Katsuki flicked ash off the end of his cigarette, squinting at the dipstick. Oil levels—fine. Transmission fluid—fine. Everything was fine.
Which was more than he could say for the last forty-eight hours of his life.
Twelve hours. That's how long it would take to drive from Konoura to Nagoya tomorrow. He'd already mapped out the route twice, recalculated it with traffic, weather, and projected fatigue levels. Hana and he had agreed—which was rare—that they'd finish out Obon and leave in the morning.
Ren, to his credit, had packed early and placed his suitcase neatly into the trunk of Katsuki's car without asking for help. Not that he needed to. Katsuki had offered, because dragging a suitcase onto the Shinkansen was inefficient and stupid and required unnecessary coordination with the luggage racks.
It had nothing to do with the fact that Ren was going to Nagoya University in the fall. Or that the kid's entire future had become some unspoken joint venture between Hana and himself. He didn't do sentiment. He did logistics.
Another drag. Another quiet moment.
The yard was quiet—just the low hum of cicadas, the distant rhythm of village drums drifting in from the town center. Takeshi, Rei, and Ren were manning the booth. Emi was with Aoi, who looked like she might give birth anytime.
The engawa creaked.
He turned his head.
And stopped breathing.
Yukata.
Dark navy, patterned with faint white brushstrokes. Casual, not flashy. Tied with that loose confidence she always had when she didn't try too hard—hair half-pinned, curls spilling over one shoulder like she hadn't decided whether to make an effort or cause a distraction. Her sandals made a soft scuff on the wood. Her fan—tucked neatly into her obi—matched absolutely nothing, which somehow made it worse.
"Ready?" she said, like it was just a normal question. Like she hadn't just walked out and casually rearranged his entire brain chemistry.
He didn't trust himself to speak, so he nodded.
And because he wasn't a complete idiot, he didn't say what he was thinking, which was something dangerously close to mine.
Not appropriate.
Not helpful.
Not even accurate, technically.
Still—he stubbed out the cigarette, locked the hood of the car, and followed her down the steps, feeling the familiar hum of tension settle in his chest like it always did when Hana was too close and wearing something that made his control feel like a polite suggestion.
-----
The town center was lit up like a postcard someone would send to their ex just to brag about inner peace and good lighting.
Paper lanterns bobbed overhead, casting everything in that soft, nostalgic glow that made even the snack stalls look romantic. Drums echoed in the distance. Kids in yukata ran feral with cotton candy and zero regard for personal space. Someone nearby was grilling squid like their life depended on it.
Hana exhaled slowly. Okay. This was fine. This was good. This was Obon. Family, festival, fireworks. She could do this.
They stopped by their booth first. The sake display was half-dismantled already, but the air still smelled faintly of roasted rice and last-minute effort. Ren was grinning like he'd just pulled off a heist—probably already ditched to go flirt with someone in a yukata. Takeshi was off doing Takeshi things, which usually involved power tools and being loved by the entire village. And Rei—
Rei gave her a look. Quiet, steady, the same look he'd been giving her since childhood, when he didn't know how to say I'm proud of you without sounding like he was delivering a warning.
"You good?" he asked, arms crossed like always, already halfway out of his festival apron.
"Yeah," she said. "We'll watch the fireworks here."
He nodded. No follow-up questions. No lecture. Just trust. The kind that made her chest feel too tight if she thought about it too long.
Then he walked off.
And that's when the girls showed up.
Right
Because why wouldn't the universe hand her a perfectly good moment and then set it on fire?
"Oh my god, is that Hasegawa-san?" one of them gasped, fake surprise dialed up to eleven.
Hana stiffened instinctively. She didn't have to turn around. She knew those voices. Would know them anywhere. Crisp, chirpy, and soaked in the kind of faux-sweetness that usually preceded someone asking if your outfit was brave or if you meant to gain that much weight since graduation.
"You said you're coming with us, right?" one of them pouted at Katsuki, voice pitched so high it could've shattered glass.
Hana rolled her eyes so hard she saw her past trauma.
Nope. Absolutely not. Not doing this. Not tonight. Not with old wounds in eyeliner and wedges.
