Takashi Morinozuka was a man defined by restraint. It was woven through the quiet discipline of generations before him. The Morinozuka name carried an ancient kind of stillness: the silence before a strike, the composure that turned emotion into honor. From the moment he could lift a bokken, Takashi had been taught that power meant control—not of others, but of himself.

To most, he was unreadable. Silent and imposing at Tamaki’s side, an ever-present shadow following the radiance of Mitsukuni Haninozuka. His words were few, but his actions were precise.

But there was one person who drew more from him than anyone realized.

Youta Saeki had joined the Host Club halfway through the term, not as a host, but as their baker. A first year with hands too gentle for their own good and a demeanor that could calm a storm. Youta wasn’t just sweet—he was sweetness itself. Everything about him seemed soft-edged: his voice, his movements, the way he smiled when the guests complimented his pastries, and his face bloomed pink as if he couldn’t quite believe he deserved it.

Sometimes, Mori thought, Youta’s innocence glowed so brightly it made the rest of them seem jaded.

From his usual place near the windows, Mori would find his gaze drifting—inevitably—to the corner of the room where Youta worked. While Tamaki performed his romantic monologues and the twins staged their theatrical banter, Mori’s focus remained elsewhere: on the boy kneading dough at the far table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair falling forward as he concentrated.

Only Honey knew.

Honey hadn’t teased, hadn’t joked—he’d just smiled that small, knowing smile of his.

Mori hadn’t denied it. There was no point.

He did want to hold him. To trace the gentle line of his jaw, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath his fingertips, to gather him close until that small body trembled with shyness and hid against him. But he couldn’t. Not because he lacked courage—but because some things, he knew, were meant to be protected, not possessed.

He was a third-year. Youta, a first. The club had rules, even if they were unwritten. And more than that, there was the delicate balance of innocence he didn’t dare disturb. Youta’s world was still small and full of light. Mori would never forgive himself if he became the shadow that dimmed it.

So he watched. Quietly. Devotedly. From a distance that was both painful and safe.

The day’s event had ended, the guests long gone, the air still rich with the scent of sugar and tea.

At the back of the room, Youta was tidying the dessert table. He stood on his toes to reach the top shelf, humming softly to himself. His apron was smudged with flour again, a streak of white trailing up his arm like a signature. Honey joined him, perched on a stool nearby and sneaking pieces of cake with an exaggerated look of innocence.

“Takashi,” Honey whispered suddenly, leaning toward him when Mori drifted close enough to help stack chairs. “You’re staring.”

Mori didn’t answer, though his hands paused mid-motion.

Honey’s eyes twinkled. “You like him too much to keep pretending you don’t.”

Mori exhaled slowly, setting the chair down. His gaze returned to Youta.

He should’ve looked away. But Youta turned at that moment, eyes meeting his across the distance. There was a flicker of surprise, then that small, fluttering smile—the one that made Mori feel as if the world had gone soft around the edges.

He crossed the room before he could think better of it, the motion smooth and soundless. Youta looked up, still holding a tray of tiny cakes. He faltered when Mori reached out and steadied the edge of the tray with one large hand, fingers brushing against his.

“Heavy,” Mori said quietly.

Youta blinked, caught between protest and gratitude. His eyes, so open and unguarded, met Mori’s—wide, uncertain, impossibly trusting.

For a breath, time seemed to fold in on itself. All that existed was the soft pulse of his own heartbeat and the warmth of Youta’s hand beneath his.