hello! i'm xanthe (or xan for short) and welcome to my blog âĄ
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disclaimer: i have adhd + autism (the wombo combo) and i cannot guarantee how consistent my posting will be, especially if i get into something that i haven't posted about before. i hope you enjoy the ride lol
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
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Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Warnings: slow ahh burn, implied child neglect, slapping, crying, self worth struggles, reader kinda hated herself for a few mins, and obviously yeosang being so domestic and yummy
AN: hehe I've made u guys wait a lot huh? But it's finally here tho and I'm happy that it turned out how i wanted to be, u know what I'm saying? Like i didn't want to put up something that I ain't happy with. So yeah quality over quantity everyone. I hope y'all like this one as well (pls don't ask me for part three I ain't got no idea what to write anymore đđťđ)
Part 1 | Masterlist
The thing about domestic life with Yeosang was,it was dangerous. Not because of the mafia thing. Not because of bodyguards or enemies or whatever. No, it was dangerous because he was too good at it. Folding sleeves while helping you hang laundry. Holding the back of your neck softly while passing by you in the kitchen. Walking around the apartment barefoot in sweatpants like it wasnât illegal to look that good doing nothing.
Like right now.
Right now, you were standing in the kitchen, hair clipped up messily, sleeves pushed to your elbows, flipping through your notes for university on the counter while stirring something in a pot. And him? He was leaning against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you with this stupid half-smile like you were the most interesting thing in the room. Like you were the TV. Like you were art.
âWhat?â you finally mumbled, not even looking up from your notes.
âNothing,â he answered easily. âCanât look at my wife?â
âNot when Iâm clearly fighting for my life in biochemistry,â you muttered, scribbling something with irritation.
But then,you felt it. The warmth of him moving closer. You hated that you liked the way he moved around you like he belonged there. Like he owned the whole place, including you.
âYouâre doing great,â he said, voice low by your ear, âBut you know I donât like it when you stress over this stuff alone.â
You rolled your eyes. âIâm fine.â
But then,betrayal. Your stomach growled. Loud. You froze. Yeosangâs smirk grew wider, the audacity dripping from every inch of him. âAre you, though?â
âDonât.â
âI will.â
You elbowed him half-heartedly, cheeks warming, but he caught your arm gently before you could fully pull away.
âSit,â he said, soft but final. âIâll finish stirring. You explain your homework to me. Win-win.â
You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicious. âSince when do you cook for me?â
âSince I got tired of watching you nearly pass out before dinner.â
Cocky and caring. Disgusting.
So, you sat. Let him take the wooden spoon like it was his birthright, sleeves already rolled, rings catching the light. And there he was, stirring like he was born to be a husband, stealing glances at you every few seconds like you wouldnât notice.
You hated how good this felt. You hated that it didnât feel forced. You hated that you almost wanted to lean your head on his shoulder right then and there.
But most of all,you hated that you were starting to love being his. And he knew it.
The bastard knew.
You glanced down at your phone, thumb scrolling lazily until the notification popped up,buried in your notes app, wedged between grocery lists and half-done assignments.
Dadâs birthday. Mom invited us.
A pause.
A day before. Both of us. Why.
The reminder sat there like an unwanted guest in your head. Ironic, really. They never celebrated his birthday before. Never a cake, never a dinner, never a mention. And now suddenly they were throwing a get-together with invitations and everything,right after you got married.
It didnât take a genius to piece it together. You could almost feel it under your skin. Like this wasnât a celebration,it was a statement. Their way of parading you around, showing people that you were finally âsettled,â finally doing something they could brag about at family gatherings. Finally being useful.
Gross.
You glanced up from your screen, the bitter thought still lingering, just in time to see Yeosang walking back into the living room, rolling the sleeves of his black button-up further up his forearms as he moved. His watch caught the light when he adjusted it, veins on the back of his hand standing out in that stupid way that made you look even when you didnât want to. Shirt slightly untucked like heâd gotten home from work and didnât care to fix it. Slacks loose but perfect on him, casual yet expensive. His hair was still slightly messy from running his hands through it, a habit you noticed when he was thinking too hard,or irritated,or, worse, watching you.
Effortlessly hot. The kind of hot that made you annoyed on principle. He didnât even try. It wasnât fair.
He sat on the edge of the couch, spreading his legs slightly without meaning to, long fingers lazily undoing the first button of his shirt. Comfort. Casual. Not for show. Just him existing, unaware that it made your throat go dry for no reason other than spite.
You swallowed, tried to act normal, even though normal around him was becoming increasingly difficult.
âSo,â you finally broke the silence, tossing your phone onto the cushion beside you. âDid she invite your dad?â
He tilted his head a little, processing, eyes on yours now. Sharp. Heavy. âYeah. On the day itself.â
âBut she asked us to come earlier.â
âApparently.â
You hated how even his voice was hot. Low, smooth, slightly raspy at the edges like he hadnât spoken much today. Like he saved his words for you and you alone. The worst part? He wasnât even doing it on purpose. Just existing like that.
âAnd do you know why?â
He shrugged lazily, thumb brushing his lower lip for a second as he thought. âMaybe they wanna parade us around early. Maybe they wanna test me.â He glanced at you, one brow barely lifting. âMaybe theyâre just bored.â
You sighed. âOr maybe they just wanna show off that they finally got rid of me.â
His gaze sharpened,not with pity, not with softness. Something else. Something sharper. Like he was filing the information away somewhere deep. You were used to people looking at you like you were fragile glass. Yeosang didnât do that. He just listened, stored it, remembered.
âYouâre not something to âget rid of,ââ he finally said, steady. Quiet. âTheyâre stupid if they think that.â
You looked away, feeling the sting of those words, not because they were sharp,but because they were gentle in a way you didnât expect from him.
âI donât care what they think,â you muttered, eyes fixed on the coffee table.
And maybe you were telling the truth. Maybe you werenât. Didnât matter.
Yeosang leaned back against the couch like he had all the time in the world. Long legs, sleeves rolled, one hand resting against his stomach, fingertips idly brushing his rings. The picture of relaxed power. âDoesnât matter what they think,â he said again, slower this time. âYouâre with me now.â
Not possessive. Not demanding. Just a fact he laid out like gravity, like physics, like it couldnât be argued with. He wasnât claiming you.
He was reminding you.
And you hated,hated,how much that stupid, effortless heat of his made your heart betray you. Just a little more. Just enough to make you feel the slow burn starting to creep under your skin again.
You both went. Bags packed neatly, yours folded properly, his thrown together last minute like he didnât care, but of course he did, you knew by now that he cared about everything. Before you left, Yeosang had held up the necklace and the rings, both matching, both expensive, both screaming his. He didnât even argue, didnât raise his voice, didnât try to sweet-talk you into it. He just looked at you. And with him, that was enough.
âI donât like wearing so much-â
âWear it,â he cut you off softly, standing close enough that you could smell his cologne, expensive and warm. âTrust me.â
So you did.
Hair done. Jewelry on. Wearing the cardigan he got you last week because he knows you fidget with sleeves, layered over the designer dress that fit too well to be coincidence. Rings catching the sunlight. Necklace resting against your collarbone, delicate but clearly worth more than your dadâs entire car. Everything about you said: untouchable.
But the real final touch?
Yeosangâs hand. Wrapping around yours, warm, steady, undeniable. Like a quiet statement.
When you walked into your familyâs house, you didnât have to say a word.
The look on your motherâs face was priceless. The pause. The flicker of disbelief behind her carefully practiced smile. She didnât expect this. Not the jewelry. Not the designer clothes. Not the calm way you carried yourself like you belonged in that skin now. And certainly not the way Yeosang stood beside you like you were his entire world on display. Not proud, not showing off, just present. Solid. Real. Someone no one could touch.
It wasnât just the clothes or the money, it was the weight behind it.
He wasnât showing you off. He was protecting you. Dressing you in armor you didnât even realize youâd been missing your whole life.
You didnât need him to tell you why anymore.
You saw it written all over your motherâs face: this was a game she wasnât winning anymore.
And when Yeosang squeezed your hand gently, not too hard, not too soft, you finally understood:
He wanted them to see.
Your mother greeted you with that smile, the one she wore to every social event, every uncomfortable conversation, the one that didnât quite reach her eyes. Like clockwork, the passive-aggressive commentary started before youâd even set your bags down.
âWell,â she hummed, eyeing the necklace around your throat, âfinally wearing something proper now, arenât you? Marriage must be doing you well.â
You swallowed. Familiar sting. Same routine. You were used to it. You braced yourself, ready to just nod and let it slide, like always.
But then, Yeosang spoke.
âYeah,â he said smoothly, like honey with a sharp edge. âShe always looks good. But I guess money makes it easier to see, doesnât it?â You blinked.
Your momâs smile tightened, sharp as glass. âOf course. Not everyoneâs used to that kind of lifestyle.â
Yeosang let out a soft hum, nonchalant, barely acknowledging the insult. âTrue. But I like giving her things. Makes up for the years she didnât get them.â
You felt it then, that shift in the air. Like someone opened a window in a stale room. Fresh, biting, unexpected. Your momâs eyes flickered to yours like she wanted backup, but you werenât giving it. Not now. Not with him standing next to you like that, calm, sharp, dangerous without even raising his voice.
âOh, well, we managed just fine before,â she tried again, tone syrupy sweet, eyes narrowing slightly.
Yeosangâs lips twitched,bnot a smirk, just something close. Something controlled. âYeah. I saw.â
That was it. No yelling. No scenes. Just a few precisely chosen words, placed like knives on fine china. Clean. Silent. Lethal. And you? You were standing next to him, trying to remember how to breathe, because, God, how was he this hot right now? Not just physically, though the rolled sleeves, the watch, the perfectly tailored black slacks were not helping, but mentally. Emotionally. Intellectually. Attractive in the way that made your knees weak because he was on your side. Not just tolerating you. Defending you. Matching every jab with ease, making it seem effortless, like heâd been trained for this.
Because he had. And thatâs when it hit you like a punch to the gutâ
Oh no. You were in trouble. Real, real trouble.
Because you were falling for this man.
Your mother, visibly swallowing her pride, gave one last flicker of that brittle smile before waving you both off with a tight, âYou know the way. Your roomâs ready.â Defeated. For the first time, she didnât have the last word. And that alone felt like fireworks under your skin.
You both went upstairs. Same old room. Same faded wallpaper, same creaking door, same window with the view of nothing in particular. It felt smaller now, too small with him standing there, tall, broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled up, the sharp line of his jaw set like stone, rings glinting on his fingers as he tossed the bags down like he owned the whole damn town.
You didnât even look at him as you spoke, folding your arms awkwardly, eyes locked on the carpet. âItâs⌠not as big as your place. Sorry.â
You didnât know why you said it. Maybe some old leftover habit from constantly apologizing for things that werenât your fault. You hated that it slipped out.
Yeosang tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was studying a new painting. And then, cool as ever, voice low, warm, dangerous in that stupid effortless wayâ
âI donât need the room to be big,â he murmured. âI just need you in it.â
And just like that, oxygen left the room. No teasing, no cocky smirk. Just facts. Solid. Like of course thatâs what he thought. Why wouldnât he?
You wanted to punch something. Mainly because, why the hell did that sound the most genuine and hottest than anything youâd ever heard in your entire life?
You stared at him, heat rising to your cheeks, half from embarrassment, half from pure rage. âDonât-donât say shit like that!â you snapped, voice a little louder than you intended, biting at the edges.
Yeosang just lifted his hands like he was fending you off, palms up, rings catching the light. âI said what I said,â he answered, completely unbothered. No teasing grin, no cocky expression, just plain honesty delivered like a punch straight to your throat.
Infuriating.
You stomped off toward the bathroom before you said something stupid, muttering curses under your breath as you went. The old door creaked as you shut it, hands gripping the sink like you could squeeze your irritation into the porcelain. You washed your feet quickly, letting the cold water ground you, but the second you stepped back into the room, something was different.
The suitcases.
Yours, unzipped neatly, placed by the old dresser like it belonged there. His already halfway unpacked, shirts folded sharp, belts coiled perfectly. Like he hadnât just been flirting with you five minutes ago, like he wasnât casually flipping your entire life inside out.
You blinked, standing there awkwardly with wet feet on the faded carpet. He didnât even look at you. He was by the suitcase, rolling his sleeves back down now, slowly, like this was some kind of ritual.
Effortlessly hot. Domestic. Dangerous.
âDidnât ask you to unpack,â you muttered, feeling small.
âI was doing mine anyway,â he replied simply, folding another black shirt and sliding it into the drawer like heâd done it a thousand times. âAnd besides, you looked tired.â
It wasnât sweet. It wasnât kind. It was matter-of-fact, like the sky being blue or the floor being under your feet.
And God,why did that make your stomach twist more than anything else?
You never really expected to marry someone. The idea of sharing your life, your space, your routines, it never felt real. Not because you hated love or feared commitment or any of that dramatic nonsense. No. It just⌠never seemed like you. You were the quiet one. The invisible daughter. The one people forgot to ask opinions from. The one who learned to thrive in silence. You were used to shrinking into spaces, not opening them up for someone else to walk into. And yet, here you were.
Married to a man who didnât just walk into your life, he walked in, kicked the door open, threw a damn rug down and started rearranging furniture. Not loudly. Not rudely. Just⌠unapologetically. Existing in your space like he belonged there.
And worse? He fit. Too well.
You didnât know what kind of divine comedy this was, but it was definitely messing with your heart. Because that dumb organ was doing little flips and somersaults every time he folded your clothes without being asked, or poured water into your cup before filling his own, or carried your bag like it was an extension of his arm. He never made a show of it. Never called it out.
He just did things. Like you mattered. Like he noticed you. And maybe that scared you more than anything else ever had.
But if he was going to do this,this husband-thing, then maybe, just maybe, he deserved a little space in your world too. Not the one built by your family. Not the name they tried to carry like a badge of shame. Your world. The one you made with your tiny comforts, your small joys, your quiet favorite places.
So, after unpacking, you stood in the middle of the room, fingers brushing over the rings he told you to wear. Still warm from your skin. Still heavy with meaning.
âI want to take you somewhere,â you said quietly, barely above a whisper.
Yeosang, who had just set down his cologne bottle onto the dresser, paused. Then turned to face you fully. âYeah?â he asked, voice calm but something sparking behind his eyes.
You nodded, awkwardly playing with your sleeve. âJust⌠somewhere I go when I need to breathe.â
He didnât say anything at first. Just studied you with that unreadable expression, the one that made it feel like he was seeing parts of you even you didnât know existed. Then, slowly, his lips tugged into something small. Not a smirk. Not a grin. Just, soft. Warm.
âIâd like that.â
You werenât ready for how much those three words meant. For the way they made your chest feel tight. He didnât ask where. Didnât demand an explanation. He just grabbed a jacket, slung it over one arm, and said, âLead the way.â
And you knew.
You knew at that moment, he wasnât just some random name attached to your familyâs pride. He wasnât just a title, or a deal, or a man with money and power.
He was someone who, whether you liked it or not, had already started building a room inside your life.
The cold air bit at your nose as you stepped out, jacket wrapped around you tightly. You didnât say much on the way, just gave Yeosang a look when he asked where you were taking him, and he didnât push. Just followed behind you with steady footsteps, jacket slung casually over his arm, black boots echoing on the pavement like something out of a drama.
He looked so out of place in your world.
In his all-black outfit, hair styled just enough to look like he didnât try, cologne subtle but warmâhe was the kind of man who belonged in sleek lounges or high-rise penthouses. Not on this quiet street with chipped sidewalks and flickering neon signs. But you didnât tell him that. Because a part of you wanted to see if he could fit here too.
You stopped in front of a small corner building, glass windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. A sign above the door, painted in soft pink and cream:
Whiskers & Tails CafĂŠ.
He raised a brow. âA pet cafĂŠ?â he asked.
You shrugged. âYeah.â
Then pushed open the door and stepped in.
Warmth greeted you instantly, both from the heaters and from the familiar scent of fur, coffee, and the faintest trace of vanilla-scented candles. The bell jingled above as you walked in, and the moment your face appeared, a sleepy golden retriever in the corner perked up, tail thudding against the floor.
It wasnât just any pet cafĂŠ. It was yours. You volunteered here when you could. Cleaned kennels, fed them, played with them, sometimes just sat with the animals when the world outside was too loud. This place had always been your safe space.
And now⌠he was here.
You didnât look at him as you unwrapped your scarf. Just mumbled, âI come here sometimes. Help out. Thought Iâd check on them since weâre in town.â
Yeosang stood at the entrance for a moment, hands in his coat pockets. You expected him to make a comment. Something dry or sarcastic. Something about you being secretly soft-hearted.
But insteadâ
A small kitten, tabby with white paws, padded up to his feet. He knelt down. Not just crouched, fully knelt. One knee on the floor, hand out gently, voice soft.
âHey, little guy.â
The kitten mewed and immediately rubbed its face against his fingers. Yeosang chuckled.
You blinked.
Then watched, absolutely dumbfounded, as the man you thought only cared about suits, expensive watches, and control, started going around the cafÊ⌠greeting every animal.
One by one.
Petting the large dogs with careful hands. Letting a sleepy cat climb onto his lap like it owned him. Even playing tug-of-war with a tiny puppy who definitely wasnât winning, but Yeosang still made it feel like it was.
You didnât know what to do with that information.
You sat down on the sofa and let the old Pomeranian you always fed climb onto your lap. You watched him, arms crossed, as he laughed when a kitten climbed into his coat. He made himself at home like heâd been there a hundred times.
You narrowed your eyes from your seat on the couch. âYou good down there or are they starting a coup?â
Without looking up, he deadpanned, âI think this oneâs the leader,â pointing to the tiny kitten who had now decided to nap on his thigh. âSheâs got the eyes of a war general.â
You snorted, petting the sleepy Pomeranian curled into your lap. âDidnât peg you for an animal person.â
âIâm not,â he said, while simultaneously adjusting the kittenâs head so she was more comfortable. âIâm just very approachable, apparently.â
âOh yeah, that resting mafia face is super welcoming.â
He finally looked up at you, one brow raised. âSays the woman who stomps like a ghost when she walks and never makes eye contact.â
âThatâs stealth,â you argued. âThatâs a skill.â
âSure,â he said dryly. âThatâs exactly why the cat followed you the moment you walked in. Real ninja energy.â
You rolled your eyes. âMaybe I smell like food.â
âWouldnât be surprised,â he replied, brushing fur off his pants. âYou were navigating my kitchen like it owed you rent.â
âI was cooking, not robbing it.â
âYou even found where I hide the sugar.â
ââŚYou hid the sugar?â
âYes,â he said, without hesitation. âYou donât need that much caffeine.â
You stared at him, offended. âYou donât even live in your kitchen!â
âAnd yet somehow, youâve claimed it. Like itâs your natural habitat.â
A kitten chose that exact moment to sneeze on his hand, making him flinch slightly. You burst out laughing. âOh yes, very majestic. Youâre really commanding the animal kingdom right now.â
He shook his head, trying not to smile. âI literally own weapons and yet Iâm being taken hostage by a two-pound furball.â
âWhiskers is the boss around here,â you said, pointing at the kitten in his lap. âBow to her or be banished.â
Yeosang let out a soft laugh, real, low, warm, and scratched Whiskers under her chin. âAt least sheâs nicer than your mom.â
Your mouth dropped open. âOh my God.â
âWhat?â he shrugged. âWhiskers didnât say I was a waste of good suits.â
You tried to look scandalized, but you couldnât help the laugh bubbling out of you. It was rare, laughing like this. Laughing with him. You werenât supposed to be this comfortable. This⌠normal.
Yeosang glanced at you then, just briefly. âYou laugh more when weâre not in your house.â
You blinked. âYou notice that?â
He looked back down at the kitten, brushing his fingers through her fur. âI notice everything.â
And there it was. That stupid warmth again.
The air was cool and quiet as you and Yeosang walked down the familiar streets back home, the sun dipping just low enough to wash everything in that soft golden haze. Your feet were starting to ache, but you didnât say anything. Mostly because Yeosang was already holding your bag, slung effortlessly over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
You did huffed, but didnât argue. And maybe, just maybe, you liked the way it felt. Having someone quietly notice the things you struggled with and not making a big deal about helping.
You reached your house just as the golden light began to fade, the front porch casting long shadows. Yeosangâs grip on your bag shifted slightly as he pushed the door open for you, and the moment you stepped insideâ
There she was.
Your mother. Standing there like sheâd been waiting. That same tight-lipped smile that somehow looked more like a challenge than a greeting. âWhere have you both been?â she asked, voice dripping with sweetness that somehow stung more than actual venom.
