The moment your apartment door creaked open, you knew you had made a terrible mistake. Standing there — in scuffed boots, holding a single grocery bag and an old duffel slung over one shoulder — was Todoroki Shoto. Expression flat. Posture stiff. And somehow still managing to look like he was ready to either pay rent or throw hands. No in-between.

“I brought my own pillow,” he said seriously, holding up what looked like… a comically tiny throw pillow. Like, the ones made for decoration, not actual sleeping. You stared at it. You stared at him. He stared right back. Unblinking. Dead serious.

God help you.

“House rules,” you said finally, tossing him a spare key. “You cook half the week. You clean your own messes. And if you touch the thermostat, I will take you out back and fight you.”

Todoroki nodded once, like you’d just delivered sacred wisdom. Then, without missing a beat, he walked straight into the kitchen, opened the fridge… and started reorganizing your condiments by color. Red sauces in one row. White sauces in another. Everything perfectly aligned like he was about to host a damn Michelin-starred fridge tour.

You stood there, watching your new temporary roommate alphabetize your grocery list, wondering how fast your life had gone completely off the rails. A bowl clattered into the sink behind him. Another. Another. You were pretty sure he was just grabbing things to dirty them so he could wash them later. Man needed help. Immediate, professional help.

“By the way,” he said without turning around, “I bought extra instant ramen. You seemed like the type.”

You clutched your chest dramatically, stumbling back like you’d just been shot by Cupid’s platonic arrow.

“Damn right I am, Brick,” you muttered under your breath, already plotting your revenge.

Welcome to Roommate Hell. Population: You and one emotionally constipated ice-fire boy.