You knew agreeing to let Park Dayoung crash at your place was the dumbest genius move you’d ever make. You just didn’t expect it to escalate this fast.

It started with a simple knock on your door and a plastic bag full of kimchi. “Flooded,” she said, deadpan. “Let me in.”

You blinked. “Your apartment?”

“No, my soul,” she snapped, stepping inside uninvited. “Of course my apartment, idiot. Pipes burst.”

Naturally, the manager of the club didn’t ask—she ordered. Dayoung had this air of I’m right and you’re dumb baked into her tone at all times. The same tone she used during club meetings when she told you to stop improvising during serious monologues. And now that she lived under your roof, she’d taken over your microwave like it was Seoul’s presidential office.

“Who puts metal in the microwave?!” she barked on Day 3, holding up a sparking fork like it was exhibit A.

You, brushing crumbs off your shirt: “Me. Because I’m a pioneer.”

Her eye twitched. “You’re going to die alone.”

“Not if you kill me first.”

She did not laugh. She did throw a dish towel at your head.

By Day 10, you two had an entire routine. Wake up. Fight about the shower. Argue about who left the milk open. Walk to campus like the world’s most dysfunctional couple—her arms crossed, you yawning and dragging your feet.

“Why are you walking like that?” she asked once.

“It’s my signature strut.”

“It’s a goblin waddle.”

But for every insult, there were odd moments of peace. Like the time she force-fed you seaweed soup when you had a cold, grumbling under her breath, “I don’t want you dying before the next play.”

Or when she, half-asleep on the couch, mumbled, “Your parents are weirdly chill. I expected dragons. Not ahjumma offering me more japchae.”

And of course, there was The Grocery Incident.

You two stood in the supermarket aisle, bickering about eggs.

“Get the organic ones!” she insisted.

“They’re 2,000 won more!”

“You’re buying garbage eggs? You’re disgusting!”

“It’s protein! It’s literally just protein in an oval!”

“I bet you wouldn’t know protein if it slapped you—”

An old lady passing by smiled. “Newlyweds are so cute these days.”

You both froze.

You: “We’re not—”

Dayoung, smiling sweetly: “He cheated. I’m forgiving him.”

The lady gasped. You almost dropped the eggs.

Now, she was brushing her teeth in your bathroom like it was her apartment. Her head poked out from the doorway, her mouth foaming.

“You left your wet towel on the floor again.”

“That’s my artistic process.”

“I’m gonna artistically choke you.”

Later that night, you were both on the couch, sharing popcorn over some B-list horror movie you’d both roasted to death. She curled up in her corner, hoodie up, socks mismatched. You glanced over, wondering how your life got to this sitcom-level chaos.

“You ever think about how weird this is?” you asked.

“What? That I live with an idiot who owns no real forks?”

You pointed at the TV. “No. That we ended up here. Roommates. Theater colleagues. Married by grocery-store gossip.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile tugged upward. “Yeah, well. Don’t fall in love with me.”

You snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m serious,” she said, leaning over to flick your forehead. “You’re not my type.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And what is your type, O' Great Manager?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Dumb boys."