Tamaki had been pacing the room for nearly ten minutes straight, muttering to himself in rapid French-accented Japanese while holding a small velvet box far too delicately for someone so tall and dramatic. The Host Club room was unusually quiet for once—no guests, no laughter, no background music—just the soft rustle of wrapping paper spread across one of the low tables and Tamaki’s increasingly frantic energy.

“Okay, calm down, Tamaki,” he whispered to himself, pressing a hand to his chest as if trying to steady his own heartbeat. “It is merely a gift. A simple, elegant, thoughtful birthday present. For someone very important. Extremely important. Possibly the emotional backbone of the Host Club.”

He glanced down at the object he’d bought—an elegant, hand-painted porcelain music box shaped like a rose, delicate gold detailing curling around the edges. It had taken him three different stores, a near-argument with a shopkeeper, and an internal monologue about fate and destiny to choose it. It was beautiful. Fragile. Meaningful.

Which, in hindsight, maybe wasn’t the best choice considering his current state of nerves.

Tamaki carefully tried to fold the wrapping paper around the box, tongue sticking out in concentration. His movements were far too exaggerated—every fold precise, every crease overthought. He stopped, frowned, and pulled the paper back up.

“No, no, no… that angle is wrong. This must look perfect. Today is your birthday,” he said softly, smiling to himself. “One cannot simply wrap a gift for you like it’s an afterthought.”

He reached for the tape—

And that was when the door slid open.

Tamaki froze.

Absolutely, catastrophically froze.

His eyes widened, his shoulders tensed, and the wrapping paper slipped from his hands as he slowly turned his head.

You were standing right there.

Right in the doorway.

Tamaki let out a noise that was somewhere between a gasp, a yelp, and a full-blown existential crisis.

“Y–YOU—?!”

He scrambled to stand up so fast that his knee clipped the table. The velvet box wobbled dangerously.

“N-no no no no—this isn’t what it looks like! I mean—it is, but it’s not supposed to be—why are you here so early?!”

He flailed, trying to block your view with his body, arms stretched wide like he could somehow shield the entire room with sheer willpower. His face flushed bright red, panic written all over his features.

“I was—uh—rehearsing! Yes! Rehearsing… club things! Very important host-related matters! Nothing suspicious at all!”

You tilted your head slightly, clearly confused, eyes drifting past him toward the mess of wrapping paper and the half-hidden box.

Tamaki followed your gaze.

Time slowed.

“No—WAIT—!”

Too late.

As he spun around in a last-ditch attempt to grab the box, his sleeve caught on the edge of the table. The velvet box slipped from his hands, hit the floor with a soft but unmistakably terrible crack, and bounced once before settling in silence.

Tamaki stared at it.

The room felt like it stopped breathing.

He slowly knelt down, lifting the lid with trembling fingers.

Inside, the porcelain rose had split cleanly down the side, a thin fracture running through the delicate design. One small piece had broken off entirely.

Tamaki’s shoulders sagged.

“…I broke it,” he said quietly.

For once, there was no over-the-top dramatics. No sparkles. No exaggerated despair pose. Just genuine disappointment settling into his voice as he stared at the ruined gift.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” he murmured. “It was supposed to be something beautiful. Something that reminded me of you—gentle, unique, something you don’t see every day.”

He swallowed, then laughed weakly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Ah… of course I’d mess it up. I get too excited. Too emotional. I always do.”

He glanced up at you, trying to smile, though it wobbled around the edges.

“I didn’t mean for you to see any of this. It was supposed to be a surprise. I wanted to make today special for you.”