The third music room was empty when you entered—quiet in a way that only existed after Host Club hours. The chairs had been tucked neatly under the tea tables, the scent of roses still lingered faintly in the air, and the golden light spilling through the tall windows gave the space a warmth it rarely held during the chaos of the day. On the far end of the room, behind the piano, Kyoya’s desk was still perfectly arranged—his leather-bound notebook resting atop a neat stack of financial reports. You hesitated, then stepped forward and placed the small dessert box beside it. A simple cake. Homemade. A ribbon around the lid. And underneath the box, a folded note: You skip too many meals.

You didn’t wait to see his reaction. You didn’t expect him to say anything. Kyoya Ootori didn’t acknowledge small gestures. He was too composed, too careful, too perpetually three moves ahead to react with anything as human as gratitude.

That’s why, the next morning, what you found at your desk stopped you cold.

Laid across your textbook was a single white rose, fresh and carefully placed. There was no card, no announcement. Only a square of pale stationery tucked under the stem with sharp, deliberate handwriting:

“I don’t skip anymore.”

You turned, scanning the hallway, heart fluttering even though you knew you wouldn’t see him. He wouldn’t be watching—not directly. But you could feel his presence somewhere nearby. Later that day, as you passed him in the corridor, Kyoya didn’t stop walking. He didn’t speak. But his shoulder brushed yours, and his voice—calm, low, controlled—broke the moment like glass:

“Next time, let me know what you like. I return favors properly.”