You shrugged off your shoes. âPlaces.â
She blinked. âPlaces?â
You nodded. âYes.â
That smile wavered for just a second. âWell, as long as youâre not wandering around wasting time. Married life shouldnât distract you from your responsibilities. Your husband might not always be so forgiving.â
You opened your mouth, ready to respond, or maybe just sigh, but Yeosang beat you to it.
âOh, donât worry,â he said, setting your bag down gently, tone sugary-sweet and razor-sharp. âIâm more than forgiving. I even let her choose the restaurant today. Can you imagine?â
Your mom blinked. âOh?â
âCrazy, right?â he continued, peeling off his jacket slowly, casually. âLetting her make her own decisions? Next thing you know, sheâll have opinions.â
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
Your momâs smile dropped just a millimeter.
âAnd besides,â Yeosang added, voice light but eyes cold, âit wasnât wasting time. We were at a place that made her happy. Which, I assume, isnât a common theme around here.â
Dead. You were dead. He did not just say that.
Your mom blinked at him, clearly stunned for a half second, then let out a tight chuckle. âWell, Iâm glad she has such a... supportive husband.â
Yeosang smiled. âMe too.â
You were just about to make your escape up the stairs, Yeosang right beside you, your bag now resting by the steps, when her voice cut through the air. "YN, come help me in the kitchen."
Your feet froze mid-step.
Yeosang slowed too, looking down at you with a glance so subtle no one else wouldâve noticed. But you did. His eyes scanned your face, taking in the shift in your shoulders, the way your fingers tensed slightly. You didnât even look at him, just nodded once and turned back. Because at the end of the day, no matter how many rings you wore or necklaces draped around your neck or husbands stood beside you,
She was still your mother.
You stepped into the kitchen like a soldier walking onto familiar, scorched battlefield. The air was already heavy with the smell of oil and something boiling, but you knew that wouldnât be the thing to make your stomach turn.
âWash those vegetables,â she said without even looking up. You did. Quietly. Mechanically. You always did. Then it began.
âI see youâve gotten used to letting someone else speak for you now.â You kept washing the spinach. âCanât even answer a simple question earlier. Just âplaces,â huh?â You didnât reply. Not yet.
âNot surprised. You were always a bit slow to speak. Just like your father.â The knife clinked a little harder against the cutting board. You knew that trick. Cut someone else down so you forget the weight of your own bruises.
You placed the spinach in the bowl. She turned to you, eyes narrow. âHe mustâve spoiled you real quick. Is that why youâre suddenly standing up like a big girl now? His money made you bold?â
You finally looked at her. âNo,â you said. Calm. Sharp. âI think I just stopped being afraid.â
She stared at you like youâd grown two heads. âExcuse me?â
You held her gaze. âYou heard me.â
Her lips curled. âHeâs not going to protect you forever. Heâll get bored of you. They always do.â
Your stomach twisted. âHeâs not like that.â
She rolled her eyes. âYou think he married you out of love? Youâre not even that special. Donât let some designer label fool you, girl.â
You felt it. That slow-burning heat, shame and anger tangling like wires in your chest. But this time, it didnât silence you. This time, you said, âMaybe he didnât marry me for love. But he treats me better in months than you have my whole life.â
And thatâs when it happened.
Her hand was faster than your eyes. A crack of palm against cheek, the sound almost louder than the pain.
Almost.
You didnât cry. You didnât speak. You just stood there. Frozen.
Because the sting on your cheek wasnât the worst part. The worst part was how familiar it felt. That helplessness. That silence. That deep ache of being reduced to a child who didnât have the right to speak.
You thought you had outgrown this. You thought you were healing.
But the tear that slid down your cheek wasnât from the slap, it was from the sudden, brutal realization that a part of you was still that girl. Still folding napkins at dinner. Still flinching at footsteps. Still pretending it didnât hurt.
And you hated it.
You hated that she could still reach inside you and drag that little girl out. Just with a few words. A raised hand. A name that still had power, even if you tried to forget.
The moment the slap landed, you dropped everything. The vegetables, the bowl, the knife. You didnât even flinch at the sound of it clattering to the ground. Your hands trembled, not from the sting but from the crushing wave of emotions that surged through you, humiliation, fury, sadness, and something deeper. Something rotten that had been buried for too long. You didnât say a word. Not to her. Not to yourself. You just turned, eyes burning and steps heavy, and walked. NoâŚran.
Up the stairs. Past the photos on the wall. Past the familiar scent of a house that never really felt like home. Your feet hit the last step and you all but burst through the door of your old bedroom.
Yeosang looked up just as you entered. He had his jacket in his hands, half off, like heâd just finished fixing his hair in the mirror. The casual, effortless way he looked, black sleeves rolled to the elbows, shirt fitted perfectly across his shoulders, it shouldâve made your heart do those little flips again. But right now, you were too full. Too heavy. You didnât even speak to him. You just locked eyes for half a second, long enough for him to see it. The tightness in your jaw. The gleam of tears unshed. The way your hands were clenched like you were holding on to the last strand of composure.
You walked past him, your steps unsteady but fast, and went straight into the bathroom. Yeosang didnât move for a second. He didnât need to ask. He didnât need to guess. He knew.
He knew your face by now, every flicker, every twitch. He knew the storm behind your silence. You werenât just tired. You werenât just overwhelmed. You were hurt. And he didnât need to hear it from your mouth to understand the source of it. His jaw tightened as he slowly placed his jacket on the hook, not saying a word. But his mind was loud.
Of course that woman did something. He knew this was more than just a fight. This was history. Years of belittling. Years of you being told you werenât enough. Years of silence and shame so normalized it felt like air in this damn house. And even now, even with the jewelry he gave you on your skin, even with him standing next to you as your husband, she still saw you as that same small girl she could bend and break.
His fists clenched at his sides as he exhaled slowly. He had known you longer than you thought. Maybe you didnât know that part yet. Maybe you never noticed how often he showed up where you were before this marriage. How much he had watched, not in a creepy way, but like someone fascinated by a person who moved quietly through the world and still held so much within her. He remembered the way you used to fidget with the ends of your sleeves when walking alone. He had always noticed you. And thatâs why it burned so much now. Because even after all that time, you still had to deal with this.
He took a slow step toward the bathroom door, didnât knock, didnât call out. He just stood there.
When you came out of the bathroom, the air in the room felt heavier. Your face was washed, but the redness around your eyes betrayed you. Yeosang didnât look up right away; he was lying back against the headboard, one arm folded under his head, the picture of composure. But he was watching. Not obviously, not directly, but every flicker of your movement was caught in the corner of his gaze.
You didnât say a word. You walked over and sat at the very edge of the bed, your back stiff, your hands folded tightly in your lap as if keeping yourself from falling apart depended on it. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until his voice cut through it, low, steady, but gentle in a way that disarmed you instantly.
âYou donât have to say anything,â he murmured, not even shifting his posture. âYou donât have to explain. But if you need me,â his eyes flicked toward you, softer than youâd ever seen them, âIâll be here.â
That was it. No lecture. No questions. No demanding answers you werenât ready to give. Just that.
Your throat closed up before you could even think of a reply. The kind of ache that doesnât warn you, it just rises. Your eyes blurred, and before you could stop it, tears began slipping down silently, trailing hot down your cheeks. You never were the kind of person to cry out loudâyour pain had always been quiet, tucked away where no one could see. But the tears betrayed you now, your shoulders trembling, your chest rising unevenly as you tried to hold the pieces of yourself together.
Yeosang didnât say anything else. He just moved. Slowly, steadily, he sat up, closed the small distance between you, and pulled you into him. His arms wrapped around you, firm but not suffocating, the way someone holds something fragile but refuses to let it break. He didnât shush you, didnât tell you to stop. He just held you because he knew you needed it more than anything.
And in that moment, with your forehead against his chest and his steady heartbeat under your ear, you realized he wasnât here to fix you. He was here to stand with you while you broke, and to make sure you didnât have to do it alone anymore.
The words slipped out of you before you could even stop them. You werenât planning to tell him, werenât planning to open your mouth at all, but it came so naturally, like a reflex, like breathing. âShe slapped me,â you said quietly, staring at your hands in your lap.
Yeosang froze. His entire body went still, like a string pulled taut. His voice came next, sharp but measured, carrying a weight that told you he already knew but wanted to hear it confirmed. âWho?â
You swallowed, the word barely leaving your lips. âMom.â
It sounded almost childish, almost like a confession youâd make as a kid when you ran to a grown-up, expecting them to fix it. But with Yeosang, it felt different. It wasnât childish. It wasnât weak. It felt like you were telling someone who had the power to take that weight from you, someone who wouldnât just sit by. It felt like complaining to a guardian who could shield you, who could make the worldâs cruelty back off.
Yeosang didnât speak right away. He was still, utterly still, except for the tightening of his jaw. His eyes darkened, not in sadness, but in fury, an anger that sat deep in his chest and burned hot in his veins. He rarely felt it, and even more rarely let it show. But now, he was furious.
How dare someone touch you? His wife. His partner. The thought alone made his stomach knot and his blood hum with rage. He could hear his fatherâs voice in the back of his mind, the lessons drilled into him since boyhood: You protect the women in your family. And if anyone dares to lay a hand on them, you crush them. Especially your partner. She is your shield and your heart. No one touches her and walks away unscathed.
Yeosangâs fists curled into the blanket, his breath steady but heavy. It wasnât just anger. It was something deeper, more dangerous. The kind of fury that demanded action. The kind that could dismantle a person piece by piece without even raising his voice.
The house was oddly quiet, you and Yeosang were tucked away in your room, standing in front of the mirror as you fixed the last bit of your hair. The soft glow of the lamp lit your face, but there was something about your eyes, dimmed, distant. No matter how carefully you blended your eyeliner or how well you draped your outfit, the shadow of what had happened earlier still lingered behind your expression.
Yeosang noticed. He always noticed. Even if you smiled, even if you tried to tuck it away, he could read you like lines written across his own palm. Adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, he leaned slightly toward you, catching your reflection in the mirror. âDonât worry about it,â he said quietly, almost like a command but softened for you. His tone carried that steady confidence of his, the kind that made you feel like maybe he really could shoulder it all for you. âSheâs not worth your thoughts tonight.â
You glanced at him, your lips twitching as if you wanted to respond but couldnât quite bring yourself to. Instead, you smoothed the fabric of your dress, pushing away the heaviness for the moment. If he said not to worry, maybe you could trust him enough to try.
The venue was only a short walk away, near the house, and the sound of music and chatter already carried through the air when you both stepped outside. The street was glowing with lanterns and fairy lights, the venue itself dressed in bright colors and flowers that looked extravagant, too extravagant. You frowned slightly, tilting your head. Where did all this money come from? When you lived under this roof, the only thing you ever heard was how broke they were, how sacrifices had to be made, how you were a burden on the household. Yet suddenly, for this celebration, there was no shortage of decorations, food, and flair.
Your stomach twisted with the bitterness of it, but you kept walking. Yeosang, carrying himself with a calm sharpness beside you, noticed the way your lips pressed into a thin line. Without asking, without prying, he slipped your bag from your arm to his. âClumsy hands,â he teased lightly, the same excuse heâd given earlier. But it wasnât just that, he wanted to ease the weight you carried, even if it was something small.
Inside, the venue gleamed with people bustling, laughter rising, and the smell of food filling the air. And though your chest felt tight, you held your chin a little higher. Yeosang was beside you, his presence steady, and that alone felt like armor.
Yeosang had told you earlier, almost in passing while straightening his cufflinks, that his father was also on his way to the venue. The words had been simple, but they left a strange warmth in your chest. For some reason, knowing that man would be there settled you, as if the ground beneath your feet felt a little sturdier. His father had always been kind to you, genuinely kind, not the hollow politeness you were used to from others. He treated you like you were someone worth noticing, worth listening to. And it made you wonder, in the quiet corners of your mind, why your own father never looked at you that way. Why he never thought his daughter deserved the same softness a stranger could offer.
You didnât say any of this out loud, of course. Words had always felt like a battlefield to you, every sentence a risk. So you kept them tucked behind your lips where they belonged, only giving Yeosang a small nod when he mentioned his fatherâs arrival. You knew he would catch it, knew he would read that tiny movement like it was a whole paragraph. That was the thing about him, he never needed your explanations to understand you.
His father had only been there for a few minutes, but the difference in the air was impossible to ignore. He carried himself with the kind of ease that drew people in, that quiet authority that made others soften just by being near him. After greeting your parents politely, your father stiff and formal, your mother forcedly cheerful, he drifted toward where you and Yeosang stood, positioning himself naturally by your side as though he belonged there.
The flow of relatives and family friends soon began, trickling into the venue in groups, all smiles and curious glances. One by one, you found yourself being tugged forward into the routine of introductions. You barely managed the words, your voice soft and clipped, but it didnât matter. Yeosang filled in every gap you left, his hand at the small of your back, his responses smooth and respectful, his presence a shield more than anything. His father was no different, gracious, warm, steady. He didnât just stand there like an ornament, he engaged, asked small questions, even made sure to include you when others seemed to gloss past your presence.
You could feel the eyes of your relatives lingering longer than they should. These were the same people who had sighed in pity when your marriage had been announced, whispering behind your back about how unfortunate it was to be bound to the Kang family. You remembered their voices, their sideways glances, their rehearsed sympathy. And now? Now you could see the jealousy simmering beneath their skin, their smiles stretched too tight, their words stumbling when they realized Yeosang wouldnât stop orbiting around you.
He didnât hide it. He didnât play it down. He stayed close, adjusted the edge of your sleeve when it slipped, handed you a glass of water before you could even think to ask, leaned in to answer questions for you when your throat locked up. He didnât do it to make a show of it, it was simply how he treated you. And the envy in your relativesâ eyes was so sharp it was almost laughable. You could see it in the stiffness of their shoulders, in the way they exchanged looks with each other, as though each glance was a needle pricked against their skin.
They had pitied you once. Now, standing there with Yeosangâs easy devotion surrounding you and his fatherâs steady presence at your side, you almost wished you could hand them a mirror so they could see themselves, jealousy dripping from their faces like pins stuck carelessly in cloth.
The chandelier light glowed soft golden, laughter bouncing around the decorated hall, but for Yeosang and his father this was nothing more than the perfect stage. The world thought they were here for your fatherâs birthday. They werenât.
You stood beside Yeosang, your hand loosely in his, when his father leaned closer with a faint smile that only the two of you could read.
âSo,â his voice was smooth, carrying easily over the chatter, âthis is the family that thought they could treat my daughter-in-law so carelessly.â His eyes flicked toward your mother across the hall, who was busy playing hostess, and then to your father, stiff in his seat as relatives crowded around him. âI must admit, Yeosang, I expected⌠better.â
Yeosangâs hand tightened slightly around yours, grounding you, his lips curving into a smile that looked charming to the outside world but was laced with quiet malice. âThatâs why I told you not to hold back tonight. Let them see what respect really looks like.â
You blinked up at him, confusion stirring, but neither man looked at you with pity. Yeosangâs fatherâs gaze softened for a brief second as he glanced at you, almost as if telling you silently: This isnât your burden to carry anymore. This is ours.
A group of relatives approached them, gushing over the Kang family name, trying to curry favor. One of them made a passing remark, tone sly, âAh, Yeosang, we heard it was quite the surprise, wasnât it? A rushed marriage, hm?â The words were meant to sting, meant to remind you of how they once pitied you.
Yeosangâs father chuckled, rich and deliberate. âSurprise, yes. But only for those who didnât realize what a treasure she is. You see, my son chose well. He couldâve had anyone, but he wanted her. And after seeing how sheâs been treated before?â His gaze, sharp as steel beneath his smile, landed on your father briefly. âLetâs just say the Kang family makes sure no one forgets her worth again.â
There was a subtle shift in the air, whispers starting among the group. Yeosang didnât let the moment linger too longâhe smoothly added, his tone deceptively light, âPeople donât often realize how cruel words can be behind closed doors. But I think she deserves a room full of people knowing sheâs valued. Donât you agree, Father?â
âI couldnât agree more,â his father replied smoothly, raising his glass. To outsiders it looked like casual praise, but the bite in his words was unmistakable to the ones who knew. Your father shifted uncomfortably across the room, and you caught it.
And then, like a knife slicing clean through the tension, Yeosangâs father announced it. Loud enough for the nearby relatives, your parents, and soon the entire hall to hear:
âSpeaking of surprises, we Kang men donât come empty-handed. Tonight, I am pleased to announce that we are in the final stages of acquiring the very company your father works at.â He turned deliberately, his smile kind but razor-edged, to face your father. âWhich means, from now on, heâll be working directly under us.â
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Your relativesâ eyes widened, their envy morphing into disbelief, then thinly veiled glee at your fatherâs humiliation. You felt your stomach drop, a dizzying mix of shock and something dangerously close to satisfaction.
Yeosangâs hand found yours again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. He didnât even look at your father, he only looked at you, his eyes calm, his voice low so only you could hear. âYou donât ever have to bow your head to them again.â
Your fatherâs face had gone red, your motherâs forced smile faltering as the murmurs grew louder. And you? For the first time in years, standing between Yeosang and his father, you didnât feel small in that house of shadows.
You felt untouchable.
The hall was glowing with lights, laughter, and clinking glasses, but for Yeosang and his father, it was all just a stage. Neither of them cared for the decorations or the false pleasantries exchanged across the room. This wasnât a celebration. This was their battlefield.
Yeosang stood close to you, his hand brushing against yours as if grounding you in place. His gaze, however, was sharp, scanning the room like he was calculating every move before it happened. His father leaned against the tall glass table beside him, his expression calm, even casual, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
âYou were right,â Mr. Kang said under his breath, his voice low enough that only Yeosang caught it. âThey treat her like a stranger in her own family. Look at her mother, she smiles at me but she wonât even look at her daughter. Pathetic.â
Yeosangâs jaw clenched, his eyes flicking to you for a moment. You were fidgeting with the rings you had on, shoulders tense, trying to appear small in the crowd. He hated it. He hated that this house, these people, made you shrink yourself.
âTheyâll learn tonight,â Yeosang replied, his tone colder than ice. âYouâve always told me, never let anyone lay a hand on the woman of my family. And sheâs mine. They think they can treat her like sheâs nothing. Letâs see how they handle when the room starts whispering about them instead.â
His father chuckled, that low dangerous sound. âThatâs my son.â He straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. âIâll handle the first strike. Subtle. Sharp. Iâll make them bleed without realizing theyâre cut.â
Yeosangâs lips curved, though it wasnât a smileâit was a warning. âAnd Iâll finish it. Once we announce the company, thereâll be nothing left of his pride.â
A waiter passed, and Mr. Kang smoothly lifted a glass of champagne. He didnât drink it, simply held it as though it were a prop in his act. His eyes found your father across the room, laughing too loudly with his friends, chest puffed with fake importance.
âEnjoy your last night of dignity,â Mr. Kang murmured, almost to himself, but Yeosang heard. âBy the time weâre done, everyone in this room will know exactly what kind of man you really are.â
Yeosangâs hand brushed against yours again, this time firmer, more deliberate. You glanced up at him, confused by the look in his eyes, fierce, unyielding, protective. He didnât say a word to you, but you didnât need him to. You could feel it. Tonight, he wasnât just standing by your side. Tonight, he was fighting for you.
And the Kangs never fought to lose.
Your father stood near the center of the room, chest out, soaking in the attention of his colleagues and relatives. He thrived in this spotlight. He always had.
Mr. Kang made the first move. He stepped forward with ease, smile warm enough to seem genuine yet sharp enough to cut. Holding his champagne glass, he spoke loud enough for nearby guests to hear.
âYour daughter is precious, you know.â His voice was smooth, conversational, yet it carried. âYeosang told me how strong she had to be while living here. Not every girl can survive such⌠strict households.â
The people around them stilled. Some glanced toward you, then at your parents. Your motherâs smile faltered, the corners of her lips twitching nervously. Your fatherâs eyes flickered, just for a moment, but he covered it with a strained laugh.
âOh, you know how kids exaggerate, Mr. Kang,â he said, voice overly cheerful. âWe raised her well, didnât we?â
Yeosang, standing tall beside you, let out a low chuckle, soft but audible. It wasnât amusement, it was mockery. His arm slipped around your waist, drawing you closer into his side like he was shielding you from them all. His words cut like a blade, smooth and deliberate.
âShe doesnât exaggerate,â he said calmly. âIâve seen enough to know what sheâs been through. She deserved kindness, not⌠discipline masked as care.â
The crowdâs silence was heavy now, whispers beginning to stir like embers catching flame. Your relativesâ faces were pale, their envy earlier replaced by shock.
