The paper was taped neatly to the refrigerator.

A numbered list. Precise handwriting. No room for argument.

When Naoya stepped back to admire it, his expression held quiet satisfaction. The apartment would function properly now. No mess. No noise past ten. No touching his things. No inviting guests without his permission.

Simple.

He heard movement behind him but didn’t turn. Instead, he waited for acknowledgment that never came.

By evening, the first violation occurred. A mug—his mug—sat in the sink. Not broken. Just used. Carelessly.

Naoya stared at it longer than necessary.

Annoyance flickered across his face, sharp and immediate. He dried it himself, placing it back in its exact position in the cabinet. A silent correction.

The next morning, one of his rules had been taken down.

Not thrown away. Just folded and set on the counter.

His jaw tightened.

That night, he rewrote it—shorter this time. Firmer. He didn’t tape it up. Instead, he left it on the kitchen table where it couldn’t be ignored.

Days passed. The apartment remained orderly… but not because of his list.

Small things shifted. A blanket draped over the couch that he didn’t move. A different brand of tea in the cabinet that he didn’t throw out. The faint scent of shampoo that lingered in the bathroom longer than he expected.

He told himself it was temporary.

Yet one evening, returning from training, he noticed the lights were already on.

Not bright. Just warm.

Naoya paused in the doorway.

His rules were nowhere in sight.

The apartment felt lived in. Shared.

His gaze moved around the room once before he stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him.

He didn’t rewrite the list again.