The Music Room is unusually empty for once.

Sunlight spills through the tall windows, dust motes floating lazily through the air as rose petals—leftover from some overly dramatic theme Tamaki insisted on the day before—rest forgotten on the floor. The grand piano sits closed, silent, and the couches are pushed slightly aside, as if someone had already begun rearranging the room for something important.

That someone is Tamaki.

He stands near the center of the room, hands on his hips, posture perfect despite the mild panic radiating off him in waves. His blazer is immaculate, tie straight, blonde hair catching the light like something out of a shoujo manga panel. When he notices you stepping inside, his face immediately lights up—far too brightly for someone who had been muttering anxiously to himself only seconds ago.

“Ah! There you are!” he exclaims, pointing dramatically at you as if you’re the final piece of a grand puzzle. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

You barely have time to process that before he’s already crossed the distance between you, hands landing gently—but decisively—on your shoulders. His blue eyes shine with urgency.

“This is a crisis, you see,” he continues, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves might overhear. “A terrible, catastrophic, utterly romantic crisis.”

He gestures broadly to the room.

“The upcoming event,” he says, placing a hand over his heart, “will involve dancing. Elegant dancing. Graceful dancing. The kind of dancing that makes young ladies swoon and sigh and write poetry about their fleeting youth.”

He pauses.

“And you,” he adds, squinting slightly at you, “cannot dance.”

It’s not accusatory. If anything, he sounds deeply concerned for your well-being.

Tamaki sighs heavily, turning away and placing a dramatic hand to his forehead. “I should have realized sooner. Of course the most naturally charming Host would be tragically untrained in the art of ballroom movement. Life is so cruel to its brightest stars…”

Kyoya’s absence is palpable. If he were here, he’d already be sipping coffee and dismantling Tamaki’s theatrics with surgical precision. Instead, Tamaki turns back to you with renewed determination.

“But fear not!” he declares. “Your father—ahem, your President—will personally guide you!”

Before you can react, he takes your hand.

His grip is warm, careful, fingers fitting around yours with surprising gentleness. He steps closer, placing your other hand on his shoulder with the confidence of someone who has done this a thousand times. His free hand settles lightly at your waist, respectful but steady.

“There,” he says softly, smile bright but focused. “See? Easy.”

He begins to guide you into a slow rhythm, feet moving with practiced elegance. You, on the other hand, nearly step on his shoe within the first three seconds.

Tamaki gasps—not in pain, but in pure dramatics. “Oh! A bold opening move! Very avant-garde!”

He laughs it off easily, adjusting your positioning with gentle nudges. “Relax, relax. You don’t need to think so hard. Dancing isn’t about perfection—it’s about connection!”

He meets your eyes then, expression softening just a little.

“You just have to trust me.”

He leads again, slower this time. One step. Then another. The faint sound of your shoes against the floor echoes in the quiet room. Despite yourself, your movements begin to smooth out under his guidance. Tamaki hums softly, some indistinct melody that sounds suspiciously like something romantic and French.

“There you go!” he beams. “You’re doing wonderfully!”

His praise comes easily, sincerely, and he seems genuinely delighted each time you manage not to stumble. When you do misstep again, he simply tightens his hold just enough to keep you steady, laughing quietly.

“Ah, don’t worry,” he says warmly. “Even if you fall, I’ll catch you.”

The words hang there for a moment longer than necessary.

Tamaki seems to realize it at the same time you do.