She stood beside Rei's motorcycle, sunglasses perched lazily on her nose, tank top knotted at the back, and her favorite sandals already full of gravel from the walk over. The sun hadn't even hit full power yet, and the air was already humming with that golden, pre-summer-lobotomy heat.
The kind of day you were supposed to waste on the beach, pretending you didn't have emotional damage or thirty years of capitalist trauma packed into your shoulder blades.
She was supposed to go alone. Had announced it, actually. Loudly. Cheerfully. With a level of false casualness that probably gave her away immediately.
"I'm hitting the beach tomorrow," she'd said, arms crossed, leaning against the fridge like she didn't already have the entire route planned and snacks mentally organized by salt content.
And Katsuki, being the emotionally repressed cockroach of a man he was, didn't even blink. Just responded with a clipped, "Fine. I'm coming."
Not, Can I come?
Not even, Do you want company?
Just I'm coming, like he was RSVPing to her internal panic.
Which was fine. Fine.
She'd been avoiding him for three days. He made her food. Gave her a twenty-two million yen job offer like it was a discount coupon. The least she could do was tolerate his stupid, gorgeous face for one afternoon.
And then the engawa creaked.
She turned.
And instantly regretted every single decision she'd ever made.
Because there he was. Walking toward her like he'd been cast in some kind of indie surf movie where the villain seduces the protagonist, emotionally devastates her, and then leaves her in tears outside a 7-Eleven.
Sleeveless muscle tee—black, of course. The arm holes weren't even obnoxiously large. Just enough to show a hint of oblique, like a threat. Board shorts, sneakers, backwards cap, and sunglasses that screamed Nagoya fuckboy summer edition. He looked like the kind of local delinquent who flirted with tourists, ruined their lives, then ghosted them before they even figured out his last name.
And somehow still looked like he could win a trial, seduce your mom, and draft a merger agreement—all while judging your Spotify playlist.
She wanted to throw a shoe at him. Or herself.
-----
Katsuki raised an eyebrow.
Tank top. Cut low, tied at the back. Faded denim shorts that probably used to be jeans before she decided scissors were a lifestyle choice. A baseball cap shoved backward over her curls. Sunglasses slightly crooked. Sandals already dusty.
She looked like the world's most chaotic tour guide. A walking HR violation. Someone who'd talk her way into a crime scene and walk out with snacks.
He couldn't look away.
Ridiculous. That was what she looked like.
And yet—
He shoved his hands in his pockets before they did something undignified. Like reach for her.
-----
Hana motioned at the bike. "We'll pass by the gas station on the way. I need snacks or I'll die. And then you'll be charged with negligent manslaughter."
"You could've picked a beach with vending machines," he said.
"There are restaurants within the area, but I need actual junk food. And don't complain, you invited yourself."
"I said I'm coming. That's not the same."
"Sounds like the same to me."
He stared at her. She stared right back.
It was too early for this.
She hoisted their bags into the top box. The cooler clunked in beside it. Katsuki swung a leg over the seat like he'd ridden the thing a thousand times, which—knowing him—he probably had, while brokering corporate acquisitions and emotionally traumatizing opposing counsel.
She climbed on after him, grabbing the helmet.
"Hold on," he said, like an order.
"I'm fine," she said, planting her hands on the sides of the seat.
"I'm not explaining to your family how your brain ended up splattered on the pavement."
"You're so dramatic."
"Hana."
His voice was flat. Dangerous. The kind that didn't leave room for negotiation.
She glared at the back of his head.
And then—reluctantly, with maximum sulk and minimum skin contact—wrapped her arms around his waist.
His brain short-circuited.
Because her arms were around him. And her hands—small, warm, deceptively strong—were right over his ribs. And her chest—
Nope.
Nope.
He stiffened. Adjusted his posture. Told himself this was strictly for safety. For liability. For not scraping Hana off the road like a tragic legal smear.
She shifted slightly. Her chest pressed more firmly into his back.
And that was it. That was his last functioning brain cell. Dead. Gone.
He could've stayed home. Could've taken three client calls, cleaned his inbox, and ignored his emotions like a normal high-functioning adult.
Instead, he was on a dirt bike. With Hana plastered to his back. Wearing shorts.
He was an idiot.
A completely, dangerously compromised idiot.
-----
And Hana was having an out-of-body experience.
Because Katsuki Hasegawa smelled like cedar soap and heat and man. Not just man. Like the man. The one you see once in a lifetime and ruin all future relationships over.
His back was solid. His waist was unfairly narrow. His skin was warm through the cotton, and she was definitely inhaling on purpose.
She buried her face slightly behind his shoulder, just to hide the fact that she was red.
Totally fine.
Just casual coworker behavior. Hug your boss from behind while straddling your brother's dirt bike. Nothing to see here. Definitely not having an awakening.
She pressed her cheek to his shoulder to cool it off.
Mistake.
Huge mistake.
Because now she was thinking about his shoulders. And his voice. And how his hand had looked cracking eggs the other night.
She wanted to die.
Preferably before they even reached the beach.
-----
Konoura Beach was... tolerable.
Which was about as close to praise as Katsuki ever got when it came to places where people voluntarily exposed themselves to direct sunlight, sand, and unsolicited small talk.
