It started with the flowers.
Correction: it started months ago when Hana, despite being brilliant—annoyingly, obscenely brilliant—proved that intelligence and common sense were not mutually exclusive. Because only someone deranged would treat professional boundaries like a casual suggestion. And only someone Hana would find a way to retaliate against basic corporate protocol.
He'd told her—clearly, plainly, and in writing—that any communication with Henrik Andersen needed to include him.
Loop him in. CC him. BCC him. Smoke signal. Something.
Her response?
"God, you're such a control freak."
And then, to be petty—because of course it was to be petty—she created a group chat.
With him. And Henrik.
Sukehiro's Chaos Room was the actual name.
He lasted two days and three hours.
In that time, Henrik had sent an unsolicited GIF of a Viking helmet, asked "how's the weather in Nagoya?" like this was Facebook, and told Hana she had a "refreshing outlook." Which—what the fuck did that even mean?
Katsuki left the chat at 3:42 p.m. on a Thursday. No explanation. No goodbye.
He hoped they got the message. They didn't.
Because now, whenever there was a video conference with Henrik, Hana—who normally showed up to Zoom calls looking like she'd rolled through a tornado of Post-it notes and bad coffee—suddenly discovered grooming.
Lipstick. Lipstick.
Why was she wearing lipstick?
Deep red. Not even provocative. Just enough color to say: I put effort into my mouth for this.
Her hair was half-tamed. Like she'd tried brushing it and got halfway through before ADHD hijacked her hand.
And the ear tuck. The goddamn ear tuck.
She'd laugh at something Henrik said—Henrik, who wasn't funny—and tuck her hair behind her ear like they were in a high school drama and he'd just told her she looked nice in her lab coat.
Katsuki sat through those meetings like a man staring down a hostage negotiation, jaw locked, voice clipped, trying not to imagine if Henrik's imported Norwegian fingers would ever try that same tuck.
And then.
Today.
The flowers.
He walked into the office with a coffee and a plan to destroy at least three departments before noon—and stopped cold.
They were sitting on her desk. Taunting him.
Long-stemmed, overcompensating, definitely-not-from-Japan flowers. Arranged like they belonged in an overpriced wedding and smelling like smug diplomacy.
Card propped dead center.
Hana—
Looking forward to our next collaboration.
Warmest,
Henrik A.
Henrik A.
Who signed a first name with a last initial like this was a goddamn love letter. Like she'd know which Henrik if there were twenty.
Which there weren't.
Hana was grinning at them. Not even subtly. She plucked one out and sniffed it like she was in a commercial.
Katsuki stared at the bouquet. Then at her.
Then back at the bouquet like it had insulted him in fluent Norwegian.
He didn't say anything.
He just walked to his office, shut the door, and opened a spreadsheet with a vengeance usually reserved for hostile takeovers and poorly formatted emails.
But he wasn't spiraling.
He was focused.
Ruthlessly, professionally focused.
And later—purely for documentation purposes—he might look into Lerwick's tax audit last 2019.
-----
Okay, so first of all, she didn't like Henrik.
Like, yes, sure—he looked like Thor. Not discount Thor. Not theme park Thor. Actual, honest-to-Odin, Chris Hemsworth in that one scene where his shirt gets wet Thor. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, eyes like they could see through your browser history. It was rude, honestly.
But still. No. Thank you.
Because Hana might be chaos incarnate, but she wasn't stupid. And Henrik? Henrik wasn't here for her sunny disposition and borderline illegal levels of sarcasm.
He was here because she was the gatekeeper.
The last, overcaffeinated line of defense between him and Katsuki Hasegawa, Destroyer of Legal Worlds, Scourge of Poorly Drafted Contracts, and Unrepentant Maker-Outer Who Then Pretended It Didn't Happen.
Anyway.
Henrik wasn't flirting. Probably.
Or he was.
It was hard to tell when a man looked at you through a 4K webcam like he wanted to buy you dinner and your family brewery.
He was a shark. Like every other high-ranking executive with perfect teeth and a casual Rolex tan line. And if someone less cynical, less weird, less her had been in this position, Katsuki's entire firm would probably be halfway to sabotage already.
Kai was the one who taught her that. How to spot the game beneath the smile. How to tell when someone was looking for a weak spot, not a conversation. He'd made her binge-watch Terrace House with him, forcing her to dissect every micro-expression like it was a murder trial, while he and Yuna made sounds in the next room like a raccoon dying inside a dishwasher.
(There were walls. Thin ones.
She did not want to talk about it.)
So no, she didn't trust Henrik.
Didn't like him.
Didn't want him.
But she wasn't blind, and she wasn't a saint, and her hormones had not been touched since the smirking bastard she worked for decided to make out with her, kiss her again in her apartment, and then leave like he'd just dropped off an Amazon package.
No texts.
No clarification.
Not even a "hey, sorry I emotionally concussed you with my tongue."
