This was a mistake.
A catastrophic, frostbitten miscalculation on par with Napoleon marching into Russia. Except Katsuki hadn't brought an army—just Hana, her rapidly decaying sense of direction, and what appeared to be her lifelong ambition to inspect every single artisan scarf shop in Northern Norway.
He should've waited in the car. He should've lied. He should've said, "No, the town has been closed indefinitely due to structural instability." Anything but "Do you want to explore while we wait?" — eight words that would haunt him until the day his cremated remains were packed into a briefcase and scattered over the firm's rooftop.
Hana had said yes, obviously. Immediately. With the kind of dangerous enthusiasm that suggested she thought exploring meant bouncing like a pinball through every icy alleyway in a five-kilometer radius.
So now he was freezing. And following her. And, despite every better instinct he possessed, smiling.
He caught himself before it spread too far. The last thing he needed was for her to catch it and weaponize it for later. Look at you, smiling at nature like a wholesome Disney prince. No, thank you.
Still, she looked... absurdly pleased. Which was annoying. And distracting.
Her curls had escaped from under the hood of her jacket, already catching snowflakes like she was in some kind of indie music video. Her cheeks were pink. Her nose red. Her gloves mismatched. She was turning in a slow circle in front of what appeared to be a closed bakery, narrating something under her breath that may have involved bread ghosts.
This was stupid, he thought.
And smirked anyway.
Because she'd dragged him out here into the Arctic Circle with the wind slapping him in the face like a disgruntled plaintiff, and he still couldn't stop looking at her like she was the only thing in this godforsaken tundra worth noticing.
His phone buzzed.
A message from the hotel: Your suite is now ready for check-in. We hope you enjoy your stay at The Lyngen North.
Bless them. Saints. Saviors. Gods among men.
He let Hana linger a few minutes longer, just enough to satisfy whatever feral impulse she had to admire snow-covered roofs and sample hot chocolate from a booth run by someone named Lars.
Then, calmly—like he hadn't been praying for this moment since minute twelve—he said, "Our room's ready."
She turned, a marshmallow puff of excitement in her too-big parka. He didn't wait for her response—just placed a steady hand on her lower back, redirected her mid-step, and led her back toward the rental car like it was a courtroom exit and he was about to cross-examine whoever invented tourism.
He didn't speak as they started walking back. The rental was parked just a few meters away, its silver frame half-dusted in snow like it, too, regretted this entire outing. Hana was humming under her breath again—off-key and wildly inconsistent, like a broken music box—but the sound was weirdly grounding.
Halfway there, he stopped.
Removed his left glove.
Turned to her and held out his hand.
"Give me your right," he said, tone flat, non-negotiable.
She blinked at him but obeyed without question, slipping her hand into his. He pulled her glove off with quick precision, then—before she could ask what the hell he was doing—wrapped his bare hand around hers and slid both into the pocket of his coat.
There.
Much better.
His fingers curled around hers like it was standard legal procedure. Like he hadn't just crossed some invisible line he had no intention of acknowledging.
"You might get lost," he muttered.
"Right," Hana said, voice suspiciously light.
But she didn't pull away.
Not even a little.
-----
She knew it was going to be fancy.
She knew.
Katsuki didn't do normal. He didn't do quaint or affordable or "this place has character." He did five-star, blackout-card, "This was featured in a Condé Nast list, Hana, keep up" levels of rich. So she'd braced herself for the Lynden North.
But she hadn't been prepared for this.
The Sky Suites didn't even look real. They looked like something out of a billionaire's fever dream. Like if Elon Musk and a Michelin-star interior designer had a baby and then raised it on Norwegian minimalism and generational wealth.
First off: floor-to-ceiling windows. Actual glass walls. Like, why bother with privacy when you can have God's panoramic view of the Arctic wilderness and your existential crisis reflected back at you from every angle?
Second: the bed was huge. Like American TV show wedding night montage huge. And too soft. Like falling into a cloud made of guilt and money. She'd sunk three inches on impact and swore the mattress sighed back in fluent French.
Third: there was an outdoor hot tub. A hot tub. Outside. With snow gently falling all around it, like the universe had personally arranged mood lighting. There were plush robes, heated towel racks, and a minibar so well-stocked it could fund a small revolution.
And don't even get her started on the bathtub. It was one of those deep, standalone ones—the kind that looked like it had been carved from marble by a very expensive cult. She took one look and thought, This tub has seen richer asses than mine. I should apologize before I sit down.
The amenities were stupid. Stupid in the best way. Automatic blackout shades, curated soundscapes, temperature-controlled floors. Hana spent five full minutes pressing random buttons on the panel on the side of the bed.
Then there was the food. The restaurant downstairs didn't even try to be humble. She skimmed the menu and saw the words reindeer consommé and whipped cloudberry reduction and immediately wanted to call her mom and apologize for every ¥500 konbini dinner she'd ever judged. Everything came on oversized ceramic plates that probably cost more than her childhood bike.
She'd tried, tried, to be normal about it. Had looked at Katsuki, very calm and collected, and asked, "Are you sure it's okay for you to spend this much money? I can cover our meals, at least. I have savings."
He'd looked at her like she'd just offered to pay for their stay in Monopoly money.
