving? That little vacuum with abs-
She sighed, reached for the top shelf, and grabbed an emergency cup of ramen.
And then-Katsuki stood up. "Sit down. I'm making you food."
"I'm fine-"
"SIT. DOWN."
The force of the command hit her like a verbal taser. She rolled her eyes, but her limbs were already moving without her permission, dropping her into one of the dining chairs like she was being detained.
"What do you want?" he asked without looking back.
"...Miso soup and tamagoyaki."
It came out small. Embarrassing. Like she was six and asking for a bedtime snack.
But Katsuki just nodded like she'd made a formal business request and started cracking eggs.
She watched.
And immediately-immediately-her brain betrayed her.
Because damn it. Damn it all. If he wasn't so rude. And arrogant. And insufferably Katsuki all the time... he would make a really good husband. Like. Alarmingly good.
He knew what pan to use without thinking. Used chopsticks to roll the eggs into perfect golden layers. Was already boiling water for the soup while whisking the miso paste with zero hesitation. Competent in that sexy, domestic, terrifying way that made her ovaries short-circuit.
She stared, horrified at her own thoughts.
Don't say it. Don't even think it too loud. Don't-
"Of course I'll make a great husband," Katsuki said, not looking up.
She froze.
He heard her.
Shit.
Abort mission. Burn the house. Flee the country. Change her name. She'd become a monk in the mountains and take a vow of silence. That was the only reasonable response.
She didn't move. Didn't breathe.
He still wasn't looking at her.
She crossed her arms on the table and dropped her head into them with a quiet groan. "God, I hate you."
------
He was halfway through folding the second layer of tamagoyaki when he heard it-soft, barely audible, like her brain forgot to run a quality check before broadcasting her internal monologue out loud.
"If you weren't such an ass, you'd make a great husband."
He paused.
Interesting.
He didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge it. Just scoffed quietly, a low breath of air through his nose that could've meant anything-annoyance, amusement, restrained smugness.
She definitely didn't realize she'd said it out loud. Which made it infinitely better.
Because there she was, hunched over the dining table in Ren's oversized t-shirt like a gremlin emerging from a spiritual cleanse, and she was evaluating him for long-term domestic compatibility? Absolutely unhinged. And yet, entirely on-brand.
He plated the eggs, garnished the miso soup, and set everything in front of her without ceremony.
She dove in like she hadn't eaten in a week.
No thanks. No comment. Just immediate, feral inhalation of food.
He sat across from her, arms crossed, expression unreadable. And still-still-she managed to catch him off guard.
"I'm going back to Nagoya after the Obon festival," she said between bites, not looking at him. "Is the job offer still open?"
He didn't respond right away.
Not yet.
She quit. Walked out. Ignored him for three days. Let her ex-boyfriend carry her drunk ass home like some tragic sake-scented princess. And now she wanted to return, just like that?
He leaned back slightly in his chair. Cool. Casual. In control.
Let her sweat a little.
"Why?" he asked.
-----
Of course he asked that.
Not Are you okay now? Not Do you want your desk back? Not even a legally binding Welcome back, let's bury the sexual tension under ten feet of HR compliance paperwork.
Just-Why?
She didn't respond immediately. Mostly because her first instinct was to launch a fork at his chest. And her second was to yell Are you serious? at a decibel loud enough to wake the ancestors. But instead, she took a breath. A real one. From somewhere deep in the diaphragm. The kind they taught in speech class to keep you from crying when delivering a eulogy.
She looked down at her miso soup, at the steam curling up like it was trying to escape too, and said, steady and soft, "I overheard Maman and Papa talking to Ren the other day."
Her voice didn't shake. Good.
"They were telling him to put his transfer to Nagoya University on hold."
She didn't look up, but she knew Katsuki was watching. Knew it in that bone-deep, skin-prickling way she always did when he was too quiet.
"It's a rough time for the business. Too many expenses all at once. The contract in Akita City is still under negotiation, and the repairs from the typhoon last year set them back more than they admitted." She took another bite, chewed too quickly. "Ren just smiled like it was nothing. Said he'll work part-time, cancel the transfer, reapply next year."
She exhaled through her nose.
"Ren's the smartest one out of all of us," she said, sharper now. "He doesn't say much, but he's got this brain that just... sees things. Better than me. Faster. He deserves more than a compromise because our parents are too proud to say they're struggling."
She finally glanced up.
Not to beg. Not for pity.
Just to make him understand.
"I can help," she said, simple and true. "So I will."
Then she added, because she was still her, "Also, if I stay in this town any longer, I'll die. Probably dramatically. Possibly in the middle of a festival, yelling something about capitalism."
She stabbed a piece of egg, popped it into her mouth, and spoke around it with a shrug.
"So. Is the job offer still open?"
-----
It tracked. Perfectly.