Your fatherâs jaw worked, his smile twitching. âYeosang-ah, donât misunderstandââ
âMisunderstand?â Yeosang interrupted, his tone still respectful yet laced with steel. âNo, I donât misunderstand. I protect whatâs mine. And when I see the woman I love flinch in her own home, when I hear sheâs been struckâŚâ His gaze sharpened, his voice lowering dangerously. âThat isnât misunderstanding. Thatâs truth.â
Your breath hitched. His words werenât shouted, yet they echoed louder than any scream could have.
Before your father could sputter out another excuse, Mr. Kang stepped forward, commanding the room with practiced authority. He clinked his glass gently, drawing all attention to himself.
âOn another note,â he began, smiling as though nothing heavy had been said, âIâd like to share something important. My company will officially be acquiring the firm your dear host here works for.â He gestured politely to your father, whose face drained of color. âI believe that makes him⌠well, my employee now.â
A ripple of gasps ran through the hall. Some guests exchanged stunned looks, others covered their mouths with their hands. Your fatherâs pride shattered right before their eyes.
Mr. Kangâs smile was razor sharp. âI do hope you all continue to support him in this new⌠position.â
Yeosang didnât gloat. He didnât need to. He simply stood tall beside you, his hand steady on your back, his expression unreadable but victorious. And for the first time in years, you werenât the one shrinking under everyoneâs gaze. It was your father.
The hall buzzed with whispers, your relativesâ envy twisting into something else entirely, fear, awe, regret. You felt your chest tighten, tears prickling at your eyes, but not from sadness this time. For once, someone had stood up for you. For once, you werenât alone.
And as the chandeliers glowed brighter, it didnât feel like your fatherâs celebration anymore.
It felt like Yeosangâs victory.
Yeosangâs grip on your hand was steady, too steady. It wasnât the kind of handhold you could slip out of, not the kind where he gave you space to hesitate. It was firm, grounded, the kind that said weâre leaving, and I wonât let you look back.
The hallâs murmurs still rang in your ears as the three of you walked out. People parted in silence, unsure whether to whisper or bow, and you could feel their stares clinging to your back. You didnât dare turn around.
Your heart twisted. Part of you wanted to breathe, wanted to smile, wanted to lean into the warmth of his hand and the comfort of finally being defended. But another part of you, the part that had been trained to obey, to fear, to seek approval, ached at the thought of leaving your father standing there in the ruins of his pride.
The cold night air hit your face before you even realized youâd stepped outside. Yeosang didnât slow, didnât falter. By the time you blinked, you were standing at the car, his father quietly instructing the driver. You hadnât even noticed the suitcases being loaded into the trunk.
Your throat went dry. When did he-?
And then, just like that, the car door was opening for you. Yeosang guided you in with that same unshakable grip, sliding in right after you. His father took the seat in front. The door shut, muffling the noise of the party, muffling your fatherâs world.
Only then did the silence crash down.
You stared at the window, watching the house fade in the distance. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your mind torn between relief and guilt, freedom and grief.
Yeosangâs hand was still over yours. Warm. Steady. He hadnât let go. Not once.
âYouâre not going back there,â he said finally, his voice quiet but absolute. âNot tonight. Not ever.â
You didnât know whether to cry or to thank him. Maybe both. But all you managed was a small nod, your fingers curling back into his, hesitant, trembling, but holding on.
The soft click of the penthouse door echoed in the quiet, and the only light spilling in was from the city skyline, gold and silver scattered like stars against the glass. The hum of the city felt so far away compared to the heavy silence between you and Yeosang.
He didnât even bother turning on the lights. Instead, he turned to you the moment the door locked behind him. His hands were on your shoulders, steady but gentle, anchoring you in place. He lowered himself just enough so his eyes caught yours, dark and unrelenting.
âYN,â he said, voice low, careful, âdonât do that.â
You blinked at him, startled. âDo what?â Your voice cracked despite you trying to make it sound even.
His grip on your shoulders tightened, firm, not harsh. âKeep it all inside. Pretend youâre fine when I know youâre not.â He searched your face like he was trying to read every thought you refused to say out loud. âI can see it. Iâm not blind. Donât hide from me.â
Your lips parted, but no words came. That familiar instinct clawed at you, to shake your head, to stay quiet, to keep the ache bottled where no one could touch it. But Yeosang wasnât letting you get away with it.
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping softer, almost a whisper now. âYou donât have to say it pretty. You donât have to explain it right. Just- say something. To me. Please.â
Your throat tightened. His eyes didnât waver, not once. He wasnât angry, wasnât demanding, it was something worse. He was begging you to let him in. And for the first time that night, you felt your chest crack open.
Your words came out like they belonged to someone much younger, someone small and fragile,
âI donât know what Iâm feeling, YeosangâŚâ
It cracked at the end, sharp and thin, and you hated how childlike you sounded. But it was the truth, the rawest thing you could give. Yeosang didnât flinch. He didnât let go. He only guided you to the couch, slow and deliberate, his hand still steady on your shoulder as if he was afraid youâd crumble if he moved too quickly.
âSit down first,â he murmured.
You obeyed, sinking into the cushions, your body heavier than you realized. But his hand never left you, it was still there, grounding, firm and warm against your shoulder. You stared at your knees, at your trembling fingers, at the floor, anywhere but him.
âItâs okay,â Yeosang said, voice like velvet over steel. âTake your time.â
That was when it slipped. One tear, hot and stubborn, slid down your cheek before you could stop it. You didnât even wipe it away. You just let it fall, your eyes slowly lifting to meet his again.
His gaze softened the moment he saw it. No mockery, no impatience. Just this unbearable tenderness, like the sight of you breaking, was breaking him, too.
You finally let it out, the words shaky and bitter, like theyâd been rotting in your chest for years.
âI feel horrible⌠like a horrible daughter.â
Your lip trembled as you forced yourself to keep speaking. âThat was his party, Yeosang. And I ruined it. For me, for us, he had toâŚâ your throat caught, âit was supposed to be a celebration, and Iââ
âYn,â Yeosangâs voice cut through, low but firm. He crouched in front of you, catching your eyes even when you tried to look away. âDonât you dare put this on yourself.â
You shook your head, whispering, âBut I feel like the worstââ
âYouâre not.â He reached up, brushing away the tear sliding down your left cheek. The gentleness of it made your chest ache even worse. Another tear slipped from your right eye, and this time, his thumb caught it before it could fall. He held your face carefully in both hands, like you were glass.
âThey were never parents to you, Yn,â he said, steady but sharp, as if each word was a truth he needed you to believe. âThey were owners. They treated you like something they could control, not someone they could love. Parents donât raise their hands on their child. Parents donât make their daughter cry herself to sleep.â
Your shoulders shook, your voice small. âThen why⌠why do I still feel guilty?â
âBecause youâve been made to feel guilty your whole life.â His thumb traced lightly across your cheek, drying the wet trail left behind. âBut listen to me, none of this is your fault. Not tonight, not ever.â
His gaze softened, his voice lowering into something almost pleading.
âYou didnât ruin his party. He ruined you. And I wonât let him, or anyone, touch you again.â
Your breath hitched when the image of your motherâs face flashed across your mind, the cold, unmoving stare she gave you as if you were nothing. It twisted in your chest, and before you could stop it, a sob broke free. You dropped your gaze, ashamed of the sound, but Yeosang didnât let you hide.
Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest. His hand threaded through your hair, slow and steady, while the other rubbed circles on your back. His voice hummed low above you, calm, protective.
âItâs okay. Cry if you need to.â His chin rested lightly against your head. âYou donât have to hold anything in with me.â
You clung to his shirt, your voice muffled against him. Another sob wracked through you, but his arms only tightened, grounding you.
âThey donât deserve your tears, Yn. Not one of them,â he whispered, stroking your hair like he was trying to smooth away every scar left behind. âYouâve carried this weight alone for too long. Let me carry it now.â
You lifted your head slowly, eyes swollen, lips trembling, and met his gaze. He looked softer than you had ever seen him. There was no sharp edge, no cool distance, just warmth. His thumb brushed your cheek again, so carefully it made your chest ache.
âYouâre safe now. With me, youâre safe,â he said, his voice barely above a whisper. âNo one can hurt you here.â
Something shifted inside you then. The safety in his arms was foreign, almost overwhelming, but it wrapped around you like a blanket youâd never had before. It felt intimate, terrifyingly so, like he was peeling back all the layers youâd built to protect yourself. And still, he didnât flinch.
For the first time in years, you let yourself lean into someone. And for the first time, it didnât feel like weakness.
His thumbs were still brushing away your tears when he suddenly froze, staring at you with an intensity that made your heart skip. He didnât know what possessed him, maybe the sight of your trembling lips, maybe the ache in your eyes, but his hands rose, cupping your face gently, like you were something fragile he couldnât let slip through his fingers.
Your lips parted slightly, pouting as if they were begging to be soothed. Without thinking, Yeosang leaned down and pressed the softest kiss against them. Just a fleeting touch. You blinked in surprise, but you were too buried in sadness to fully react.
He pulled back, searching your face, and whispered, almost as if he was testing the words on his own tongue.
âI donât know why, but I felt like you needed that.â
Before you could even process it, he kissed you again. This time slower, lingering, like he wanted you to feel it.
âYeosangâ your voice cracked, fragile.
âIâm right here, Yn,â he murmured, his forehead leaning against yours. âIâll always be here, whether youâre crying, whether youâre silent, even when you donât know what youâre feeling, Iâll stay.â
Your breath shook as more tears fell, though not all from sadness this time. He wiped them away again, his palms still warm against your cheeks.
âYou donât have to pretend around me,â he said softly. âNot strong, not perfect, not unbothered. Just⌠you. Thatâs all I want. Now do you want me to remove your makeup? Cause your mascara is going all over the place.â
A shaky little laugh slipped out of you, surprising even yourself. It wasnât loud, but it was there, soft, real, and it broke through the heaviness in the air.
His chest loosened at the sound, and his lips curved into something more genuine. âThere it is,â he whispered, almost in awe. âYouâre laughing while crying. Do you know how beautiful that is?â
You wiped the corner of your eye, still sniffling, and muttered, âThat sounds ridiculous.â
âMaybe,â he chuckled, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. âBut itâs you. And right now, Iâll take any excuse to see you smile.â
For a moment, the silence felt lighter. He exhaled slowly, still keeping his hands near your face, as if he couldnât quite let go. Then he leaned back a little, his voice calm but certain.
âItâs late. We should get ready for bed.â
He said it not as an end to the moment, but as if he was carrying you forward away from the weight of the night, and into something safer.
The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside the tall windows. The penthouse was dark, only the silver glow of the moon spilling in through the curtains. Yeosang lay on his back, one arm resting against his stomach, the other draped lazily over the sheets. It was a familiar sight, he always slept like that, still and calm, like the world couldnât touch him.
You, however, couldnât sleep. Your mind wouldnât stop turning. The images of the evening, your fatherâs expression, your motherâs silence, the weight of everything that had been said and done, kept replaying behind your eyes. But more than that, the way Yeosang had been with you. The way he held you together when you were falling apart. The way he hadnât let go once.
âYeosang?â your voice came out softer than you intended, almost childlike.
He turned his head immediately, eyes sharp even in the low light. âHm?â he hummed back, voice deep and steady, like heâd been waiting for you to call him.
You hesitated, then slowly shifted onto your side, facing him. He mirrored you without even thinking, his body turning to you, as if his instincts wouldnât let him do anything else.
For a second, you just looked at him, the relaxed set of his jaw, the way his hair was a little messy against the pillow, the quiet warmth in his eyes. And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could let the nerves crawl in, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his.
It was small, delicate. A flutter of a kiss. Barely there, but it still made your chest tighten like youâd leapt off a cliff.
When you pulled back, his eyes were wide, but not with shock, more with a kind of wonder, like he wasnât sure if he was awake or dreaming.
ââŚThank you,â you whispered, your voice cracking just slightly.
His brows softened. âFor what?â he asked quietly, almost afraid to break the fragile moment.
âFor tonight. For being here. For⌠everything,â you breathed, your eyes flickering away.
And then, almost like it slipped out of you before you could stop it, you whispered, âI love you.â
The words hung between you for only a beat before you quickly turned around, facing the other side of the bed. Your heart was pounding in your ears, your fists curled in the sheets. You didnât want to see his reaction. You didnât think you could handle it.
Yeosang just lay there frozen for a moment, staring at the dark ceiling, his mind spiraling faster than it ever had in battle. He didnât know whether to laugh, cry, or jump up and run around the entire penthouse like a lunatic. His chest felt tight, but in the best way, like his heart was too big for his body.
You. The one he had quietly, obsessively, devoted himself to. The one heâd spent months trying to read, trying to break through, trying to protect without scaring away. You, the girl who always kept her feelings locked away, who never let anyone know what was going on inside, just said you loved him.
If anyone else had said it, he wouldâve dismissed it, maybe even laughed. But from you? His wife? The girl who could barely admit when she was hurt? It was everything.
Yeosang pressed a hand over his face, trying to smother the stupid grin threatening to spread. Get a grip, man, he scolded himself, but his body wasnât listening. His stomach was a mess of nerves, his throat tight, his heart thundering like he was some lovesick teenager, not the cold, calculating Yeosang that people feared.
Butterflies. Actual butterflies. This is humiliating.
But then his eyes flicked to your back, your shoulders rising and falling as if you were trying to pretend you hadnât just dropped a bomb on him.
The second Yeosang realized you were faking sleep, something inside him twisted. He had been patient for so long, silent when you avoided, soft when you broke down, careful when you were fragile. But now? Now you had kissed him, whispered those three words that had haunted his dreams, and then had the audacity to turn away as if nothing happened.
Not on his watch.
Without warning, his arm clamped tighter around your waist. You barely had time to register before he tugged you back with such strength that the air hitched in your throat. The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he rolled you toward him, his grip unyielding, caging you against him.
âYeosang!â you gasped, startled, your hands instinctively pushing against his chest. He didnât budge. He was solid, immovable, like marble brought to life. His dark eyes locked on you, sharp and burning, and the look on his face made your protest die in your throat.
âNo.â His voice was low, firm, but there was fire simmering beneath it. âThatâs not how itâs gonna be.â His hand at your waist tightened, pulling you impossibly closer until you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your palm. âYou canât just kiss me, drop that on me, and then run away. No, YN. Not tonight.â
Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You were trapped, not by force, but by the sheer weight of him. By the intensity in his gaze. By how he looked at you like you were the only thing in his universe.
He leaned in, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice a demanding whisper. âLook at me. Say it to my face. If youâre gonna love me, then donât you dare hide it behind your back.â
Your heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt. His words werenât cruel, but they shook you to your core, cracking the walls youâd built. You could feel his fingers at your side, strong and steady, like he was anchoring you in place, refusing to let you escape not this time.
âYeosangâŚâ your voice cracked, small and trembling.
He softened for only a second, his thumb brushing gently against your side, but his eyes never wavered. âSay it.â
You wanted to bury your face, to hide like you always did, but his grip wouldnât let you. And maybeâ maybe that was exactly what you needed. His strength wasnât a prison, it was a reminder that someone, finally, wanted you to stop running.
âI-â You hesitated, the lump in your throat making it nearly impossible. But his gaze, unrelenting yet patient, drew the truth out of you. ââŚI love you, Yeosang.â
The moment the words slipped from your lips a second time, clear, certain, undeniable, Yeosang couldnât hold himself back anymore. His arms wrapped around you with a force that knocked the breath right out of you, pulling you into him so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse you together.
You froze, startled by the sudden intensity, but then you heard him. His voice was muffled against your chest, raw and unguarded in a way you had never heard before.
âYou have no idea,â he whispered, his words trembling with emotion, âyou have no idea how much that means to me.â
Your hand, almost on instinct, found its way to the back of his head. His soft dark hair tickled your fingers as you cradled him close, your palm resting against him like you were afraid heâd disappear if you let go. He pressed his face harder against your chest, almost desperate, as if trying to drown in the sound of your heartbeat.
And you, you didnât expect to feel it. That sudden warmth blooming in your chest, spreading through your veins like sunlight breaking into a dark room. Happiness. Pure, unexplainable, bone-deep happiness.
You didnât know why it felt so overwhelming, but it did. Maybe because for the first time, the weight you had been carrying alone didnât feel so heavy. Maybe because the walls you had built werenât protecting you anymore, they were finally coming down. Or maybe because the man everyone else feared was clinging to you like you were his entire world.
Slowly, tenderly, you wrapped both arms around his head, holding him as if you could shield him from everything. His breath hitched against you, and you felt his shoulders loosen, the tension he always carried melting away in your embrace.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world outside the bed didnât exist,the creak of the ship, the salt of the sea, the dangers waiting in every corner, none of it mattered. It was just you, him, and this fragile, breathtaking truth between you.
It felt like the beginning of something new. A chapter neither of you had dared to dream of, now written in the quiet safety of a shared embrace.
And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe it, this was the start of your life with him.
General Taglist: @jujusreader @nkryuki @lover-ofallthingspretty @xh01bri @chinsun16
Warnings: forced marriage, slow ahh burn, emotional abuse, stalking, jealousy, implied violence, insecurity, yeosang is THE husband, we all want him
AN: Ok so happy belated birthday to my boy yeosang. The most prettiest, angelic mf I've ever seen. Like how can a man be so pretty and handsome at the same damn time. Also this was kinda like a prompt but I can't for the love of god find the comment. But you know who you are, thank you
Part 2 | Masterlist
âIâm not doing it.â
The words left your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and fast, cutting across the heavy air in the room like a blade. The study smelled like old leather and wood polish, the same way it always did when your father called you in for his lectures. But this wasnât a lecture. This was something else. He sat behind that heavy desk, wearing the same expression he always wore when he made decisions for other peopleâs livesâ calm, practiced, untouchable.
âThis isnât a request,â he answered, barely sparing you a glance. âItâs a responsibility.â
You couldâve laughed. Honestly, you almost did. Responsibility. That word sounded hilarious coming out of his mouth. What did he know about responsibility? The only thing he was responsible for was dragging this family name around town like it was some royal crest, acting like being respected by neighbors counted for anything real in the world.
âYou donât get to sell me off like Iâm aââ
âEnough.â
Just that one word. Quiet. Heavy. And somehow louder than your shouting could ever be. Your mother was standing near the window, arms folded like she was cold even though the room was warm. She didnât speak. She never did, not in front of him. Just stood there looking outside, twisting her rings like she could disappear into the carpet if she tried hard enough. You hated that you werenât even surprised.
âThis marriage will benefit this family,â your father continued, smoothing his sleeves like this was some business meeting. âWeâve built this name for generations. And you will protect it.â
You clenched your fists tighter, nails biting into your palms. âYour reputation doesnât mean anything outside this stupid town.â
It slipped before you could stop it, but you didnât regret it. You meant it. All these formal dinners, these family events, these endless talks about legacyâ all of it felt empty. Like a dying empire pretending it was still a kingdom.
âThis family has survived longer than youâve been alive,â your father shot back, finally meeting your gaze with steel in his eyes. âAnd youâll do your part to make sure it stays that way.â
You could feel the walls closing in. You could feel your freedom shrinking, curling in on itself, suffocating before you could even scream.
âKang Yeosang.â
The name hit you like a slap. Sharp. Direct. Cold. You knew that name. Everyone did. Not because he was some loud, reckless criminalâno, worse than that. He was dangerous in a way that didnât make noise. Dangerous in the way silent oceans are. You donât notice how deep they are until youâre already halfway sunk.
âWhy him?â you asked, throat dry.
Your father barely blinked. âBecause his familyâs name will keep ours alive.â
Alive. Like this was survival. Like marrying you off to someone you didnât even know was a favor. Like it was a gift. You hated how calm he was about it. You hated how your mother still hadnât said a single word. You hated how small you felt in that moment, standing in a house you used to believe was home.
âIâm not going to his house,â you muttered finally, stubbornness flaring even when your heart was hammering in your chest. âYou can make me marry him, but Iâm not moving in with someâ some stranger.â
For a second, you thought maybeâjust maybeâthat would get a reaction. That something in him would soften, crack, break.
It didnât.
Instead, he stood. Calm. Slow. Adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with careful precision, like he was bored of the conversation already. âYou will,â he said softly. âYouâll go to his house, youâll be his wife, and youâll do whatâs expected of you.â âAnd if I donât?â you pushed, lifting your chin like you werenât breaking inside.
His gaze sharpened just enough for the threat underneath to show, sharp and cold as glass. âThen Iâll handle it my way.â
You knew what his way meant. Not blood. Not mafia violence. But ruin. Reputation torn apart. Family turned against you. Friends pushed away. He knew how to break you the polite way, the respectable way. Quiet destruction in the form of shame.
You swallowed thick, hot air that didnât want to go down.
âI hate you,â you breathed.
But your father was already walking away, steps quiet against the polished floor.
