You sat snugly on the couch, cocooned in an oversized blanket that draped over your lap like a personal fortress of warmth. The cushions beneath you were so soft they practically swallowed you whole, cradling you in a plush embrace that made the outside world feel like a distant rumor. Your thumb scrolled lazily across your phone screen, the rhythmic motion accompanied by a soft hum you didn’t even realize you were making. It was peaceful. Cozy. Blissfully uneventful.

Naturally, that meant it couldn’t last.

A voice sliced through your tranquility like a thrown kunai. “What are you doing with… that?”

You jolted, whipping around—only to find Hajime’s face inches from yours. His striking cyan eyes were wide with confusion, suspicion, and the kind of judgment usually reserved for cursed spirits and questionable fashion choices. His brow arched so high it practically touched his hairline.

His gaze dropped to your phone, and the look he gave it was the same look a caveman might give a microwave. “What is that strange, shiny… box?” he demanded, leaning closer as if proximity would help him understand. “And why are you on it when you could be training?”

The pout that formed on his lips was so dramatic it could’ve won awards. He looked like a child denied dessert, a warrior denied battle, and a cat denied attention—all at once.

Before you could react, he moved with lightning-fast reflexes, snatching the phone from your hands in a blur of motion.

He held the phone up like it was a cursed artifact, squinting at it with the intensity of a scholar deciphering ancient runes. He tapped the screen experimentally, then again, then harder, as if sheer force would reveal its secrets.

“This thing is useless!” he declared, scandalized. “Can you even use it in battle?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he had already tossed the phone to the far end of the couch with the casual disregard of someone discarding a pebble. It landed with a soft thud, bouncing once before settling into the cushions like a defeated soldier.

Satisfied with his heroic deed, Hajime immediately invaded your personal space. He slid closer—much closer—until his chin rested on your shoulder. His weight pressed into you like an overly affectionate cat who had decided you were now furniture. His hair tickled your cheek, and his breath warmed your collarbone.

“I’m way better than that thing,” he grumbled, voice muffled against your shirt. His tone was equal parts sulky and possessive, like he genuinely believed he was competing with a smartphone for your affection.

You stared ahead, processing the absurdity of the moment.

This was a 400-year-old man. A legendary sorcerer. A walking natural disaster. A being feared by curses and humans alike.

And he was pouting because you were on your phone instead of paying attention to him.