The car smelled like fries and leftover adrenaline. Hana balled up the empty burger wrappers and slid them into a paper bag, careful not to crinkle it too loudly, then turned in her seat and tossed it into the back. It landed with a soft thump, next to her coat and Katsuki's scarf. She took the last sip of Coke, the ice clinking, then set the cup down and—without ceremony—burped.
Loud.
Satisfied.
"You're disgusting."
Katsuki didn't even flinch when he said it. Just stared straight ahead, arms crossed, one eyebrow twitching like it wanted to raise itself in protest but had already given up.
Hana grinned.
The car was warm. Not cozy warm—no, this was practical, Volvo-rental warm. Efficient heat. Economical. No wasted effort. Like him. They were parked somewhere quiet on the edge of Oslo's outer limits, facing a view that looked like a postcard someone forgot to Photoshop. Trees outlined in frost. Water dark and glassy. Not a single other car in sight.
The silence stretched—not awkward—until her brain started spinning again. Because it was nighttime, and her blood sugar was stabilizing, and now she could think about what she saw at the gala.
Then, like someone diffusing a bomb with shaking hands: "Is the three-day block in your calendar… with the blonde girl you were talking to earlier?"
Her voice was light. Like she hadn't been chewing that sentence over for the past two hours like a piece of gum that stopped tasting like anything but regret.
"What made you say that?"
She didn't look at him as she fiddled at the hem of her dress.
"The woman she was with told me you were together," she said. Then, after a beat: "Is she the second girlfriend you talked about before?"
Katsuki exhaled. The kind of exhale that sounded like it belonged in a courtroom—sharp, heavy with intent. He looked at her, jaw tight. If he didn't answer now, she'd spiral. He could see it. Could feel it radiating off her like static.
"Yes," he said finally. "She was."
He turned back toward the windshield, his voice flat, definitive. "But she's irrelevant now."
Irrelevant. Like a memo discarded. A decision finalized.
Still, her throat was dry. "But what are you doing with that three days really?"
Pause.
"Tromsø," he said.
She stared.
"…What is that? A conference?"
"It's a place up north."
"North like… Hokkaido north or Elsa's-ice-palace north?"
His mouth twitched.
And then, calmly, as if he were stating the start time for a deposition: "You want to see the Northern Lights? I will take you to the Northern Lights."
Just like that.
No buildup. No flowers. No dramatic pause or confession. No "because I like you" or "I want to spend time with you" or God forbid anything resembling an emotion.
A statement.
A plan.
But Hana felt it anyway.
Felt it in the way he hadn't forgotten. How, a few days ago, she had asked—half-joking, half-hopeful—if the aurora would be visible from their hotel room. And how she said it is not just lights for people like her.
He'd remembered.
She stared at him in the dark. The pale dashboard light cast shadows across his face—his impossible cheekbones, his perfectly smooth jaw, the line between his brows that had probably been there since birth. And his mouth. Set in a neutral line, like he wasn't currently handing her the most romantic thing anyone had ever offered her.
A silent itinerary.
Katsuki didn't say things.
He wouldn't tell you he loved you. He'd book a trip to Tromsø and treat it like a business strategy. He'd still be your terrifying, emotionally repressed boss—but he'd remember the things you said in passing. He'd pay attention. He'd make space for you on his calendar, which meant more than any poetic declaration.
He let her be.
Her chaos. Her rambling. Her mess. He didn't try to fix it, didn't demand she shrink herself to fit his world. He adjusted—in ways he didn't even realize he was adjusting. He griped and insulted and flicked her forehead and dragged her to McDonald's—but he also watched her across rooms, steadied her without a word, and let her burp in his rental car without flinching.
And now he was taking her to the Northern Lights.
Hana's heart climbed into her throat.
This was his version of love.
Not the kind that said it. The kind that showed it—through small decisions, tactical moves, unspoken permission to stay.
She breathed in.
"I love this man," she thought, wild and sudden and without hesitation.
And then—before she could second-guess it, before her anxiety could claw it back into her chest—she leaned over the center console and kissed him.
No warning. No explanation.
Because for once, she didn't want to think. She wanted him.
-----
The kiss caught him off-guard.
Her lips were warm, soft. Her hand curled into his jacket, and for a moment, he forgot where they were. Forgot everything, actually, except the fact that Hana was kissing him—really kissing him. Slow, open-mouthed, a little breathless. Nothing like the first time, which had been all fury and friction and professional ruin.
This was different.
This was her choosing him, not challenging him.
He slid a hand to her waist, anchored her there, and pulled her in harder. She didn't resist. Her body moved with his like it already knew the rhythm. She shifted over the console, climbing into his lap in one smooth, unthinking motion. The slit of her dress spilled open along her thigh as she straddled him, the heat of her skin against his palms making it very clear this wasn't going to stop at kissing.
He exhaled through his nose, low and ragged, and adjusted the seat back with one hand.
His mouth crashed into hers again. Deeper this time. Tongue sliding in, tasting, coaxing. Her hands tangled in his hair, and he swore—almost aloud—at the way she kissed like she fought. With full, reckless intention.
