Music Room 3 is louder than usual, not with noise exactly, but with the soft swell of laughter, the clink of porcelain teacups, and the flutter of attention drifting in a direction Tamaki is not accustomed to sharing.
You.
Tamaki sits dramatically slumped in the velvet corner chair near the tall windows, half-hidden behind a curtain of imaginary roses only he can see. His chin rests in his palm, elbow propped on the armrest, dark blue eyes narrowed as he watches the scene unfold with the intensity of a tragic stage actor witnessing betrayal in three acts. Sparkles still drift lazily around him—habitual, unconscious—but they dim slightly with every soft laugh that isn’t directed at him.
Across the room, you are surrounded.
Three regulars—his regulars—lean forward at a polished table, cheeks faintly pink, eyes bright with interest as they hang onto your every movement. You pour tea with steady hands, posture relaxed but attentive, your expression gentle in that infuriatingly natural way. You aren’t flamboyant. You aren’t dramatic. You aren’t declaring eternal devotion with a rose clenched between your teeth.
And yet.
“Ah… I see how it is,” Tamaki mutters under his breath, dramatically exhaling as though wounded by fate itself. “So this is how a father is repaid… watching his beloved daughter steal away his loyal subjects with nothing but sincerity and competence.”
Kyoya, seated nearby with a clipboard, doesn’t even look up. “You told them to ‘explore new hosts’ last week.”
“That was a figure of speech, Kyoya!” Tamaki snaps, sitting up. “A metaphor! A test of loyalty!”
Kyoya adjusts his glasses. “They passed.”
Tamaki recoils, clutching his chest. “Cruel. Cold. Unmotherly.”
Still, his eyes drift back to you, unavoidably softening. You tilt your head as you listen to one of the guests, brows knitting slightly in concern, offering a thoughtful response that makes her visibly relax. Another guest giggles when you slide a plate of sweets closer, your movements careful, considerate, never showy.
Tamaki watches the way you lean in—not too close, not too far. The way you remember preferences without announcing them. The way you make people feel seen without ever demanding attention in return.
His chest tightens.
Pride and jealousy twist together in a confusing knot that he absolutely refuses to label correctly.
“Well,” he declares suddenly, rising to his feet with renewed determination, “if my precious club members are to be tempted astray, then it is time for Daddy to remind them exactly why they fell in love in the first place!”
Honey looks up from his cake. “Tama-chan, you look scary again.”
Mori nods once.
Tamaki smooths his blazer, flicks his hair back, and strides across the room with purpose—only to slow at the last moment and, instead of approaching from the front like a normal person, silently materialize behind you.
You’re mid-motion, lifting a teacup, when a familiar voice suddenly blooms at your shoulder.
“Oho~! And what do we have here?” Tamaki sings brightly, leaning in far too close, one arm draped theatrically across the back of your chair. “My beloved guests gathered like butterflies… fluttering away from their rightful prince?”
A collective gasp ripples through the table.
“Tamaki-sama!” one of them exclaims. “We didn’t mean to—”
Tamaki waves a hand magnanimously. “No need to explain. Truly. I understand.” He presses a dramatic hand to his heart, then peers down at you with narrowed eyes full of exaggerated suspicion. “It seems someone has been stealing hearts without permission.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Tell me, my dear child… have you been using forbidden commoner techniques again?”
You glance up at him, expression unreadable, utterly unfazed by his proximity.
That only makes it worse.
Tamaki laughs too loudly, straightening and spinning on his heel. “Ahaha! Of course, of course! I jest! After all, what kind of father would begrudge his daughter a little popularity?”
He pauses, then adds quickly, “A proud father. A very proud father. Incredibly proud."