Kai Sato knew how to watch a room.
And this morning, sipping lukewarm coffee from a delicate porcelain cup he didn't pick—Naomi did—he leaned against the edge of the conference table like he had all the time in the world and not three back-to-back calls waiting. Because while everyone else in the room was focused on the Lerwick Maritime Group and Yamato Shūun's never-ending joint venture disaster, Kai's attention was on something else entirely.
Not the case. Not the projected losses.
Katsuki.
More specifically—Katsuki's hand, casually braced against the backrest of Hana's chair.
Kai didn't smile. Not exactly. He let the corner of his mouth curve just enough to suggest amusement and nothing more. His expression always invited curiosity, never suspicion. Let people think he was entertained. It was safer than letting them know when he was dissecting something—and right now, he was taking notes.
He didn't say anything. Not yet.
Katsuki was speaking. Something sharp about logistics coordination, his tone clipped and exact as always. But his gaze wasn't on the spreadsheets Naomi had printed, or the map of Norwegian ports currently dominating the screen.
No. Katsuki was looking at her.
Not a glance. Not a flicker. But a full, unguarded look that belonged somewhere else entirely. Like the rest of the room had evaporated and he hadn't noticed. Hana, for her part, was completely oblivious—chewing on the end of her pen, muttering something about container vessel insurance with the kind of intensity that meant she hadn't slept. Probably forgot to eat too.
Kai took another sip of his coffee. Then leaned ever so slightly toward Naomi, who was beside him, fingers flying over the files in front of her like her life depended on it.
"You noticed something different?" he murmured.
Naomi didn't even glance up. "You cut your hair?"
Kai tilted his head, noncommittal. "No."
"Then get to the point."
He nodded toward the other end of the table. "Look at them."
Naomi sighed, eyes flicking up like it physically pained her. "Kai."
"I'm serious."
And then, smoothly, like he was reciting a case summary he'd already memorized, he started narrating.
"She's calling him Katsuki now."
That earned him a pause.
"No more Hasegawa-san. No boss-man. No 'mi-lord' in that tone that makes the interns flinch." Kai gave it a beat, let it hang. "Just Katsuki."
Naomi's fingers stopped. Just for a moment.
He kept going. "I'm still Sato-san. Or just Sato, when she's pissed off." He tilted the cup toward Katsuki's chair. "I still don't have that first name priviledges."
Naomi made a low sound. Neutral. Dismissive on the surface. But Kai had known her too long. She was listening now.
"And lunch," he added casually. "She eats in his office."
Naomi rolled her eyes. "He hates that."
"Despises it. Especially savory food." Kai's smile sharpened, just slightly. "You know how he is. The smell sticks to the leather. He'll complain. Raise an eyebrow. Pretend it's about professionalism."
"But he doesn't kick her out."
"No," Kai said, savoring the word. "He just opens the window."
He saw it clearly now—the subtle shifts. The realignment of gravity. Hana didn't orbit around Katsuki anymore.
Katsuki was orbiting her.
But that wasn't even the best part.
"You know what's worse?" Kai asked, tilting his head like he was about to share a secret.
Naomi arched a brow. "What."
"He picked up Sukehiro's kid brother from the train station."
Naomi blinked. "Brother?"
Kai nodded. "Ren. I met him last time I saw Yuna." A pause, then a faint grimace. "The kid is taller than me."
Naomi's eyebrows rose. "How old is he?"
"University age. Looks like he's trying out for a visual kei gang—tattoos, eyebrow piercing, the whole thing. Definitely didn't need an escort. Could've flagged a cab, walked, hitchhiked, whatever."
"But Katsuki went."
"Personally. Picked him up, took him dorm-hunting, then went shopping with them."
Naomi squinted. "Shopping."
"Dorm essentials, apparently. Bedding. Storage. Instant ramen in bulk. I'm told Katsuki carried it all without comment." He let that sink in. "Katsuki Hasegawa. In a Don Quijote."
Naomi stared at him. "And you know this because…?"
"Yuna," Kai said simply. "She tells me things. Usually after sex."
Naomi wrinkled her nose and went back to her files, but she didn't tell him to stop talking. Which, by Naomi standards, was practically encouragement.
A pause stretched between them. On the other end of the table, Hana and Katsuki were bickering about fuel surcharges. Hana had her hair tied up with a pen. Katsuki looked seconds away from murder—or worship. Hard to tell, with him.
Naomi finally muttered, "As long as the company runs smooth, I don't care. Hana doesn't strike me as the type to slack off just because she can."
Kai nodded. "She isn't."
Then—softly, like she was still testing the shape of the thought—Naomi asked, "I've never seen him that way. Do you think he can still function? As…you know. The terrifying bastard we built this firm with."
Right on cue, Katsuki's phone rang—a sharp, insistent vibration on the polished table.
He answered without looking. "What."
A pause. Then, voice like a dagger wrapped in velvet:
"No. I said Tuesday, not today. If you can't read a calendar, get someone on your team who can."
A beat.
"Then make it work. That's what you're being paid for."
