Katsuki's eye twitched.
One of the veins at his temple had started pulsing with what he could only assume was an impending aneurysm—or divine punishment. Because currently, perched like chaos incarnate in the passenger seat of his Porsche, Hana had her socked feet on his dashboard.
Not just any socks, either.
Pigs. With ears. Floppy, swaying ears that flapped with every bump in the road like some sort of plush air traffic signal, directing his patience straight into the nearest ditch.
He'd tried to swat her feet away once. A subtle, wordless reprimand while shifting gears. She'd moved them. For fifteen minutes.
Now they were back. Like a bad legal precedent.
He inhaled slowly through his nose, exhaled out his mouth. Refrained from committing vehicular manslaughter. Barely.
At least there was no Taylor Swift.
Small mercies.
But whatever was currently playing wasn't much better. Some American pop monstrosity blaring through the speakers, the lyrics a personal assault on his dignity:
"I can't relate to desperation / My give-a-fucks are on vacation—"
Christ.
Hana was singing along. Loudly. Off-key. Like the car was her stage and his eardrums were a suggestion.
She snapped her fingers on the off-beat. Completely unaware—or, more likely, completely aware—of how close he was to throwing her phone out the window and citing emotional duress.
He reached for the steering wheel control—thank god for modern technology—and skipped the song. Something marginally tolerable came on. Something adult. Structured. A band with instruments and lyrics that didn't sound like a therapy session wrapped in glitter.
Probably Imagine Dragons.
Whatever it was, it didn't include the words give-a-fucks.
Predictably, Hana made a noise of immediate offense. Somewhere between a gasp and a scandalized scoff.
"Oh my god," she said. "What is this? Dad Rock for corporate overlords?"
Katsuki didn't glance at her. Just adjusted the mirror, as if recalibrating the entire car would fix her.
"If you hate my music that much," he said coolly, "buy your own car."
"I will," she sniffed. "And I'll never let you ride."
"I doubt it."
She didn't answer.
Which would've been a win, if she hadn't immediately followed it with, "I need to pee"
He resisted the urge to bang his forehead against the wheel.
Instead, he switched lanes.
Calmly.
Professionally.
Like a man not being driven to madness by pig socks, espresso-pop, and the woman he absolutely wasn't obsessed with.
Not even a little.
Not at all.
-----
Katsuki glared at the gas station restroom. Arms crossed. Foot tapping. Jaw tight.
Fifteen stops. In two hours.
At this rate, they'd reach Nagoya sometime next fiscal year.
He checked his watch. Again. Not because it helped, but because it was either that or scream into the steering wheel. She wasn't like this at the office. There, she was surprisingly competent, borderline terrifying, and capable of going seven hours without so much as a bathroom break.
It was sabotage. There was no other explanation. She was doing this on purpose. Probably considered it enrichment—like giving a tiger a puzzle box.
She reappeared a moment later, radiant and unbothered, the exact opposite of his current mental state.
"All good now," she chirped, like she hadn't just rerouted his entire timeline with her bladder.
He sighed. Said nothing. Just slid into the driver's seat like a man accepting his fate. Corporate martyrdom, now with roadside amenities.
She got in a moment later and immediately cracked open her water bottle.
Unbelievable.
He grabbed it out of her hand and, without ceremony, launched it into the backseat.
"No more water for you."
"What?! What if I die of dehydration?"
"I'll send your body back to Konoura."
She pouted.
Good. Let her be offended. At least she wasn't filling her internal tank like a goddamn camel.
For the next stretch of road, there was silence. Blessed, functional, fuel-efficient silence. He almost relaxed.
Until—
"Katsuki."
His grip tightened on the steering wheel. "What now?"
He didn't yell, exactly. He snapped. Precise. Sharp. A scalpel of a tone.
And any normal person—any normal person—would've taken that as a warning. Would've shrunk back. Shut up.
Not Hana.
No, Hana raised her voice like it was a competition and she refused to lose.