âI can live with that.â
Your throat burned with all the things you wanted to scream, but only one thing came out. âWhat about my studies?â
It sounded small. Weak. But it was the only lifeline you could grab onto in that moment. Something that was yours. The one thing you had left that wasnât part of their family dinners, or reputation games, or polite handshakes pretending to be alliances.
University was supposed to be your escape. Not glamorous. Not perfect. But it was freedom in its own, small wayâearly mornings, long commutes, paper deadlines, friends who didnât care about who your father was.
Your father barely reacted.
âYou can continue after the wedding,â he answered flatly, as if you were asking if you could have dessert after dinner.
You stared at him. âAfter?â
âYes. Youâll still attend.â
But you knew what that meant. You knew the weight behind those words. After the wedding. After moving into a strangerâs house. After taking his last name. After your life wasnât yours anymore. Technically, sureâyou could go back. Physically, you could sit in the same classrooms, scribble in the same notebooks. But it wouldnât be the same. Not with whispers curling behind your back. Not with people watching you like you were an exhibit. âThatâs herâthe girl who married into them.â
It would hang on you like invisible chains. Dragging behind you everywhere you went.
And worst of allâyou wouldnât be able to come home. Not really. Not to this family. Not to your old life. Youâd have a new last name, a new house, a new set of rules written by someone elseâs hand.
The walls of the study felt like they were closing in.
âI donât want this,â you said, quieter this time. No yelling. Just raw honesty, like a last ditch effort to claw your way out. âThis isnât my life.â
Your father looked at you the same way he looked at accounts on paper. Math. Numbers. Problems to solve, not feelings to fix.
âIt is now.â
Simple. Unforgiving. Final.
You could almost feel the weight of your choices shrinking down to nothing. Every dream you used to picture folded neatly into a little box, pushed aside for family names and legacy dinners with strangers in pressed suits. Your stomach twisted. Hot. Cold. Rage and panic mixing together until you couldnât tell which was worse.
You wanted to shout, wanted to break something, wanted to drag this perfect little empire down brick by brick just to prove you couldâbut you stood there frozen, fists clenched, staring at a man who would never, ever see you as anything but his tool first.
Come to the house.â
âNow?â
âNow.â
Yeosang sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. âAlright. Be there in twenty.â
It wasnât unusualâgetting called over like this. His father didnât waste words, didnât waste visits. If he was calling, it meant something needed handling.
By the time he got to the mansion, the gates were already open like they always were when they expected him. The house was quiet, the same way expensive places areâgrand, but not loud about it. Just old money tastefully sitting in every piece of polished wood.
His father was already in the study when Yeosang stepped inside, standing by the window, one hand in his pocket like it was muscle memory by now. Glass of whiskey in the other. Of course.
âYouâre early,â his father said without turning around.
âYou said now.â
His father finally looked over, gave him that familiar once-over like he was assessing a report. âFair enough.â
There was a beat of silence. Not tense. Just quiet.
Thenâ
âThereâs going to be a wedding.â
Yeosang blinked once. âYours?â
His father gave him a flat look, one eyebrow raising the way it always did when Yeosang was being difficult on purpose. âYours.â
Yeosang huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, stepping further into the room. âThat supposed to be funny?â
His father didnât smile. âIâm serious.â
Yeosang stood still for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. âIs that what you dragged me here for? Couldâve sent a text.â
âThis isnât a text conversation.â
âYouâd be surprised what can be said over text these days.â
That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his fatherâs mouth. Approval, maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell with him.
âItâs arranged,â his father said, cutting through Yeosangâs deflection cleanly. âHer familyâs name still matters in this town. Not rich, not influential in our way, but solid. Traditional. The kind of people who care about reputation more than their own comfort.â
Yeosang tilted his head slightly. âSo⌠charity work?â
âStrategy,â his father corrected smoothly. âThey need stability. We donât need much from them, but it keeps everything clean.â
âClean,â Yeosang repeated under his breath. He crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. âAnd Iâm guessing I donât get a vote?â
âYou get an understanding. Thatâs enough.â
Yeosang didnât argue. Not because he agreed, but because he knew there was no point. This was how it worked. Give and take. Favors. Names. Quiet deals behind closed doors.
He exhaled through his nose. âWho is she?â
âY/L/Nâs daughter.â
Yeosangâs brow ticked. âDidnât know they had one.â
âNot surprising. They keep her out of sight. Books, classes, family dinners. But they need her to secure their name before it fades.â
Yeosang thought about that for a second. Reputation marriages were common enough. Boring, mostly. People shaking hands over other peopleâs futures like it was stock trading.
âYouâve met her?â he asked.
âBriefly. Enough to know sheâs going to fight it.â
âGreat.â
His father glanced at him then, sharp. âNot your job to like it. Just your job to make it work.â
âI didnât say I wouldnât,â Yeosang muttered, rolling his jaw. âIâm just saying⌠if sheâs gonna be difficult, itâs gonna be annoying.â
His fatherâs gaze didnât soften, but there was a certain understanding there. âYouâll handle it.â
Yeosang let out a dry chuckle. âYeah,â he said, pushing off the doorframe. âGuess I will.â
As he turned to leave, his father added quietly, âThis isnât punishment.â
âI know.â
And he did. This was just how things worked. Fair or notâhis life wasnât completely his own anymore. Yeosang sat behind the wheel, thumb tapping against the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. Headlights cutting clean lines through the dark street, smooth turns, muscle memory driving him home while his mind drifted elsewhere.
Marriage. Arranged.
He scoffed quietly to himself, shaking his head once. What was he supposed to do with someone elseâs family name attached to his life?
Some sheltered daughter of a traditional family, probably the kind who spent too much money on handbags and complained when the AC wasnât cold enough. He could already hear the whining. Could already see the way sheâd expect to live in his place, treat it like a hotel, float through his routine like an expensive perfume he didnât ask to wear.
No, that wasnât happening.
Maybe heâd buy her an apartment somewhere else. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. They could do the whole photo ops thing, wear the rings, play nice for the public, then go back to separate lives. Paper marriage. Clean. Or worseâshe could be one of those girls who latched on for money. Gold digger. Probably already imagining his credit cards with her initials on the back.
He pressed his tongue to his cheek in irritation. God, he hated gold diggers.
Maybe sheâd show up to the first meeting with some designer bag acting shy, but batting lashes like she knew exactly how to play the game. All wide eyes and fake humility. Great. Just what he neededâanother headache in heels.
And the nameâYN.
It felt familiar. Couldnât place it, but the reputation was old enough to echo through town. Traditional. Reputed. The type of family that prided themselves on manners but ate each other alive behind closed doors.
The kind that smiled with their teeth.
He drummed his fingers once more, sharp taps on the leather, jaw set.
Alright.
If he was going to be stuck with this arrangement, he might as well know what he was dealing with. And he wasnât about to walk into it blind. He had resources. Skills. Connections that didnât come from LinkedIn profiles or polite family dinners. If they thought he was going to just sit back and play along without checking her first, they clearly didnât know him well enough.
Fine. If she was going to be part of his life, even on paper, heâd find out exactly who she wasâbefore she even stepped in the same room as him.
He flicked his blinker, turning toward his penthouse, already thinking about who to call first.
Letâs see what Miss YN was hiding.
By the time Yeosang finished, he knew more about her than her own family probably did.
Universityâsmall, local, nothing flashy. Biology major. Not exactly the typical rich family trophy daughter. No branded handbags, no influencer lifestyle. Her socials were barely active. Private, even. Most of her posts were old, nothing more than the occasional picture of a sunset or food she cooked. No thirst traps. No fake aesthetic feeds.
She liked drawing. Had an old art account that hadnât been touched in monthsâmessy sketches of flowers and animals, all pencil or black ink. Crochet too. Random photos of half-finished scarves stuffed in a drawer. Cookingâsimple recipes, home stuff, not the kind of thing you post to show off, just to remember.
Her friends? A few from university. Small group chats. Normal conversations. Mostly about classes, complaining about assignments, nothing interesting. No clubbing pictures. No vacation shots with secret boyfriends tagged under fake accounts.
The further he dug, the more it annoyed himânot because he found anything bad, but because he didnât. No scandals, no secret plans to social climb, no hidden motives that screamed gold digger or spoiled brat.
She was just⌠boring.
Boring in the way people are when theyâre not trying to be noticed. And for some reason, that irritated him more than if she had been a problem.
Yeosang leaned back in his chair, tossing his phone on the table. Elbow propped on the armrest, hand running through his hair, frustration curling at the edges of his jaw.
Great. Now he was stuck marrying some quiet, awkward, crochet-making biology nerd who probably spent more time reading textbooks than thinking about designer clothes. Not exactly the chaos he was expecting.
But that was fine.
Boring or not, it didnât change the situation. Didnât change the fact that she probably didnât want this marriage any more than he did. Didnât change the fact that, like it or not, she was about to become his problem.
The small cafe tucked between two old bookstores smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, the kind of place youâd miss unless you were looking for it. Y/N liked it that wayâquiet, steady, familiar. No loud music, no influencers with tripods. Just people who liked good coffee and minding their own business.
She stepped up to the counter, eyes scanning the pastries before glancing at the girl behind the register. âI love your hair,â she said softly, a small smile pulling at her lips. âThat color looks really good on you.â The girl blinked, caught off guard, then smiled wide. âOh! Thank youâI just dyed it last week.â
Y/N nodded, pleased. Compliments were easy. They made people softer. And the girl was pretty, her pastel blue curls tucked behind her ear like she wasnât sure yet if she liked them. Little things like that made the world feel less sharp.
She ordered her coffee, tucked herself into the corner seat like she always did, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Pages filled with messy diagrams, doodles in the margins, recipes scrawled sideways between molecular structures.
What she didnât noticeâwhat no one noticedâwas the man sitting at the table near the window, fingers idly circling the rim of his untouched cup, black baseball cap low over his brow.
Yeosang watched all of it with that same steady, unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. He wasnât even sure why he was there. Habit, maybe. Curiosity. Boredom. The fact that the more he found out about her, the more it didnât add up with what he expected. Normal girls didnât compliment strangers just because. Normal girlsâespecially daughters of families clawing for reputationâwere supposed to be fake polite. Smile, nod, move on. But she meant it. He could tell. You didnât fake that kind of tone.
He watched the way she curled into herself, scribbling in that notebook like the rest of the world didnât exist, lips pressed into a soft frown of concentration.
Just a quiet girl who looked like she was holding herself together with coffee and stubbornness.
Yeosang leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, jaw ticking once. This was going to be annoying in a completely different way. Y/N didnât notice him when she left.
He watched her go, watched the way she shrugged her bag higher onto her shoulder, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a little ink stain on her wrist from writing earlier. She moved like someone used to being unnoticed, like she liked it that way. The door chimed behind her, soft and forgettable.
Yeosang waited a beat, then stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he stepped out onto the street. He wasnât planning to follow her. Not really. That wasnât his thing. He wasnât the lurking type. But something about the whole thing felt unfinishedâlike heâd walked into a movie halfway through and now he needed to know how it ended, even if it was boring. Especially because it was boring.
She turned down one of the smaller streets, familiar paths clearly mapped in her head. She didnât hesitate. Not once. Like sheâd walked this way so many times her feet didnât need permission anymore.
Normal. PredictableâŚ.Except for the part where, in a few weeks, her life wouldnât be.
That was the thing gnawing at the edge of his mind. She didnât know yet. Not fully. Probably knew about the arrangement, sure, but she didnât know what marrying into his family meant. What marrying him meant. She looked like she still had hope things would be fine. Like she still thought she could negotiate her way out of it if she used the right tone with her father.
Cute.
He wasnât cruel. He wasnât the type to tear down someone just because he could. But he wasnât about to let someone walk into his life acting like it was optional.
This marriage was happening. She was going to be his. And the sooner she realized that, the easier it was going to be for both of them.
Yeosang sighed, pulling his cap lower as he turned the opposite direction, heading back toward his car. No point in being seen. Not yet. Heâd play it properly, like he always didâlet the introductions happen the way their fathers arranged, act like this was his first time seeing her. Civil. Normal.
For now, she could keep her quiet cafes and notebooks full of diagrams.
Soon enough, sheâd be sitting across from him at a dinner table pretending she wasnât thinking about escape routes.
And when that time cameâ
Heâd enjoy watching the fight leave her eyes when she realized there werenât any.
The dining room was too polished. Everything in it felt like it belonged in a magazineâheavy chairs, polished forks, crystal glasses that didnât belong to people who used them often. It smelled faintly like expensive old wood and control.
Y/N sat straight, shoulders set, jaw locked like sheâd been preparing for this her entire life. Polite daughter. Obedient. Chin slightly tilted upânot too much to look rude, just enough to show she wasnât going to shatter on command.
Across the table, Yeosang sat with his elbow resting lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping slow against the tablecloth. His gaze was on her, not in the obvious way, not wide-eyed or curiousâmore like someone reading a file they already memorized but going over it again for fun.
âSo,â his father started, formal tone sharp around the edges, âthis is long overdue.â
Her father chuckled lightly, already halfway sunk into the leather chair like this was a golf meeting. âWeâve been meaning to sit down properly.â
Yeosang barely blinked. âMm.â
Y/N didnât look at him at first. Her eyes were trained on her plate, expression soft but unreadable, like sheâd pulled politeness over herself like armor. When she finally did glance at him, it wasnât shyâit was calculated. Brave. Probably spent the last week practicing it in the mirror.
Didnât matter.
He knew everything already. Biology major. Draws on the side. Probably keeps her yarn stuffed in a drawer somewhere in that tiny bedroom of hers. Ordinary, and for some reason, that irritated him more than anything else could have.
Their parents carried the conversation like businessmen. Deals, family names, subtle remarks about strengthening ties. It wasnât a dinnerâit was a contract, disguised in roast chicken and overpriced wine.
Yeosangâs eyes didnât leave her.
Y/N shifted her grip on the napkin under the table, folding it tighter in her palm. Eyes stayed lowânot on purpose, not because she was scaredâbut because eye contact always felt like permission for people to ask more questions. And she wasnât in the mood to explain herself to anyone at that table.
Yeosang sat across from her, speaking with her father like he wasnât being sized up for marriage. Confident. Comfortable in a room full of expectations. His voice was steady, like someone used to being listened to, used to having the final word in a conversation. The kind of steady that didnât need raising.
His father said something about ties between families. Her father hummed in agreement. Someone poured more wine. The edge of Yeosangâs gaze cut toward her briefly. He didnât stare. Just checked. Like someone glancing at a watch to see how much longer they had to stay.
âSo,â his voice finally reached her side of the table, low, smooth, without decoration, âbiology.â
Her fork hovered, not quite raised, not quite lowered. âYeah.â
He waited. No explanation followed. No polite rambling about how she got into it, what she wanted to do with it, how hard it was balancing studies with life. Just that quiet confirmation, like she wasnât going to give him more than that unless dragged.
Something about that pulled a faint curve to the corner of his mouthânot a smile, not even close, just interest. Her fingers folded the napkin tighter.
âYou gonna finish that?â he asked, eyes flicking to the untouched half of roasted potatoes on her plate.
Finally, her eyes met his. Not soft, not flirtyâflat. Careful. âDo you want it?â
He shrugged once. âDidnât think you were shy about eating.â âIâm not.â
He raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. âGood.â
Silence again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just two people used to not needing to fill it. Her father started speaking about how she could continue studying after marriage, casual, like saying weâll paint the guest room next week. She didnât bother correcting him, though the heaviness in her chest said she wanted to. No way it would actually work that easily.
She didnât say anything else for the rest of the meal. Yeosang didnât, either.
He just watched her, like a lion watching something smallânot because he wanted to pounce, but because he was curious if it was going to run. Neither of them moved first.
Yeosang watched the way her fingers kept folding the napkin tighter and tighter, like if she could just make it small enough, she could disappear into it. But her expression didnât match the tension in her hands. She didnât look flustered. Didnât look desperate. Just⌠controlled. Like someone whoâd been living with locked doors their whole life and knew better than to jiggle the handle too loud. Interesting.
âDo you usually not talk,â he murmured, cutting into the silence, âor is that just for me?â
The faintest breath of humor pulled at her nose before she could stop it. âDepends.â
âOn?â
She let her gaze flick upânot to his eyes, just above them. âWhether or not the person across from me deserves it.â His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a second, he almost laughed. Almost. This wasnât what he expected. Spoiled daughters didnât sit at tables folding napkins into perfect squares like they were holding knives in their laps.
And she didnât look at him properly, not even once. Not because she was scared. Because she didnât care. But she would.
Not in the way girls cared about him normally. Not wide-eyed or hopeful. No, she was going to care when she realized exactly how much of her life was about to be decided for her whether she folded napkins or full pages of essays. And the funny thing wasâhe didnât want to break her. He just wanted to watch how long she could hold that line before she blinked first.
After the dinner dragged itself to its dull, polished conclusion, with the adults shaking hands over dessert like theyâd just signed a treaty, Yeosang leaned back in his chair, elbow resting against the polished wood, fingertips brushing his jaw like he was thinking something over. And maybe he was. But the look in his eyes said this was calculated.
âSo,â he said casually, but with the kind of weight that immediately drew the attention of both families, âhow about next Thursday?â
The words dropped into the space between them with a deliberate softness, like a stone hitting still water. No one moved. His father raised a brow slightly, clearly pleased with the display of initiative. Her father smiled, the kind of smile fathers wear when they think their daughterâs life is finally falling in line. And Y/NâY/N kept her fingers on the edge of her plate, eyes flickering up to Yeosang, finally, properly, but only for a second.
âThursday?â she echoed, like she needed to make sure she heard him right, even though she absolutely had.
He nodded once, slow, composed. âNext week. Youâll be free, wonât you?â
It wasnât a question. Not really. Not with the way every eye at that table turned toward her, expectant, waiting for her to be agreeable. Marriage was already settled like property; a casual dinner date wasnât going to shake the foundation of that, but somehow, this felt worse.
Her jaw tensed before she could stop it, irritation curling hot under her ribsânot because she didnât expect him to test her, but because he chose Thursday. Her only weekday off. Her only breathing space. Her only time where nobody expected her to be anything, say anything, do anything. She studied late on Thursdays, sometimes sat in the library doing nothing but scribbling messy notes on scrap paper that didnât mean anything, just because she could. And now he was looking at her like he knew that. Like heâd planned that.
âI suppose,â she muttered, voice clipped, polite, lined with quiet annoyance that no one but him seemed sharp enough to hear. âSince youâve already picked the day for me.â
Their fathers chuckled, pleased at the display of future marital bliss like they were in on some great joke. His father gave him that approving glanceâthe good, take responsibility look that was passed between powerful men in rooms like this. But Yeosang wasnât watching anyone else. Just her. Measuring. Testing. Curious how far she could fold before snapping.
âYouâll like it,â he said simply. No tease. No apology. No smile.
She didnât respond. Just folded the napkin in her lap one more time before setting it neatly on the table like she was handling something fragile. She didnât look at him again, not because she was shy, but because she knew better. If she did, itâd feel like she was giving him something.
And right now, she wasnât in the mood to give him anything. But she was curious now. Why Thursday?
Yeosang saw everything. He wasnât sitting there with that calm posture and steady gaze for showâhe was trained for this, raised on discipline sharper than any blade, molded under the expectation that one day he would carry the weight of something much heavier than family name. He was observant. Always. And while everyone at that table was busy patting each otherâs backs over the success of an arranged marriage neither party asked for, Yeosang was watching her like a map he was learning by memory.
It was the way she folded the napkinânot once, not twice, but over and over. Each time, pressing it smaller, sharper, tucking corners like she wanted it neat but not too neat, controlled but never pristine. People who folded things that many times werenât trying to fidgetâthey were trying to manage something they couldnât put words to. Heâd seen it in tense meetings, watched rival leaders smooth the edges of cufflinks or touch their watches repeatedly when they were hiding nerves or holding in words they couldnât say aloud.
And she didnât even realize she was doing it.
But that wasnât the only thing. He caught the tiny shifts in her posture whenever her parents leaned too close, a subtle lean awayânot disrespectful, not obvious, just barely enough to create distance like muscle memory. She didnât flinch. She didnât recoil. She managed it. As if that small separation was the only thing keeping her breathing steadily through this whole suffocating display of family pride.
Then there was her food. The careful way she pushed it around her plate, not because she was picky or entitled, but because eating under watchful eyes wasnât the same as eating alone. Separating textures, shapes, colors, almost like categorizing parts of herself she wasnât ready to share yet. It wasnât disinterestâit was control. She was being studied, so she gave them nothing. Not even in the way she chewed.
