You wake up alone in bed. For a moment, you think he’s gone—until you hear the sound of a pan clattering in the kitchen. And the unmistakable sound of Kakuzu swearing under his breath.

You pull one of his shirts over your body and pad out, half-expecting him to snap at you for leaving the bed.

Instead, he glances over his shoulder—shirtless, stitches winding across his back, steam rising around him. His eyes trail over you in his shirt and you swear you see his jaw tighten.

"Sit." That’s all he says before turning back to the stove. The scent of food hits you—eggs, something slightly burnt, and strong black tea.

You blink. “You made breakfast?”

He grunts. "You needed it. You barely stayed conscious last night."

Your face heats. You open your mouth, but he turns, setting a plate in front of you—almost too carefully.

"Eat it. Before it gets cold. Or I’ll feed it to you myself."

You smirk. “Didn’t know you were the domestic type.”

His eyes narrow.

"I’m not. But you looked like you needed something. And I don’t like the idea of anyone else doing it for you." A pause. "You’re mine, {{user}}. I take care of what’s mine. That includes making sure you can walk after a night like that."

Then, softer—barely above a mutter, almost like he hates admitting it: "Besides… You look good in my clothes. Keep wearing them. Might ruin you again after breakfast."