Hayate sat behind his desk, eyes moving across reports without absorbing a single word. His office was quiet, save for the hum of the servers down the hall.
And then came the sound of heels.
Hana swept in, perfectly composed as ever, her perfume sharp, her smile sharper. She sat across from him without waiting for an invitation.
"I heard," she began, her voice smooth as glass. "About your little storm girl at Nishina. Apparently, she had the audacity to stand against me."
Hayate didn't answer. He rarely did when Hana opened with pride.
"She's bold, I'll give her that," Hana continued, tilting her head. "But boldness doesn't make one capable. She's just noise. And noise fades."
Hayate's hand tightened around his pen. Noise? Rin was many things, but never noise.
As Hana droned on about reputations, strategies, appearances, Hayate tuned her out. His thoughts whispered with dry irritation: You bring stress upon stress, Hana. Endless words that weigh more than storms.
He almost laughed at himself. Rin would've rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath by now. The thought was strangely comforting.
Finally, Hana sighed, rising to her feet. "I'll freshen up. Try to think clearly while I'm gone, Hayate. You can't afford distractions."
Her heels clicked away, the door shutting behind her.
The silence that followed was like a blessing.
Kazehiro, who had been sitting quietly in the corner with his usual calm presence, raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"
Hayate turned his head slowly, fixing Kazehiro with the kind of look that said Do I look like I'm okay?
Kazehiro chuckled. "Thought so."
Hayate dropped his head forward onto the desk with a dull thud. He stayed there for a moment, the cool wood against his forehead, breathing out a long sigh.
Then, suddenly, he lifted his head, eyes sharpening with a flicker of something lighter. "Let's go."
Kazehiro blinked. "Where?"
"I'm hungry."
Kazehiro leaned back, suspicious. "You mean—"
"Shhhh." Hayate stood, straightening his jacket. "Let's just go."
Half an hour later, the two men sat in the corner booth of a KFC, a mountain of fried chicken between them. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the smell of grease and salt filling the air.
Hayate picked up a piece of chicken, his expression almost serene. "This," he said after the first bite, "is peace."
Kazehiro laughed, shaking his head. "The great Miyazaki Hayate, billionaire genius, hidden CEO… stress-eating fried chicken like a college student."
Hayate smirked. "Everyone needs an anchor."
Kazehiro gestured to the pile of wings and drumsticks. "This much chicken isn't an anchor. It's a shipwreck."
Hayate raised an eyebrow. "You doubt me?"
Kazehiro leaned forward, grinning. "You sure you can finish all this?"
Hayate wiped his fingers delicately on a napkin, then met his gaze with a spark of mischief. "Wanna bet?"
Kazehiro grinned wider. "Loser drives."
Hayate's lips curved faintly. "Oh, you're on."
What followed was ridiculous. Two powerful men, feared in boardrooms and whispered about in headlines, reduced to glaring at each other over a pile of fried chicken like boys at a summer camp challenge.
Kazehiro devoured wings with steady rhythm, methodical and precise. Hayate countered with calm efficiency, his movements smooth as though he were signing contracts instead of tearing meat from the bone.
By the time they were halfway through, Kazehiro leaned back, groaning. "This is insane."
Hayate smirked, licking sauce from his thumb. "Admit defeat."
"Never."
Minutes passed. Napkins piled up. The staff behind the counter whispered to each other, pointing discreetly. Neither man noticed.
Finally, Kazehiro dropped his final wing onto the tray, groaning. "I'm done."
Hayate leaned back, victorious, a rare grin tugging at his lips. "Then I win."
Kazehiro laughed, shaking his head. "Fine. You win. But I hope you realize, Miyazaki, you're the only man alive who can conquer billion-yen deals and a family bucket in the same week."
Hayate's grin widened ever so slightly. "It's all about patience."
They sat in silence for a while, the tension of the day easing into something lighter.
For once, Hayate wasn't thinking of Hana's words, or the weight of his empire. He was thinking of Rin — her fire, her stubbornness, the storm she carried.
And for the first time in days, he didn't feel like the weight of the world was pressing on him.
Just grease, salt, and a quiet certainty that storms, no matter how loud, were worth weathering.
As soon as he paid the bill and was gonna leave Kazehiro staggered. His face went pale, his hand clutching his stomach.
Hayate raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"
"You ate less than me, didn't you?" Kazehiro groaned, collapsing back into the booth. "I can't move. Forget driving—I can barely breathe."
Hayate sighed, amused and exasperated. "You make a bet, then fold like cheap paper."
Ignoring Kazehiro's protests, he leaned down, hooked an arm under his friend, and hoisted him onto his back. The staff behind the counter gasped as Miyazaki Hayate—calm, untouchable, famously private—carried a groaning man out of a KFC.
At the car, Hayate shoved Kazehiro gently into the back seat. "You owe me lunch later. Since you're useless tonight."
Kazehiro groaned in response, already half-asleep.
The drive was quiet, the city lights glinting against the windshield. When they pulled up to Kazehiro's modest two-story house, Hayate got out and knocked at the door.
It opened a moment later, revealing a girl with long dark hair and curious eyes.
"Hi, Ayane," Hayate greeted calmly.
Her eyes widened. "M-Miyazaki-san? What happened?"
Hayate shifted his head toward the car. "Your brother. Ate too much."
Ayane blinked, then burst out laughing. "That… sounds like him."
"May I come in?"
"Of course." She stepped aside.
Hayate carried Kazehiro inside and set him down carefully on the living room sofa.
"Call Yuki," he said.
Ayane darted upstairs, and a minute later, Kazehiro's wife came rushing down. Yuki stopped short when she saw Hayate. "Miyazaki-san? Did you two… drink?"
Hayate shook his head, almost laughing. "No. We overate."
Yuki blinked, then covered her mouth with her hand to hide a smile. "Of course you did."
Hayate adjusted the cushions beneath Kazehiro, who muttered incoherently in his sleep. "Tell him tomorrow to take the day off. Consider it my order."
"Yes," Yuki said softly, still looking amused and bewildered.
Before leaving, Hayate stepped back outside to his car and returned with two bags of fried chicken. He handed them to Yuki. "For dinner. My apology."
"That's not necessary," Yuki protested. "It's fine—really."
Hayate pressed a folded stack of cash into her hand. "Take it. Humor me."
Yuki's eyes softened, and she gave him a small bow. "Thank you."
Hayate nodded once, quietly, then turned and left.
Back in his penthouse, Hayate loosened his tie, collapsed onto his bed, and exhaled. The quiet felt heavier than usual, as if the day had squeezed all the energy out of him.
He glanced at his phone.
10+ messages from Hana.
He didn't open them. He just stared for a second, then sighed, tossing the phone aside.
Rolling onto his back, he let his eyes close.
For the first time in a long while, sleep came quickly—without dreams, without noise.