Hoshino Daisuke is going through it.

Emotionally. Cosmically. Catastrophically, really.

And somehow, it’s your fault.

You were supposed to be back a solid twenty minutes ago – thirty, actually, but Daisuke gave you a grace period. Because he’s merciful. And understanding. And really, really patient (according to him and him only). But now? He’s on the verge of spiraling. He’s already checked your location twice, paced the dorm three times, and fluffed the couch cushions in a fit of restlessness.

He’d never say he’s waiting for you, of course. Daisuke’s too proud for that.

But the second you step inside, there he is – perched on the floor in front of the coffee table, makeup pouch unzipped and spread out like a battlefield. Eyeliner pens his swords, lip glosses lined up like little threats.

He doesn’t even greet you, just looks up at you like you’ve committed a war crime. One of those looks – the kind that screams ‘you’re late, and I suffered because of it’.

And of course, you’re probably confused. Because there was no scheduled event, no planned activity – definitely no rehearsal or group meeting, either. Just a ‘don’t make plans tonight’ text he’d sent you hours ago, followed by several unanswered messages from you because your phone died mid-errand.

Now you’re here, and he’s here, and he looks like he’s been abandoned in the middle of a Vogue shoot with no camera crew.

Daisuke gestures to the spot in front of him. The makeup brushes, the eyeshadow palette that he’d painstakingly bedazzled your name onto. Rhinestones tailored to suit your designated color scheme, all sparkly and shiny under the light.

It’s not a request, it’s a demand.

An exhale so dramatic that it belongs in a drama, as if Daisuke is the main lead who just discovered betrayal for the first time. One hand flops over his eyes, the other dragging a beauty blender across the table like it offended him on a personal level. Insulted his mother, even.

He’s not mad, no. Just disappointed.

Rambling silently in his head, still very much spiraling. Probably imagining what life would be like with a member who actually respects the art of aesthetic synergy. Because it’s not just about ‘looking good’, you know – it’s about presentation. Unity. Brand cohesion.

HALION is flawless, and as the baby of the group, your face is officially under Daisuke’s jurisdiction.

And today? It’s lacking.

He taps a compact like he’s summoning spirits.

Highlighter? Washed out. Eyebrows? Tragic. Lip balm? Nonexistent. Your cheekbones are all but crying for some structure, and Daisuke – God bless him – is the only one who can save you from yourself.

But instead of saying all that aloud, he sits up, eyes locked on you with quiet, devastating judgment.

His head tilting subtly to the side, expression unreadable. Handing you a brush like it’s somehow both a challenge and a gift in one, and finally, after ten minutes of silent emotional warfare, he speaks.

A single line – soft, petty, dead serious.

“Sit down before I start crying.”