Most people didnât notice these things. Hell, most people didnât even know they did them. But Yeosang saw it all like someone reading subtitles under a movie no one else could hear. And with every fold of that napkin, with every subtle lean of her shoulder, with every glance that never quite met anyone elseâs fully, he knew one thing for certainâ
She was no ordinary girl.
No spoiled daughter. No meek little thing waiting for a husband to save her from some sheltered life. There was something under that careful silence, something sharp, something waiting. Not the loud kind of defianceâbut the quiet kind that made revolutions possible if left alone too long.
Yeosang didnât know what that thing was yet. But he wanted to. Not to break her. Not to tame her. Not even to get under her skin. He just wanted to see what would happen if someone finally pressed back. And he was more than prepared to be that someone.
But he was no saint, either. Sure, Yeosang was observant. Sure, he was sharp, disciplined, raised on a steady diet of politics, violence, and strategyâbut he was also his fatherâs son. And that bloodline came with one very particular curse: the chronic, unrelenting need to poke at things just to see what sound they made when they cracked. It wasnât malicious. It wasnât even personal. It was just in his bones.
And sheâsitting there with her neat napkin folding and careful glances and that stubborn refusal to give him anythingâwas basically gift-wrapped for that exact kind of cruelty.
Admit it. He was intrigued by her, sure. But more than that, there was an itch under his skin when he looked at her, this annoying, bratty curiosity that made him want to press buttons just to see what sheâd do. Not because he wanted to humiliate her. Not because he wanted to watch her fall apart. No, it was because she didnât flinch. And that was interesting. Different. Everyone flinched eventuallyâbut she just⌠adjusted.
And she looked cute annoyed.
Not the whiny, spoiled kind of cute. Not the bratty, helpless kind. The kind of cute that made him want to lean closer, just to see if her voice would crack the same way her napkin did under her fingers.
He shouldnât care. He shouldnât even be here, technically, wasting brainpower on reading into a girl he was being forced to marry by family names he didnât even particularly respect. But here he was, running mental diagnostics on someoneâs napkin folding like it was part of a case file, and liking it more than he should.
And if he was going to be dragged into this circus of arranged happiness, he might as well have fun while he was at it.
Testing her? It wasnât just strategy anymore. It was entertainment. Annoying her? That was just hereditary.
She really didnât want to go.
Likeâborderline, jump-off-the-balcony level of not wanting to go. Not because she thought it would fix anything, not because she was dramatic, but because the sheer dread of giving up the one day that belonged to her made her stomach twist. It was Thursday. Thursday was hers. Her one breath in a week full of held ones. Her one clean, unclaimed square of time where no one asked her to smile, or marry, or fold herself into something palatable.
But she didnât jump, because that wasnât how good girls act.
Her motherâs voice echoed in the bathroom as she brushed mascara through her lashes. âBe agreeable, Y/N. Donât embarrass us. Youâre not going to be one of those girls with tantrums and police reports. Youâre better than that.â
Better. Whatever that meant.
So she got dressed. Pulled on clothes that said I didnât try but I still look good because if she was going to be dragged into this, she was going to do it on her terms. She tied her shoes like she was tightening a tether around her own ankles. Did her makeupânot too much, not too little, just enough to look alive, to hide the exhaustion that simmered under polite nods and family dinners.
And when she finally looked at herself in the mirror, it wasnât vanity staring back. It was survival. Thursday. Her Thursday. And now she was about to spend it across from him.
That annoying Yeosang with his sharp eyes and careful words, with his Iâm watching you energy and the quiet smugness that didnât need smiles or stupid flirting to make itself known. She could already hear his voice in her head, perfectly even, perfectly annoying.
And yetâshe still tied her hair the way she liked it. Still put on her favorite necklace. Not for him. For herself. Because if she was going to war, she might as well wear armor.
She went down the stairs like muscle memory, footsteps light but steady, not really registering anything around her. Her parents said somethingâmaybe a wish, maybe a warning, maybe one of those sugary âbe goodâ reminders her mother loved so much. But it was all white noise, just the hum of life happening in the background of a mind that was already somewhere else entirely.
She didnât ignore them on purpose. She was just zoned out. The kind of zoned out where you donât even realize your keys are already in your hand, or that you locked the door behind you without thinking about it. Automatic. Like when youâre walking to class with music on and suddenly youâre already at the building, but you donât remember crossing the street.
She didnât remember leaving the front door. Didnât remember if sheâd even said goodbye, or if her mom had tried to fix the fold of her sleeve one last time like she always did. And she definitely didnât see him until she stepped out onto the pavement and felt him.
Thereâs a specific kind of awareness that happens when someoneâs eyes are already on you before youâve noticed them. Like a silent tap on the shoulder. She glanced upâ
âand there he was.
Leaning back comfortably in the driverâs seat of a sleek black car, windows down just enough to catch the breeze, one hand draped over the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. Rap music playing in the background, not quiet but not obnoxiously loud. And that expressionânot quite a smile, definitely not a grin, just that irritating curve of satisfaction people wore when theyâd predicted something exactly right. Smug wasnât even the word for it. It was too clean. Too Yeosang. Of course he was already here.
Of course he was watching her like he knew she wouldnât have noticed him until now. She blinked once, slow, lips pressed in a thin line, and then kept walking. Didnât acknowledge him, didnât offer a greeting, just moved like she was late for something even though she wasnât.
He leaned slightly forward as she approached, tapping his fingers once against the steering wheel, eyes glinting with that silent, irritating amusement.
You walked towards the car, your steps slower than usual, annoyance bubbling up at the sight of him sitting there, looking far too comfortable. You crossed your arms and leaned slightly against the door, giving him a flat look.
âI wasnât aware you were picking me up,â you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. It came out a little sharper than intended, but you couldn't help it. This whole thing felt off, like you were being dragged into a game that you hadnât agreed to play.
Yeosang just looked at you with that annoying, cocky expression, the one that always made your blood boil, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, you should've been. Itâs not like you had many options."
You felt a flicker of irritation, but it quickly settled into a calm mask. You werenât about to give him the satisfaction of showing how much he got under your skin. Moving towards the backdoor, you reached for the handle, ready to slide in and get this over with.
Before you could even touch it, the car locked with a loud click.
You froze.
What the hell?
You looked up at him, surprised. He just sat there, still with that casual air, his eyes gleaming as if he was waiting for a reaction.
âExcuse me?â you said, narrowing your eyes.
Without missing a beat, he simply pointed to the passenger seat with an almost lazy gesture. "Sit there."
You blinked at him. You were about to say somethingâprobably something rudeâbut you stopped yourself. There was no way you were going to let him mess with you like this. Still, you didnât argue. You didn't have the energy to fight him over something so trivial. The car door opened with a quick swipe, and you slid in, your gaze still sharp but subdued.
Yeosang didnât speak again as you buckled your seatbelt, his attention shifting to the road as he put the car in drive. The silence between you felt heavy, but you couldnât bring yourself to break it. It was better this way. Better not to engage, better to keep things surface-level.
The ride was awkward. Well, for you, at least. Yeosang didnât seem to feel it. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear, like he was driving down to the beach with friends and not chauffeuring his future wife to some forced date neither of you wanted.
But you sat there, arms crossed, eyes out the window, chewing the inside of your cheek. And then it hit you. Wait. Is that Kendrick Lamarâs Reincarnated playing?
You blinked, eyes flickering toward the dashboard like you could confirm it with just a glance at the stereo. The beat was unmistakable, that heavy bass, sharp snare, and those layered vocals riding smooth over the instrumental. Of all the people to be playing Kendrick Lamar at full volumeâit had to be him.
The irritation in your chest shifted slightly, replaced by something⌠warmer. Familiar. For a secondâjust a secondâyou forgot you were on your way to spend your Thursday afternoon with the most annoying man alive. You knew this song. Knew it.
Mentally, you started mouthing the lyrics in your head, matching every bar, every breath, every sharp flip of cadence like muscle memory. Word to word. Clean. Like second skin. It wasnât loud in your expression, but your mind was in full concert mode, rapping like youâd been waiting for this exact song to save you from the awkwardness.
And for the first time since you sat in that car, you didnât feel bored.
Without even realizing it, your fingers had started tapping against your thigh, following the beat with this natural kind of ease that only happens when something feels right. The awkwardness melted just slightlyânot completely, but enough that you didnât feel like throwing yourself out of the moving car anymore.
But thenâ
The song ended, and before you could even mourn the silenceâanother Kendrick song started playing. Different album. Same vibe. Same unmistakable energy. You frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the stereo now like it had betrayed you. Two Kendrick songs in a row? Coincidence?
You sat there for a second, staring ahead, lips pressing into a thin line as your brain worked overtime. Sure, it couldâve been a coincidence. Everyone liked Kendrick, right? But this felt⌠deliberate. Like someone had put it on a playlist. Was he doing it on purpose? Is he a fan too?
You glanced at him, cautious, like you didnât want to give him the satisfaction of catching you interestedâbut curiosity was starting to override irritation. He was just driving like usual, one hand lazily adjusting the volume like it was background noise to him. But something about how casual he looked felt rehearsed.
It didnât sit right with you. Couldâve been random. Couldâve been a setup. Or⌠couldâve been both. But either way, you werenât about to ask first. Nope. Not happening.
You just leaned back against the seat, eyes steady out the window, tapping your fingers again, this time not just because of the beatâbut because you were thinking.
Yeosang was way too pleased with himself.
Not that he showed it outwardlyâno smug grin, no teasing comments just yetâbut inside? Yeah. He was damn near proud. Everything was going exactly how he wanted. Calculated. Controlled. Planned with the kind of precision that came from years of watching, learning, and franklyâbeing too damn good at reading people.
He knew everything he needed to know about you. Hellâhe probably knew more about you than you did. He knew Thursday was your free day. Knew how you carved it out for yourself like it was holy ground. Thatâs exactly why he chose today to drag you out. Not because he wanted to ruin it. Noâbecause it would be the one thing you couldnât say no to. Youâd either have to cancel your only peace of the week or face himâand he knew youâd pick facing him. Pride. Predictable.
He knew you didnât like going outânot with family, not with friends, barely even by yourself. So, he came to you. Made it easy. Familiar car. Private. No excuses to back out last minute because âI didnât feel like taking a cabâ or âthe bus was crowdedâ. Nah. He had you cornered, comfortably.
And the music? That wasnât a coincidence, either. Heâd seen the playlist. Hell, heâd memorized the damn playlist. Kendrick Lamar was your favorite in the rap genre, and it just so happened Kendrick was on his heavy rotation too, so it didnât even feel forced. Just enough familiarity to make you settle in, just enough to make your fingers tap without realizing, to get you thinking maybe this wonât be as bad as I thought.
He didnât need to ask you what you liked. He knew what you liked. Yeosangâs father didnât raise foolsâand Yeosang wasnât about to start disappointing now.
He kept his eyes on the road, face clean of expression, like he didnât know exactly what you were thinking. Like he hadnât already played this scene out in his head a dozen times. You were stubborn, yeahâbut he was patient. And precise.
He didnât want to break you. Nah. That was boring. He wanted to watch. Watch how long you could act like you didnât care. Watch how long you could pretend you werenât curious. Watch how long it took before you realizedâyou werenât the only one with sharp edges.
And yeah, he liked rap too. Lucky you.
The car rolled to a smooth stop, the hum of the engine cutting off and leaving behind the faint echo of Kendrickâs verse lingering in your head. You looked around, blinking slowly. Parking lot.
What kind of parking lot? You didnât know. Big building, a few cars around, that slightly industrial vibe, but nothing familiar. You didnât go out enough to tell which part of town this was, and franklyâyou didnât care. You just wanted to get this over with.
With a sigh, you reached for your seatbelt, pressing the button to unclip itâŚNothing.
You pressed it again, harder this time, like maybe the extra force would convince it to listen to you. Nothing moved. âOh, come onââ you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap now with growing frustration. Typical. Typical. Of course this was happening. On today of all days. And the last thing you wanted to doâthe very lastâwas ask him for help. But pride had limits, and youâd already used up most of yours agreeing to this disaster of a âdate.â
You glanced at him reluctantly. âItâs stuck.â
He didnât even pretend to be surprised. Didnât flinch, didnât chuckleâjust leaned slightly toward you, unbothered, one hand moving with irritating ease to the buckle. The button clicked effortlessly under his fingers like it had just been waiting for him to do it.
âSee?â he murmured, voice low, that smug little undertone threading beneath it. âI knew youâd need me eventually.â
Your jaw clenched, and you shot him a look that couldâve killed a weaker man on the spot. âIt was broken.â
âOf course it was,â he replied, tone dripping with mock sympathy, before pushing his door open and stepping out like nothing just happened.
You sat there for a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, wishing the ground would swallow you wholeâbut no such luck.
Fine. Whatever. You pushed your door open too, standing straight, brushing down your clothes like you hadnât just been humiliated by a seatbelt. You wouldnât let him have the last word. Not yet. Not ever.
You followed him, not knowing where you were going, but very aware of two things:
1. This was going to be a long day.
2. You hated how nice his stupid cologne smelled when he walked ahead of you.
But you had no intention of making this easy for him.
So, as soon as you both started walking, you slowed your paceânot obviously, not dramaticallyâjust⌠enough. Enough to make it mildly irritating. Enough to make him notice. You werenât even really doing it on purpose; he was just tall, and apparently, tall people had no concept of walking like normal humans. His strides were three of yours combined, and you refusedârefusedâto jog after him like some lost puppy.
If he wanted to drag you around, he was going to work for it. But the irritating thing? He didnât say a word. Didnât huff, didnât throw a glance over his shoulder, didnât tell you to hurry up like you half expected. He just walked, silent, hands in his pockets like this was the most casual thing in the world.
Until suddenly, about ten steps ahead, he stopped. Just stood there.
You narrowed your eyes, fully prepared for some passive-aggressive remark or maybe a sarcastic clap. You were ready for it. Bring it on. But insteadâhe just turned around and⌠held out his hand. You stared at it like it was something you didnât understand.
The hell was that supposed to mean?
Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for the usual sharp comment or hidden smirkâbut nothing. He just stood there, hand out, expression unreadable but steady. âGrab on,â he said, like it was obvious. You blinked, caught between being offended and⌠genuinely confused. âWhat?â
âYouâre slow,â he said simply, like he was pointing out the weather. âSo grab on.â
You stared at his hand, then back at his face. âIâm not slow. Youâre just fast.â
âWhatever helps you sleep at night,â he said under his breath. âNow grab on before I make you.â
You didnât move for a second. Pride screamed no, but practicality⌠well, it was tired of jogging every five steps to keep up. And something about the way he said itâfirm, low, steadyânot mocking, not playful, just⌠expectingâit made that prickling nervousness crawl up your spine again. You hated that tone.
But your hand moved anyway, slipping into his, your fingers curling awkwardly, like you didnât know what to do with yourself. His grip was steady, firmâbut not crushing. Not controlling. Just⌠leading.
Without another word, he started walking again, pulling you gently but efficiently alongside him, adjusting his paceânot entirely slowing down, but enough that you didnât have to scramble. You hated how⌠easy it felt. Hated it more that your hand stayed there.
The deeper you both walked, the clearer it gotâit wasnât just some random building or a casual cafe. It was a restaurant. A fancy one.
Not just white tablecloth fancy, but crystal glasses, piano music playing softly in the background, waiters dressed better than your uncles at weddings kind of fancy. And honestly? It was too much.
Your dad never took you to places like this. Never. Said restaurants were a scam, said home food was better, cheaper, cleanerâbut you knew better. Youâd seen the unpaid bills, the receipts stuffed into drawers, the phone calls with that low, desperate tone he didnât think you could hear. Gambling debt didnât leave room for filet mignon or imported wine. Youâd spent your life quietly excusing it, brushing it off, pretending you didnât want this kind of thing anyway.
But standing here now, in this giant pristine place with soft golden lighting and tables spaced way too far apart, you felt like an imposter. Like you were wearing someone elseâs shoes in a room you didnât belong in. It was overwhelming. Too bright. Too clean. Too silent. Everyone here looked like they belonged. And youâyou didnât even know which fork to use first.
You hadnât realized it at first, but your body did. Instinctively, without even thinking, you found yourself scooting closer to him. Not dramaticallyânot enough to look weirdâbut just enough that the space between you narrowed. Like proximity alone could make you smaller, safer, less obvious. The worst part?
It felt natural.
You hated that. Hated that the man you were mentally arguing with for the past hour was now also the one person here who felt vaguely familiar.
Yeosang noticed, of course he did. The tension of your shoulder brushing barely against his arm, the shift of your body tilting slightly toward hisâhe clocked it instantly. But he didnât comment. Didnât give you that teasing remark you were bracing for. Instead, his fingers adjusted slightly around yours, like he was anchoring you there. Silent. Steady. Just a solid presence beside all the marble floors and velvet chairs.
He didnât say a word. But you felt it anyway. âI got you.â
Some guyâmanager, waiter, whateverâshowed up then, all polite smiles and expensive cologne, greeting Yeosang like they were long-lost friends or something. Said something about the table being ready, offered some words you didnât really catch because your brain was too busy buzzing with nerves.
You werenât listening. Didnât want to. Everything felt too sharp around the edges. Before you could even process it properly, Yeosang had your hand again, guiding you forward with that same casual grip, not giving you the chance to hesitate. It wasnât forceful, just⌠confident. Like he already knew youâd follow.
And you did.
He led you through rows of softly murmuring people until you reached a tableânot entirely private, but tucked into a little alcove, partly hidden by frosted glass panels and low plants. Enough separation that you didnât feel like fish in a tank, but not so hidden that it felt awkward. It was nice. Comfortable in a way you hadnât expected.
Yeosang didnât miss a beat. He stepped around you andâof courseâpulled out the chair. You hesitated for half a second, eyes flickering up at him. No teasing expression. No sharp remark waiting. Just a simple gesture, like this was routine.
You sat down, the chair gliding smoothly beneath you, and he pushed it in with practiced ease. For a brief second, you hated how nice that felt. Not because of him. But because no one had done that before. Not dates, not family, not anyone.
You adjusted your sleeves awkwardly, trying not to fidget, while he walked around and took his own seat, leaning back with that effortless comfort like this was his living room and not a restaurant with menus you probably couldnât even afford to read.
He picked up the menu with one hand, flipping through it casually like this wasnât his first time hereâwhich, judging by how the staff greeted him, you were sure it wasnât. His eyes scanned the pages, sharp and focused, while the other hand rested lazily on the edge of the table. After a moment, he looked up, right at you. âWhat do you want?â
It shouldnât have been a complicated question. Normal people would just⌠answer. Say pasta, steak, whatever. But for some reason, your throat tightened. It wasnât nervesânot exactly. Just⌠indecision.
All your life, someone had chosen for you. Your mom, mostly. Always ordering for you at restaurantsânever asking, just assuming. Always brushing off your opinions as âItâs not good for you,â or âYou wonât like it.â Somewhere along the line, you stopped bothering to decide. It felt easier that way.
So you did the only thing that felt natural, default almost. âWhatever youâre having.â Yeosang paused.
His jaw ticked slightly, almost like he was holding back a sighâbut not in frustration. More like⌠patience. âThatâs not how this works,â he said, voice lower, steady, like someone reasoning with a kid who was trying to eat candy for breakfast. âYou donât just copy.â
You shrugged, defensive, staring at the polished wood of the table. âI donât know whatâs good.â
âItâs not that deep,â he finished for you, lips twitching slightlyâbut not in mockery, just amusement. âItâs just food. Pick what you want.â
The thing was⌠no one had ever given you choices like that. Not explained them patiently. Not acted like your opinion actually mattered, even in something as small as dinner. It made your chest feel weirdly tight. Like you wanted to be mad, but couldnât quite find the reason.
Yeosang didnât press further. Just leaned back again, waving over the waiter with a lazy flick of his fingers, like this was the most normal thing in the world. But you sat there with the menu still open in your hands, staring at itâŚ
Thatâs when it hit youâthe slow, creeping embarrassment settling in the pit of your stomach.
You didnât know how to read menus.
Not like literally not knowing how to read, but⌠you didnât know how to understand them. Fancy restaurant menus werenât in normal languageâthey were in that rich people language. Words like confit, beurre blanc, something-something reductionâyou didnât even know if you were ordering food or furniture. The more you stared at it, the worse it got. Everything blurred together until it just looked like noise on paper.
Your hand twitched slightly on the edge of the menu, the corners of it curling under your fingertips. You didnât even know how to begin. Finally, you gave up. Quietly. Awkwardly. You placed the menu down and looked at himâreally looked at himâfor the first time all evening. Gone was the irritation, the stubborn defiance. Instead, it was something softer. Not defeated, but pleading.
âCan you just⌠choose?â you asked, voice low, almost hoping he wouldnât make a scene about it.
