Hiro led her off the main street, past the rows of lanterns and the scent of grilled squid and childhood memories, into a quieter alley just behind the community center. The music dulled. The air thinned.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Katsuki was still standing there. Of course he was. Statue-still. Hands in his pockets. Watching like he was calculating something, probably whether or not Hiro was worth a full-scale legal takedown.
Okay. Not helpful. Focus.
She turned back.
"What's up?" she asked, trying to sound breezy and not like her insides were chewing themselves alive.
"Ren said you're going back to Nagoya tomorrow," Hiro said, voice soft.
"Yeah." She nodded. "Work's waiting for me."
And also the slow collapse of her emotional defenses, a desk drawer full of stress snacks, and the possibility that she might throttle her boss mid-contract negotiation.
But sure. Work.
Hiro paused. Long enough to make her stomach do that thing again.
The thing it should do around him.
Because Hiro was—objectively—the kind of man every girl was supposed to want. Kind. Responsible. Looked good in every suit he wore, and somehow better out of them. A total gentleman. Smelled like cedar and consideration. Her parents loved him. He knew how to make her laugh and how to fix a broken bike chain.
He was comfort. History. Every safe decision she never made.
And she didn't want him.
"You don't have to leave, Hana," he said.
She tilted her head. "It's not like I'm not coming back. My family's here."
"That's not what I mean."
Oh no.
Her brain kicked into overdrive. Abort mission. Evacuate. Fake an allergic reaction to fresh air.
"Hiro—"
"I'm still waiting," he said, simple and quiet.
She winced. Not visibly, but internally she folded in half like a cheap beach chair.
Because she'd known. Of course she'd known. You don't have that much history with someone without carrying some of it into every conversation. They grew up together. Held each other through acne phases and exam failures and the weird in-between where you're not really kids anymore but not quite brave enough to be adults.
He was the first boy who ever really saw her.
And still—she reached out, gently placed a hand on his arm, rubbed it with her thumb in the soft, familiar rhythm she always used to calm herself when she didn't know what to say.
"You deserve someone better, Hiro-chan."
His eyes softened, but he didn't pull away. "Do you like him?"
And there it was.
She could've lied. Could've deflected. Could've made a joke about her crippling attachment issues and how the last man she kissed ghosted her so hard his name became a trigger word.
But instead, she said, "It's not important right now."
Hiro didn't flinch. Just nodded once. Like he knew that was her version of the truth.
He took a breath, steady and low. Then he lifted her hand and kissed it—soft, brief, reverent.
"Just taking my chances," he said.
Her chest cracked a little.
She smiled. Real. Gentle. A little sad. "You're a great man, Hiro. Anyone'd be lucky to have you."
He chuckled. "I'm counting on that."
She laughed, then quieted. Looked at him.
This wasn't just her ex. He was Hiro. Her childhood. Her safety net. The boy who always stood up for her. The one who let her cry in his room the first time she failed an exam in highschool and didn't say a single useless word like you'll get it next time. He just sat beside her and passed the tissues.
Being with him would be easy. Steady. Much less complicated.
But she never did go for easy.
She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.
"Take care of yourself, okay?"
He smiled, brushed his knuckles across her cheek the way he used to when she was sixteen and furious at the world.
"Yeah."
And that was all there was. And all there would ever be.
-----
He watched from across the festival square, posture relaxed only in theory—shoulders squared, weight evenly distributed, hands still stuffed in his pockets so they wouldn't do something stupid.
Like intervene.
Like rip Hiro's hand off her.
She'd followed him—Hiro, of all people—down the alley like it meant nothing. Like she hadn't just spent the entire evening dragging Katsuki from stall to stall, beaming like the sun, setting his nervous system on fire with every laugh, every look, every goddamn accidental brush of her shoulder against his.
He couldn't hear what they were saying. Didn't need to.
The body language was clear enough.
Hiro leaned forward. Too close. Too comfortable. Like he'd done it a thousand times before.
And then—her hand. On his arm. Brushing it gently. Softly. Intimately.
Katsuki's jaw tightened so hard he could feel his molars shift.
That wasn't a friendly touch. That was muscle memory. That was a gesture of habit, not hesitation. It was deliberate, slow, and Katsuki hated that he noticed every second of it.
Then came the kiss.
Not on her mouth, no—Hiro wasn't that bold, apparently. Just her hand. Her knuckles.
Which somehow made it worse. Like he was staking a claim with decorum. Like it had history.
She smiled. Soft. Familiar. The kind of smile she didn't hand out to people lightly.