She didn't wait to see his response. Just turned and walked away like she hadn't even heard them. Like she wasn't already flashing back to lunchboxes shoved off desks and whispers that followed her through hallways and that one time someone switched her presentation slides with pictures of farm animals.
She could feel her pulse in her ears.
Then she heard him, "I'm with her."
Did he just—
She stopped walking for half a second, just long enough to register it.
Not a pause. Not a stutter. Not even hesitation.
Just: I'm with her.
She didn't look back. Couldn't. Would combust on the spot.
He caught up beside her like it was nothing. Like he hadn't just emotionally obliterated her middle school bullies in five syllables or less.
They started walking again. Booth to booth. Crowds thickening with every step. Smells overlapping—grilled corn, fried batter, sugar, smoke. Kids shrieking. Music swelling. People weaving in and out of her peripheral vision like a living watercolor.
She barely had time to process any of it.
Because his hand—his hand—was at the small of her back.
Light. Barely there. Just enough to guide her through the crowd, to steer her without actually moving her. But she felt it. Every single nerve in her spine lit up like a festival sparkler.
Casual. Normal. Probably something he did without thinking.
Except Katsuki didn't do things without thinking.
And now her thoughts were spiraling into the sun.
Focus. Food. She needed food. Or a distraction. Or to scream into a rice cracker.
But his hand stayed there, warm and steady, and every time someone brushed past her, it pressed a little firmer. Like a reminder. Like a claim.
She didn't say anything.
She didn't have to.
Her heart was already doing backflips and calling her an idiot.
-----
Navigating a festival crowd was like playing defense in a lawsuit you were already winning. Predict the chaos. Stay three steps ahead. Maintain your perimeter.
And Hana, naturally, was impossible to manage.
She darted between food stalls like a sugar-fueled fox, eyes wide, steps light, zero regard for path efficiency or spatial awareness. She stopped suddenly, doubled back twice, nearly got sideswiped by a kid holding a goldfish bag, and somehow still managed to smile through all of it like the human embodiment of poor impulse control.
He kept his gaze locked on her head—easier said than done when she was practically the height of a vending machine. If he lost her in this crowd, he'd never find her again. He'd have to ask someone if they'd seen a chaos gremlin in a navy yukata shouting about dango.
So he reached out. Placed a hand—lightly—at the small of her back.
It wasn't planned. He didn't think about it.
Except, he never didn't think about things.
It was instinct. A reflex. An automatic calculation based on environmental threat levels and her apparent inability to walk in a straight line.
That's all it was.
But his hand stayed there.
Not firm. Not possessive. Just… there. Guiding. Steering. Preventing a scenario where she disappeared into the crowd and he was forced to admit that he had, in fact, let Hana slip out of his line of sight like an amateur.
He told himself it was about visibility. Crowd control. Risk mitigation.
And if the fabric of her yukata was soft beneath his palm, or if her warmth bled through it like a quiet, personal furnace—well, that was irrelevant.
He kept his expression unreadable as she drifted from booth to booth, delighting in absolutely everything like she wasn't the smartest person he knew. She won a pack of Ramune-flavored gum from a ring toss game and nearly cried from joy. Bought grilled corn, then handed it to him without asking, just so she could run off for kakigōri. He held it like a personal insult, then finished it without comment.
She was glowing.
And the worst part—the part he couldn't admit even under oath—was that he didn't mind watching her like this. Unbothered. Laughing. Wild.
He was so focused on tracking her movements, so keyed in to the sound of her voice above the din, that he almost didn't register the voice behind them.
"Hana-chan, can I borrow you for a second?"
Katsuki's eyes cut sideways.
Hiro.
The guy appeared with the same lazy confidence Katsuki hated in opposing counsel—hands in his pockets, voice just a shade too familiar. Like he hadn't spent the last years being utterly irrelevant.
Hana turned, startled. "Oh—wait for me for a second, yeah?"
She looked at him. Not sheepish. Not guilty. Just… casually trusting. Like it didn't occur to her that he'd even have a reaction.
He didn't answer.
Didn't nod.
Just watched as she turned to follow Hiro, her curls bouncing as she walked away.
His jaw tensed.
Not because of Hiro. Not really.
It was the way she'd said it. Like he was just going to wait.
So assuming of her.
He shoved his hands in his pockets.
And waited.