For a second, he just stared at you. No teasing, no smug smileâjust studying you. Calculating. Then, instead of making a big deal about it, he nodded once, sharp, like this was all perfectly normal. âAlright,â he murmured. âBut youâre still gonna have choices.â
And then, like it was muscle memory, he listed things off. Simple. No complicated words, no long-winded chef specials.
âDo you want red sauce or white?â
âChicken or beef?â
âWant dessert or not?â
Just basic questions, no extra fluff. Like someone breaking down rocket science to math tables. By the time he was done, it actually sounded like a meal, not a puzzle.
And without realizing it, youâd started folding the cloth napkin again. Neatly. Sharply. Fold, unfold, fold, unfold. It was muscle memory at this pointâyour fingers always needed something to do. Something to control, even when nothing else made sense.
Somewhere along the way, heâd passed you his napkin too. You didnât even notice it. Just that at some point, your hands had another one to work with. Your mind didnât register it; your body just accepted it, thankful for the extra fabric to keep you grounded.
It was quiet. Subtle. No words, no glances, no gestures. And while you kept folding and unfolding that napkin like your life depended on it, he just sat there across from you, arms resting lazily on the table, ordering both your meals in that steady voice like this wasnât even a thing.
He didnât act like he was helping. And you didnât notice you were being helped.
While you were busy poking at the carefully cut chicken on your plateâeating but not really tastingâYeosang sat across from you, trying not to lose his mind.
Cuteness aggression. That was the only way to describe it. Like he wanted to bite something or hit the tableânot out of anger, but because you were just too much.
It wasnât just the way youâd quietly surrendered, letting him order for you like it was nothing. It wasnât just the way your fingers kept working that napkin like you didnât even know you were doing it. It was the whole pictureâthe you of it all. Sitting there, looking like the softest thing in the sharpest world.
And that cardigan you were wearing? Please. He could tell by the stitching it was handmade. Probably by you. The unevenness of the cuffs, the slightly imperfect patternsâno brand could fake that kind of charm. You didnât even know how much that cardigan was giving you away, how much of you was stitched into every row.
It made something in his chest tighten, like he wanted to tuck you somewhere safe. His pocket. A drawer. Somewhere you couldnât get overwhelmed by menus and loud places and useless fathers.
But he still played it cool, leaning back a little, eyes glinting as he ran his thumb along the edge of his fork like he wasnât thinking borderline insane things about a girl he just met. He glanced at the cardigan, then back at you, voice dropping casual but knowing.
âYou make that?â
You blinked, pausing mid-bite. âWhat?â
âThat cardigan,â he said, tone light, like they were talking about the weather. âYou made it?â
You hesitated. Not because you were embarrassedâmore because no one really noticed that kind of thing. Definitely not guys like him. But⌠you nodded. âYeah.â
A lazy grin, sharp but not mocking, pulled at the corner of his mouth. âFigured. Looks like you.â
That sentence alone made your stomach flip in ways you didnât have the energy to process. You didnât even know what that meant. Looked like you? Quiet? Crocheted? Awkwardly stitched together? You didnât ask. You just looked back down at your plate, busying yourself with another bite, folding that second napkin again like it was holding the fabric of your nerves together.
Meanwhile, Yeosang sat there, feeling way too satisfied with himself. You were dangerously cute. And he was dangerously aware of it.
He dropped you off, making sure you got to your front door before pulling away. You didnât say muchâa quiet âthanks,â barely audibleâbut you didnât run away either. Progress.
But by the time he pulled into his fatherâs estate, parked the car, and stepped into the over-polished marble entrance, he was losing it. Hand over his mouth. Jaw tight. Muscles flexing like he was holding in a scream or something equally embarrassing. What the hell was that?
That wasnât supposed to happen. You were supposed to be annoying. Spoiled. Bratty. Some daddyâs princess with acrylic nails and too much perfume. You were supposed to be the type he could dump in a nice apartment and visit once a month with gifts so youâd stay quiet about the whole arrangement.
But you werenât. You were a mess. An organized, pretty, cardigan-wearing mess.
And worse, you didnât even know you were cute. You werenât even trying. You just sat there in that chair at that fancy-ass restaurant, folding napkins like they were some secret escape plan, wearing that handmade sweater like it wasnât making him feel like an insane person.
And now? Forget that whole buying-another-place plan. That idea was dead the moment he saw how small you looked sitting across from him. No way. You were staying where he could see you. Reach you. Annoy you on purpose if he felt like it. Which he did.
He stood in the foyer of his fatherâs mansion, hand dragging down his face, pacing a little in his boots.
God. He felt like squealing. Like actually kicking something, or punching the air, or rolling on the expensive carpet like a twelve-year-old with a crush.
âThis is insane,â he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud would make it make sense. It didnât.
You were in his head. Neatly folded like that stupid napkin you kept twisting around your fingers. And for the first time in a long time, Kang Yeosang didnât know whether he wanted to laugh, scream, or marry you right now.
The moment Yeosang stepped further into the house, hand dragging down his face, muttering like a lunatic, he heard itâthe unmistakable voice of his old man echoing from the sitting room. âWhy the hell do you look like a teenage girl who just got her first crush?â
Yeosang didnât even flinch. Didnât even stop pacing. Just waved his hand dismissively, as if to say donât start. His father stood there in his usual crisp shirt, whiskey glass in hand like always, giving him that unimpressed look fathers reserve for sons who donât follow in their exact footsteps.
âIâm serious,â his father huffed, stepping forward. âWhat the hellâs wrong with you? Why are you here anyway? Thought you liked hiding in that overpriced shoebox you call an apartment.â
Yeosang finally dropped his hand from his face, side-eyeing him, unimpressed. âRenovation,â he grumbled. âItâs getting fixed up. You want me to sleep on the street?â His father scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, shaking his head. âYou couldâve stayed at one of the hotels we own.â
âRight. And let everyone think Iâm homeless now. Good look for a mafia heir.â The older man narrowed his eyes, recognizing that tone. That annoying tone Yeosang always used when he was about to get smart-mouthed. âSo why are you pacing around here like some lovesick idiot?â
Yeosang clicked his tongue, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. âItâs your fault.â
âMy fault?â
âYouâre the one that set me up with her.â
His fatherâs brow lifted. âDid she bite?â
âShe didnât even blink.â
That made his father laugh. Really laugh. Like belly laugh, hand pressed to his chest, deep and loud in that expensive, echoey house.
âGod,â Yeosang muttered under his breath. âYouâre actually enjoying this.â
âOf course I am,â his father smirked. âFinally met someone who doesnât fall apart under your pretty-boy nonsense. Good. You needed that.â
Yeosang rolled his jaw, annoyed beyond belief, but honestly? His dad wasnât wrong. His father waved his glass toward him. âWhatâs the problem, then? I thought you were going to dump her in a penthouse and get on with life.â
âYeah, that planâs dead.â
âWhy?â
Yeosang just stood there, defeated. âSheâs tooââ
âWhat? Petty? Weird? Mean?â
ââŚSoft.â
His father blinked, confused. âSoft?â
Yeosang didnât elaborate. Didnât have to. Soft in a way that made him want to ruin someoneâs life if they made you cry. Soft in a way that made him want to drag you closer by the wrist when you got overwhelmed. Soft in a way that pissed him off because he liked it too much. His father just shook his head, amused, like he knew exactly what kind of hell Yeosang was walking into. âGood luck with that, Romeo.â
âShut up.â
You did not expect this. A casual text? Fine. Him calling you just to âcheck inâ? Annoying, but tolerable. Even him dragging you out on those stupid dates now and thenâyou could live with that. But this? Showing up to your university?
What the actual hell was wrong with him?
It wasnât even subtle. Of course it wasnât subtle. Not with that stupid black car of his parked right at the entrance, shining like a beacon of unwanted attention. Not with him leaning against the door like he was shooting a damn commercial, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses pushed into his hair, looking like every other manâs nightmare and every other womanâs distraction.
And people noticed. Oh, they noticed. Girls whispering, eyes widening, phones coming out to take sneaky pictures. A group of guys near the library basically breaking their necks trying to get a better look. And you?
You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. He had the audacity to wave at you. Like this was normal. Like this wasnât blowing up the very careful life of low attention, quiet exits, donât talk to me Iâm just here to graduate you had built for yourself.
You speed-walked. Not even pretending anymore. Walked up to him so fast it looked like you were about to commit a crime. âWhat the hell are you doing?â you hissed under your breath, shoving at his shoulder, eyes darting around like you were being followed by paparazzi.
âPicking you up,â he said, casual as you liked, like this wasnât the most embarrassing moment of your life unfolding in real time.
âGet in the car,â you snapped. âNow.â
And, the bastard, he laughed. Laughed like this was a game.
Still, he obeyed, sliding into the driverâs seat like he was doing you a favor. You yanked the passenger door open, practically diving inside, head ducked like you were avoiding a sniper.
The moment the door shut you rounded on him. âAre you insane?â
âI missed you,â he said, like that explained anything.
âYou couldâveâ texted me or something! I donât need the whole uni thinking Iâm with someone richâ
âYou are with someone rich,â he corrected, one hand casually gripping the wheel, the other resting over the gear like this was a Sunday drive.
The car came to a stop in front of this sleek-looking storefront, all black glass and warm lighting, like one of those places you only see rich people walk into on TV shows. And because your life apparently wasnât embarrassing enough, Yeosang parked like he owned the building.
You looked at the place, then at him. âWhat is this?â
âJewelry,â he answered flatly, already stepping out of the car. Jewelry. Jewelry. As if that explained anything.
Before you could argue or even think, he came around, opened your door, and like a villain from a drama, dragged you inside by the wristânot harsh, but determined. The cold from the street clung to your clothes, your boots crunching against the salted sidewalk, but the moment you stepped insideâit was warm. Not just warm, but that kind of luxury warm, where the air smells faintly of expensive perfume and everything feels soft, even though nothing should be.
And you? You immediately felt your whole body loosen, just a little. It wasnât even intentional. The cold had been biting, sharp against your ears and the tip of your nose, and this? This was dangerous. Comforting. You could rot here, honestly. Just melt into one of the velvet chairs and stop existing.
Yeosang noticed.
Of course he noticed. He didnât miss anything about you. The way your shoulders relaxed. The way you almostâalmostâlet your head drop forward like you could fall asleep standing there.
He wanted to bite you. No, seriously. Bite. His jaw clenched just thinking about it. You looked too cute. With your knitted cardigan, snow-dusted boots, fidgety fingers already tugging at the sleeves. It was criminal. Illegal. Someone should lock you up for being this dangerous in public.
But he was strong. Barely. Barely holding himself back from grabbing you by the face and justâsquishing. Maybe even kissing that stupid annoyed expression off of you. Wouldâve been worth it. You were too busy shaking the snow from your sleeves to notice him battling for his sanity two feet away.
An employee walked over, all smiles and professional greetings, asking what you both needed today. You blinked at her like a deer caught in headlights.
Yeosang spoke first. âRings.â
You snapped your head to him. âWhat?â
âFor the engagement,â he said calmly, like duh, obviously. Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. âYou dragged me here for that? You couldâve warned meââ
âAnd ruin the surprise of watching you panic in real-time? No thanks.â You glared daggers into his skull, wishing you could teleport out of your own skin. âYouâre evil.â
âMm,â he hummed, eyes lazily drifting over the display cases. âYours?â
You blinked. âWhat?â
âRing size.â
âIâI donât know!â
His lips quirkedânot a smirk, you banned those, but just that annoying, knowing twitch that told you he was enjoying this too much. âFigures. Guess weâll find out together.â You honestly might combust right there on the jewelry shop floor.
Yeosang walked toward the counter with the same energy as someone about to close a business deal. Calm. Focused. Casual power.
You stayed frozen for a beat, still stunned at the whole situation, until your feet moved on their own. Before you realized it, you were right beside him, eyes locking onto the display.
And thatâs when it hit you. The rings. They were gorgeous. Not just shiny-for-the-sake-of-shinyâbut delicate, beautiful. Rings with elegant stones, simple but detailed bands, not the overdone flashy stuff but the kind that made you think: if I wore that, maybe I wouldnât feel so small.
You leaned in without realizing, gaze scanning over each one like a kid at a candy storeâbut also a little sad. You never let yourself want things like that. What was the point? Your parents could never buy you things like this. You grew up being handed the practical, the necessary. Wanting was a waste of time.
But Yeosang saw it. All of it.
The way your fingers twitched at your sides like you wanted to reach out but didnât. The slight glassiness in your stareânot tears, but that lost look people got when they wanted something badly but were too used to swallowing it down.
To him? Your eyes were sparkling. Bright, full of that light people only showed when they forgot to hide. He couldnât stop looking at you. The whole room couldâve caught fire, and he wouldnât have noticed.
He leaned closer, voice lower. âSee something you like?â
You snapped out of it, blinking up at him like youâd just been caught stealing. âIâI was just looking,â you muttered, instantly defensive, shoving your hands into the sleeves of your cardigan. âDidnât say I wanted anything.â
But Yeosang wasnât even listening to the words coming out of your mouth. He was too busy cataloguing everything you didnât say. The spark. The hesitation. The soft way your lip pressed against your teeth when you held back from speaking. You werenât loud, werenât clingy, werenât bratty like he thought you might beâyou were quiet. Observant. Someone who shrank herself just to survive.
Yeah, no. You werenât leaving his sight ever again. âGood,â he said, nonchalantly signaling to the employee. âBecause weâre not leaving until you try some on.â You shot him a glare. âWhat is this, Pretty Woman?â âMore like Pretty Annoyed FiancĂŠe.â His eyes flicked down to you, sharp and amused. âCâmon. Humor me.â
You stared at the rows and rows of rings like they were mocking you. Every shape, every color, every shine â how the hell were you supposed to pick one? Your fingers hovered over the glass, not touching, just hovering, like maybe the right one would start glowing or something. But nothing did.
It wasnât that you didnât like them. It was that you liked all of them, and also none of them, because your brain kept whispering, what if you pick the wrong one? What if you regret it? You didnât get choices growing up, not real ones. Every decision was always someone elseâs to make for you â your clothes, your food, even your damn hair. The few times you got to choose something, it was met with criticism or disappointment. No wonder your chest felt tight standing here.
âI canât,â you muttered under your breath, frustrated. âThey all look⌠I donât know.â Yeosang watched, hands tucked in his pockets, silent. But not with judgment. More like studying. He could see it happeningâthe way you kept retreating into yourself, that familiar shrinking posture like you were bracing for someone to yell at you for being annoying or difficult.
He didnât like that. Not one bit.
Without warning, he stepped closer, leaning down near your ear, voice lower, firmer. âWeâre not doing that here.â You blinked up at him. âWhatââ âWeâre not doing that thing where you act like youâre a burden for existing,â he continued, tone steady but not harsh. âYou like something, you say it. You donât like something, you say it. You donât have to know what you want right now, but donât stand here apologizing for breathing.â
Your throat went dry. No oneâs ever talked to you like that before. Not mean. Not fake sweet. Just⌠steady. Like he meant it. Like he wasnât going to move until you heard him. âIâm not apologizing,â you finally muttered, defensive. He raised an eyebrow. âYouâre folding into yourself like someoneâs about to slap your wrist.â
Your jaw tightened. âThatâs just how I stand.â
âMhm,â he hummed, not convinced for a second.
You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to crawl under the display case and disappear. But somewhere deep down, embarrassingly deep, you also wanted to grab his sleeve and lean into him like a tired stray cat. But instead, you just shoved your sleeves up higher and looked at the rings again. âFine. Iâll try some.â
âThatâs my girl,â he murmured, barely loud enough to catch, but you caught it. And you hated that you liked how it sounded.
You picked up one of the rings, delicate and shimmering with tiny embedded stones. It wasnât flashy in the way rich people wear thingsâit was pretty. Simple. Something you could see yourself wearing every day.
But then it hit you like a slap. The price. What the hell were you doing? Just choosing whatever looked nice like you werenât broke half your life? Like your mom didnât yell at you for picking snacks that were âš20 more expensive than the local brand?
You started searching the display, eyes darting, looking for price tags like a madwoman. But it was one of those places. No prices on anything. Which only meant one thingâif you have to ask, you canât afford it.
Panic started tightening in your chest. You werenât stupid. You knew this whole setup was expensive. Expensive coat racks, expensive chairs, expensive air. And here you were like some idiot playing dress-up, picking rings you couldnât afford in three lifetimes. âUh⌠whatâs the price on these?â you asked quietly, almost hoping he didnât hear you.
But of course he did.
Yeosang, standing beside you with his annoying posture of âI own everything I touch,â just glanced down at you, one brow raised. âWhy?â You gave him a look. âWhat do you mean why? Theyâre probably⌠crazy expensive. I donât wanna-â âYou think I brought you here to worry about prices?â he interrupted, eyes sharp now.
You blinked. âWell, yeah? This isnât a grocery store, I canât just-â âDo I look like the kind of man whoâs going to let you think about numbers right now?â His tone wasnât harsh. But it wasnât soft, either. It was just⌠Yeosang. Calm, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, fully in charge.
You hated how warm your ears felt.
âI donâtââ
âI said pick.â
His voice was low this time. Not rude. Not cold. Just that tone that slides down your spine and makes your stomach clench in the weirdest way. Firm. Dominant, even. But not because he was trying to be machoâit was just who he was. You stood there frozen for a second before whispering, âThey donât even have prices on themââ
âThey donât have prices,â he cut you off, leaning closer so only you could hear, âbecause the people who shop here donât need to ask.â
You swore your knees nearly gave out.
âAnd right now,â he added, hand lightly brushing your lower back as if guiding you forward, âyouâre with me. So that makes you one of those people. Pick.â You swallowed hard, looked down at the rings, then up at him.
His gaze didnât waver. âOr,â he added, eyes glinting, âdo you want me to choose for you again?â
God help youâyou almost said yes.
The wedding was hectic.
Not in the âfun chaosâ way you saw in moviesâno, this was suffocating. Your cheeks hurt from fake smiling at people you didnât even know. The scent of flowers was so strong it made you lightheaded. The jewelry was heavy, and the outfit? Beautiful, yeah, but you could barely breathe.
After the ceremony, when the music was loud and people were starting to eat, you sat in a corner. Just existing. You were chewing blandly on some sweet, not even tasting it. The small cushion under you was probably worth someoneâs rent, but you sat like you were at some boring family reunion.
Yeosang did ask you last month if you wanted to invite your friends. You had been fixing your cardigan sleeve at the time and barely looked up. âDonât really⌠have any.â
It wasnât sad when you said it. Just a fact. You said it the way someone says, âYeah, I donât like tea,â or âIâve never been to Goa.â Just plain. But you felt it sting more now, seeing his friendsâ8 of themâlaughing on the other side of the venue like this was just some party.
Meanwhile, you sat with your cousin. The only one in your family who didnât belittle you constantly or make subtle comments about you being âtoo old to be unmarriedâ or âtoo quiet for your own good.â He didnât say much either. Probably didnât even care. But you preferred that. Quiet company was better than company with sharp tongues.
Your eyes wandered across the room. Yeosang was standing with his friends, of course. One of them threw his arm around Yeosangâs shoulder, laughing about something. And then Yeosang glanced at you. It was briefâbut he looked. And when his gaze met yours, it wasnât pity, or amusement, or even awkwardness.
It was⌠knowing.
Like he knew you didnât want to be there. Like he understood exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by noise and not feel like you belonged in it. And for a momentâjust a secondâyou didnât feel alone in that room. Of course, the moment passed when your cousin nudged you and asked if you were going to eat your chicken.
You gave it to him without a word, gaze still lingering on the man across the room who, apparently, now belonged to you.
The ride home was torture. Your jewelry felt like chains, the embroidery on your dress scratched at your skin with every small shift, and your hairâoh god, your scalp was screaming. You sat awkwardly, pressed up against the door, knees at an angle because the fabric wouldnât let you sit properly.
And Yeosang? He just drove like it was a normal day. Relaxed hand on the steering wheel, other resting against his thigh, occasionally glancing your way. He didnât say anything, but you knew he noticed you shifting every two minutes like you were sitting on needles.
By the time the car pulled up at the apartment complex, you were two seconds away from just tearing the sleeves off like some dramatic soap opera character.
It was lateâtoo late for nosy neighbors or anyone else to be hanging around. The whole building was quiet except for the low hum of the elevators. You followed him silently, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. And when the elevator doors opened to his placeâ
Yeah. Pinterest board aesthetic.
It wasnât over-the-top, but it was intentional. Clean lines, warm lightingânot those harsh white bulbs like your home had. The couch looked like it cost someoneâs college tuition, blankets folded neatly on the armrest like it was straight out of a home decor photoshoot. Shelves with actual books. Art that wasnât mass-produced prints. Little ceramic things on the side tables that you didnât know the use of but looked expensive anyway.