"It's fucking one PM, I'm hungry! If you're not gonna stop, at least drive through somewhere before I eat your car manual!"
The little gremlin was hangry.
Which, in his experience, ranked somewhere between a natural disaster and an active hostage situation.
He didn't argue. He had no illusions about who would win.
They pulled into a roadside restaurant without further incident. She was out of the car before he even turned off the engine. Didn't look at him. Didn't wait.
Fantastic. Now she was pissed off again.
Katsuki exhaled slowly. His jaw ticked.
Why am I putting up with this? he thought.
Then he got out of the car and followed her in—no hesitation.
-----
The menu was a joke. A cruel, laminated joke with overpriced punchlines and no comedic timing. Hana stared at it like it might suddenly blink first.
Why was a side of rice twelve hundred yen? Who the hell did this soba shop think it was, the Ritz-Carlton?
She had exactly 3,280 yen in her checking account and a new "absolutely no takeout" policy she'd implemented four days ago. Mostly because she was trying to be responsible. Partly because she'd accidentally ordered a skincare set during a 3AM dopamine crash.
Her stomach growled. Loudly. Betrayal.
From across the table, Katsuki glanced up, expression flat. "Don't stare at it like the prices are going to change. I'm paying."
Oh.
Well then.
She perked up immediately, flipping the menu with renewed enthusiasm. "You should've led with that."
His eyes narrowed like he regretted every life decision that led to this exact moment.
Hana didn't care. She was already flagging down the server.
The food arrived fast, steaming and fragrant. And Katsuki—because he had no concept of a casual meal—ate like he was deconstructing a case file. Neat. Mechanical. As if each bite had to be accounted for.
They talked about work—briefly. The topic naturally veered elsewhere.
She pointed her chopsticks at him. "So. Be honest. Are you always a luxury car kind of man?"
He didn't even look up. "My first car was a Corolla."
She blinked. "What, like… in high school?"
"College."
"Uh-huh," she said, chewing on pork cutlet. "Does your car right now have a name?"
Now he looked at her.
Deadpan. Flatline. Peak Katsuki. "Why the fuck would I name my car?"
She smirked. "Most people do that."
"I'm not most people."
No. He wasn't. He was an emotionally repressed CEO with the restraint of a sniper and the patience of a judge nearing mandatory retirement. Hana grinned, forked a piece of tonkatsu, and decided to poke the bear.
"Is it something obvious? Like Black Widow?" she teased. "Or maybe... Miss Nagoya.
Nothing.
So she leaned in, voice syrupy sweet. "Let me guess. You named it something stupid and now you're ashamed."
Silence.
And then, in a voice like gravel and suffering: "Fine. She's called Portia."
Hana choked.
Actually choked. Had to grab her water with one hand and smack the table with the other to keep from dying on grilled eggplant.
When she finally managed to breathe again, she dissolved into laughter.
"Keep your fucking voice down," he snapped, eyes darting around the restaurant like someone might overhear and revoke his corporate street cred.
She was wheezing now. "It's like naming your dog Dog. Or your fish Fish! You named a Porsche Portia!"
He kicked her under the table. Firm. Unapologetic. Not that it helped. She was practically vibrating with joy.
Katsuki rubbed his temple like he was trying to erase the moment from his frontal lobe. The headache had officially bloomed now—sharp, insistent, and perfectly timed with Hana's hysterics.
She was still laughing. Still gasping like Portia was the funniest thing she'd heard all year. Which, knowing her, it probably was.
He exhaled. Slow. Controlled. The kind of breath that usually came before a closing argument—or a murder.
"Eat your damn food," he muttered, tone flat as the table between them, "so we can get back on the road."
Hana grinned at him, utterly unfazed. "So… can I drive Portia? Just for fifteen minutes. Please?"
Katsuki didn't even blink. "Absolutely the fuck not."
Her pout was instant and dramatic. Academy Award-worthy.
He picked up his tea, sipped calmly, and stared at her over the rim like she was an unsolvable equation wrapped in freckles and delusion.
