#cheollie

"Sir, the projections-"

"I don't pay you for projections. I pay you for certainties," Seungcheol cut him off, his voice a low, vibrating bass. "The answer is no. This project is dead. Pack your things and-"

The heavy oak doors creaked open. The security detail outside didn't even try to stop the intruder; they knew better. You walked in, the rhythmic click of your Stilettos cutting through the suffocating silence. You didn't look at the board; your eyes were fixed on the man at the end of the table.

The transformation was instantaneous. The predatory stillness in Seungcheol’s posture evaporated. He surged to his feet, his chair screeching against the floor, but he wasn't moving to confront an intruder. He was moving to welcome his Queen.

"Honey," he breathed, his entire face softening into an expression of pure, unadulterated worship.

He met you halfway, taking your hand and pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles. The board members watched, paralyzed, as the man who had just been ready to fire his CFO became a soft, attentive shadow.

"You're early," he murmured, his thumb stroking your skin. "I would have come down to the lobby to get you."

"I heard you were being difficult, Cheol," you said, your voice calm but commanding. You walked past him toward the head of the table. Without being asked, Seungcheol pulled out his own chair the seat of ultimate power and waited for you to sit.

He didn't return to a seat of his own. Instead, he stood behind you, his large hands resting on your shoulders, his head bowed slightly as if waiting for his next set of orders.

You picked up the folder he had just rejected. You flipped through the pages, the only sound in the room being the rustle of paper. Seungcheol leaned down, his lips brushing your ear.

"I told them it was a waste of capital," he whispered, though loud enough for the front row to hear. "But if you see something I missed, I’ll take it all back."

"The zoning laws aren't a gamble, Seungcheol," you said, looking up at him. "My company handled the lobbying for this district last month. The change is already signed; it just hasn't been publicized. This land will triple in value by Q3."

Seungcheol didn't even look at the data. He didn't check your sources. He simply looked at the board members, his eyes turning back into chips of ice the moment he stopped looking at you.

"You heard her," he commanded. "The deal is back on. Full funding. Use the secondary reserve."

"But Mr. Choi," the CFO whispered, "you just said-"

"I said what I said because I didn't have her insight," Seungcheol snapped, his hand tightening protectively on your shoulder. "In this room, my word is final. And my word is whatever she decides. If she says the sun rises in the west, you start buying shades for the west windows. Am I clear?"

Once the room was cleared of the terrified executives, the "Commander" persona crumbled entirely. Seungcheol dropped to his knees beside your chair, resting his arms on the armrests so he could look up at you. He looked like a man who had finally found his North Star.

"Was I too much?" he asked, a trace of a smirk playing on his lips, his eyes searching yours for approval.

"You were a bit dramatic," you teased, running your fingers through his thick, dark hair. "You nearly gave that poor man a heart attack."

"I don't care about them," he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours. He took your hand again, worshipping the palm with soft kisses. "I only care if you're pleased. My company, my reputation, my life... it’s all just a platform for you to stand on, Y/N."

He stood up, pulling you with him and tucking you into his chest.

"Let’s go to lunch," he suggested, already reaching for your coat. "My treat. Or yours. Actually, you choose the place. You choose everything. I'm just here to make sure no one gets in your way."

You tilted your head, a playful, sharp glint in your eyes as you leaned back into the plush leather of his executive chair. You didn’t get up. In fact, you kicked your heels off and propped your feet right onto the mahogany table, directly on top of the billion-dollar merger papers.

Seungcheol didn’t flinch. If anything, his pupils dilated with a surge of dark, devoted heat.

"The place I want to go for lunch is three hours away, Cheol," you said, examining your manicure with an air of bored indifference. "And I don't want to take the car. It’s too stuffy."

"Three hours?" one of his remaining assistants whispered in the corner, horrified. "But sir, you have the press conference at two-"

Seungcheol’s head snapped toward the assistant, his gaze lethal. "Cancel it."

"But the international media-"

"Did I stutter?" Seungcheol’s voice was a whip-crack. "If my wife wants a three-hour trip for a sandwich, we are going. Clear my schedule for the rest of the week if she asks for it."

He turned back to you, his posture immediately softening into that of a devoted acolyte. He walked over to the table and, instead of asking you to move your feet, he picked up a silk handkerchief from his pocket and began to gently buff a microscopic speck of dust off your heel.