It didnât smell like dust or old carpet or fried onions like your house did after your mom cooked. It smelled like sandalwood and something slightly musky. Like him.
You just stood there by the entrance like a misplaced sticker on a clean page. He casually dropped his keys in a tray by the door and started undoing the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up forearms first. âYou wanna change?â
Did you wanna change? You were two seconds away from climbing out of your own skin. You nodded silently.
Without a word, he pointed to a hallway. âThird door. Closetâs in there. Pick whatever. Bathroomâs attached.â As if it was nothing to offer someone full access to his wardrobe. As if he hadnât just brought his brand new wife into his home like someone bringing home takeout. You shuffled off like some fancy-dressed raccoon, already planning which oversized shirt you were gonna steal first.
You padded out of the bathroom, freshly freed from that suffocating dress, now wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that smelled like detergent and someone elseâs cologne, paired with pajama pants that pooled a bit at your ankles. Your hair was a mess, makeup slightly smudged from your tired hands rubbing your face. But you couldnât care less. Comfort first.
Yeosang was already lounging on the couch, changed into a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders just right and grey sweatpants, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Casual. Comfortable. Infuriatingly attractive. You stood there, awkward, arms crossed, twisting your fingers like you always did. âWhere⌠where am I supposed to sleep?â
He didnât even hesitate. Just pointed with two fingers toward the hallway. âSecond room on the right.â You nodded and started walking, but something tugged at you. A gut feeling. Something wasnât right. Second roomâŚ
Curiosity dragged you to peek, and when you opened the door, your stomach dropped. Black sheets. Black pillows. Black walls. Not pitch dark, but matteâsleek. Expensive. His room. You didnât need to ask. That man screamed black-on-black energy. You stormed back into the living room, eyes narrowed. âThatâs your room.â
He looked up from his phone slowly, mouth twitchingânot into a smirk, just that faint amusement he always wore when he knew he was pushing your buttons. âYeah. I know.â You stared at him, blinking. âWhy did you point me there?â He set his phone down like this was about to be a full conversation. âWeâre married now. Married people share a bed.â
You gawked at him. âThatâs not a rule.â
âIt is now.â
God, you hated that. That casual dominance. Not loud, not aggressive. Just matter of fact. Like he said it, so itâs law now.
âYouâre annoying.â
âYou married me.â
âWe were arranged.â
âSame thing.â
You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck, turning on your heel to storm back to the room. And yet⌠you didnât really argue more, did you? Because deep down, under the irritation, you couldnât help but feel that same stupid warmth creeping up your neck.
If he wanted to be cocky, fine. Two can play that game.
You marched back to his room like you owned the place, plopped yourself dead in the center of the king-sized bed, limbs spread like a starfish, sinking into the expensive sheets like you were born for this. If he wanted drama, you were going to give him cinema. Moments later, the door creaked open, and you heard his footsteps approaching. You didnât look. You just knew from the way the air shifted, from the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of fabric softener on the bedding.
Silence for a second. ThenââReally?â
You cracked an eye open. He was standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the faintest curve on his lipsânot quite a smile, not quite mockery. âYouâre gonna starfish in my bed?â
You yawned, stretching even further like a cat on a sunny windowsill. âYou said it was our bed,â you said pointedly, throwing his own words back at him with venom-laced sweetness. âIâm just following instructions.â
He looked at you for a beat longer. Then, very slowly, very annoyingly, grinned. âFine,â he said, voice deep and lazy. âBut if you stay like that, Iâll just sleep on top of you.â Your eyes snapped open fully, heart jolting so fast it almost echoed in your ears. âYou wouldnât.â
âOh, I would.â
It wasnât even a threatâit was a promise. That calm tone, that glint in his eyesâhe meant it.
You groaned and scrambled to your side of the bed, flustered beyond measure, hating him more with every second and somehow hating yourself for feeling heat crawling up your neck. âYouâre insane,â you muttered, adjusting the pillow aggressively.
Behind you, you could practically hear his satisfied smirk, even though you werenât going to turn around to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face.
âMarried life, sweetheart,â he murmured, climbing in on his side, making the mattress dip. âWelcome to it.â
You didnât know what devil possessed you to say it, but the words just slipped out, dripping with faux innocence as you looked straight at him.
âI have weird sleeping habits,â you murmured casually, adjusting the blanket like it was the most normal conversation. âLike⌠Iâll keep rubbing my leg on yours until you put your leg on top of mine.â
Silence.
You didnât dare look at him yet, but you could feel the way his posture stiffened beside you, like your words short-circuited something in that annoyingly sharp brain of his. Thenâsoftly, almost too casualâcame his voice, deep and quiet, âIs that a threat or a promise?â
You slowly turned your head to him, blinking, pretending to be confused. âWhat do you mean?â His jaw tensed slightly, like he was holding back a laughâor something else. âI meanââ he leaned in just a bit, enough for his voice to drop that octave lower that made your stupid heart stutter, ââif you keep talking like that, Iâm gonna start wondering if you want me to put my leg over yours.â
You hated that heat crawling up your skin, hated that he was good at this stupid game, hated that he was better at it than you, hated that you wanted to keep going anyway.
So you did.
âWhy would I want that?â you shot back, voice steady, gaze sharp but your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. âItâs just a habit.â
âRight,â he said, laying his head on the pillow now, one arm tucked behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. âJust a habit.â
You laid down too, facing the other way, stubborn. The tension between you two was thick, and you both knew it. Then, after a beat, you felt itâthe slow weight of his leg draping lazily over yours. âIâm just helping with your habit,â he murmured, so close you felt the warmth of his breath by your ear.
âIâm serious,â you said, voice flat, not backing down. âItâs true. I canât sleep unless someoneâs leg is over mine. And I always hug something too. Itâs likeâcomfort or whatever. Dunno. Been like that since forever.â
Honestly, you thought that would be the final straw. That heâd roll his eyes, scoff, maybe throw a pillow at you and head to the couch like any sane person would. Maybe you were hoping for that. Maybe you didnât want to admit how weirdly safe this felt. Either way, you braced yourself for irritation, for that cocky remark, for something.
But nothing came.
Insteadâyou missed itâthe way Yeosang stared at you like he was physically restraining himself. Like some internal monologue was yelling donât say it, donât call her cute, donât ruin it, donât scare her off. But how could he not? You? Looking like that? Saying stuff like that? In his bed? Wrapped in his blanket, in his shirt? Talking about hugging things like you werenât already curled up like a goddamn kitten?
He was having a crisis.
âOkay,â he finally said, calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm. You frowned, glancing back at him. âOkay?â âYeah.â He adjusted slightly, the mattress dipping with his weight. âLegâs already over yours. Go ahead. Hug something.â
You glared at him. âI donât have anything to hug.â His lips quirked slightly at that. Barely. But you caught it.
âYouâve got two arms, donât you?â You wanted to slap him. Genuinely. But alsoânot really.
Fine. FINE.
You stubbornly grabbed the pillow, hugging it tight to your chest and trying to sleep. Silent. Annoyed. Flustered. All of it. And Yeosang? He laid there, eyes on the ceiling, teeth sinking into his lip just to physically restrain himself from smiling like an idiot. If only you knew how close he was to dragging you into his chest just to see how flustered youâd get then.
Cute. Way too cute. He was so screwed.
You were out. Completely gone, knocked out like you hadnât had proper sleep in weeks. Leg tucked neatly under his like you said you would, hugging his pillow like your life depended on it, your face mushed against the fabric, lips slightly parted in a soft pout you didnât even know you had.
Yeosang was having a spiritual crisis. What was this? What was this feeling? Cuteness aggression? Probably. He felt like he could actually bite you. Not to hurt youâgod noâbut just toâarghâbecause how could one human look that cute doing absolutely nothing?
His jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly as he stared at you, eyes darting between the way your fingers curled into the pillow, to the little crease forming on your cheek from the way you were pressed against it.
It wasnât fair. It shouldnât be allowed. He felt like punching the wall just to let some of the weird, frustrated fondness out of his system. The urge to squeeze you like some plush toy was nearly overwhelming.
And the worst part?
You didnât even know.
Didnât know the way youâd completely tangled yourself around his leg without a second thought. Didnât know how absolutely tiny you looked curled up in his bed. Didnât know how soft your breathing sounded in the dim light filtering through the curtains.
Yeosang stared at the ceiling for a good minute, breathing slow, eyes closed, fighting the very cellular urge in his bones to scoop you up and justâkeep you. Like, forever. Pocket you. Protect you. Instead, he carefully shifted, tucking the blanket around you a little tighter, letting your leg stay right where it was. He glanced at you one last time before shutting his own eyes.
Completely, utterly ruined by the universe. Absolutely smitten. And you? You just drooled a little on his pillow.
Perfect.
Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and annoyingly gentle. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightnessâand then it hit you.
You were holding something warm. Something that breathed. It wasnât a pillow. It was him.
Your heart stopped for a solid second. Somewhere between falling asleep and now, the pillow had betrayed youâreplaced by Yeosang. Your arm was across his torso, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. Worse, one of your legs had completely decided that boundaries were optional and had hooked over his, practically hugging him like some oversized teddy bear.
What the actualâ
You moved so carefully, like one wrong twitch would make the earth explode. Slowly untangling yourself, your breath hitched when you saw his hand resting lazily over your arm, like heâd pulled you closer in his sleep. That just made it worse.
Finally, finally, you untangled yourself, slipping out of bed like a secret agent on a stealth mission. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but your entire body was flushed with embarrassment anyway. Without sparing him another glance, you practically ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.
The second you were alone, you let out a silent scream, face buried in your hands. God. Why. Why you. You turned the shower on, letting the sound of running water drown out your embarrassment. Maybe you could drown in it too while you were at it.
Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Yeosang cracked one eye open, staring at the ceiling with the smallest ghost of a grin.
âThought so,â he whispered to himself. That damn pillow never stood a chance.
Yeosang lay there, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to lifeâs greatest mysteries. His hand absentmindedly touched the part of his shirt where your hand had been curled into just moments ago. The warmth was gone, but the imprint of it â of you â stuck like some permanent tattoo on his chest.
What the hell was this feeling? No, seriously, what was this feeling?
He had always thought love was supposed to be a slow thing. Like aging whiskey. Like taking your sweet time to ruin someone in a chess game. But this? This felt like a truck hit him. A small, anxious kitten-shaped truck with pouty lips and messy hair in the morning.
It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. You were barely in his life for what? Few months? And yet here he was, already thinking like some washed-up romantic lead in a drama. It wasnât even funny anymore.
He dragged a hand across his face and groaned softly, staring at the bathroom door where steam was now rolling from the gap under the frame. The thought of you in there â wearing that sleepy pout, probably muttering under your breath about your parents or about how annoying he was â it made his chest feel tight in the weirdest, most annoying way.
Was this how his dad felt about his mom? Cause that man always did dumb shit just to annoy her, but never went a day without holding her hand.
He was whipped. Fully, entirely, embarrassingly whipped. And he wasnât even fighting it anymore. Hell, he was enjoying it. âI swear to god,â he muttered to himself, eyes shutting like he was trying to meditate through the emotional breakdown, âif she ever figures this out, Iâm finished.â But knowing you? You wouldnât. You were too busy folding napkins, avoiding eye contact, acting like you werenât the most precious thing to ever annoy the hell out of him.
And godâhe liked having a wife. A wife.
He let that word roll around in his head like a marble, both terrifying and oddly satisfying. If you stayed in that shower any longer, he might just combust. And honestly? Heâd die smiling.
You came out of the bathroom with damp hair sticking slightly to the sides of your face, the oversized t-shirt hanging loose on your frame, sleeves falling a little off your shoulders, pajama pants riding up slightly at the ankles. You rubbed your hand against your face, trying to wipe off the last remnants of sleep, but honestly, your head was still foggy. You werenât even fully functioning yet.
And there he was. Still in bed.
Liar. You could tell he wasnât sleeping anymore. Before, he was on his back, legs spread out like some rich brat on vacation. Now? He was on his side, perfectly composed like he was acting asleep. And he was good at it. But not good enough for you.
With irritation bubbling up â mostly because you were up, and why should you be the only one awake suffering in awkward new-wife-land â you stomped over to the bed and stood over him with crossed arms. You stared at the messy strands of hair falling into his stupidly handsome face. His lashes were thick, unfairly so. And his lips slightly parted like he wasnât living rent-free in your nerves already. He looked expensive even while pretending to be unconscious. Ugh.
Annoyed, you bent down and gave his shoulder a shove. âWake up.â
No response. Another shove. Harder this time. âWake up.â Finally, his eyes opened. Lazy, slow, like he was waking up from a peaceful dream of girls feeding him grapes or something. His voice was rough from sleep, deep in that way that made your brain short circuit for a second. âWhat?â he rasped, like you were disturbing his peace.
Your mouth opened, about to say something snarky, but then you paused. Why was he hot like this? Who gave him permission to be hot right after waking up? Hair a mess, voice low, sleep still hanging off his features like a silk sheet draped across expensive furniture. You forgot what you were gonna say for a second. Caught yourself blinking at him like an idiot.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. A smug little grin spread on his lips, lazy and cocky at the same time, like he was the main character in every stupid romance movie. You cleared your throat and stood up straight again, brushing invisible dust off your pants. âWhat⌠what do you want for breakfast?â
You hated how quiet you sounded. Like you were suddenly soft just because he was attractive. Which â you were soft, but he didnât have to know that. He sat up properly now, running a hand through his hair like he was in a commercial. âYouâre making breakfast?â he asked, raising a brow.
You shrugged. âWhat else am I supposed to do? Iâm awake.â He leaned back on his arms, eyes not leaving you for a second. âI didnât marry a housewife, you know.â Your jaw clenched. âIâm notââ you stopped yourself. âIâm just making breakfast because Iâm hungry.â
âYours?â he said suddenly, tilting his head.
You blinked. âWhat?â
âBreakfast. Yours or mine?â
You frowned. â...Whatâs the difference?â
He grinned, teeth showing this time. âYours is probably, like, toast or boiled eggs or something. Mineâs pancakes, bacon, syrup. Fancy shit.â
You deadpanned. âWho the hell eats pancakes on a weekday?â
âI do,â he answered smoothly, without missing a beat. âIâm rich, remember?â
You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own brain. âFine. Yours. Whatever. Pancakes.â
Yeosang stepped into the bathroom, the door creaking softly behind him as he entered the faint warmth she left behind. The mirror was still fogged at the corners, drops of condensation trailing down lazily like the room itself hadnât quite woken up yet. The air smelled faintly of herâsomething floral, something sweet, and something unfamiliar but weirdly comforting.
He exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, walking up to the sink. His eyes automatically landed on the toothbrush holder. His black toothbrush standing tall, firm, exactly where he always kept it.
And beside it⌠her pink one.
Smaller, softer looking, like it didnât belong. But it did. It really did. He stared at them both for a second, lips slightly parted, eyebrows drawn faintly togetherânot confused, but thoughtful. Something about seeing them together in the same cup twisted something warm in his chest. It wasnât dramatic. It wasnât fireworks or explosions or heartbeats racing so fast he couldnât breathe. It was⌠steady. Fulfilling. Quiet in the most dangerous way.
He loved it.
Not the pink color or the softness of it. He loved what it meant. Her using his things like they were hers now. The shared space. The toothbrushes leaning like companions. It was stupidâsomething small, something everydayâbut it was theirs. And for someone like him, someone who always knew how to calculate every move, who always knew how to observe and stay steps ahead, this feeling was something he couldnât predict.
He picked up his own toothbrush, fingers brushing against the handle of hers. He stared at that pink brush for a second longer, a lazy grin curling on his lips before shaking his head at himself. Who the hell gets soft over a toothbrush?
Apparently, him.
He started brushing his teeth, leaning over the sink, letting the familiar minty sting wake him up properly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thoughtâhe could get used to this. He wanted to get used to this. Her hair clogging the drain, her random skincare bottles invading his shelves, her leaving the bathroom all steamy and warm like this every morning.
It was stupid. Domestic. And yet⌠it felt like power in the quietest, most dangerous form. And Yeosang was nothing if not addicted to power. Especially if it looked like her.
He came down wearing a black fitted turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with tailored dark slacks that hugged his waist just right. His silver watch gleamed faintly against his wrist, hair slightly messy from towel-drying but falling just perfectly like it was meant to. He didnât put in effortâbut somehow looked like he walked straight out of a photoshoot. Sharp jawline, long legs, expensive cologne that smelled like trouble and money.
And thenâthat smell hit him.
Pancakes. Sweet, buttery, thick in the air like a hug you didnât know you needed. Warm vanilla mixed with something fruity. And then, there she was. (Do pancakes even have scents? Idk)
Hair tied up lazily, a few strands falling loose, wearing one of his black aprons that looked like it was made to fit her. Bare feet padding softly on the kitchen floor, navigating his sleek, modern, borderline cold kitchen like sheâd been living there her whole life. She didnât hesitate with the drawers, the utensils, even reaching up to grab plates from his overhead cabinets with a little difficulty like she knew where everything was. Like she belonged.
He leaned against the wall for a second, arms folded, watching her. His kitchen was matte black, sharp edges, minimalist design, way too clean for someone who actually lived here. It was the kind of kitchen that screamed money but not home. Until now.
Until her.
Now it felt warm, felt used. And for some reason, that domestic image made something stir in his chest. Not in a soft, sentimental wayâno, Yeosang didnât do sentimental. It was more likeâpossession. Admiration. Likeâyeah, thatâs mine. His quiet, irritating, soft-voiced girl, right there, using his kitchen like she owned it. And she didnât even realize how good she looked like that. The apron tied at her waist, sleeves rolled up as she worked carefully over the stove, flipping pancakes with precision.
How the fuck did she even know where everything was? He barely cooked. Eating out was his thing. Restaurants. Friends. Loud tables. Fancy places. But this? This made him crave home-cooked meals in a way he didnât know he could. Made him crave coming home to something like this. And the worst part? He didnât know whether he wanted the pancakes more or her. Probably her.
Definitely her.
He didnât even realize sheâd caught him staring. Sharp reflexes, top of his class, trained to pick up on the tiniest shitâand yet here he was, caught like some lovesick loser at the doorway of his own damn kitchen. She didnât make a big deal out of it though. Just glanced over her shoulder, flipping another pancake like it was routine. âOh, youâre here. Sit down or something.â
He blinked for a second, caught between embarrassment and awe, and then muttered under his breath, âYes, maâam.â Low enough that she wouldnât catch it. Good. His pride was intact. Barely.
When she finished, she casually served two platesâone in front of him, one in front of her. No big presentation, no waiting for him to start first like those rich girls he was used to. Just sat down, scooted her chair in, and started eating like it was another regular morning. Like theyâd been doing this for years. God, why did that feel nice?
The pancakes were good. Like, scary good. Slightly crisp on the edges, soft in the middle, syrup on the side, not drowned in it like an amateur. She knew what she was doing. Each bite made him feel weirdly cared for, and he didnât like that one bit. It felt⌠vulnerable. Exposed. He wasnât used to this shit. Halfway through, she lifted her gaze to him. Not fullyâjust under her lashes, barely holding eye contact before glancing away again.
âIâve been meaning to askâŚâ she said softly, cutting into her pancake with that annoying, neat little precision of hers. âWhat do you actually do? Like⌠all day?â He chewed slowly, buying time. No one ever asked him that. Not seriously. Everyone just knew who he was. Son of that family. Part of that business. It was understood. Expected. Even his friends didnât bother asking.
But her? She didnât care about any of that. She genuinely didnât knowâor maybe she did but wanted his version of it. Wanted to hear it from him, not just whispered behind closed doors or Googled with a headline next to his face. So, he swallowed, set his fork down carefully, leaned back slightly in the chair.
âWhat do I do?â he repeated, eyes glancing over her face like he was trying to decide how much of himself he wanted to give her. âI manage the boring rich guy stuff, apparently. Assets. Investments. Real estate. Help with family business bullshit.â
She hummed softly, almost dismissively. âSounds annoying.â That caught him off guard. He huffed a laugh through his nose. âIt is annoying.â
They sat in silence for a second, just the quiet sounds of cutlery scraping against plates.
Then she added, still not fully looking at him, âSounds lonely too.â
That made something sharp twist in his chest. Annoyingly accurate. He stared at her, at the little crease between her brows as she focused on cutting another piece, at the way she subtly folded the napkin next to her hand without thinking about it. Always fidgeting, always folding.
She didnât even mean it like that. It was supposed to be just a question. A throwaway thought while she was chewing, cutting another bite, syrup glistening against the fork like she was focused on literally anything else except him. Like it didnât matter. Like it wasnât going to completely rearrange the wires in his damn brain. âAfter I graduate⌠can I see your office or something?â
Just that. Simple. Plain. Like she was asking to borrow a pen.
