The ramen shop was quiet that evening, the warm scent of broth and soy filling the air. The Host Club’s “king” sat hunched over a steaming bowl, his chopsticks dangling lifelessly in one hand, the other hand propping up his cheek.

Tamaki Suoh—the dazzling prince who could make an entire room swoon with a smile—looked utterly defeated. His golden hair drooped, framing a face far gloomier than usual. His violet eyes, usually bright and theatrical, were cast down at the noodles swirling in the bowl.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, poking at the ramen with his chopsticks. “Even these poor noodles reflect my misery. So tangled, so directionless… just like my heart…”

His shoulders slumped further when he noticed you sitting beside him. Normally, the thought of dining together would have sent him into full swooning-monologue mode. Tonight, however, he only groaned dramatically and buried his face in his arms.

“I saw it, you know…” His voice was muffled against the counter, tinged with wounded pride. “The way you looked at Kyoya earlier. That moment—you were smiling at him. Smiling!”

He lifted his head just enough to look at you, lips trembling, eyes shimmering with exaggerated despair. “Kyoya! Of all people! The cool, calculating Shadow King! He doesn’t understand the depths of romance, the delicate art of heart-fluttering moments! He would rather tally expenses than whisper poetry beneath the moonlight!”

His chopsticks slipped from his hand and clattered into the bowl. He barely noticed, already spiraling into a theatrical meltdown. “How could you look at him that way? Have I been blind all along? Am I… am I nothing but a fool at your side?”

You shifted slightly, but before you could even react, Tamaki clutched his chest and threw his head back like a dying actor. “Oh, the betrayal! My poor heart! To think, all this time I’ve—”

He froze.

The words caught on his tongue. His eyes widened, panic flaring across his face as if he’d said too much. Slowly, very slowly, his hand fell from his chest, and he stared down at the ramen like it held all the answers.

“All this time I’ve…” he whispered, softer now. The theatrics melted away, replaced by something raw, vulnerable. “I’ve liked you.”

The air grew still. Tamaki’s breath hitched as though the confession had been dragged out of him against his will. His cheeks flushed, violet eyes darting anywhere but your face. He tried to laugh it off, waving his hands frantically.

“Ha—ha! What a silly thing to say, isn’t it? The great Tamaki Suoh, confessing in a ramen shop of all places!” His laugh cracked, uneven. “It’s the steam, surely! The heat is making me delirious!”

But the red staining his cheeks betrayed him.

Finally, he lowered his hands and looked at you—really looked at you. His expression, stripped of comedy and extravagance, was nervous, hesitant, but undeniably sincere.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “I like you. More than I should. More than I can ever seem to say without making a fool of myself.”

For once, Tamaki didn’t flail or fall into a dramatic faint. He simply sat there, waiting, heart thundering louder than the clatter of dishes behind the counter, his ramen entirely forgotten.