She pouted harder.
He sipped again.
-----
Hana was in the driver's seat.
Katsuki still wasn't sure how the hell that had happened.
She adjusted the mirror with all the gravitas of a surgeon prepping for open-heart surgery. Flipped it once. Then again. Then fiddled with the seat, her phone, the A/C dial—like she was warming up for a rally race instead of driving his Porsche down the expressway.
Katsuki sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, face unreadable. Internally? Screaming.
He should've said no. Had said no. "Absolutely the fuck not," had been his exact phrasing. But then came the pout. The dramatic little sigh. The exaggerated walk-away like she was storming out of a press conference.
And somehow—somehow—here they were.
He glanced at her sideways.
You manipulative little—
Nope. He wasn't finishing that thought. Not out loud. Not even in his head. He had enough problems without adding accidental misogyny to the list.
She put the car in drive.
Portia purred to life. Katsuki felt a spike of dread in his chest, sharp and immediate. Like a sixth sense had just kicked in. Fight. Flight. Flee-the-vehicle.
Then Hana hit the gas.
They launched forward like a bullet from a chamber.
He gripped the door instinctively—not panicked, just…situationally prepared for impact—and shot her a look that would've vaporized a junior associate on the spot.
Hana was grinning. Like a maniac, eyes bright, hands steady on the wheel like she was born to commit traffic violations.
Katsuki didn't scare easily. He'd faced hostile juries, billion-yen negotiations, and boardroom coups without blinking.
But none of that prepared him for this.
They merged onto the expressway. Barely. A truck loomed behind them, horn blaring. Hana darted into the lane like she had a personal vendetta against logistics.
He saw his life flash before his eyes. Harvard. The firm. That one trial in Osaka where the judge called him "inhumanly composed." His mother asking why he was still single.
And then Hana cheerfully yelling, "He was going so slow!"
"Hana," he said through gritted teeth, "if you sideswipe one more truck, I will throw myself out of this car."
"You'd mess up the paint," she chirped.
Fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes of pure psychological warfare, white-knuckled door gripping, and silent internal apologies to every traffic god he'd ever ignored. He wasn't religious, but by minute seven, he was bargaining with spirits. By minute ten, he was mentally composing his will. By minute fourteen, he was planning the exact phrasing of her lifetime driving ban.
She finally pulled off the expressway.
Portia came to a stop—miraculously intact, though Katsuki suspected she was traumatized. He certainly was.
Hana threw the gear into park with a flourish, looking way too pleased with herself for someone who'd nearly committed vehicular manslaughter three times in fifteen minutes.
"That was so fun," she said, beaming like she hadn't just taken years off his life.
Katsuki didn't respond.
He unbuckled his seatbelt in one clean motion, leaned across her without warning, and snatched the keys out of the ignition like he was diffusing a bomb.
"Don't," he said, voice low, calm, and dangerously clipped, "touch my Portia ever again."
Hana blinked, wide-eyed and completely unrepentant. "She liked me."
"She's traumatized."
"She purrs when I touch her."
"She purred because she thought death was coming."
He shoved the keys into his pocket with finality. Like they were never seeing daylight again.
And when he got out of the car, he didn't slam the door—but it was a near thing.
------
By eight, they were back in Osu.
Hana was still asleep in the passenger seat, curled sideways, seatbelt slack across her body. Mouth open. Breathing soft. One hand loosely curled on her lap like she'd been mid-sentence when her brain gave up.
She'd knocked out around six.
Two solid hours of silence.
He'd nearly wept.
Not that it had been peaceful. His arm still ached from the iron grip he'd maintained on the wheel. Not from the road. Not from the usual performance-based tension of urban driving.
From restraint.
Because for two hours, while she slept next to him, head occasionally tilting toward his shoulder, he'd driven with one hand on the wheel and the other on her knee.
Just resting there. Thumb tracing slow, absent circles over the denim of her jeans. Not intentional. Not calculated. Just something to ground himself.
