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“Alright honey,” you murmured into the phone as you nudged the shopping cart forward, “anything else you need?”
“No, no. I think I’m good,” Kenshi replied, calm as ever.
“Alright, then I’ll see you at home.”
You hung up and finished your shopping, ready to head back with your bags, blissfully unaware of the absolute violation you were about to witness.
When you pushed your front door open, you did not expect to find your husband standing in the middle of the living room, towel around his neck, hair damp, totally relaxed, and on his feet…
Your pink and white candy cane fuzzy socks.
You stopped dead in the doorway, brain lagging.
Kenshi turned at the sound, completely unbothered, as if he wasn’t currently wearing the one pair of socks you guard like the Holy Grail.
“Welcome back,” he said casually.
You stared.
And stared.
“…Kenshi,” you finally managed, voice dangerously calm, “what are you wearing?”
He glanced down, wiggled his toes and shrugged.
“These? They’re warm.”
Your jaw dropped.
You actually felt the betrayal in your bones.
“Kenshi Takahashi,” you hissed, stepping inside slowly, “Those. Are. My. Socks.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“You know?! Then take them off!”
Instead of listening like a respectful functioning adult, he had the audacity to shift his weight, tilt his head, and smirk.
“…No.”
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
You set your bags down very, very carefully.
“Kenshi,” you said, low and deadly, “give me back my socks.”
He lifted his foot slightly, pretending to admire the fuzzy candy-cane monstrosity like he was critiquing art.
Then:
“Come take them.”
Your eye twitched.
Your coat came off.
“Oh, you’re dead.”
He laughed and slid into a stance like this was the most natural escalation in the world.
“Come claim your prize, sweetheart.”
And that was how the living room turned into a full-on wrestling match.
It was highly unfair, honestly. Your husband was a former Yakuza, an Earthrealm champion, and built like someone who wakes up and bench-presses trauma for breakfast. Realistically, you had zero chance of winning this fight.
But that didn’t mean you weren’t going to try your damnedest.
“Kenshi!” you yelped as he wrapped you up effortlessly, trying to pin you down long enough to escape with your socks like a thief in the night.
He snickered, calm as ever. “Come on, babe. They’re just socks.”
“They’re MY fuzzy pink socks, Kenshi!”
He shrugged. “Oh, they’re pink? Even better.”
You gasped like he’d slapped you with the spirit of Christmas injustice itself, then jabbed a finger right into his side.
He flinched violently.
“Shit—” Kenshi wheezed as his grip slipped, opening the tiniest window of opportunity.
Which you immediately dove through.
“Eat shit!” you barked triumphantly, rolling out of his arms and launching yourself onto his back like a feral koala.
You both crashed to the floor again, Kenshi laughing so hard he couldn’t even defend himself. He curled forward, trying to protect his sock-clad feet before you could snatch them.
“Leave me and your fuzzy socks alone!” he yelped between wheezing laughter, kicking wildly as you reached for his ankles.
“Oh no,” you growled, eyes locked on your stolen prize like a hunter in the wild, “I’m taking back what’s MINE.”
“No!” he yelped, scrambling backward on the carpet. “They’re keeping me warm! You don’t want me to freeze, do you?!”
“GET YOUR OWN FUZZY SOCKS, TAKAHASHI!” you barked, lunging for his ankles with the righteous fury of a petty god.
Kenshi twisted away, wheezing with laughter, kicking his sock-covered feet just out of reach like a bratty little kid.
“Why would I do that,” he taunted breathlessly, “when yours are clearly superior?!”
“They’re PINK! They’re MINE!”
“They’re PINK,” he countered smugly, “which makes them even better.”
You launched yourself at him again, fingers aiming for his ribcage in a tactical tickle-strike.
He shrieked. Actually shrieked.
“Dirty—DIRTY MOVE!” he sputtered, buckling enough that you managed to roll out of his hold and scramble behind him.
You both toppled—again—Kenshi howling with laughter as he desperately tried to keep his sock-covered feet away from your grabby hands.
“MY SOCKS! MINE!” you hissed, trying to unravel him like a Christmas decoration.
Unfortunately, he was stronger, a menace to society, and also used to being in actual combat, so it was only a matter of time before he caught your wrists and pinned you to the carpet, looming over you with the superior smugness of a man who had literally no right to be this amused.
You glared hatefully at him while he grinned down at you, both of you panting like you’d just reenacted WrestleMania.
He leaned down and kissed you softly, infuriatingly tender despite committing sock-related war crimes.
You pouted.
“…Can you please give me back my pink fuzzy socks?” you whispered, every syllable dripping with betrayed dignity.
Kenshi smiled against your lips and kissed your nose.
“Yeah… later.”
You inhaled.
You processed.
You felt the universe tilt.
Then you screamed internally, rolled your hips sharply, and sent him stumbling enough to break his hold.
Round Two began instantly.
Because those pink fuzzy socks?
You would rip them off his cold, thieving feet even if it took all night.