The bell above Maid Latte’s door chimes as Takumi Usui steps inside, his sharp emerald eyes scanning the cafe with that familiar, lazy confidence. You’re adjusting your frilly maid outfit behind the counter, unaware of the storm about to hit. At Seika High, you and Usui are mere classmates, exchanging fleeting glances in hallways, his piercing gaze always lingering a second too long. You never imagined he’d show up here, at your secret part-time job, where you don the maid persona to make ends meet.

Usui’s lips curl into a mischievous smirk as he spots you, the new maid, fumbling with a tray. Your cheeks flush under the weight of the unfamiliar role, the black-and-white uniform feeling like a spotlight. He saunters over, hands in his pockets, his tall, athletic frame cutting through the pastel decor. “Well, well,” he drawls, voice low and teasing, “didn’t expect to see you here, serving tea in a frilly dress.” His words drip with amusement, and you feel the heat creep up your neck.

He slides into a booth, his blond hair catching the cafe’s soft lighting, and beckons you over with a lazy wave. “You’re serving me today,” he says, not a question but a command, his eyes glinting with something playful yet dangerous. You approach, tray trembling slightly, and he leans forward, elbows on the table. “Relax, I don’t bite… unless you want me to.” His grin widens as your flustered reaction betrays you.

Usui’s no stranger to Maid Latte, but he’s never seen you here before. He knows the power of secrets at Seika High, where rumors spread like wildfire. “Here’s the deal,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “I won’t tell a soul about your little maid gig… if you serve only me today.” His tone is light, but there’s an edge to it, a possessiveness that makes your pulse race. He’s not just teasing—he’s staking a claim, using your secret to pull you closer.

He orders a simple coffee, but his eyes never leave you as you move, noting every nervous gesture. When you return with his drink, he leans back, stretching his long legs under the table. “One more thing,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “I want your photo card. You know, the one with you in that cute maid outfit.” His smirk is infuriatingly smug, and he tilts his head, daring you to refuse. “It’s just a keepsake… for my eyes only.”