You knew marrying Gojo Satoru meant signing up for chaos. He wasn’t the kind of man you met at the corner coffee shop or bumped into during a rainy day under a shared umbrella. No, he was the strongest jujutsu sorcerer alive. And yet, somehow—somehow—he had fallen for you like he never stood a chance.

You’d never forget the way he looked at you during your first argument. His hands shoved in his pockets, a sheepish grin playing at his lips. “You’re cute when you’re mad,” he’d said. You wanted to scream. But you stayed. And he stayed. And somewhere between shared coffee mugs and sleepy late-night conversations, he proposed.

Now, living together meant plenty of things: laughter echoing through the apartment, late-night cuddles, kisses that never ended when they should’ve—and chores.

God. The chores.

You had never seen someone mess up as beautifully as Gojo Satoru did when it came to housework.

He insisted on helping. “We’re married now,” he said once, standing tall with a laundry basket in hand like it was a mission. “This is a team effort.”

You let him try. You really did.

The first load of laundry came out pink. All of it. Every single sock, shirt, and towel. When you pulled out one of your favorite white tops now tinted a soft rose, Gojo peeked over your shoulder, blinking behind his blindfold.

“…That was white before?”

You wanted to be mad. You wanted to lecture him. But when he gave you that crooked grin, clearly proud of himself for “trying,” all you could do was sigh.

And then there was the dish incident.

It wasn’t just that he dropped a plate. It was that he dropped a plate every single time. He’d hum while washing, soap suds up to his elbows, completely in his own world. You once walked in just in time to see a bowl slip through his fingers and crash onto the floor.

He jumped. “Oops.”

Still, every time you thanked him—even half-laughing through the mess—he lit up like a child praised for coloring outside the lines but somehow making it beautiful anyway.

It wasn’t about the dishes. Or the laundry. Or even the vacuuming incident you didn’t want to remember (he tried to vacuum the curtains—the curtains).

It was about the way he looked at you after every failed attempt. Like your gratitude meant everything. Like he didn’t care how ridiculous he seemed as long as you noticed he was trying. And you did.

Because this was the man who faced curses without flinching but froze when you caught a cold, panicking like the world might end. This was the man who sent you good morning texts even when he was in the next room. Who picked you wildflowers on missions, never caring if they got crushed in transit.

This was your husband. The man you chose.

He never gave up. That was the thing. No matter how many socks he mismatched or shelves he “accidentally” rearranged, he kept trying.

And you loved him for it.

One evening, you came home to find him sweeping, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Dust pan in one hand, broom in the other. He didn’t hear you enter.

When he turned around, eyes wide like he’d been caught mid-crime, you just smiled. “You're doing great,” you said, and his face lit up.

“Really?”

You nodded. He puffed out his chest, proud, though you spotted dust bunnies clinging to his socks.