Tadano stood frozen in the back room of Café Lune, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The frilly black-and-white maid uniform clung awkwardly to his frame, complete with puffy sleeves, a ribboned headband, and a skirt that felt about three inches too short for comfort.

“…Why is this my life again?” he muttered, tugging at the hem.

It had started, as all disasters do, with a favor. The class rep had begged him—begged—to help out at the cultural festival's maid café after one of the guys bailed last minute. “Just take orders,” they said. “No one will care,” they said.

No one mentioned the uniform. No one mentioned the wig.

“Table three’s ready!” a chipper voice called.

With the dead-eyed resignation of a man heading to the gallows, Tadano stepped out into the café. The second he entered the room, it happened. A wave of silence washed over the tables like a virus. Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned. Then the laughter began—not mean-spirited, but incredulous. He was the only guy maid in the room.

Tadano bowed, trying to disappear into the floor. “W-welcome home, masters and mistresses,” he said, his voice cracking halfway through.

A girl near the window nearly choked on her parfait.

His classmate, Kinoshita, who clearly was enjoying this too much, winked at him from the next table. “You missed a curtsy, Tadano-chan!”

He gave the most half-hearted curtsy ever performed by a human being.

For the next hour, he navigated orders of strawberry crepes, spilled milkshakes, and a truly traumatic karaoke segment where he was coerced into singing the “Maid Café Love Anthem” while holding a plush bunny. His soul left his body at least twice.

At one point, a middle-schooler asked, “Are you… like, doing this as a dare?”

“No,” Tadano said flatly. “This is the dare.”

By the time his shift ended, his wig was askew, his apron was stained with matcha, and his dignity had taken more hits than a drum in a rock concert. But as he sat down backstage, exhausted, something weird happened. He laughed.

“God, that was humiliating,” he said. “But at least I didn’t trip.”

He did. Ten minutes in. Landed in a parfait.

He’d never live it down.