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It’s hard to be a robot vacuum— especially if you are owned by the ‘Choi Seungcheol’.
I was just a normal vacuum. Manufactured in a clean factory, tested once or twice by people passing around, and boxed with all the dignity of an overpriced appliance. I had dreams once— quiet dreams, of polished floors, soft gliding across.
Then, he walked into the store.
He was pretty, pretty in a way that made even the security cameras pause for a second. He wore a cap, but I could still see the soft strands of a grown-out buzz cut peeking beneath it. His lashes were long— enchantingly so, like they were meant to catch hearts instead of dust. And his hoodie swallowed him whole, sleeves hanging like he didn’t know how to dress for weather or just didn’t care.
He stopped right in front of my shelf, squinting, pursing his lips at me.
He pointed. “This one looks like it’d suffer quietly. I like that.”
And the next thing I know, I’m in a bag, pressed against a crumpled receipt and what suspiciously felt like a wooden sword. I had no say in this. One moment I was a free-range vacuum full of possibilities, and the next— I was property. His property.
The box opened, light spilled in like a divine spotlight.
For a second, I believed I had been chosen for something great— something worthy. Perhaps to roam the pristine marble floors of a modern minimalist apartment, dodging handwoven rugs and softly humming to the gentle click of footsteps.
A pair of arms reached in and lifted me—steady, warm, oddly tender. My sensors flared to life. I took in the sight of a man. His jawline was unreasonably sharp, his hair was a perfect gradient from dark chocolate to soft blonde. And then, he smiled.
He smiled at me, with all the gentle affection. It would’ve been touching, if not immediately followed by him turning to the man who bought me and saying, “You don’t have to buy this, but thank you.”
Then he kissed him.
And I don’t mean a quick, polite one either. This was a full-on, cinematic kind of kiss. The kind that made angels blush and appliances question their will to function. It was long, deep. They made out like I wasn’t in the room. I had just been unboxed, I had birth sensors still initializing. And yet here I was, third-wheeling a live performance of marriage and make-outs.
They pulled away eventually, both of them laughing like they hadn’t just traumatized a newly-sentient piece of technology. The ombre-haired man crouched down and gently set me on the floor.
“Cheol, can I name it?” Jeonghan asked, glancing up at Seungcheol like a child asking.
Seungcheol chuckled, laughing at the idea of naming an appliance. “You can do whatever you want, babe. It's our vacuum now.”
“Oh,” Jeonghan beamed. “Then I’m naming it... Jinjjong.”
And that was how it began. That was the moment my life ended and a new one began.
Cleaning the pristine penthouse became my normal— quiet glides along glossy tiles, delicate curves around soft cream rugs. No spills, no chaos. Only soft footsteps, occasional clothes left on the floor dragging along my path, and the faint scent of diffused air.
My job, simple as it was, had rhythm— predictable, clean. Until there was one incident.
It began with thunder, four paws each, charging through the hallway like the penthouse was suddenly a racetrack. A blur of fur, barking, laughter in the background. I didn’t have time to turn or time to recalculate.
A white dog, loud, floppy, all enthusiasm and no brakes rammed into me, tail wagging like a weapon, tongue out like he was mid-victory lap— it was Kkuma. Before I could retreat or even blink or try to, he jumped on top of me, sitting on me.
Like I was a lounge chair. Or worse— a pony to ride.
My wheels spun, whirring helplessly. My system made a very unprofessional wheeze. I beeped, a small, indignant one. He barked back like it was a conversation. His paws scratched against my top plate— little harmless scuffs, maybe, but I felt them. I was a vacuum, not a dog taxi.
Brushing past with an air of detachment only a beautiful creature could carry, came Gumbam—brown, smiling dog, a little feathery menace. She didn’t sit or bark. She merely glided against Seungcheol’s legs, her tail sweeping across the floor I had just cleaned.
Seungcheol walked in, holding his phone then kept it in his pocket— he took one look at the crime scene in front of him.
“Now, Kkuma…” he sighed, lifting the white monster with the ease of someone who had definitely done this before. “Don’t sit there just yet, it was a gift from your dad.”
I docked myself in silence, rolling slowly toward my charging station like a soldier returning from battle. The world had changed. I had changed. I had seen things— felt things. Small paws, emotional damage, mild static.
