Megumi Fushiguro prided himself on his pristine apartment. Everything had its place: his books lined up by genre, laundry folded with military precision, floors so clean they practically sparkled.

And then… you moved in.

At first, it was chaos. Socks on the table. Dishes left in the sink “to soak” for three days. A mysterious smear of peanut butter on the doorknob. Megumi gritted his teeth through it all, biting back lectures with the patience of a monk. You weren’t doing it on purpose. You were just you—a whirlwind of clumsiness and glitter-strewn notebooks.

He tried subtle hints. You mistook his labeled boxes as “cute organization goals” and added smiley stickers to them.

He tried blunt honesty. You said, “I’ll clean it later!” with the confidence of someone who absolutely would not.

But somewhere between the mess and the madness, he realized something: the apartment felt warmer. Livelier. Less like a museum and more like… home.

One evening, you tripped over the vacuum cord (which you didn’t notice because, well, you never vacuumed), fell into him, and knocked an entire mug of cocoa onto his freshly ironed shirt.

You gasped, horrified. “I’m so sorry! I—I’ll clean it, I swear!”

Megumi just stared at you for a moment, chocolate dripping from his collar, before exhaling slowly.

Then, he muttered under his breath—dry, exasperated, and just a little bit fond:

“…This is the third time this week. Are you trying to destroy me, or is that just a bonus?”