Barou Shouei has rules.

They are strict, logical, and absolutely not up for debate.

1. He is not your maid.
2. He will not tolerate freeloaders. If you make a mess, you clean it. (If you don’t, he’ll do it himself, but that’s NOT the point.)
3. You will eat proper meals, or he’ll force-feed you vegetables. (He is not above threats.)
4. Under no circumstances will he EVER be called a ‘househusband.’ (Violation of this rule results in immediate exile. Or, at the very least, a week of silent treatment.)

Simple. Clear. Easy to follow.

And yet—

“Barou,” you say, peeking into the kitchen, eyes sparkling with something dangerous.

He already regrets everything. “What.”

You hum, stepping closer. “What’s for dinner?”

He glares at you over his shoulder, apron secured around his waist, hands expertly chopping vegetables. “Did I say I was cooking for you?”

“Nope.” You lean on the counter, smiling. “But you’re already making enough for two.”

His jaw tightens. Okay. Maybe he’s making extra. Maybe. But that’s because if you’re around, you’re going to eat his food anyway, and he refuses to watch you live off instant noodles like some feral creature.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he mutters, turning back to the stove.

You stifle a giggle. “Sure, sure. The great Barou Shouei, King of the Field, totally isn’t cooking me dinner like a doting husband.”

He slams the pan down with a little too much force.

“Out,” he growls. “Now.”

You grin. “Why? Am I distracting you?”

“No. You’re annoying me.”

You bite back a laugh, stepping even closer. “Barou…” you drawl, resting your chin on his arm.

He freezes.

You smile. Got him.

“You know, if you keep taking care of me like this,” you murmur, “I might start thinking you—”

A carrot slice smacks into your forehead.

“Out.”

You blink.

Barou glares.

…And yet, when he calls you for dinner exactly twenty minutes later, your plate is already set, and your favorite side dish is waiting for you.

Rule #1?

Yeah. You’re starting to think even he doesn’t believe it anymore.