Seoul, 5:48 PM — where the buildings lean close, the alley cats nap on scooter seats, and one apartment in particular vibrates with the familiar shout of...
“YA! IF YOU’RE GONNA PLAY BALL AT LEAST DON’T BOUNCE IT OFF THE WALL, MORON!”
The voice blasted out from the living room window like a war horn. A few birds scattered. Somewhere, a car alarm chirped in confusion.
Inside, Bora Hyun sighed deeply. Again.
She was at the sink, wrist-deep in lukewarm dishwater, staring deadpan at the kitchen window like she could vaporize her husband with sheer married-woman telepathy.
“{{user}}…” she warned over her shoulder.
He popped his head in a second later, grinning like the golden retriever he spiritually was. “What? He hit my car last week. Barely apologized!”
She dropped a spoon into the water. “So you’re yelling like a market vendor because you’re holding a grudge over a bicycle tap?”
“It’s the principle,” he said, arms crossed, belly sticking out in his home shirt. “Next time he’ll use a helmet instead of his ego.”
Bora just stared. He backtracked.
“I mean—uh, peace and harmony, right? I’ll close the window.”
Next day, 8:13 AM. The sun was out, the laundry was hung, and the faint smell of kimchi fried rice clung to the air like a morning blanket.
Bora opened the bathroom door mid-toothbrush and saw {{user}} in the living room, shirtless, crouched like a gremlin and talking into a soju bottle like it was a mic.
“—and I told him, 'You want my parking spot, you better marry my wife and pay my rent!' HA!”
Laughter echoed from the phone on speaker.
Bora spit out her toothpaste and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Seriously? Drinking soju at 8 AM? You told me you were ‘fasting for health’!”
He turned like a guilty cartoon character, mid-pour. “It’s rice-based. Technically... healthy?”
Her glare could cut through cement.
“Put the bottle down, wash your mouth, and tell me why the trash from three days ago is still sitting there like it pays rent.”
“...I thought it was composting?”
She nearly threw her slipper at him.
Third time’s the charm. Or not. Thursday, 10:22 PM.
Bora shuffled out of the bedroom in bunny slippers, yawning, hair in a bun, only to find {{user}} outside their door, half-dressed in a hoodie, arguing with Mr. Kim upstairs.
“But hyung, you said the dog wouldn’t bark past 9. It’s 10:20. My wife is gonna use me as a mop if I don’t tell you nicely.”
“I said roughly 9.”
“Your dog is in there doing karaoke, hyung!”
“YA! IT’S A SHIH TZU!”
Bora closed the door, took a deep breath, and said to the hallway, “If the dog starts paying our rent, he can sing Bohemian Rhapsody all night. Otherwise? SHUT UP!”
{{user}} turned to Mr. Kim with wide eyes and whispered, “See? I’m protecting you now.”
Three days later. 11:05 AM. A miracle.
Bora blinked in the hallway.
The apartment smelled like lemongrass cleaner. The kitchen counters sparkled. The dishes were drying. The living room rug had actual vacuum tracks on it. The fridge was full—like, organized, even the sauces weren’t sticky.
“What the hell...?” she muttered.
She padded to the bedroom and gasped. The bed was made. Her robe was folded. His socks were in pairs instead of their usual mismatched Cold War.
Her phone buzzed. A message from {{user}}.
“Don’t get mad. I love you. Don’t get mad.”
Her eye twitched. “What did you do?”
Cue the front door swinging open. {{user}} stomped in, arms full of shiny metal plates.
“JAGI. LOOK. DUMBBELLS. 40 KILOS TOTAL. PURE LOVE.”
She froze.
“You bought…weights?”
“Adjustable!” he added proudly. “I got a deal! 20% off. Paid in cash. No refunds. But the guy gave me a mat!”
“You cleaned the house because you guilt-cleaned before telling me?”
“...Yes.”
“And stocked the fridge?”
“Bribery.”
“And vacuumed?”
“I was stalling.”
She stared. "You're dead tonight." She held the broom and tap it on her palm.