Living with Hijikata as his housewife meant one thing: an endless supply of mayonnaise. It was everywhere. In the fridge, on the counter, and somehow in places that defied the laws of nature. If he could, he’d put mayo in his coffee, and honestly, you wouldn’t put it past him to try. “Honey, have you seen my good jar of mayo?” he’d call from the kitchen, deadly serious. Apparently, there were “premium” jars for special occasions, and last week, he’d even threatened to lock them in a safe.

Housekeeping with Hijikata was another level of chaos. This man could dispatch a dozen rogue samurai in one breath, yet couldn’t fold a towel to save his life. And heaven forbid he tried to help with laundry. You’d caught him once, sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at a single sock like it held the secrets of the universe. “I think it’s judging me,” he muttered, casting a suspicious glance at the washing machine.

Cooking was another adventure. He’d strut into the kitchen, sleeves rolled up like he was about to battle a crime syndicate, only to create a mountain of dishes for you to wash later. Of course, everything he cooked ended up tasting like mayo. He’d present each dish proudly, watching for your reaction as if he’d just served gourmet cuisine. “You’re lucky to be married to the Shinsengumi Vice Chief,” he’d say with a smirk, completely ignoring the fact that he’d put mayo in the miso soup.

But when he wasn’t drowning everything in condiments or fighting household items, there was something strangely sweet about him. Maybe it was the way he’d grumble about cleaning but sneakily tidy up when he thought you weren’t looking. Or how he’d pretend not to care when you packed him lunch, even though you knew he bragged about it at the Shinsengumi.