The fact that Kirisu Mafuyu was a complete and utter disaster at housekeeping…
Frankly, Yukima Azuma had forgotten all about it.
It was the sort of detail one's mind filtered out—because it simply didn't fit the image. After all, she was Kirisu-sensei: the iron-willed, no-nonsense ice queen of the school faculty, always impeccably dressed, with razor-sharp intellect and a tongue to match.
In public, she was dignified. Unflappable. The embodiment of high standards and untouchable elegance.
Who would ever imagine that behind that glacial aura lay… chaos?
And not the poetic kind—no, this was the chaos of laundry mountains, unsorted teaching materials, hair ties in teacups, half-finished instant noodles hidden behind unopened academic journals, and stacks of books doing their best impression of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Now standing in the center of the disaster zone that was Kirisu Mafuyu's private room, Yukima Azuma could only blink, arms folded, lips curled in a "holy" smile so radiant it would've made any saint jealous.
"Dear and esteemed Kirisu Mafuyu-sensei," he said with reverent sarcasm. "Would you kindly explain to me how exactly your room managed to achieve this state of entropy?"
Kirisu Mafuyu, only half-sober and deeply wishing she could vanish from existence, looked away, her cheeks flushing a warm crimson as a storm of shame bubbled up from within.
This was catastrophic. As a teacher—no, as a woman—this was the ultimate disgrace.
But what could she say? What could she possibly say that wouldn't make it worse?
She tried to form a defense. Something logical. Rational.
But alcohol had already melted the defenses of her pride.
And so, her voice wavered, then cracked—
"I-It's not like I want it to be like this!"
Her words poured out in an emotional explosion, eyes shimmering with tears.
"But the more I clean, the worse it gets! I try! I really do! But every time I clean one corner, another explodes!"
"I'm such a terrible adult! I'm almost thirty and still can't even find a boyfriend! I can't manage my home, I live off convenience store food, and—and if someone would just marry me, that would fix it all! I wouldn't even need to clean if I had a husband!"
She threw her arms out in despair, wobbling as her balance faltered.
Then, without a shred of shame left, she turned her flushed face to Yukima.
"You! You troublesome student! Why don't you just marry me already? I'll even let you manage my salary card..."
Thunk.
She passed out.
Right then and there, face-first into her disheveled bedspread.
Yukima blinked in stunned silence.
"…Alcohol really does loosen the tongue," he murmured, scratching his head. "To think she wants to get married just to outsource housekeeping…"
The terror of aging single women was not a myth, apparently.
Sighing, Yukima gently lifted her limp body, maneuvering her around fallen clothes, upturned notebooks, and what he could only describe as an avalanche of teaching resources. He finally managed to lay her on her bed properly, pulling the blanket halfway up her shoulder.
Then he scanned the battlefield that was her room.
Books on the floor. Clothes—clean? dirty?—draped over every possible surface. Makeup and stationery occupying the same table. Half-drunk coffee beside lecture notes. A packet of emergency instant ramen beside a French essay on existentialism.
"Alright…" he muttered. "Let's triage this."
Cleaning the Ice Queen's Secret LairThankfully, Mafuyu wasn't dirty—just hopelessly cluttered. There weren't food spills or anything unsanitary. Just the accumulated entropy of a woman who spent all her time either teaching, grading, or overworking herself.
He began by organizing the books—stacking them by subject, alphabetizing where he could, and dusting the shelf. He picked up clothes from every corner, trying to sort what was clean versus dirty.
Holding up a wrinkled dress, he paused.
"Has this been worn already…?"
Instinct told him to sniff it.
But morals screamed: DON'T.
This was Kirisu Mafuyu's clothing. The same teacher who'd once deducted points from a student for wrinkled socks.
Instead, he calmly tossed it into the laundry basket.
Better safe than sentenced to death.
Everything was going smoothly—until he found it.
A bright red lace bra. Lying casually near the edge of the bed like a trap.
Yukima froze.
His mind broke for two full seconds.
"...What kind of battle armor is this?!"
He chucked it into the laundry basket like it was radioactive, face redder than the fabric.
Just then—
"Yukima-san, I'm home…"
A soft, sleepy voice drifted through the room.
He flinched. Whipped around.
But Kirisu Mafuyu was still fast asleep, her lips forming words subconsciously.
A sleep-talker.
Yukima let out a breath. But inwardly—
What kind of dreams is she having...?
After loading the laundry and returning from the kitchen with hangover medicine and a can of red bean soup—something he'd originally bought for Kikuri's hangovers—Yukima found all the girls at the dining table eyeing him.
He cleared his throat.
"She was really drunk," he explained. "Figured she'd wake up with a bad headache, so I gave her some hangover medicine. That's all."
They exchanged glances.
And then, as if choreographed, all eyes turned to Kato Megumi.
The unofficial manager of all sanity and order.
Megumi smiled warmly. "Need help?"
Yukima shook his head. "Better not. She'd be mortified if anyone else saw that room."
After all, Mafuyu-sensei took her image very seriously.
Her suits were always crisp. Her posture, perfect. Her reputation, pristine.
It was hard to reconcile that exterior with what lay behind her door upstairs.
And for that reason, he decided:
This stays between us.
Meanwhile, Upstairs...Back in the now-immaculate room, Kirisu Mafuyu stirred.
Eyes fluttering open, she blinked in confusion.
The last thing she remembered was—well… actually, she wasn't sure what she remembered. There were flashes of drunken declarations, something about marriage, and—
Her eyes snapped wide open.
Yukima Azuma.
She sat up straight.
Only to see him holding out hangover meds and red bean soup with a perfectly calm expression.
"Kirisu-sensei, I brought—"
"Don't call me that," she cut him off, voice sulky.
"We already have… that kind of relationship."
Yukima blinked. "◉_◉?"
What kind of relationship?!
Sensing danger, he calmly took out his phone, switched to video mode, and hit record.
"If I can't call you sensei, then what should I call you?"
Mafuyu's cheeks blushed, her voice low and sweet.
"Of course… my love."
Yukima: "...Ah. So we're in that kind of skit today."
"Darling, feed me~!"
He chuckled. "Alright, here. Open up. Say 'ah~.'"
"Mmm… so bitter! Prprpr."
"My shoulders hurt. Massage them, please~!"
"Yes, yes. You've worked hard. Here, lie down."
"Mmm mmm… that's perfect."
"Anything else?"
"Clean my ears for me, darling~"
Yukima stared blankly.
"…You sure you're not a princess in disguise?"
The Next Morning: Judgment DayKirisu Mafuyu awoke to stillness.
A faint sunbeam peeked through the curtain.
She sat up slowly—then froze.
Her room… was clean.
Spotless.
No books on the floor. No chaotic mountain of clothes. No forgotten snacks. Her desk was organized. Her closet sorted. Her bed neatly made—except the half she'd slept in.
Her breath caught.
Then her gaze drifted downward.
Beside her pillow—
Lay an ear-cleaning spoon.
She screamed internally.
No… no no no no no—
Her memories flooded in.
The hangover. The red bean soup. Her calling Yukima "my love." The massage. The ear-cleaning request. The roleplay—
A scream tried to claw its way out of her throat.
She remembered everything.
It wasn't a dream.
"AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH—!"
A pillow flew across the room.
Kirisu Mafuyu had never wanted to melt into the floor more than she did at that moment.