He ended the call without a goodbye, jaw tight, expression like he was considering murder as a tax-deductible expense.
Naomi didn't even flinch.
She just sipped her tea, eyes still on the folder in front of her.
"Yep," she said calmly. "Still there."
Kai looked at the two.
Hana tossed her pen across the table and called Katsuki a control-freak perfectionist with the personality of a locked filing cabinet.
She didn't just challenge Katsuki.
She anchored him.
And Katsuki—poor, doomed bastard—was already too far gone to see it.
-----
The bar was quiet. Discreet. A corner of Nagoya reserved for old money and older grudges. The kind of place where billion-yen deals began with a single glass of whisky and ended with a name scratched off someone's ledger.
Kai Sato sat with practiced ease, two fingers curled around his drink, eyes on the man across from him. Katsuki Hasegawa, leaned back in his seat, blazer sharp, shirt unwrinkled despite a fourteen-hour day. He looked exactly like the man Kai had co-founded the firm with.
But lately, Kai had learned not to trust appearances.
They talked about work, the way men like them always did. Expansion strategies. Kai's current pet project: swallowing up a flailing litigation boutique in Kyoto, with an eye toward Osaka's growing tech sector. Katsuki contributed, precise and biting as ever—challenging assumptions, demolishing Kai's projections with a single raised brow. It was good. Familiar.
But Kai wasn't here for nostalgia.
He was here to check the engine under the hood.
He waited until Katsuki's glass was half-full—relaxed enough not to be defensive, sober enough not to lie. Then he leaned forward slightly, just enough to signal a shift.
"People are talking."
Katsuki didn't flinch. Just lifted his glass. "About what."
Kai smiled. Smooth. Innocent. Almost.
"Rumor has it," he said, "you offered Hana twenty-five million yen a year just to come back."
Katsuki scoffed. "Ridiculous."
"I know." Kai set his glass down. "I signed off on her contract too."
Katsuki's gaze flicked toward him. "Then why bring it up?"
Kai shrugged. "I wanted to hear what they're saying."
A pause.
"What did they say?"
Kai smirked. "With the amount of work Hana does, they're surprised she's not earning more."
Katsuki made a low sound of acknowledgment, but didn't bite. Kai let the silence breathe. Then—
"They said—and I quote—'She's not only a secretary. She's Sato and Hasegawa's assistant, a paralegal, an associate, a gatekeeper, little Naomi… She drafts contracts for everyone, proofreads legal briefs for half the office, and most importantly'"—he lifted his glass in mock salute—"'She deals with you on a daily basis.'"
Katsuki said nothing.
"She got into a fight with a stapler last week," Kai added casually. "And still filed a merger brief that made three junior associates cry."
Still nothing.
"And she's getting really good," Kai said, gaze sharp now. "She almost beat me in a mock trial last week."
Katsuki exhaled, amused. "You're just getting weak."
Kai chuckled. "Maybe. But if Hana decides to take the bar—and then decides to go to another firm—what would you do?"
That landed.
Katsuki's jaw tensed. Just enough for Kai to see the flicker of something. A tell. The old predator's reflex sparking beneath the surface.
"She won't," Katsuki said finally.
Kai's voice was velvet. "Won't take the bar? Or won't leave?"
Katsuki's response was immediate. Sharp. "What's the point of this conversation?"
Kai leaned back, perfectly at ease.
"I don't care who you're sleeping with," he said. "Or who you want to sleep with. That's not my business." A beat. "As long as the firm runs the way it's supposed to run."
Katsuki's gaze was flat. Hard. But Kai pressed on, tone light, words deliberate.
"And as long as you're not clipping her wings."
There it was.
The hit.
Katsuki looked away for the first time that night, jaw tight, breath slow. Then—
"She's meant for greater things," he said, low. Quiet. "I know that."
Kai nodded once. Approval, not indulgence. "Good."
He took another sip. Let it linger on his tongue.
"Because as long as you're happy, go be in love. Be reckless. Buy her a building if you want." He smiled. "But let's keep our priorities straight."
Katsuki's eyes narrowed. "You're clearly underestimating me."
Kai's smile was calm. Measured.
"I'm not," he said smoothly. "And I'm not underestimating Sukehiro either."
He reached for his glass, lifted it with the ease of someone who always meant what he said—but never said everything. His eyes didn't leave Katsuki's.
"You and I—we're the kings. Strategic. Important. But slow. One square at a time."
A pause. Just long enough for the next part to hit.
"And she?" His voice dipped, soft but certain. "She's becoming the queen."
The most powerful piece on the board.
Every direction. Every angle.
Game-changing.
Kai took a sip, then set his glass down with a quiet click.
"Sure, the game can go on without a queen. But it's a hell of a lot harder." He let the smirk curl, lazy and pointed. "And a lot less interesting."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Katsuki—still unreadable, still watching the bottom of his glass like it might give him answers—lifted it slightly.
Not quite a toast. Not quite a confession.
"To our annoying little queen."
Kai smiled into his drink.