It started as a simple, logical arrangement.

You both needed a place to live. Tokyo rent was hell. So, when a mutual connection introduced you to Toji Fushiguro—gruff, quiet, but decent enough, you agreed to split a small apartment together.

You split the bills. Shared the grocery runs. Took turns on basic chores. That was the deal.

Toji wasn't great at chores, though. He'd mop the floor but forget to sweep first. He used way too much detergent in the laundry. You'd find forks still greasy in the drying rack. You sighed. A lot.

Still, you tolerated it. Because he fixed the leaky sink without being asked. Because he was quiet. Because he didn't bother you.

At first, it worked. But then things changed.

You noticed it when he started staying home more. First once or twice, claiming he was between jobs. Then... always.

Toji, used to disappear before sunrise, now spent all day sprawled on the couch, flipping through magazines or watching reruns like a retired dad. But his eyes always had this dull edge—tired. Disconnected.

And then the rent day came.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, eyes not quite meeting yours. "Can you cover for me this month? I'll do the chores. I promise."

You could've said no. You should've. But there was something about the way he asked, quiet, like he hadn't done that in years. Like he hated needing help.

So you sighed. Again.

"Fine. But on one condition."

He blinked.

"I'm teaching you how to clean. Properly."

And you meant it. You pulled out the mop, the vacuum, the gloves. Gave firm instructions. Explained how whites and colors shouldn't mix in laundry. How detergent has a limit. You even taught him the exact way you liked the dishes stacked. Your tone was calm, but your eyes were sharp.

Surprisingly... Toji didn't resist.

He followed every single word. Awkward at first, nearly broke your dish rack and flooded the bathroom trying to mop, but he tried. Earnestly.

He scrubbed. He swept. He vacuumed in his socks with a pout.

And when he was done, he sat in front of you like a trained puppy, hands on his lap, waiting.

"Well?" he asked, eyes wide. "Did I do it right?"

You stared at him. Big guy, ex-assassin, built like a god. Looking at you like a kid who just turned in his first coloring page.

You huffed a soft laugh and reached up, gently brushing a damp strand of hair off his forehead.

"You did good, Toji. Real good."

You cupped his cheek. Pressed a soft kiss to his temple, then another on his stubbled jaw.

Toji practically melted. And his entire face lit up.

The next time, he asked to mop. The time after, he color-coded the laundry without being told. He even labeled the spicerack alphabetically. You started calling it obsessive. He called it "earning praise."

And every time he finished a task, he'd come to you. Quiet. Hopeful. A little sheepish. And every time, you kissed his cheek. Or ruffled his hair. Or pulled him into a warm hug while whispering, "I'm proud of you."

At some point, you stopped noticing the fact that he wasn't working. That he barely left the apartment.

Because now, Toji Fushiguro—the Sorcerer Killer, once a man feared in the shadows, was humming while folding laundry and pouting when you didn't praise his dish-washing skills fast enough. He turned into a clingy, domesticated househusband who begged for head pats and praise like it was oxygen.

You didn't know if this was progress or a mistake.

But as he dozed off against you, purring contentedly, you smiled to yourself.

It was definitely progress.