And Katsuki's chest burned.
He told himself it wasn't jealousy. That it was just irritation. Mild disgust. Logical concern that she was wasting her time with someone who wore his cardigan sleeves that way.
But then she leaned in.
And kissed him.
The cheek. Yes. Technically innocent. Technically meaningless.
Except it wasn't meaningless. Not when she did it. Not when her face looked like that, her expression open and soft and fucking luminous.
And that was it.
That was the point where something inside him snapped with terrifying clarity.
He was jealous.
And not in the casual, passing, emotionally-adjusted way.
He was fully, irreversibly, possessive.
Because she was his—at least in the only way he understood. She belonged beside him. In his orbit. In his office. In every damn part of his life where she'd somehow installed herself without permission.
And now she was giving pieces of that to someone else. Someone who didn't even have the decency to earn it.
So when she turned and walked back toward him—smiling, cheeks faintly flushed like she'd just had a lovely, sweet, fucking Hallmark moment—he didn't think.
He moved.
"You okay?" she asked, breezy. "You look like you want to punch someone."
He didn't answer.
Just reached out, grabbed her hand—not gently—and started walking.
"Hey—what—?"
"We're going home," he said, clipped.
His tone left no room for discussion.
Because if she smiled at anyone else tonight, he was going to lose the last shred of dignity he had.
He didn't look at her. Didn't trust himself to.
Because right now, with her hand in his and that kiss still burned into his brain, he didn't feel like a lawyer.
He felt like a man seconds away from declaring war.
-----
His grip on her hand was tight. Too tight.
"Hey—what's wrong?" Hana tried to pull back, stumbling a little to keep up. "Katsuki, seriously, it hurts."
No answer.
Her sandals scuffed against uneven stone as they cut across the edge of the festival crowd. Fireworks crackled faintly in the distance, the first few bursts lighting the sky like bright warnings. Everyone else was looking up. Laughing. Smiling.
She was being dragged.
"The fireworks are about to start," she said again, breath catching.
Still nothing. Just that razor-edged silence, the one he used like a weapon when he didn't trust himself to speak.
His fingers stayed clamped around hers as he turned down a side path, one she knew instinctively—the narrow street near the brewery, the one that cut behind the back lot. It was quiet here, shadows flickering with the echo of lanterns.
And she snapped.
"What's fucking wrong with you?"
That did it.
He stopped so suddenly she almost crashed into him. Then, without a word, he pulled her to the side—between the low wall and the side of the building, where the air smelled faintly of cedar, rice, and crushed grass.
Right here. Where he'd kissed her that first night. Without warning. Without words.
She yanked her hand back, chest heaving.
"What the hell is your problem?"
His voice came low, controlled—just barely.
"You really think I didn't see that?"
Her heart thudded. "See what?"
"Don't do that," he snapped. "Don't play stupid."
She blinked, genuinely confused. "I talked to Hiro for five minutes."
"You let him kiss you."
"It was a goodbye, not a marriage proposal."
"You smiled at him."
That pulled a laugh out of her, sharp and disbelieving. "Are you actually insane right now?"
He stepped closer. "You're the one who kissed him."
"On the cheek!"
Katsuki didn't blink. "You looked happy."
"Oh my god." She pressed her hands to her temples. "You dragged me away from the fireworks because I looked happy?"
"No," he said, voice flat. "I dragged you away because you make a career out of pretending you want less than you actually do."
The silence that followed was instant. Heavy.
She stared at him.
"What?"
He didn't stop. Couldn't. The words were coming too fast now, driven by something hot and sharp and unspoken for too long.
"You act like mediocrity is noble. Like it's some badge of honor to aim low and stay small. And then you pull that innocent act when someone actually wants to give you something more."
Hana's ears rang.
There it was. That old voice. The one that had followed her since university, since law school, since every interview she bailed on and every test she almost passed. The one that whispered she was too much, too chaotic, too lazy, too loud. Not enough drive. Not enough discipline.
And now he was saying it.
She raised her hand.
She didn't even think—her body moved first, wild with fury, emotion colliding at every angle. Her palm sliced the air toward his face.
But he caught her wrist.
Just like that. Fast. Final.
They froze.
His grip was firm, but not punishing. Just enough to hold her there. Her chest rose and fell like she'd been sprinting.
He was seething. She was shaking. Neither of them moved.
"I hate you" she whispered
His eyes met hers.
"No," he said, quiet. Certain. "You don't."
And then he kissed her.