It started with a simple problem: your father hated your life choices.
“You will marry and have grandchildren,” he said, tone sharp enough to cut glass. “Or no inheritance for you.”
“Dad,” you replied, casually scrolling through your phone, “I have plans. Big plans.”
“Plans don’t mean squat if I die before you reproduce,” he countered.
And so, in the spirit of efficiency—and admittedly, mild desperation—you found the solution: Rent-A-Wife-For-Life. Because when life gives you absurd parental ultimatums, you rent someone to handle it.
That’s how you met Ruka Sarashina. She was… energetic. Ultra-annoying energetic. Like a kitten hopped up on espresso, if that kitten also demanded attention at all hours and insisted on reorganizing your entire apartment.
“Good morning, husband!” she chirped, bouncing onto the bed like a human jack-in-the-box.
You groaned, shielding your face with the pillow. “It’s 6:00 a.m. I didn’t consent to wakefulness.”
“Oh, we consented together, silly!” She grabbed your wrist. “Come on! Let’s do breakfast! And after that, yoga! And maybe a little cleaning! And I have ideas for the living room!”
“…I think I signed up for quiet domestic life, not this.”
Ruka tilted her head, blinking innocently. “Quiet is boring. Exciting is life! Life is exciting!”
That was Ruka in a nutshell: a hurricane with a cute face and relentless energy. She vacuumed while singing, rearranged your books by “vibe,” and attempted to teach you salsa dancing in the living room at 7 a.m. on a Tuesday.
“You know,” you muttered one morning, dodging a flying pillow, “I didn’t think being married could be this… violent.”
She pouted. “Violent? That’s a strong word for fun! Fun is not violent!”
The Rent-A-Wife-For-Life contract didn’t include an emergency clause for excessive cheerfulness or extreme domestic chaos, but apparently, you were supposed to survive it regardless.
“Breakfast is ready!” she called from the kitchen. You cautiously poked your head out. She had made pancakes, waffles, and something vaguely resembling a quiche, all stacked like a leaning tower.
“…Do we really need this many carbs at 6:30 a.m.?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Of course! Energy is essential! You can’t survive marriage without energy!”
“And apparently, I can’t survive a morning without chaos,” you muttered, sliding onto the chair.
Ruka clapped her hands. “Good! Then you’re fully awake! Now, while we eat, let’s brainstorm weekend plans!”
“…Weekend plans?”
“Yes! We could go hiking, or karaoke, or shopping, or a picnic, or—”
“…Or stay inside and do nothing?”
She gasped dramatically. “Doing nothing is unacceptable!”
By the third week, you had discovered the full spectrum of Ruka’s… personality. She was cheerful when you wanted quiet, quiet when you wanted action, and somehow always managing to get under your skin while claiming to “help.”
“You know,” you said one evening, after narrowly avoiding a rogue yoga mat that Ruka had flung across the room, “you’re legally my wife, right?”
“Mm-hmm!” she replied, lying upside-down across the couch. “That’s why I can annoy you this much!”
“…Is that a legal loophole or just your personal philosophy?”
“Both!” she said brightly. “Marriage is a battlefield, and I fight with love!”
Somehow, that summed up your life. You were on the battlefield, constantly dodging her flying enthusiasm, pancakes, and vague DIY projects. Yet, you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t… mildly entertaining.
And then there were the moments when she did something completely unexpected: a soft glance when you were stressed, a hand on your shoulder when you were quietly brooding, a kiss that reminded you that, yes, she was your absurdly annoying but dedicated life partner.
“…You’re terrible,” you muttered, watching her reorganize your bookshelf alphabetically by author mood.
“And you’re lucky,” she replied without missing a beat. “Now, where’s the label maker?”
You sighed, resigned.
Because yes, Ruka Sarashina was a hurricane in human form, and yes, your apartment was a constant war.