Just… nothing.
So yeah. Maybe she wore the lipstick. The red one Yuna gave her in a moment of whispered girl solidarity, with a wink and a "this one says 'look at my mouth while I ruin your life.'"
Maybe she brushed her hair.
Maybe she tucked it behind her ear during video calls, knowing full well that Katsuki hated that move more than he hated inefficient clause formatting.
Maybe she giggled at Henrik once.
Just once.
And maybe—just maybe—she enjoyed the way Katsuki's entire face went flat like someone had asked him to compliment a baby.
Because he didn't get to ignore it.
He didn't get to kiss her, then pretend nothing happened.
He didn't get to claim her with his mouth and then disappear behind legal briefs and power plays.
That wasn't how this worked.
So she smiled. Played nice. Sat up straighter when Henrik was on screen. Tilted her head. Bit her lip. Strategically.
And then. Then—
Today.
Flowers.
Imported. Obnoxiously expensive. Screamed I'm European and I don't need a coupon to feel powerful.
They were sitting on her desk when she walked in. Blindingly colorful. Ridiculous. The card said:
Hana—
Looking forward to our next collaboration.
Warmest,
Henrik A.
Like there was a second Henrik she might confuse him with. Like she was getting fan mail from the Norwegian royal family.
And flowers? Really?
She didn't even like flowers.
They died.
They were supposed to be outside, living their plant lives, not crammed into a crystal vase slowly decaying under fluorescent lighting while stealing valuable desk real estate. Now she had to move her stapler and her second coffee cup just to open her laptop.
She hated them.
She grinned anyway. Pulled one out. Sniffed it dramatically.
Let Katsuki see.
Because she wasn't doing anything wrong.
She was just… living.
Thriving.
Making very sure Katsuki Hasegawa, emotionally constipated kiss-and-ghost master of the universe, understood exactly what he was ignoring.
She didn't like Henrik.
But damn if she wasn't going to enjoy the fallout.
-----
He took the elevator from the basement, as always. Same time. Same route. Same mindless, merciless to-do list already building itself in his head like an algorithm gone feral.
The elevator stopped at the ground floor.
And then she walked in.
"You're early, boss-man," Hana said, her voice the same deceptive sweetness she used when about to ruin someone's day.
She stepped inside and shrugged off her cardigan without ceremony, like it wasn't a calculated act of violence. The second it left her shoulders, he knew he was in trouble.
The dress was form-fitting. Sharp. Minimalist. That kind of deliberate minimalism that screamed intentional. And it ended just above the knee, which was fine—appropriate, even. Maybe. Barely.
But it was the neckline that nearly short-circuited him.
It wasn't low. It just hinted. Left space. Gave the illusion of something daring without technically violating a single HR guideline. And because Hana was Hana—who thrived on toeing lines just to see if he'd twitch—he knew she'd picked it knowing exactly what it would do to him.
But then there were the shoes.
Not sneakers. Not boots. Not the platform monstrosities she occasionally wore when she was trying to be "casual but tall."
No.
Heels.
Those heels.
The Manolos he gave her. The ones she'd never even acknowledged. Just kept. Like a quiet declaration that she would accept exactly what she wanted and never thank anyone for it.
And she looked…
God.
He knew he was staring.
He didn't care.
His brain flickered, briefly, to the emergency stop button. Just a passing thought. Just a mild, intrusive, catastrophic fantasy.
What it would feel like to slam the panel, crowd her against the wall, lift her onto those ridiculous heels and let her fall apart around him, gasping his name in that ruined, breathless voice—
Not boss-man.
Not Hasegawa-san.
Just—Katsuki.
She'd claw at his shoulders. Bite his jaw. Her thighs would tighten around his waist as he drove into her like he had something to prove—because he did, didn't he? He always had. Ever since she walked into his office and rearranged his entire life without permission.
He'd make her feel it. Every inch. Every thrust. Every hard, unrelenting second of it.
And he'd feel it too. The way her breath stuttered, the way she whispered his name like a secret. The way her lips would drag over his ear, trembling and bold and utterly his.
He could do it. Right here. Right now. All it would take was one button—
"You're staring, boss-man," she said, smirking without even looking up from her reflection in the elevator doors.
His voice came out too even. "Going somewhere?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
The elevator dinged. She stepped out like nothing had happened, Manolos clicking against the marble tile.
"I'll tell you later," she tossed over her shoulder, grin unapologetic.
And just like that, she was gone.
He didn't move.
Three floors passed before he remembered he was supposed to get off the elevator with her.
He closed his eyes. Exhaled once. Brief. Controlled. Tried not to picture her walking away from him in that dress ever again.
He was a professional. An adult. A goddamn managing partner.
And he was mentally undressing his assistant in a public elevator like a teenage intern with a clipboard and a caffeine addiction.
He hadn't had proper sex in almost a year.
And apparently that's what rock bottom looks like.