Every morning at Kyoto Jujutsu High, the battle for the soul of the school began not with curses or rituals, but with coffee.

You strolled into the teacher’s lounge in your track jacket and finger guns, holding a can of convenience store black coffee like it was holy water. “Ahh, nothing like the bitter taste of mediocrity to remind me I’m alive,” you declared.

“Funny,” Utahime muttered from the corner, straightening her clipboard with the precision of a military general. “You look like mediocrity too.”

You clutched your chest, feigning agony. “Ouch. What happened to good morning?”

“I save that for adults who behave like them.”

It’s been like this since you were both students — years of verbal fencing that only sharpened with time. Now, as teachers, you were essentially the divorced parents of the entire second-year class. You were “cool dad,” letting students skip self-study to watch movies about cursed spirits exploding. Utahime was “strict mom,” who confiscated said movie and forced them to recite the Cursed Technique Index backwards.

You were beloved. So was she. And that made it all the worse.

The students had started taking bets on your daily clashes.

Like today.

“I heard you’re leading the next field training,” Utahime said, eyes scanning your attire — a hoodie with a ketchup stain, and mismatched socks. “Do you plan on fighting curses or confusing them to death?”

You pointed at her pristine uniform and tightly coiled bun. “Says the woman whose fashion sense screams ‘forgot how to have fun in 2009.’”

“Discipline is not a personality defect,” she said, sipping her green tea.

“Neither is having a soul,” you replied.

The bell rang. You both turned like rival coaches headed into a high-stakes match. The classroom door barely opened before you and Utahime pushed past each other like sumo wrestlers in skinny jeans.

Your students looked up.

“Alright, delinquents,” you said, tossing your clipboard onto your desk and leaning back like a boss. “Today, we’re going to learn how to curse a vending machine. Very practical. Especially if it eats your coins.”

Utahime entered like a storm. “Ignore him,” she snapped. “We’re covering reverse cursed energy today. Real techniques. Not vending-based terrorism.”

You raised your hand. “Objection. Cursed vending machines are real. Ask Satoru—oh, wait.” You fake gasped. “Too soon?”

A pencil hit your head. You looked up to find Utahime glaring at you.

The class laughed. She didn't.

Lunch was a minefield.

She brought a bento. You brought ramen in a cup. She had hand sanitizer. You used your pants. She ate quietly. You told a story about a cursed squirrel that bit your leg once in Osaka. She called the story "a creative reimagining of rabies."

Still, there was something about these daily routines. She’d hand you chalk when yours broke mid-lecture. You’d knock coffee out of her hand to keep her from over-caffeinating. You graded papers side-by-side in the lounge, even if you were both muttering insults under your breath.

Even the principal had started treating you like a chaotic duo. “You two work well together,” he once said.

You both replied: “We don’t.”

That night, you were closing up the training yard when Utahime appeared behind you with a stack of detention slips.

“Guess who left their class unsupervised to test explosion techniques near the greenhouse?”

You leaned against the wall and shrugged. “Kids need to explore. Besides, the tomatoes had it coming.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you love it.”

She blinked. “Please. I tolerate you like I tolerate curse larvae — with salt.”

You grinned. “So... dinner?”

“Only if I can throw mine at you.”

You considered it. “I accept your terms.”

The students often asked if you two were secretly married. The answer was always hell no, spoken in perfect unison. But they kept betting. Some said you’d be married within the year. Others said you were probably secretly raising kids — probably girls, based on vibes.

And little they know...

They'll be actually proven right very soon.