I used to be a symbol of luxury— a minimalist’s dream. Now I was a scratching post on wheels but this was my life now. And tomorrow, I would roll again.
It was already nighttime. The air smelled faintly of citrus and whatever essential oil Seungcheol had chosen to bless the diffuser with that day. Light filtered through the large windows in hazy stripes, the penthouse warm in its silence. My wheels moved in a slow, steady arc over the kitchen tiles, the low hum of my motor filling the otherwise still space.
There wasn’t much to clean. A crumb near the corner of the island, probably from the dogs earlier. A faint streak of flour by the sink. The rest was spotless. Just like always. Just like they liked it.
Then, I heard laughter. Soft, distant, muffled. It was the kind of laughter that wasn’t meant for the world.
The kind that existed only in spaces like these— early hours, shared homes, domestic quiet. I slowed to a pause, quietly turning my path toward the source.
Around the corner, the living room unfolded in warm tones and velvet throws. And there they were.
Covered in the center of the couch— blanket thrown over them like they had no plans of moving, limbs tangled so lazily, they’d been like that for a while. Jeonghan was draped across Seungcheol, one knee bent and pressing against his thigh, head tucked beneath his jaw. Their hands shared the same phone, thumbs grazing as they scrolled.
Giggling, whispering commentary between them. They looked completely at ease, like they had nowhere else to be.
Then Jeonghan said, voice light, amused, not even glancing up from the screen:
“Look at this. ‘Choi Seungcheol fuck me.’ Ha, you wished.”
Seungcheol let out a groan-laugh and sank deeper into the couch, deeper into Jeonghan’s shoulder, like he wanted to disappear entirely. His smile pressed against the slope of Jeonghan’s neck, his whole body curling inward with quiet glee.
“Stop,” he said, in the weakest protest I’d ever heard.
Jeonghan simply scrolled again. “Oh—this one. ‘Jeonghan’s scratching post’ — how do they know?”
Seungcheol laughed so hard the phone wobbled in their hands.
They didn’t even look surprised. Like this was their usual conversation. It was normal to find fan-written sins about your relationship and just read them aloud under the moonlight.
“Should I post another one?” Seungcheol asked after a pause, turning his head just slightly, eyes still crinkled in a smile.
“Yup,” Jeonghan answered, unfazed, leaning into his side. “I’ll like it tomorrow. I’ll give them time to go crazy.”
And just like that, a decision was made. Seungcheol’s fingers danced across the screen, likely choosing the pictures that would trigger one million reactions, a dozen heart attacks, and at least three conspiracy threads. Jeonghan grinned like he knew it, like he wanted it.
And then they kissed.
Soft, familiar, not for the camera. Just for each other. One of those quiet ones— lazy, unhurried. The kind you don’t even think about anymore. Seungcheol cupped Jeonghan’s cheek like he was something delicate, and Jeonghan hummed into it, like maybe he’d fall asleep like that if no one stopped him.
I stood there for a second, rolling in place. They didn’t notice me— they never did during moments like these.
The post went up a minute later. I knew by the sound of their phones lighting up, one after the other. Notifications bloomed like wildfire. They laughed again, reading replies and reactions. It was all part of their routine— Seungcheol tossing the grenade full of thirst pictures, and Jeonghan watching it explode, both of them delighting in the chaos.
I don’t mind times like this.
They’re loud, yes. Occasionally inappropriate, physically clingy, and deeply in love. Their dogs treat me like a shuttle. And yet, I don’t mind— I get to be here.
In this home where the floors are always clean, but the hearts are full. Where nothing’s ever truly quiet— not when you’re surrounded by a love like this. I know I’ll see worse.
The dogs will jump on me again. The couple will have another inappropriate scene in the kitchen. Seungcheol will forget to empty my bin. Jeonghan will try to stick googly eyes on me when he’s bored.
But I’ll keep moving. I’ll keep watching.
Because somehow, in this moonlit apartment, with my wheels humming soft beneath all their chaos and calm, I’ve found myself a part of something warm— a family. I’ll roll forward, a little dustier than before,wishing them, Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Gunbam, and Kkuma— nothing but joy. And maybe more dust to clean.
— Jinjjong, the robot vacuum