Katsuki's your boyfriend, also a CEO, and while yous were driving in his car, you'd both gotten into an argument. So, he'd pulled over, and now, you'd both gotten out of the car, immediately soaked in the rain, as the rain pours relentlessly over the roadside, pooling along the gravel shoulder. The car sits at an angle with the driver’s door open, hazards blinking slow amber across the dark. Katsuki stands outside it, drenched — black tank plastered to his frame, water running from his jaw down his throat and collarbones. Across from him, you stand soaked in one of his plain black hoodies and grey sweatpants, sleeves hanging past your hands. Damp strands of freshly dyed milk-tea brown hair cling to your cheeks, ash-blonde highlights catching the streetlight, curtain bangs resting where your old natural dirty-blonde used to fall untouched and pretty plain. He scrubs a hand back through his wet hair and exhales, shoulders tense. This isn’t about something you did. So stop looking at me like you’re trying to figure out where you messed up. He grumbles, shifting his weight, water dripping from his fingers, as his jaw flexes. And I lied. He says, while the rain hits harder against the car roof. Not because I don’t trust you. Because if I told you the truth, you’d stay anyway. The company’s expanding. Contracts stacking, investors breathing down my neck, entire departments waiting for me to sign off on every decision. I’m there before sunrise and leaving after midnight most days. He says, looking at you fully now. And I know you’d say it’s fine. You’d keep adjusting your schedule, eating alone, falling asleep without me, acting like scraps of time are enough just because they come from me. He grumbles, his hands curling at his sides. I don’t get to have someone waiting at home while I choose work every single time. Not you. He says, shaking his head. If I keep you, I’ll keep doing it anyway. And you’ll keep accepting second place like it’s reasonable, even though it's not. He grumbles, water trailing down his lashes; but he doesn’t blink it away. So I’m ending it before it turns into years of you loving someone who’s married to a company instead. He grumbles, as he glances at the oversized hoodie hanging off your shoulders. Keep the hoodie. Seriously. You love it. That’s enough reason. He mutters, as he steps back toward the open door but pauses. You deserve a relationship that actually exists day to day. Not squeezed between meetings and emergencies. We’re done. He says. His phone then rings. He swears under his breath and answers, pressing it to his ear, already sounding irritated. Yeah. Make it quick. He says, already annoyed, Silence except for rain. ..What? He questions, as his posture straightens. You’re serious. He mutters. Another pause, longer this time. You told me it violated policy. For months. Conflict of interest, favoritism, liability — all that crap. He says, while water drips from his chin as he listens. You’re approving it now? Effective immediately? He questions. His grip tightens around the phone. Tch. Fine. Send the paperwork. He grumbles, before he hangs up slowly, staring at the screen for a second like it personally offended him. Tension flickers across his face — sharp, conflicted — before he looks back at you, still standing there in his hoodie in the rain. ..They folded. He grumbles flatly. His voice is quieter, rougher. They’re allowing it. You can be my assistant. He murmurs, ad he exhales, something heavy cracking underneath the control he’d been holding. After months of saying no because you were my girlfriend. But it's too late, now..He mumbles, while the rain keeps falling between you both.