There had been a pause. One of those heavy, surgical ones he was so good at. Then:
"No."
Flat. Final. Like she'd committed a financial hate crime by suggesting it.
So now she was just… here. Existing in a luxury suite with an emotionally constipated boss who booked this entire thing like it was a quarterly expense report.
She stood in the middle of the suite, everything soft and glowing around her—warm lighting, glimmering snow, ambient spa music—and looked at him.
He was removing his coat, like they hadn't just walked into the Norse equivalent of Narnia's VIP room.
She crossed the room without thinking, bare feet on heated wood, and placed both palms on his chest.
He froze. Didn't move. Didn't breathe, maybe.
She looked up at him.
"You know," she said softly, "I never imagined I'd get to experience something like this. Not in my lifetime."
Not with her salary. Not with her résumé. Not with the baggage she carried. Not with the voice in her head that said people like you don't get to have this.
And then—then—she swore she hallucinated.
Because he smiled.
A real one. Small, quiet, terrifyingly gentle.
And then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Forehead.
Her knees nearly gave out.
"Let's just hope we see the damned lights," he muttered.
God help her.
She is definitely in love with him.
-----
The lights hadn't come.
Not yet, anyway.
Hana sat curled up by the panoramic window, knees tucked beneath her, one of Katsuki's massive hoodies swallowing her frame like it was a weighted blanket made of fabric and denial. Her breath fogged the glass in small, hopeful bursts. She wiped it with her sleeve every few minutes. As if clearing the view would summon the aurora into existence.
They'd finished dinner hours ago—well, she had finished dinner. He had practically inhaled his food and dragged them back upstairs so she wouldn't miss a second of sky-watching. And she'd been planted here ever since. Past midnight now, the only light in the suite came from the soft underglow beneath the bathtub and her phone, still in her hand, poised to capture the sky. The rest was snow and silence.
This was fine.
Totally fine.
They had two more nights.
Statistically, logically, astronomically, she had time. The sky was a science, not a promise. And she could accept that. She was not going to be dramatic. She was not going to spiral.
Except her brain was already pulling out the glittery chart of failure timelines and highlighting this night in bold red marker. Because it wasn't just about the lights—it never was. It was about what it meant if they didn't show up. If this whole expensive, once-in-a-lifetime trip ended in blank space. And worse—if it had all been for her. Because it had been. She knew it. Knew it in the way he booked the suite and adjusted his calendar and remembered what she said that one time, half-joking, half-pathetic.
God, she was going to cry over a weather phenomenon. She needed to get a grip.
Katsuki watched her from across the room, his laptop long forgotten beside the untouched hotel wine. She hadn't moved in over an hour. Just stared out into nothing, her face barely lit by the ambient glow of the suite's snow-soft lighting. She looked smaller somehow. Quieter. Like the oversized hoodie she'd stolen from his suitcase was trying to make up for what the sky refused to give.
He stood, crossed the warm floor, and dropped down beside her without a word. One hand reached up, found her back beneath the thick fabric, and rubbed in slow, efficient circles.
"We still have tomorrow," he said.
"It's fine," Hana replied, voice calm but too light. "That's not what I'm worried about."
He tilted his head. "Then what is it?"
She exhaled slowly, fogging the glass again. "That you spent this much money for what could possibly be nothing."
There it was.
He didn't roll his eyes, though he wanted to. Instead, he pulled her gently against him, letting her settle between his side and the window, her cheek brushing the soft cotton of his shirt as he kept rubbing slow, even circles along her back.
"We still have two nights," he said again, firmer this time. "And if it doesn't appear then, we'll stay a bit longer. Until they do."
She snorted into his shoulder. "I'll probably bankrupt you."
He scoffed. "I haven't even touched the majority of my trust fund yet."
Hana laughed, bright and full-bodied. "That's the least interesting thing about you Hasegawa-but sure, whatever helps you sleep at night."
He smirked. A small one. Barely there.
And then she asked it.
Quietly. Casually. Like she didn't care.
"Have I ever made you feel like I'm here with you just because of the luxury I'm getting?"
He went still.
Not because he didn't have an answer, but because he knew what this really was. It wasn't a test. It wasn't guilt. It was need—carefully disguised as curiosity.
She needed him to know. To tell her.
Because while she was brilliant and feral and infuriating—she doubted herself more than she let on. She doubted this. Them. Not because of what they lacked, but because it felt too good to be real. And people like her weren't used to being chosen without strings.
Katsuki took a slow breath.
"I'm not stupid, Sukehiro," he said, voice low. "Don't underestimate my ability to smell bullshit a mile away."
She chuckled—quiet, relieved.
But he wasn't finished.
"You don't even want to replace your death trap of a motorcycle for sentimentality reasons. Even when it gives me a stroke every time you use it. You live off konbini food when I told you—repeatedly—you could use my card. And you don't ask for anything. You just take what's given. There's a difference."
Her eyes darted up to him.
"You're terrifying when you say stuff like that."
"Don't get used to it," he muttered, fingers still moving across her spine. "I'm your safe space, and it annoys me that you still doubt yourself. And this."
Outside, the snow continued falling. Still no lights.
This is fine.