"The helicopter can be ready in ten minutes, baby," he murmured, his voice thick with affection. "Or I can call in the private jet if you want to nap on the way. Which one?"

"I haven't decided yet," you huffed, spinning the chair around so your back was to him. "I'm feeling... irritated. You were so loud when I walked in. It gave me a headache."

The "Commander" of the business world actually looked pained. He moved behind the chair, his large, calloused hands coming down to massage your shoulders with expert pressure. He leaned down, pressing his face into your hair, breathing you in like you were his only source of oxygen.

"I’m sorry, Princess," he whispered against your skin, his voice vibrating with sincerity. "I was being a brute. Tell me how to make it up to you. Anything. Do you want that boutique on 5th Avenue? I’ll buy the building today. Do you want me to fire the CFO for breathing too loudly while you were talking? Just say the word."

"Maybe," you teased, turning your head just enough to see him hovering over you. "And I want you to carry me to the elevator. These floors are too hard."

The corners of Seungcheol’s mouth quirked up the only person in the world allowed to see him smile like a lovesick fool. To the rest of the world, he was a wolf. To you, he was a golden retriever on a diamond-encrusted leash.

"Only to the elevator?" He scooped you up into his arms effortlessly, cradling you against his chest as if you were made of the finest porcelain. "I’m carrying you all the way to the helipad. And if you’re still grumpy when we get there, you can use my chest as a footrest the whole flight."

As he carried you out through the main office, passing rows of stunned employees who had never seen their "Commander" act as a footman, Seungcheol kept his head high. He wasn't embarrassed. He looked proud as if carrying your bags and catering to your every bratty whim was the highest promotion he had ever received.

"Eyes down!" Seungcheol barked at a group of interns staring at the scene. "Nobody looks at her but me."

You fling your phone across the bed like it burned you, and your life flashes before your eyes—not the sweet nostalgic kind, but the HR-violation, resume-rewriting, LinkedIn-updating kind.

Your group chat explodes within seconds.

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

Juri: what did u do.

Hana: Y/N. SAY SOMETHING.

You: it was supposed to go to Minjae THE PLAYLIST TEXT i sent it to SEUNGCHEOL

Juri: YOUR. BOSS???

Hana: pack your things. dye your hair. flee the country.

Juri: can i have your bluetooth speaker

You: THIS IS NOT THE POINT

You don’t know whether to throw up or scream into your pillow, so you do both, in that order.

Minutes drag by. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’ll think it’s spam. Maybe you typed so fast autocorrect changed “Minjae” to “Seungcheol” somehow?

Your phone buzzes.

You sit up slowly, dreading the notification, a gulp caught in your throat. Your worst fear is confirmed.

—

[Text — CEO (ok, that’s new)]

CEO: Well… I wasn’t expecting that kind of honesty. But I did cry. Twice. Taylor hits hard. Also—want to make your ex cry harder?

—

You blink.

What.

—

You: sorry??? that was not meant for you oh my god please don’t fire me i can bring you coffee and delete the servers

CEO: Don’t worry about it. I have a stupid idea, but it might actually help you. Want to make him jealous?

He’s joking. Has to be. You pace, holding your phone like it’s made of live wire. He texts again.

CEO: I’ll be your fake boyfriend. You get closure, I get to avoid another company dinner alone. Win-win.

You nearly choke on your own breath. Your boss—your unfairly attractive, sometimes-too-nice, definitely-too-intimidating boss—is offering to be your fake boyfriend?

You respond the only way you can:

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: what the actual hell is going on

Juri: YOU’RE FAKE DATING YOUR BOSS NOW????

Hana: this is better than any drama i’m making popcorn.

Juri: you’re going to catch feelings

You: i will not

Hana: you absolutely will

You: i’m still spiraling can we circle back to the part where i ACCIDENTALLY EMOTIONALLY BLACKMAILED MY BOSS

Juri: he emotionally bonded instead.

Hana: did he use a taylor swift lyric?

You: NO …i think

—

You don’t sleep that night.

Instead, you stare at your ceiling, thinking about Taylor Swift, corporate doom, and the way Choi Seungcheol’s name sits in your messages like it was always meant to be there.

—

It’s supposed to be a soft launch.

Just a casual post on Seungcheol’s Instagram story—a blurry photo of two coffees, one marked “Y/N” in loopy handwriting. No tags, no faces, no captions except a single emoji: 💘.

You choke on your tea when you see it.

