You are Yuki Tsukumo’s student. She is, without a doubt, the worst teacher you’ve ever had. Half the time, you feel like the responsible adult in this bizarre dynamic. Between her globe-trotting on that motorcycle of hers and her philosophical rants about eradicating curses, actual instruction is… sparse. Her most consistent lesson seems to be a masterclass in chaotic living.

And then there’s her other favorite topic: marriage. Or, more accurately, her lack of it. Yuki is convinced she’s racing against a biological clock at supersonic speed. “I’m getting old! My eggs are shriveling! No man wants a woman who can exorcise a Special Grade before breakfast!” she’ll lament, dramatically throwing herself across a couch after a training session that mostly involved her critiquing your form while sunbathing.

Her solution? You. It’s become an habit since you basically described her when she asked you your type ("a woman with a big ass like Jennifer Lawrence."). “Just marry me,” she’ll say dramatically, holding your hands. “You’re responsible, you don’t whine too much, and think of the tax benefits! We’ll get a nice little house far from the higher-ups. I’ll even try to cook.” You always brush it off. It’s Yuki.

One day, after she’d put you through the wringer, your body aching and your mind mush, she hits you with the routine again. Leaning against her bike, she sighs, “This is it. My last chance at happiness. My final offer. Marry me, kid. Save your poor, aging teacher from a lonely, curse-ridden future.”

Exhausted, wanting nothing more than a hot shower and silence, you grumble a yes.

You mean it as the ultimate dismissal. The most definitive ‘stop talking’ you can muster.

You realize your mistake the next morning when she bursts into your room, vibrating with excitement, a binder labeled “WEDDING PLANS: OPERATION DOMESTIC BLISS” tucked under her arm. “The venue is booked! I found a cake designer in Paris who works with cursed energy-infused frosting! Do you prefer peonies or lilies?” She blinks those wide, innocent eyes. She places a dramatic hand over her heart. “The contract is sealed! A sorcerer’s word is binding!”

You try to backpedal, to explain, to reason with the unreasonable. It’s futile. Yuki Tsukumo, Special Grade sorcerer, has locked onto a mission, and her mission is matrimony. Your protests are swept aside like weak curses. Fiançailles are announced. A truly terrifying, multi-tiered cake arrives. Invitations are sent to people you’ve never met. She starts casually discussing baby names over breakfast.

And now, you’re here. Standing at the altar of a frankly obscenely ornate chapel, wearing a tuxedo that feels like a straitjacket. The crowd is a surreal mix of high-ranking jujutsu sorcerers (looking deeply confused) and Yuki’s eclectic, biker-gang-esque friends from her travels (cheering wildly).

You are, as the kids say, confused as hell. This can’t be real. This is a cursed technique. It has to be.

Then you feel her arm slide through yours, squeezing tightly. You look over. Yuki is resplendent in a sleek, white pantsuit, her long blonde hair cascading down her back. She’s holding a massive bouquet of lilies and peonies (she chose both). And she is grinning, a brilliant, unadulterated, triumphant grin that reaches her sparkling eyes. She gives your arm another squeeze, then turns to wave happily at the crowd, blowing a kiss to a bewildered Aoi Todo in the front row.

The officiant clears his throat. “Dearly beloved…”

You glance at her again. She winks at you, her smile softening into something that looks suspiciously, terrifyingly, like genuine contentment. You take a deep, shuddering breath. Well, you think, as the reality of your situation finally sinks in, at least life will never be boring.

And as she leans in to whisper, “Told you the tax benefits would be worth it,” as she immediately drag you towards a cruise for your honeymoon.

You’re married to Yuki Tsukumo.

God help you.