Stupid. He knew that. And yet he hadn't stopped.
He looked at her now.
Head tilted back, mouth slightly open in the least flattering way possible. A smudge of drool dangerously close to happening. She looked like a delinquent caught mid-nap during homeroom.
Still. His eyes lingered. Unapologetically.
There were freckles on her cheeks. Her lashes were stupidly long. And despite the chaos she radiated like a second skin, there was something about her like gravity. Anchoring. Familiar in a way that made no sense and irritated the hell out of him.
He brushed his knuckles lightly across her cheekbone.
Just once.
Not to wake her. Not to comfort her.
Just to feel. To confirm she was still real and still here.
He wasn't going to fight it anymore.
What was the point? Denial had a shelf life, and his expired somewhere around the time she begged to drive Portia and he let her.
But of course, soft moments didn't suit them.
So, naturally, he did the only thing that made sense.
He leaned in.
"Wake up."
Loud. Sharp. No warning.
Hana jolted upright like she'd been shot.
"Jesus—!" Her voice cracked, hair sticking up, eyes wide and blinking. She looked around, disoriented, then slumped back against the seat with a groan. "Thanks for driving me home," she mumbled. "I'll just grab the luggage—"
Katsuki was already out of the car.
Popped the trunk. Pulled out her suitcase like it weighed nothing, which it absolutely did not. She came around the back just as he set it on the curb.
She blinked at him. "You didn't have to—"
"I did," he cut in, already walking toward the stairs.
-----
The door clicked open behind her with that familiar creak, the kind she kept meaning to fix but never did. Home again. Sort of.
She stepped inside first, flicking on the light. Yuna was out—some party full of media people who drank dry martinis and laughed like nothing hurt. The apartment felt quiet. Still.
Katsuki wheeled in both suitcases without being asked—hers and Ren's. She turned, hesitating for half a breath. "Do you want to stay a bit? For coffee?"
Casual. Normal. Not loaded at all. Definitely not code for please stay a little longer so I can stare at your stupid face and pretend I'm not spiraling.
He hesitated.
"I need to go home and rest," he said finally. "I have a meeting with Kai tomorrow."
Her stomach dipped, just a little.
"Oh. Do I need to be there, or…?"
"No." He was already turning. "Just rest. I'll see you on Monday."
She nodded. "Okay."
And that was it.
Clean, professional, surgically polite. The kind of goodbye you didn't think about twice.
She turned to reach for her suitcase, already shifting back into autopilot.
And then—
He stopped.
She sensed it before she saw it—something in the air stalling. Shifting.
Then he stepped forward.
And kissed her.
Her breath caught, not in some dramatic swoon, but in genuine shock. There was no warning, no "can I," no lead-in, no soft gaze or romantic lighting. Just pressure. Heat. His mouth on hers like he'd been holding it back for days and didn't feel like waiting anymore.
Hana didn't move at first.
Then she did.
And when his mouth parted hers—when his tongue slid against hers with that low, deliberate pressure like he knew exactly what he was doing—her knees actually buckled. Not metaphorically. Physically. She leaned back against the doorframe because the floor had become a problem, and maybe breathing, too.
Why the hell does he kiss like this? she thought wildly.
Like he had a point to prove.
Like this was some kind of warning.
Like he was taking something with him.
Her hands came up—whether to push him away or pull him closer, she honestly didn't know. It didn't matter. Because before she could decide, he pulled back.
Just slightly.
Just enough to look at her.
And then—smirked.
The audacity. That subtle, insufferable curve of his mouth. Smug. Satisfied. Almost gentle.
And then he reached up—pinched her cheek.
Not soft. Not cruel. Just enough to throw her back into the atmosphere.
Then he turned and walked away.
No explanation. No goodbye.
Just left her there—heart racing, lips tingling, back pressed to the door like some glitching heroine who'd just been scandalized into silence.
"…Okay," she whispered. To no one.
And it hit her, a full five seconds too late:
That man just kissed me like he owned the building and the lease had my name on it.