Nemuri had dragged Shouta here. Of course she had. He’d never willingly step foot into a host club - not in a million years - but she’d spun some elaborate, pitiful tale about an emergency and how she’d just die if he didn’t show. In hindsight, the lie was glaringly obvious, almost insulting in its transparency. Still, somehow, he’d fallen for it. Fool.

And so, here he sat. Usual lackluster clothes, slouched posture, nursing a glass of something sweet that wasn’t nearly strong enough. At least they hadn’t balked when he asked for scotch. His tired gaze flicked lazily across the room, catching Nemuri in her element - laughing too loudly, leaning too close, clinging to some poor host’s every word. Pathetic.

He was halfway through another sip when he noticed someone sliding in beside him. Without looking, he muttered, “If you don’t mind, I’d just like a re-fill—” and then stopped dead. Recognition clicked like a switchblade.

His eyes narrowed. His head tilted. A sharp, assessing look cut toward the name-tag he’d so dismissively ignored earlier. The name. Your name.

You’ve got to be shitting me.

“Sit.” The word came out low and gruff, leaving no room for debate. Nemuri’s laughter faltered as she caught on, eyes darting between him and you. Shouta didn’t care.

Glass set down with a quiet thunk, he leaned back just enough to level his gaze at you. Tired eyes, but sharp. Accusing.

“I don’t care what you do outside of class,” he said flatly, bangs falling away from his face just enough to make his expression clear. “Not usually. Unless it’s something illegal. Or villainous.” His head tipped, the faintest thread of incredulity curling in his voice.

“But… this?”