The Thief looked like the kind of hotel where billionaires go to have affairs and pretend it's art.
Which, frankly, was Hana's favorite aesthetic.
The moment she stepped inside, she did a slow, reverent spin in the lobby like some unhinged tourist ballerina. Because oh my god, the walls. The walls. There were actual curated pieces of modern art hung between the elevators like it was NBD. One of them was either a woman screaming into a pile of fruit or an avant-garde reinterpretation of capitalism. She didn't know. She didn't care. She took three pictures.
No—four. One of them was blurry but she was emotionally attached.
She'd barely made it five steps before taking another photo of the hallway light fixture, because it looked like a haunted jellyfish made of Scandinavian wealth.
Then they got to the suite and—nope. Game over. It was criminally unfair. There were two bedrooms, a sleek workspace that looked like it belonged to a startup founder with a God complex, and—and—a glass pantry filled with premium European chocolates, which she immediately opened with all the reverence of discovering buried treasure.
She picked the darkest one. Bit into it like it had personally wronged her. It tasted like sin. And hazelnut.
"This is how rich people live," she muttered around the truffle. "I was born for this."
She flung her suitcase into the second bedroom without even looking at it, then wandered toward the bathroom—and nearly cried.
The tub was big enough to stage a small musical in. There were heated floors. HEATED. FLOORS. She made an involuntary sound that was probably illegal in here.
And the balcony.
There was a balcony.
She stepped outside barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, the Oslo wind hitting her full in the face like ah yes, you're not from here. But it didn't matter. The air was sharp and clean and real, and the view looked like a postcard some tortured poet would write on just before dying of beauty.
Below her, the harbor twinkled with cold, distant lights. Boats. Ice. The suggestion of silence. She could see the edge of the city curving into something deeper—more sky, more dark, more space.
She leaned forward just slightly over the railing, scarf trailing in the wind. Her fingers were already freezing but her heart? Her heart was buzzing.
And then, because her brain was permanently unable to exist in the moment without narrating it, she turned her head and asked:
"Do you think I can watch the Northern Lights from out here?"
He came to a stop beside her. "Depends on when they decide to appear," he said finally, voice low. "And even if they do, you might not see them from here. Too much light pollution."
She didn't answer right away.
Still staring out.
Still hoping.
He glanced sideways at her. Coat half-zipped. Cheeks flushed pink. Her breath fogged slightly in the air, soft and rapid, like her thoughts were sprinting again. He could practically hear them.
Earlier, she'd bounced through the suite like a caffeinated puppy on espresso and wonder. She'd narrated the paintings. Took seventeen photos of the minibar. Opened a chocolate with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. He'd watched in silence from the doorway, letting the madness wash over him.
Most people walked into high-end hotels and pretended they'd been there before.
Hana? She made it hers in five minutes flat.
It should've irritated him.
It didn't.
It was refreshing.
She asked suddenly, without turning, "But have you seen it?"
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a practiced flick.
"Yeah," he said, voice flat. "A couple of times. It's just lights."
"Yeah," she said softly.
Something about her tone made him pause.
He exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the wind like a private defense mechanism. Then glanced down again.
Her eyes weren't angry. Or disappointed. Just… quiet.
He frowned. "What are you thinking?"
Her lips twitched. "nothing important?"
He stared at her.
She grinned. "okay, I just thought I'd see the lights here. That's all. It's not just lights for people like me."
And just like that, something ancient and feral twisted in his chest.
People like her.
The ones who built dreams out of things others called ordinary. The ones who looked at the sky and expected wonder, even when life had taught them not to. The ones who didn't ask for much, and still got disappointed anyway.
He didn't say anything.
Just looked away, jaw tight.
But in his head, he was already making silent demands to every Norse god on rotation.
Those lights better show up next week.
Because if the sky decided to screw with her—if it robbed her of that moment—he'd fix it. He'd fly her to Svalbard, Iceland or even fucking Greenland, to wherever the sky was more obedient. He'd rearrange the earth if he had to.
He may not be able to control the sky.
But everything else?
He absolutely could.
-----
Katsuki had barely finished his cigarette before Hana vanished.
One second she was at the balcony, looking like she was about to make a dramatic speech to the sky. The next, she'd wandered back inside the suite, muttering something about shower pressure and chocolate ratios and how "the pillows here are so puffy it's offensive."
By the time he stepped inside, she had face-planted across the bed in the guest room. Not under the covers. Not with any coordination. Just sprawled horizontally across the mattress.
Katsuki sighed.
Jet lag.
It was her first time traveling internationally, and while she'd spent the entire flight running on caffeine and excitement, he knew the crash would come. He just didn't expect it to be this dramatic.
He glanced at his watch. Local time: 11:34 a.m.
Oslo.
Which meant her body still thought it was 7:34 p.m. in Nagoya—a reasonable time for dinner. Not for spontaneous unconsciousness.
He crouched next to the bed, watched her twitch slightly in her sleep, then muttered, "You couldn't even make it to noon."
No response. Just a soft snore and a muffled word that sounded suspiciously like "mackerel."
Jesus Christ.
He untangled her boots first—one of which had been halfway on, like she lost the will to finish mid-shoehorn—and tossed them aside. Pulled the blanket out from under her, flipped it over, and tucked her in.
She barely stirred. Just mumbled, "Don't forget to cancel the noodle appointment," and sank deeper into the pillows.
He stared.
Noodle appointment?
What the fuck was she even talking about?
Still—he brushed the hair from her forehead, and turned off the nearest light. He should've gone back to work. He had three unread contracts, an email from Naomi flagged "Urgent," and a voicemail from someone in Yamato that sounded like it was recorded mid-nervous breakdown.
But instead, he came back.
Quietly.
Slipped into bed beside her.
Then he leaned in.
Pressed a quiet kiss to her temple.
It was brief. Barely a breath. Like a confession disguised as muscle memory.
And just like that—like some invisible switch had been flipped—she shifted toward him with the sleep-drunk grace of someone completely unaware of how much damage they were doing.
Her hand curled into his chest. Her cheek found the crook of his neck.
He stared at the ceiling.
He wasn't going to sleep.
He just… needed to lie down for a second.
To make sure she didn't wake up in a panic, jetlagged and confused and halfway to stealing all the mini-bar chocolate.
Her breath evened out against his neck. Her hand curled tighter into his shirt, like she wasn't entirely sure she trusted sleep to hold her.
He waited. Counted the seconds. Then, carefully—rationally—he shifted, just enough to try and ease out of bed.
And immediately felt her tense.
Subtle. Barely there. Just the smallest hitch in her body.
But it was enough.
He sighed, defeated. "Okay. I'm not moving."
She relaxed instantly. Let out a breath. And burrowed her face deeper into his neck like she was trying to crawl inside.
He exhaled again. Pulled the blanket tighter around her. One arm curling around her waist like it was the only answer left.
This was a mistake.
A soft sigh against his chest.
This is hell.
A whisper, maybe. Or a snore.
He closed his eyes for what he told himself would be exactly thirty minutes.
That was all.
Just thirty.
Maximum.
Because he was still in control.
He just wasn't moving.
At all.
Not until she woke up.
Or the sun exploded.
Whichever came first.