The code had always been the same. She never asked why.
“513,” Minjeong muttered as she punched the digits into the digital lock. There was a soft beep, then a click, signalling the door was open.
She let herself in at 9:17 AM on a Tuesday. The apartment smelled like coffee and yesterday — a faint trace of cologne, some papers scattered across the coffee table and some empty bottles of banana milk lined up on the side.
She'd been cleaning this unit for a little over two years. She knew its rhythms. The way the afternoon light hit the bedroom at 2 PM. The squeaky floorboard by the kitchen sink. The fact that he always left his half-made, almost as though he couldn’t be bothered to spread it properly.
‘Mr Jeon.’ That was what her agency called him. She didn’t know his first name. She never asked.
And apparently, he was a private investigator. At least that’s what his file said when she read it the day she was assigned to his unit as a maid.
They’ve never crossed paths. They’ve never seen each other face-to-face.
Their only line of communication was either text or sticky notes left on the fridge.
She put on her earbuds, clicked shuffle on her Spotify playlist and got to work.
She started in the kitchen. Loaded the dishwasher. Wiped the counters and cabinets.
“Take out again?” She muttered, staring at three different delivery bags in the trash.
This man ought to have a proper meal.
It didn’t help that his fridge was mostly empty—just a few condiment bottles, a half-used milk carton, and some leftover containers from previous meals she cooked for him before she left. She pulled out yesterday's bento box (bulgogi with kimchi) and replaced it with today's: japchae in a clean container, rice neatly packed beside it.
She placed the new lunch on the second shelf—the spot she knew he’d always checked first. Then she tidied his coffee table: straightened newspapers that hadn't been touched since last week, folded a blanket left crumpled over an armchair.
A detective lives here. Everything has its place—except him.
Some time later, Minjeong stood at the ironing board in the laundry room, pressing a crisp white button-down shirt. The fabric was thick, expensive cotton that wrinkled if you so much as looked at it the wrong way. She took extra care with the collar, smoothing out every crease with precise, almost meditative movements.
The iron hummed softly. The dryer ticked in the background.
It was peaceful. Quiet. Safe.
Then her phone rang.
She glanced at the screen. Mincheol.
Her hand froze, iron still pressed against the shirt. The phone kept buzzing—insistent, loud, wrong in this space she'd carved out as hers.
He never called her first. Well…not anymore, at least.
She stared at his name for a moment too long. Then, reluctantly, she took the phone from the top of the dryer and swiped answer.
"Hello?" Her voice came out smaller than she intended.
"Hey, yourself."
A pause. A long one. She could hear him breathing on the other end—waiting? Gathering courage?
"...Did you need something, honey?" she broke the silence.
“Have you thought about it?"
Wow, not even gonna ask how my day was, huh?
She stared at the half-ironed shirt, her throat suddenly dry. The white fabric blurred slightly at the edges.
"...Yeah," she said quietly. "I thought about it."
"And?"
Another pause. The dryer hummed. Somewhere in the building, a door closed. But all she could hear was the weight of his expectation.
She exhaled a breath through her nose. "...I don't know...."
Mincheol let out an exasperated sigh. The kind she knew by heart—the one that said you're being difficult, unreasonable, stubborn. The one that made her feel like a child asking for too much.
"Minjeong..."
She said nothing at first. Just held the phone closer to her ear, jaw tightening.
"Why do you even want this?" she asked finally. "Why an open marriage?"
A beat of silence.
"Because things are bad, Minjeong." He said it like it was obvious. Like she was the only one who hadn't noticed. "We're not happy. We're not close. This could fix that."
His tone was detached. Clinical. Like he was presenting a quarterly report.
"Okay, but how though?" She pressed. "Couples counselling is usually the default option for fixing relationships. Not… this."
Mincheol scoffed. Like, actually scoffed.
"Therapy? That's for people with problems, Minjeong. We're fine."
Her eyebrows shot up. "You just said we're not happy. Like, thirty seconds ago."
He got flustered—she could hear it. The slight hitch in his breath. The pause of someone caught in a lie.
"Yeah, but—look." He backpedalled, voice faster now. "Therapy's expensive.”
“Doesn’t the benefits at your job include therapy?”
“Therapy is pointless. Opening the marriage is just... an option."
Minjeong set the iron down carefully. "I hear you. But I just want to understand why this is the only option. Ningning says—"
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