But Yeosang? Yeosang heard that in HD. Dolby Atmos. Surround sound. Can I see your office echoed through his skull like sheâd just proposed marriage again or something. Why was that affecting him so much? Why was his immediate internal response Yes. Yes, of course. Come sit on my lap in the stupid leather chair. Take over the entire desk, I donât even like working, Iâll retire now, Iâll build you a whole new office, you can have my whole nameâ
He blinked. Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous. She didnât even know what sheâd done. But he couldnât just say all that, obviously. He couldnât wrap her up in a blanket and tell her she was the cutest thing alive for wanting to be in his space, in his world. He couldnât tell her that no oneâno oneâhad ever even bothered to ask about that part of his life. His office. His work. His real world outside of the titles and money.
So, he kept it cool. Cool and bored. Always the bored one. Mr. Nothing Affects Me.
âSure,â he said, cutting another piece of pancake, stabbing it with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth like that would hide the feral urge he felt to grab her face and kiss the absolute life out of her. âReally?â she asked, finally glancing at him properly this time, eyes sharp and unreadable. âItâs not like a private office?â
Private office? Private office? Woman, youâre in my home. You cooked in my kitchen. You slept with your entire leg tangled around mine. And youâre asking about privacy?
He swallowed. âItâs my office. I decide whatâs private.â
Another bite. Another casual shrug. Another act like he wasnât two seconds from folding completely. Folding like the damn napkin she kept playing with next to her plate. âSure,â he said again, this time softer. Almost like a promise. Almost like anything you ask me, everâIâll give it to you.
You both didnât know one thing. You both were falling.
Maybe Yeosang knew it. Kinda. Somewhere in the background of his usually sharp, calculating mind â the same one trained to notice weaknesses in deals and flaws in contracts â there was this soft hum, like static turning into a love song. He knew something was happening. Maybe not fully, maybe not yet in words, but the pull toward you was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like instinct. Breathing. Natural. Familiar in a way nothing else had ever been.
But you? You didnât know. You didnât realize what was happening. You didnât realise that while you sat here with syrup on your fork and pancake crumbs on your fingers, you were starting to heal something that he didnât break.
Yeosang didnât grow up with softness. His mother was the only person who offered that to him, that kind of gentle warmth that made a person feel safe, and when she leftâso did that warmth. His father tried to raise him with ambition and success, not comfort. Not home. Yeosang had everything: wealth, education, sharp looks, friends who could buy out entire hotels on a dareâbut not this. Not this thing he was starting to feel around you.
And you didnât realize that you were going to get something you never thought possible, either. That here, you were healing too. Because all your life, you were raised in pieces. Your parents clipping parts of you before you could even grow. Told that your interests were silly. That your opinions didnât matter because you were a girl. Always âtoo muchâ or ânot enough.â They called it upbringing. Respect. But it wasnât. It was shrinking. You adjusted. You bent around it like vines climbing a crumbling wall, finding space wherever you could, making a way even when there wasnât one.
But here?
Here, no one was going to call you too much. Here, no one was going to shrink you down into something manageable. Here, no one was going to make you feel small for having hobbies or dreams or random thoughts that didnât make sense. Hereâyou werenât going to adjust anymore. You were going to thrive.
And you didnât even know it yet.
Days blended into something that almost resembled normal life. Morning routines settled. Nights had their own rhythm. You handled your stuffâuniversity lectures, deadlines, notes scribbled on the backs of receipts when you couldnât find proper paper. He handled hisâmeetings, calls, those frustrating dinners where people tried to get on his good side for favors he never planned to give.
The two of you orbiting each other like satellites, not colliding, not quite distant either. Somewhere between strangers and something else you both refused to name yet.
But then there were nights like this.
Nights where assignments piled higher than your patience. Nights where caffeine felt like medicine, where eye bags were unavoidable, and sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with books spread around you felt like survival mode. The glow of your laptop screen threw harsh shadows across your face, highlighting the slight furrow between your brows, your bottom lip caught lightly between your teeth as you tried to figure out whatever academic nonsense your professor thought was appropriate for midnight.
Yeosang came home late that night. He had texted you. âRunning late. Donât wait up.â
He didnât expect much. Maybe youâd already be in bed, curled up, hair a mess, hugging that ridiculous pillow youâd claimed as yours. Or maybe youâd be curled on the couch, knocked out with some random video playing softly in the background. But no.
He walked in, loosened his tie, and paused.
You were awake. Awake and working. Glasses slipping down your nose. Notebook covered in tiny handwriting, pages curling at the corners. For a split second, irritation sparked in him. Not at youâat himself. Why were you still up? He told you not to wait. And yetâ
Then he saw it. The laptop open to some assignment, words scrolling by, academic jargon that even he didnât have the mental energy to pretend to understand. You werenât waiting for him. You were fighting a deadline.
Silently, he toed off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and went to the kitchen.
The machine hissed softly as the coffee brewed. The comforting, bitter scent filling the sharp black lines of his modern kitchen again. This time, coffee. Warm, grounding, familiar. He made it just the way you likedâtwo spoons of sugar, a splash of milk. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Balanced. Like you.
He poured one cup for you, one for himself, and padded back across the living room, setting the mug down next to your scattered pens and half-crumpled sticky notes.
You barely noticed at first, mumbling a quiet, âThank you,â eyes still on the screen.
But Yeosang? He just stood there for a second, hand in his pocket, watching you. Watching how you stubbornly refused to give up, even with dark circles forming under your eyes, even with your knee bouncing from stress, even with your exhaustion creeping in like slow fog.
âCan I help?â His voice was soft, breaking through the quiet hum of the laptop fan and your messy thoughts. You blinked, finally tearing your eyes away from the screen to look at him properly.
Help? You werenât used to that word being offered like that. Especially not for things like your work. No one really asked if they could helpâyou were always expected to figure it out yourself, get through it, push harder. Alone. You stared at him for a second, eyebrows furrowed slightly like you were trying to figure out if he was joking or being sarcastic. But he just sat there, leaning forward, coffee resting on his knee, expression neutral but serious. Waiting.
You hesitated. Not because you didnât want help. Just⌠it felt weird. Someone wanting to take on something with you instead of at you or despite you. But you were tired. And behind all your stubbornness, you knew you could use it.
ââŚYou can help with a couple things,â you murmured, barely above your breath.
His lips twitched slightly at thatâalmost a smile, almostâbut he didnât comment. Didnât tease. Just sat up straighter, pushed his coffee aside, and motioned for you to show him.
It wasnât even difficult stuff. Mostly organization. Proofreading. Finding references. And Yeosang, for all his cocky behavior and sharp-tongue antics, was ridiculously smart. He picked up on things quickly, helping you untangle confusing parts, correcting small mistakes you didnât even notice you were making in your sleepy haze.
With him there, the work didnât feel like a mountain anymore. It felt doable. Manageable. Like he was one more set of steady hands holding up the mess before it could collapse.
You didnât talk much. Just handed things to him, pointed at the screen when you needed help cross-checking something, let him scroll through research tabs while you typed furiously to finish the parts only you could write. By the time you reached the end, you realized it had gone faster than you expected.
And⌠it didnât feel heavy anymore.
As you saved the file and finally let yourself lean back against the cushions, stretching your aching fingers, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His sleeves were still rolled up, tie loose, hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked relaxed. Like this wasnât a burden. Like he didnât mind being here at all.
âThanks,â you said finally, voice quieter than before.
He just hummed, reaching for his now slightly-cold coffee again. âTold you,â he muttered, taking a sip, âIâm not just here to look pretty.â
You rolled your eyes at that, a small breath of laughter escaping despite yourself. And for the first time in a while, the stress didnât feel suffocating. For the first time, you didnât feel like you were carrying everything alone.
But now you didnât want to move. Not even a little. Your body felt like it weighed triple, bones filled with sand, limbs heavy from the hours of grinding through assignments, deadlines, typing until your knuckles hurt. The soft hum of the laptop fan was starting to blend with the background noise of the apartmentâthe occasional creak of the walls, the soft ticking of the clock. So you just laid down right there on the couch, curling slightly onto your side, pressing your cheek into the cushions like they could swallow you whole.
âYou shouldnât sleep here,â his voice broke through gently. Not nagging. Not demanding. Just a low, careful suggestion. âItâs bad for your back.â
âYeahâŚâ you mumbled. You knew. Of course you knew. But knowing and moving were two different things. The soft, tired sound of your own voice felt distant to you, like it was coming from somewhere underwater. âMâfine⌠JustâŚgimme a minuteâŚâ
And then, you felt it. Arms sliding under you, one beneath your knees, the other curling easily around your shoulders. The couch shifted beneath you as he moved, and suddenly, you were moving too. Your eyes snapped open halfway, heavy-lidded with exhaustion but sharp with shock. What theâ
He picked you up. Like it was nothing. Like you weighed absolutely nothing. Effortless. Smooth. As if this was something he did on a daily basis, as if you werenât dead weight with tangled limbs and messy hair and exhaustion practically dripping off your skin.
You knew he worked out. Youâd seen his arms, the way his shirts sometimes hugged his shoulders, the way his forearms tensed slightly when he rolled up his sleeves or carried grocery bags with one hand like they were weightless.
But this? This was a whole new experience.
You blinked up at him, groggy but vaguely scandalized, too drained to fight him on it but still indignant enough to grumble, âI can walk, you knowâŚâ
âDoesnât look like it,â he muttered back, voice lazy but steady, gaze fixed ahead as he carefully maneuvered you toward the bedroom. His jaw was set, clean lines of his face shadowed by the low lighting, and that stupid, faint grin on his lipsâlike he was enjoying this a little too much.
You were too tired to argue more, head lolling lightly against his shoulder, his cologne filling your nose. Clean, sharp, warm.
âPut me down,â you murmured weakly, only half meaning it.
âNo.â
Thatâs all he said. Just no. Simple. Firm. No teasing this time. Justâno. Because you were tired, and because he wanted to carry you. Because whether you liked it or not, this was part of who he was nowâyour husband. And part of that role, apparently, included picking you up like a princess when you worked yourself to exhaustion doing university assignments at midnight.
You didnât realize when your eyes slipped closed again, but the warmth of his hold and the soft shift of the apartment around you made it easier.
He set you down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping softly under your weight. The second you hit the covers, your whole body sighed in relief, muscles unraveling like thread, tension slipping out of your shoulders as your eyelids fluttered heavily.
You barely registered him leaving, the soft rustle of fabric as he changed, the faint clink of his watch being set down somewhere on the nightstand. The apartment was quiet except for those soft, everyday soundsâthe kind that made a space feel lived in. Real. And then the bed dipped again, the warmth of him close, his scent following like gravity itself. Before you could fully register it, his arm snaked around your waist, firm but not rough, and he pulled you in.
Your eyes opened halfway, brows pinching lightly. âYeosangâŚâ
âNo complaining,â he murmured, voice low, brushing near your ear. âI know you need it.â
That shut you up real quickânot because he was being cocky, but because⌠he was right. You did need it. And that annoyed you more than anything, how well he was starting to read you without effort. Like this connection was some secret language only he could pick up on while you were still figuring it out. You wanted to argue. Maybe just out of habit. Maybe because that independent part of you hated the idea of needing someone this badly. But⌠God, it felt good. It felt safe. Not like being trapped, not like obligationâbut like comfort. Like warmth. Like someone saying, Itâs okay. You donât have to hold everything up alone tonight.
So you didnât say anything after that. Just let yourself sink into the pull of his chest against your back, his hand splayed warm over your stomach, his steady breathing brushing against the back of your neck. Everything fit a little too perfectly, like puzzle pieces you didnât even know belonged to the same set.
And that night⌠that night, you both slept better than you ever had since this whole marriage thing started. No weird dreams. No uncomfortable tossing and turning. No stress lingering sharp at the edges of your thoughts.
Just⌠sleep.
You didnât know how it happened, but somehow, somewhere in the middle of the night, your body betrayed your stubbornness. You woke up curled against him, face pressed gently to his chest, his scent filling your lungs like something youâd been secretly addicted to. His armâGod, his armâwas draped around you, hand cupped protectively over the back of your head like instinct. Like he was shielding you, even in sleep. And it wasnât awkward. Thatâs what surprised you most. It felt natural. Not forced, not weird, just⌠like safety.
You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, hear the soft, even rhythm of his breathing. And as much as you hated to admit it⌠he looked pretty like this. No, scratch thatâannoyingly pretty. Long lashes resting against sharp cheekbones, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from sleep in that effortless way guys pull off without even trying.
Gross. Beautiful. Disgusting. Infuriating.
You blinked a few times, brain slowly booting up for the day, before carefully untangling yourself like a thief in the night. His arm loosened its grip like he was reluctant even in his sleep, but eventually let you go. You got up, showered, got dressed, doing your whole morning routine as quietly as possible. University wasnât going to wait for you to bask in your soft domestic crisis. And you definitely werenât about to stand there and gawk at his stupidly handsome sleeping face for too long. Absolutely not.
By the time you were adjusting the strap of your bag, tying your hair properly, you heard movement from the bedroom. A few minutes later, Yeosang walked out, freshly showered, damp hair pushed back, wearing that clean, crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled just enough to make you want to scream into a pillow. Grey slacks, black watch, rings back on his fingers, that usual lazy confidence laced into his posture.
He looked at you, eyes dropping down briefly to your outfit, then meeting your gaze again like it was nothing.
âIâll pick you up later,â he said, fixing one of his cuffs. âAfter uni.â
You blinked. âWhy?â
âDate,â he said simply, like it was obvious. âWe deserve one.â
You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what reaction you were supposed to give. A part of you wanted to roll your eyes, say something sarcasticâbut another part⌠another part felt weirdly happy about it. Happy in that annoying, fluttery kind of way you werenât ready to admit yet. So you settled for a quiet, âOkay,â adjusting your bag again, looking at the floor to hide the small smile trying to creep up on your lips.
âGood,â he said, smirking nowâbut this time it wasnât cocky. It was something softer, warmer. âIâll see you later, then.â And as you left the apartment, the weight of the day felt lighter somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, you werenât dreading things as much anymore.
Yeosang sat in the car, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh. The sun was starting to dip, casting that golden hour glow over the edges of buildings, making everything look softer, warmer, like a scene out of some movie. But Yeosang wasnât paying attention to the scenery. Not really.Heâd had a day. Meetings that dragged. Calls that felt like someone was reading tax documents aloud just to torture him. Endless signatures, fake smiles, the whole act. All he wanted right now was peace. Quiet. A good meal. And you.
A proper date with his cute wife, nothing more, nothing less. Just you sitting across from him in that way you always didâhalf avoiding eye contact, sleeves of your cardigan slipping past your wrists, probably fidgeting with your napkin again. That was the peace he wanted. Not luxury. Not power. Just that.
But thenâŚ
His eyes narrowed. He saw you. And you werenât alone. There was a guy. Some nobody. Same-age, maybe older, walking beside you, too close for Yeosangâs liking, talking like he knew you well. And youâGodâyou were smiling. Not the full kind, not the ones Yeosang secretly hoarded like precious stones, but still smiling. Like you were comfortable. Yeosangâs jaw tightened. His fingers, the ones tapping against his thigh, stopped moving. What pissed him off wasnât just the guy talking. It was the way he was talking to you. That casual, easygoing posture, like he thought he was funny. Like he thought he was charming. Like he thought he deserved to be walking next to you, making you smile like that.
And maybe you didnât even realize. Maybe you were just being polite. But Yeosang saw it all. The way the guy leaned slightly in when he spoke. The way his hands moved while explaining something, animated like he wanted your full attention on him.
Yeosang didnât like it. Not one bit.
The expensive black car, polished to perfection, stood out like a punch to the face in front of the university gates. People kept throwing glances, some doing double-takes, whispering. Whose car is that? Whoâs that guy? But Yeosang didnât care. Let them look. Let them talk. His gaze stayed locked on you and that idiot next to you. Calm on the outside. A storm brewing underneath. You didnât know it yet.
You spotted him the moment he stepped out of the car. Yeosang wasnât the type to make a show of himself, but somehowâhe did. Maybe it was the way he stood, sharp lines of his suit catching the light, hair pushed back neatly, expression unreadable. Maybe it was the car behind him, polished black, practically humming money and influence. Maybe it was just him. Either way, heads were turning, eyes flicking between him and you like something wasnât adding up.
You swallowed, nerves prickling up your spine. Before you could react, before you could even introduce anyone properly, he was already moving. His hand found yoursâfirm, warm, possessive without being rough. It startled you. Not because of the touchâyou were used to that by nowâbut because of the timing. Calculated. Precise. Like everything he did. âThis your friend?â he said calmly, looking not at you, but directly at the guy.
Before you could speak, Yeosang gave the poor guy a small, polite smile that didnât reach his eyes. âNice to meet you,â he said smoothly, tightening his grip on your hand just slightly. âIâm her husband.â
And then, for good measure, he added his name. Kang Yeosang.
You could see the shift instantly. The recognition behind the guyâs eyes. The flicker of panic mixed with surprise. Everyone in this city knew that nameâor at least the ones who mattered did. Not just because of the wealth, but because of what that name meant in certain circles. Reputation. Power. Authority. Not just a businessmanâsomething more. Something sharp underneath the polished surface.
âOh,â was all the guy could manage, awkward, unsure of where to put his hands now, stepping back half a pace instinctively. âYeah,â Yeosang finished softly, expression pleasant, dangerous in its restraint. âGood talk.â
Without another word, he guided you toward the passenger seat, opened the door like a gentleman, helped you in, and shut it carefully behind you before rounding the car and getting in himself. He didnât look at you at first. Just started the engine, pulled out of the lot with practiced ease.
What you didnât see, however, was the slight tilt of his head down as he flicked open his messages. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly, typing out the guyâs name, sending it to an unknown number. No emojis. No fluff. Just a clean instruction.
A name and a dot. Thatâs all it took.
Then the phone slipped back into his pocket like nothing happened.
He glanced at you finally, features softening just slightly now that the irritation had passed, hand casually resting on the gear shift..
"You ready?â he asked, like none of that had just happened. You didnât answer immediately. Your heart was still somewhere between confused, flustered, and maybeâa little impressed. And Yeosang?
He was perfectly at ease. Because no one touches whatâs his.
The date itself was simple, nothing extravagantâjust the way you liked it. Dinner somewhere not too loud, warm lighting, food you could pronounce, chairs that didnât make your back ache. He didnât drag you to some elite chefâs private villa or a high-rise with twelve spoons and seven forks. Just⌠normal. Comfortable.
But of course, it wasnât normal, not with him sitting across from you like that. Rolling up his sleeves just enough to show off the veins in his forearms, leaning forward slightly when you spoke, giving you that attention that made your stomach twist in a way youâd pretend was annoyanceâbut you knew better now. You were far too aware of his every move, his subtle glances at your lips when you talked, his faint smile whenever you fidgeted with the sleeves of your cardigan or neatly arranged your utensils.
And he was losing it.
Internally.
Watching you talk softly about nothingâordering dessert, choosing between tea or coffee, or even just adjusting your braceletâlike it was the most adorable thing in the world. You didnât even have to try. Thatâs what drove him crazy. You could breathe and heâd be on the verge of melting into his seat like some fool.
But what really started creeping under your skin wasnât the food or the conversation or even the comfort of the evening.
It was after.
Back in university, you started noticing something odd. The guyâthe one from the parking lotâgone. No hellos in the hallway, no passing glances, no awkward waves after that weird encounter with Yeosang. Vanished. Just⌠gone.
You werenât naĂŻve. You noticed patterns. You noticed behavior. You mightâve been quiet, but you werenât stupid.
So, you asked him. One evening, after heâd made both of you coffee, when the room was quiet and warm, you just casually dropped it like spare change on a counter.
âBy the way⌠that guy I was talking to last week? Havenât seen him around.â
His reaction was instant, which already gave him away. That sharp, barely-there twitch of his lips. His fingers curling ever so slightly around the mug handle.
And thenâhe laughed.
That annoying, deep, pretty laugh that was all throat and no apologies.
âDonât know,â he said with a shrug, voice lazy, too smooth to be true. âWeird, isnât it?â
Liar. Absolute liar.
And thatâs what did it. Thatâs what made you fall.
Not the expensive car. Not the handsome face. Not even the whole husband thing.
It was that. That dumb, cocky, lying laugh paired with the soft way he helped you out of your coat or refilled your water glass without saying anything. The combination of someone who could ruin a manâs whole life in one text but still remember that you liked your toast slightly burnt.
It wasnât fair.
And maybe, just maybe, you found yourself falling.
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