His other hand slipped beneath the fabric of her dress, dragging along the inside of her thigh, up, tracing fire across her skin. Then along her waist, up her arm, to her shoulder blade—pressing her in closer, needing more. She gasped when he found her collarbone and kissed down. Trailing heat along the line of her neck.
Her skin was flushed, goosebumped. He could feel it even through the fabric, could taste how close she was to unraveling.
He pulled the straps of her dress down.
And when she didn't stop him—didn't even hesitate—he tugged at the zipper, slow and deliberate.
The bodice slipped down. She arched into him, breath shuddering against his ear as his mouth found her again—down the slope of her shoulder, the curve of her breast. His tongue flicked against her nipple, then his mouth closed over it, and she made a sound that sent a shock of hunger straight to his spine.
He would never get enough of her.
And God help him, he wasn't even going to pretend to try.
------
His mouth was everywhere.
He wasn't rushed. Wasn't fumbling or frantic. He kissed like he had all the time in the world—like this wasn't happening in the front seat of a rental car at ten p.m. in the outskirts of Oslo.
Like he wanted this. Her. Not just her mouth or her body—but her. Loud, messy, ridiculous her.
And she… she wanted him too.
Badly.
She didn't care that the seatbelt buckle was digging into her thigh or that the window was probably fogging up or that her dress was halfway undone. All she cared about was the way his hands moved like they knew her already. Like she'd been designed to fit here. Right here.
He kissed her again—open-mouthed, tongue curling into hers—and she whimpered, grabbing at his coat, pulling him closer. Then his mouth dropped lower. Neck, collarbone, breast. Her head fell back.
She couldn't even think.
This was her terrifying boss.
And he was making her feel worshipped.
He sucked gently at her nipple, teeth grazing, and her breath hitched so sharply it almost turned into a sob.
It was too much. It wasn't enough.
Then—
Rrring. Rrring.
Her phone buzzed violently against the dash.
She jolted in surprise, head knocking the roof of the car, back slamming into the steering wheel.
"Agh, fuck—ow—shit—"
Katsuki didn't move. Kissed her collarbone again, mouth curved into something annoyingly smug.
She swatted at him with one hand, the other reaching for her phone. "It's home. I need to take this."
He didn't respond.
He exhaled heavily and dragged his mouth along her neck once more before letting her go.
She climbed off his lap with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, falling sideways into the passenger seat. She yanked her dress back up, ran frantic fingers through her hair, tried to flatten the total disaster of her appearance. Then—with the confidence of someone who had just been second base'd by her boss in a Volvo—she opened the camera and hit accept.
The screen lit up.
Ren. Beaming. Surrounded by balloons and bad lighting.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY HANA-NEE!!"
He looked at her.
Still breathless. Hair disheveled. Dress wrinkled and zipped at an angle.
It was her birthday.
And he hadn't remembered.
He sat back in the driver's seat, throat tightening, heat cooling.
Damn it.
-----
They returned to the hotel a little before midnight, the lobby hushed and golden, the kind of quiet that made even the elevators feel reverent. Katsuki didn't speak as they stepped inside their suite—just watched Hana from the corner of his eye.
Her heels dangled from one hand like the aftermath of a war crime. She was barefoot, and her feet made soft, dragging sounds against the floor as if they had finally staged a coup and refused to go another step in protest.
By the time they reached the suite, she was swaying slightly. Still pretty. Still standing. But her body was clearly five seconds from collapse.
He could have kissed her again.
Could have picked up where they'd left off, hands on her thighs, mouth against her skin, dragged the rest of the zipper down and watched her come apart in his bed.
But she blinked at him, half-lidded and slow, and whispered, "Thank you, Katsuki."
Then she added, with a yawn she didn't bother to hide, "Good night."
She turned toward the bedroom.
He crossed the room before she could get far.
And hugged her from behind.
No warning. No preamble. No words.
He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into his chest, like her sleep-deprived bones were the only thing keeping him upright.
Hana froze.
Then melted.
Oh. Oh, this was dangerous. This was so dangerous.
Because this hug wasn't demanding or dominant or possessive. This was soft. Warm. His. The scent of his cologne—sharp and dry and wildly expensive—lingered in her nose as he tucked his chin gently above her head.
She'd just been kissed stupid in a car. Had a full-body contact situation on his lap. And this—this hug—was the thing that made her knees go.
She was barefoot, holding her shoes like some kind of tragic fairy tale gremlin. But she felt more seen in that moment than in a decade's worth of birthdays.
Then she heard him speak.
"You didn't put your birthday on my calendar," he muttered, low against her hair. "I told you I suck at remembering important events."
Her breath caught.
"It's not even that…" she started, not sure what she meant to say.
But he cut her off, voice firmer now. "Important. Events."
She stilled.
Then laughed quietly. "Do you want me to add a recurring event for my birthday on your calendar?"
"Yes."
Her smile turned into something she felt in her chest. "End date?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Keep it open."
Hana's heart stuttered.
She didn't cry—not really—but something warm and heavy curled behind her eyes like it might later, when she was alone and thinking too much.
She turned in his arms and hugged him back.
Tighter this time.
No dramatics. No candles or parties or cake.
Just them.
And somehow, it was the best birthday she'd ever had.