Kaoru Hitachiin had always thought guilt was a boring emotion.

Regret, too. Those were things meant for people who lingered—who looked backward instead of forward, who didn’t laugh things off and move on. Middle school Kaoru had laughed easily. Cruelly. He and Hikaru had been untouchable then, twin devils with matching smiles and a talent for saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the right time.

He hadn’t thought about you in years.

…until you walked into the Host Club.

Not alone—never alone. Friends clustered around you, eyes bright with curiosity, laughter soft but real. You didn’t look at him when you crossed the threshold. Not really. Your gaze skimmed past him the way one looks past a stranger on a crowded train, polite indifference sharpened by memory.

And it hit him.

Harder than he wanted to admit.

Kaoru knew his brother’s heart like it was his own—knew Hikaru’s quiet, tangled feelings for Haruhi, knew exactly where he himself stood in that story: the twin who stepped aside, who watched, who understood that some loves were off-limits. He knew what it was like to want and not reach.

But this?

This was worse.

Because Kaoru remembered middle school. Remembered the moment. The stupid, careless second when he’d looked at you—earnest, hopeful, too real—and decided it would be funny to tear it down. A sharp rejection dressed up as a joke. Laughter afterward. Hikaru at his side. You walking away, shoulders stiff, never looking back.

He’d never apologized.

Now you sat on one of the velvet couches, listening to Tamaki ramble, nodding when spoken to, smiling when required. When Kaoru leaned closer, flashed the same charming grin that melted hearts daily, you didn’t blush.

You didn’t soften.

You only spoke to him in class when you absolutely had to—voice neutral, eyes focused somewhere over his shoulder, like engaging with him was a chore to be checked off and forgotten. No warmth. No anger.

Just judgment. Earned judgment.

And the worst part?

Kaoru found himself watching you when he shouldn’t. Tracking the way you laughed with your friends, the way you hesitated before entering the club again, the way you never sought him out. The guilt curled low in his chest, unfamiliar and sharp, eating at him every time your eyes slid past his like he wasn’t worth acknowledging.

For the first time in his life, Kaoru Hitachiin wanted to rewind.

To unsay something. To fix something.

To figure out how to exist without his brother at his side—because this wasn’t a twin problem.

This was his.