The first week back home passed in some kind of depressed, dreamless fog—like one of those fever naps where you wake up sweaty, confused, and mildly offended by your own existence.
Her mom had made all her favorite food—warm, fragrant things that used to feel like love. Udon. Tamagoyaki. The miso soup with tiny clams she used to beg for in elementary school.
She didn't touch a bite.
Rei even started bringing Kota into her room like a baby-shaped emotional support animal. But even the sight of his ridiculously round cheeks and his gummy little smile couldn't pierce the static in her skull. She looked at him once. Maybe twice. Mostly she just stared at the ceiling and pretended her body was made of lead.
Even Aoi started hovering, which was terrifying. Aoi never hovered. Aoi was chill incarnate, like a silk scarf with feelings. If she was worried, things were bad.
So Hana did what she did best.
She built a full mental flowchart—complete with imaginary red string and mid-breakdown coffee stains—trying to figure out what went wrong. When did it start? Was it Oslo? The week before? Was it that stupid conversation in his penthouse, when he asked if she trusted him and she was too blissed-out and post-orgasmic to see the red flags?
And the worst part?
He kept calling.
He being Katsuki, of course. Like he was confused. Like he thought this was fixable with a voicemail.
She threw her phone once. Not at the wall—just into her laundry pile. But it was the intention that counted.
The days bled together. No sense of time. Just her, wrapped in old sweatshirts and new resentment.
And then Ren showed up with Yuna like a chaos dream come to life.
She blinked at them from the floor of her room, her voice scratchy and unused.
"The fuck are you doing here?" she rasped at Ren, like a swamp witch. "You should be at school."
Ren grinned. The menace. "Make me."
The bastard. Hana almost smiled.
Yuna didn't say anything right away. She sat beside her on the floor like they were eighteen again, waiting for bad news or a breakup text. When she finally spoke, it was quiet.
"I'm still not talking to Kai."
Hana blinked. "You… don't have to do that."
"I do," Yuna said. "This feels like betrayal."
Hana rubbed at her face. "Yuna. What happened to me has nothing to do with your relationship."
"I don't care. I'm considering breaking up with him."
That made Hana look up. "Okay, no. One miserable friend at a time. Let it be me for now."
Yuna's smile was cracked. Small. But there.
"And Kai is…" Hana hesitated. "He's decent. I think he tried to fight it."
Yuna didn't answer. Just nodded once. Quiet, tired. Like she was storing that thought for later.
-----
Before they left—Yuna turned back at the genkan, her hand still on the doorknob.
"He goes to the apartment almost everyday," she said softly. "Asks if I've heard from you. What do you want me to tell him?"
And Hana, who hadn't cried in front of anyone since that first night, looked Yuna dead in the eye.
"Nothing," she said. "Tell him he deserves nothing."
-----
After that, she tried. God, she really tried.
Tried to forget. Tried to unfeel. Tried to be useful in the only way that made sense anymore—physical labor, muscle memory, a rhythm older than her ambition.
The brewery was safe. Predictable. At least here, no one could tell her she wasn't good enough. No one could let her go. Because the building literally had her name on it. She knew every valve, every process, every sticky floor and bitter smell.
She bottled. She labeled. She scrubbed tanks and lifted crates and scalded her hands. If she couldn't outthink her own pain, maybe she could sweat it out.
And it almost worked.
Except there were moments—tiny, traitorous seconds—when her fingers hovered over her phone.
When she thought, maybe I should just talk to him.
Just… hear what he has to say.
But then the fury came rushing back. The betrayal. The knowledge that the Tokyo deal started before Oslo. That he knew. That he sat next to her on that flight, shared a goddamn bed with her, and said nothing.
He'd looked her in the eye and asked if she trusted him.
She would've taken it better. If he'd told her. If he'd given her a single day to prepare. If he'd said, "Things are shifting. I'll fight for you."
But he didn't.
He made the decision.
He let her be the last to know.
So now, he will get nothing.
-----
He'd gone to Osu three times.
But of course she wasn't there.
But he'd still stood there like an idiot with his hands in his pockets and a sentence lodged in his throat that started with just listen and ended with something dangerously close to an apology.
He texted. Called. Left a voicemail that he deleted halfway through because his voice cracked, and he'd rather staple his own tongue to a deposition than let that be recorded for posterity.
But he knew Hana wanted nothing to do with him.
So, he did what he always did when things stopped making sense.
He compartmentalized.
Boxed her up. Filed her away. Shut the drawer.
The merger was in full swing. Tokyo was secure. The firm was expanding faster than projections. Everything on the strategic map was ticking into place.
His new assistant arrived that week. Some young law grad from Waseda. Smart. Quiet. Sweet. The kind of person who apologized for existing.
She had auburn curls. Not the same shade. But close enough to make him laugh—audibly. The poor girl flinched.
But every time she took notes, every time she asked how he liked his coffee, every time she blinked too fast and tried too hard—he thought: Hana did it like this. Hana would've known. Hana would've told me I'm being insufferable and handed me the espresso anyway.
"You do realize she's just like Hana, right?" Kai asked him once.
Katsuki didn't look up. "She's not."
"She's caught in the same machine," Kai said, voice sharper than usual. "She got yanked out of Tokyo and dropped into Nagoya with zero prep. She's being compared to someone she doesn't even know by a man who clearly hates her for breathing the same air."
Katsuki said nothing. His jaw clenched.
"And for the record," Kai added, "she's not Hana. But she's nice. She's competent. So maybe try not to be an ass to her for existing."
Katsuki didn't reply. Because Kai was right.
-----
Later that day, he went back to Osu.
Not because he thought Hana would be there. He knew she wouldn't. He went because he didn't know what else to do with himself.
Ren answered the door.
For a second, Katsuki thought the kid was going to punch him. It was in his eyes—something hot and feral and barely leashed. But instead, Ren just stared at him like he was nothing. Then walked past him without a word.
That was worse.
Yuna came to the door next.
"Hana said you deserve nothing," she said simply.
He'd expected it. Still—it landed harder than it should have.
Then Yuna added, "Just let it go. Hana needs space. Maybe you should try to respect that."
Katsuki stared past her for a second. Tried to come up with something reasonable. Something neutral. But what came out was—
"Is she okay?"
Yuna didn't answer right away. Just looked at him like he was the last person on earth who had the right to ask that.
"She did everything she could," she said finally. "You made her believe she was part of your team. I could even understand if you had to let people go. That's business. But you made her think she was safe. You let her be the last to know. What do you think she feels right now?"
He didn't respond.
There was nothing to say, so he went back to the penthouse.
To his home, but it had never felt less like one.
He dropped his keys on the counter and walked into the living room—and there it was. Her sketch. The one she'd left half-finished on his coffee table. A profile of him, of all things—pencil strokes trailing off like she'd gotten distracted and never picked it back up.
In the bathroom: her toothbrush still in the holder. The blue one with the bent bristles she insisted worked better. His hoodie that she liked using still smells like her.
He sat on the couch with the lights off, scrolling through his photo album. Oslo. Tromsø. The one of her laughing in the snow with a smear of fish cake on her cheek. The one of her asleep on the train with her head on his shoulder. The one she didn't know he took—her face tilted toward the sky under the Northern Lights, smiling like she actually believed in something.
He had Tokyo now.
The merger. The expansion. The international clients. The empire he built brick by brick with Kai.
They were going to take everyone back. That had always been the plan.
And yet—
None of it tasted the way it used to.
Not without her.