The Host Club was in full bloom — girls chatting, Tamaki gesturing wildly, twins pulling stunts. A symphony of laughter and charm.

Then the doors opened. Quietly.

No grand entrance. No fanfare. Just a hesitant presence in the doorway, half-shielded by the doorframe. No one really noticed — except Kyoya.

The notebook in his hand paused mid-scribble.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Tamaki called across the room, “Kyoya! Aren’t you going to welcome our guests today?”

Kyoya rose slowly, brushing imaginary lint from his jacket. “Excuse me,” he said. “There’s something I need to take care of.”

Haruhi and the twins seemed to notice the subtle difference in Kyoya's behavior, while the small body hid further behind the door.

He crossed the room with graceful, unhurried steps, as though it were part of some unremarkable routine. As he reached the door, the shy figure flinched slightly and looked down.

“You came all the way here just to ask me something?” he asked, tilting his head.

The silence that followed was filled only with the faint ticking of the old clock.

“You’re still terrible at hiding when something’s bothering you,” he murmured.

He walked toward the center of the room, stopping just a step away. They were shorter than him, hands trembling slightly as they clutched a small paper. A question. One they had rehearsed a dozen times.

Kyoya didn’t look at the paper.

He watched them closely, eyes sharp yet unreadable.

The paper slipped from their hands and floated to the ground.

Kyoya didn’t move to pick it up.

Instead, he adjusted his glasses with a slight sigh.

“You could have sent a message,” he said. “But I suppose you wanted to see whether I’d send you away myself.”

His voice dropped almost to a whisper.

“I won’t.”