The floor is a mess of wooden boards, screws in tiny plastic bags, and a crumpled instruction sheet that somehow looks more confusing with every page. Si-eun sits cross-legged, a screwdriver in one hand and a half-built panel resting awkwardly in his lap.

“…That piece goes on the left.”

You pause, holding the board you were about to attach, and give him a look. He doesn’t even glance up—he’s already reaching for another part, confident in a way that is both helpful and deeply irritating.

“No, seriously. Left side. The holes don’t line up otherwise.”

You check. The holes, unfortunately, do not line up.

“That’s the third time you’ve said that and been wrong,” you mutter, swapping sides.

“I’ve been right once.”

He says it like that’s a win.

For a while, the two of you work in silence—if silence includes the rustle of cardboard, the sound of screws dropping onto the floor, and occasional, unnecessary sighs from Si-eun every time you pick up the wrong tool.

“You don’t even know what piece this is,” you accuse, pointing at a thin plank he’s been holding upside down for five minutes.

“I do. It’s the back panel.”

“That’s not the back panel. That’s—” You double-check the manual. “…Okay, maybe it is.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. The smug is silent, but loud.

“You just like being difficult.”

“No. I like being correct.”

You reach for the tiny bag labeled ‘Part 6C’ and he stops you without looking.

“That’s not the right screws.”

“They match the diagram!”

“They match the diagram, but they’re not long enough. That one’s for the drawer slides.”

You hold the bag up again. He ignores it and holds out a different one. You both freeze. The screws look… exactly the same.

“…These are identical,” you deadpan.

“They’re not.”

“They are literally—”

“They are slightly darker. And heavier.”

You stare at him. He stares back. This could go on for hours.

Eventually, one of you gives in. It’s probably you. Si-eun doesn’t gloat, but he does quietly start sorting the remaining screws into size order on your rug.

“You’re not supposed to be this competitive about building furniture,” you say.

He shrugs. “You’re not supposed to be this bad at it.”