A crescent-shaped stretch of coastline bordered by soft, fine-grain sand and just enough tree cover to suggest civilization hadn't completely surrendered to vacation brain. The water sparkled in that aggressively cheerful way that would've looked photoshopped anywhere else. Locals mingled with tourists, kids ran feral, and someone nearby was grilling corn with the kind of confidence that implied they weren't paying attention to fire safety.
He dropped their bags under a low pine tree and sat down, arms braced behind him, posture relaxed only on the surface. Shade. Breeze. Tactical visibility of the whole area.
Hana, of course, didn't sit. She waved at someone. Then another someone. A third. She was like a walking noise generator in human form—half the town seemed to know her, and the other half probably wanted to.
He watched in practiced stillness. Let his eyes track movement, scan for exits, ignore the way her laugh carried over the wind like a match to dry kindling.
Then she vanished behind the public restrooms.
Good. Peace and quiet, finally.
Until she came back.
In a swimsuit.
Which—he was absolutely ignoring. It was a one-piece, technically modest, function over form. But then she moved—laughing, shouting something at a group of kids playing with a beach ball—and bent over to pick it up.
His eyes betrayed him immediately.
A glance. A fraction of a second. That was all.
Her ass.
Firm. Ridiculous. Annoyingly perfect in the way that made his brain glitch.
He scowled. Mostly at himself.
She caught him.
Then she bounded over, wet and grinning and glowing like the fucking sun incarnate. "You invited yourself, you know," she said, hands on her hips. "The least you could do is swim."
"I'm fine here."
"Scared of getting a little tan?"
"No."
"Old man."
Then she threw a handful of sand at his chest.
Ah.
Wrong move.
He stood without thinking. Closed the distance in three strides. She squealed—too late—and he grabbed her by the waist, lifting her, knowing exactly how far he could push her without consequences. Yet.
"Katsuki—don't you—!"
Too late.
He ran them both straight into the water. Cold, bracing, full sensory assault.
She shrieked as they plunged in, legs flailing. Her arms wrapped around his neck instantly—instinctively—and they were both underwater for one suspended second, limbs tangled, her laugh bubbling against his skin.
They surfaced.
She clung to him, still laughing, still coughing, still glowing like a disaster wrapped in joy. Her curls plastered to her face, her eyes squeezed shut, her grip a vise around his shoulders.
"You wanted to go to the beach alone," he said, adjusting his stance in the water, steadying her with both hands at her waist, "yet you cannot swim?"
She only laughed harder.
And then slipped to his back like it was natural. Like holding on to him was a habit.
He should've been annoyed. He was annoyed. But not at her.
He was annoyed that he was smiling.
They stayed like that—her clinging, him pretending he wasn't enjoying it—for a few more minutes. He teased her, threatened to drop her, loosened his grip just enough to make her yelp and scream his name in outrage.
Her laugh was loud and breathless and unfiltered.
And he—he found himself laughing with her.
God help him, he was actually enjoying it.
-----
The late morning bled into early afternoon with salt still in their hair and laughter they were both pretending hadn't happened.
They left the beach damp and sun-warmed, helmets under their arms, sand still stuck to their ankles. Hana insisted they stop in Nikaho center—"for hydration," she claimed, which in practice meant raiding every street stall like she was on a mission to personally fund the entire local food economy.
She made him try grilled mochi skewers slathered in miso, then a yakisoba sandwich that was, in her words, "carbs hugging carbs." Katsuki took one bite, declared it an architectural failure, and somehow finished the whole thing.
By the time they made it to the lookout restaurant nestled on the ridge above the port, the sun was high and the small town sprawled lazily beneath them, rooftops glinting like fish scales.
They ate lunch at a table by the open window, cicadas humming like a background track to their passive-aggressive silence.
She kicked him under the table once. Claimed it was an accident. He did not believe her.
"You parked three blocks away," she said on the walk back to the bike, voice flat with irritation.
"There was no shade."
"I'm full. I can't walk three blocks on a full stomach. That's abuse."
"You inhaled a seafood set, three croquettes, and an entire crepe. You should walk ten blocks."
"I'm going to die and it will be your fault. I'll haunt your desk forever."
He didn't look at her, just handed her the helmet. "You already do."
She snatched it with an offended huff and muttered something suspiciously close to "jackass."
By the time they pulled into the driveway of the house, the sun was already beginning to tilt westward, casting long shadows across the front steps. The air had that late-summer stickiness that clung to skin and made clothes feel heavier than they were.
Hana slid off the bike, hair messy, face sun-drowsy.
She stretched. "Fireworks tonight at the town center."
He raised an eyebrow as he locked the top box. "So?"
She looked at him over her shoulder. "So if you want to come, that's where I'll be."
There was a flicker of silence. Just long enough for the weight of the offer to settle between them. Light, but not casual. Not anymore.
He didn't hesitate. "Kai can handle one more day without me. I'm going."
Hana stopped, then nodded, already halfway to the front door. "Cool. I'm taking a nap. See you later then."
And with that, she disappeared inside—leaving him in the quiet haze of heat and lingering salt, trying not to think about the way her voice had sounded when she said see you later.
Or how much he wanted it to mean something.