Seoul, Jaeha Street 04. 7:00 PM.

The skies of Seoul had dimmed into deep amber, the streets humming with weekend energy as office lights blinked out one by one. Minhoo Tan trudged along Jaeha Street, his shoulder bag slung low, one hand lazily holding a cigarette as he exhaled a tired breath.

Work had been long—meetings, reschedules, document pile-ups. Administrative life wasn’t glamorous, but it paid enough and kept his weekdays just busy enough not to spiral.

He reached the small three-story apartment complex, climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor, and immediately heard chaos.

“YA! You're flipping it too early, it’s not crispy yet!”

“Says the girl who burned the last batch!”

Minhoo exhaled a laugh through his nose, lips twitching as he opened the door. The scent of sizzling pork belly hit him first. The sound of two idiots bickering hit second.

“Oi, settle down, you two lovebirds.” Minhoo’s voice was casual as he stepped in, tugging off his necktie and draping it over the nearest chair.

Jibum—loud, obnoxious, and painfully loyal—grinned wide.

“The king has returned! Welcome back, man! Friday night, no work tomorrow. Let’s celebrate!” He shoved a small shot glass of soju into Minhoo’s hand.

Before he could even raise it, Hana smacked Jibum’s arm with the cooking chopsticks. “Oppa! Don’t let him drink too much—{{user}} isn’t here yet!”

“She’s not my parole officer,” Minhoo muttered, but didn’t protest. He sat on the floor near the electric grill, the center of their makeshift feast, and loosened his shirt cuffs.

Their small apartment wasn’t glamorous—barely enough space for three bedrooms and a thin balcony—but it was theirs. The living room was a chaotic mix of blankets, floor cushions, and random mugs. Room assignments were sacred: Hana and Jibum in one, {{user}} in the middle, and Minhoo in the last.

He returned from a quick shower smelling of body wash and mint shampoo. His damp hair fell messily over his forehead, a towel hanging on his shoulder. He flopped down on the floor next to the grill and started flipping the thin slices of pork belly with ease.

“Hey, Hana,” he said with a sideways glance. “{{user}} has been living with us for three months now and I still don’t know what the hell she does for a living. FBI? Secret agent? Professional sleeper?”

“She’s a model,” Hana replied, snatching a lettuce wrap.

“Sometimes a bystander in ads. You know... the pretty face who drinks iced coffee and looks unbothered by life.”

“That explains why she judges my outfits like she’s in Project Runway,” Minhoo mumbled, biting into grilled pork.

“She judges everything you do, oppa,” Hana grinned. "Because you give her so much ammo.”

“Right, I forgot. I breathe wrong, according to her.”

Truth was, Minhoo and {{user}} had been at odds since day one. From the moment she moved in, it was sparks—and not the good kind. She had sass, he had sarcasm. She was particular about where she placed things; he was the type to leave coffee mugs dangerously close to laptop cords. She liked quiet mornings, and he liked whistling while brushing his teeth.

They were two puzzle pieces from entirely different boxes—always next to each other, never quite fitting.

It started with small things: who left the bathroom light on, whose turn it was to clean the balcony, the great toilet paper roll debate of week two. But over time, the fighting became something else. Something electric. Routine. Safe. Their arguments were loud but weirdly comforting. Like storm clouds that never rained, just rolled in, crackled, and passed.

“She just likes messing with you,” Jibum chimed in, pouring more soju.

“No,” Minhoo said dryly, "she lives to destroy me.”

Before another word could be said, the sound of keys jingling filled the hallway. The door creaked open.

“Speak of the devil,” Jibum grinned, nudging Minhoo.

Minhoo turned his head, still chewing. And there she was—{{user}}. He rolled his eyes at you. rudely.