She always found a reason to put herself second. To run at full speed toward a problem that wasn't hers to fix, just so no one else had to fall apart. It was one of the many things about her that made him furious.
And the exact reason he'd never let her go for good.
He stood without a word. Walked past her, through the hallway, into the bedroom. The folder was exactly where he'd left it-neatly clipped, final version printed and signed. He'd updated it after the third day she didn't come home. After the second night he heard her name in Hiro's voice. After the first time he admitted, silently, that he wasn't going to replace her.
Because she's irreplaceable.
He returned to the dining table and set the folder down in front of her without ceremony.
"Twenty-two million yen," he said. "Retroactive salary. Bonus included."
She stared at it like it might explode. "You had this all along?"
He didn't even pause. "I knew you would say yes."
And if she hadn't?
He would've waited.
Or rewritten it until she did.
------
She put her chopsticks down.
Not dramatically. Not even consciously. Just... gently, like her brain had registered that she was no longer capable of chewing food while emotionally imploding.
Because in front of her, sitting innocently on the table like it wasn't a goddamn life bomb, was the contract.
She opened the folder, fully expecting cold legal jargon and bullet-pointed deliverables. What she got was-yes, okay-an offer. A very good offer. Higher than before. Substantially. Retroactive salary, bonus, a few benefits she was pretty sure were illegal to bestow on someone who once threatened to staple her boss's tie to his desk. But fine. She'd expected numbers.
What she hadn't expected was the rest.
Tucked behind the final page, haphazard and coffee-stained and looking like someone had accidentally submitted a yearbook into evidence, was a petition.
Handwritten. Multiple pages. Bullet points. Doodles. One section cornered in what looked suspiciously like glitter pen. And at the top, in Kai's elegant, infuriating handwriting:
Petition to Bring Back Hana Sukehiro
The first note read:
"I miss being told I'm spineless in the mornings. It kept me grounded."
- Sakamoto, Paralegal
She choked on her own breath.
Another page:
"I don't know how to reset the printer. She did it by whispering threats. The machine responded. We all did."
"She called my opposing counsel a sentient LinkedIn profile to his face and somehow we still won."
"She brought homemade onigiri to mediation. For everyone. Even the opposing team. They were suspicious. We won."
Her vision was getting a little blurry. Probably just miso steam.
And then-Naomi. Clean black ink. No nonsense.
"I see myself in you. It's horrifying. I want to retire someday, so you better come back and take over. These two overgrown toddlers are lost without you."
One more. The last one. Kai's, of course.
"You are meant for greater things, Sukehiro. Stop pretending otherwise."
She stared at the paper. At the signatures, the sharp humor wrapped in clumsy affection. At the proof that people had noticed her. Wanted her.
Her. The ADHD trainwreck with a caffeine addiction and an emotional kill switch. The girl who failed the bar. Who thought she was too much, too messy, too loud to ever belong somewhere without breaking it.
But they didn't just tolerate her.
They missed her.
Hana pressed the folder closed, fingers resting on the cover like it might vanish if she didn't hold it down.
And for once, for once, her brain didn't spiral into why she didn't deserve it.
She was wanted.
She sniffled, loud and ungraceful, wiping her nose with the back of her hand like the picture of emotional stability.
"This is so stupid," she mumbled again, because maybe if she said it enough times it would undo the fact that she was crying over a petition. A literal handwritten, half-glittered petition that probably had a coffee ring on it from someone's convenience store latte.
"I thought everyone else just... put up with me. Or tolerated me. Or needed something from me."
Her voice cracked on the word, and she hated it-hated how small it sounded, how young. But it was true. She'd been walking around that office thinking she was one bad day away from being replaced. From being too much.
Too messy. Too loud. Too her.
And now they'd gone and done this-this stupid petition with their stupid jokes and their stupid, soft, handwritten notes that somehow said we saw you when she'd spent her whole life trying to shrink.
She buried her face in her hands.
"I'm going to murder them," she whispered. "All of them."
But even through the tears, she was smiling. Just a little.
Because for once, she didn't have to perform to be loved.
-----
"The fuck, Sukehiro?"
She hiccupped through a half-sob, half-laugh, swiping at her face with the heel of her hand. "This is stupid."
That was debatable.
"Everyone in that stupid firm is stupid," she added, voice wobbling.
He didn't say anything right away. Just watched her.
Her face was blotchy, and her mouth kept doing that trembling thing she tried to hide with humor, and he couldn't decide if he wanted to yell at her for calling herself stupid by association or pull her chair closer until she remembered why she belonged there.
He crossed his arms instead.
There were no clauses in the contract for this.
No policies. No protocol. Just Hana, breaking down with a laugh and calling everyone-including herself-idiots for loving her out loud.
And somehow, that made more sense than anything she'd said in days.