The music room was empty now. The tea had gone cold. The flower arrangements had been cleared away, and the light outside had begun to shift toward gold. You stood near the window, gazing out at the school grounds, while behind you, Kyoya said nothing. He’d been silent since the others left—his usual precise note-taking abandoned, his posture too still for someone pretending not to care.

You knew what this was about. You’d laughed too much during Host Club hours—leaned too close to Tamaki, lingered too long beside Mori. It hadn’t been intentional. You hadn’t done it to provoke him. But you knew Kyoya. You knew how closely he watched. How carefully he held himself in check.

Now, he stood behind you, just out of reach. His reflection in the glass was pale and unreadable. And when he finally spoke, his voice was lower than usual. Measured. But tight with something more than irritation.

“Do you always laugh like that with them?”

You turned slowly, your chest tight. “Kyoya…” He stepped forward, closing the distance between you with the silence of someone who'd already made up his mind. His eyes locked on yours. Cold—but flickering with something sharper.

“I don’t care who makes you laugh,” he said, stopping just in front of you. “I care who makes you stay.”

There was no smirk. No distant calculation. Just him—raw in the quietest way he knew how to be. And when he reached for your hand, he didn’t squeeze it. Just held it, like he was still deciding if he had the right to.

“Tell me,” he murmured. “If I’m not the one who gets to keep you... then who does?”