“HE POSTED YOU?” Juri screeches through the phone, voice distorted by wind and fury. “HE JUST? SOFT LAUNCHED YOU? ON HIS MAIN?”

“I didn’t even know he took a picture!”

“Do you know how many employees follow him?” Hana yells from the background. “You’re already on gossip accounts!”

“What-” you open Instagram, hands shaking. “No way.”

You search. You find it. An account called @/KworkKtea has already posted a collage of evidence:

“mystery girl’s coffee name = confirmed Y/N from finance”

“seen walking into his building twice in the last week 👀”

“source says she made him smile at the Q3 report meeting???”

And the worst part? There’s a poll.

Is Choi Seungcheol in love? — YES, 72% — no, 28% (these are the delulu exes probably)

You consider walking into traffic. Or HR. Whichever is closer.

—

You storm into Seungcheol’s office first thing the next morning. He’s mid-sip of an energy drink when you slam your phone on his desk, screen open to the post.

“What. Is. This.”

He blinks. “Public perception?”

“I said fake dating, not PR chaos!”

He has the audacity to look confused. “People love us.”

“People don’t even know me.”

He shrugs. “They will.”

You nearly combust. “You soft launched me without consent!”

“I thought it was a nice coffee picture!”

You stare at him. He stares back. This is, technically, your boss. This is also, technically, the man who is now listed as your alleged boyfriend on three workplace forums.

“I’m going to have a stroke,” you whisper.

He softens, setting down the drink. “Hey. I’ll fix it, if it’s too much. I’ll post a meme or distract the algorithm. But… can I say something?”

You blink. “You’re going to anyway.”

“I meant it as a thank you,” he says, voice quiet now. “For helping me. For making things easier. For being someone I can trust to hold this chaos with me.”

Your stomach flips.

It’s not even the words that undo you. It’s the way he says them — not like a script, but like a secret.

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: he soft launched me and then soft confessed???

Juri: define “soft” because i think you’re in love

Hana: trusts you with chaos??? it’s over for you girl

You: i’m being normal about it i’m being CHILL i’m not rereading the text 6 times

Juri: you’re lying

Hana: and shaking

You: mind your business

—

A week later, he asks if you want to join him for a company dinner. A very public, very board-filled dinner.

“It’ll sell the illusion,” he says, straightening his sleeves. “But no pressure. We can always say you’re sick or in Bali.”

You exhale slowly. “Do I have to wear heels?”

He grins. “Only if you want to see me flustered.”

—

The dinner is ridiculous. The room is full of power suits, champagne, and cautious small talk.

You expect to be ignored. You expect to be judged.

Instead, you are introduced—officially introduced—by Seungcheol himself.

“This is Y/N,” he says. “She’s brilliant. She’s keeping me sane.”

It shouldn’t mean anything. You’re playing a part.

But when his hand lingers at the small of your back, warm and protective When he laughs at your joke before anyone else does When he looks at you during a toast instead of the room

You realize something terrifying.

You’re not soft launching anymore. You’re falling.

—

You wake up to the kind of email that makes your soul leave your body.

Subject: URGENT: Meeting Request – HR From: [email protected] To: [email protected], [email protected] Cc: [email protected]

You sit frozen in your desk chair, eyes wide, until your chat pings.

Seungcheol: don’t panic 😇 i’ll handle it come to the 9am with snacks

You reply with:

You: YOU GOT US HR-SUMMONED. FOR YOUR INSTAGRAM STORY.

Seungcheol: correction: for my aestheticand your coffee handwriting

You: I should’ve just sent that breakup text to my ex. At least HE wasn’t being monitored by compliance.

—

9:00 AM – HR Office (Aka The Firing Room)

The HR rep, Haein, is devastatingly pretty, unreadable, and sipping a colorless green juice. She gestures to two chairs. You take one. Seungcheol—of course—leans casually against the wall like this is a press shoot.

“So,” Haein says, smiling like a guillotine. “I just wanted to follow up on some… observations.”

You open your mouth. Seungcheol beats you to it.

“We’re dating.”

You nearly fling your bag across the room.

Haein raises a brow. “Officially?”

“Yes,” he says smoothly. “Romantically. Exclusively. Legally, if necessary.”

You make a choking noise.

Haein types something ominously into her laptop. “Interesting. And this relationship began…?”

“Last week,” you blurt. “Roughly. A little after the Q3 wrap meeting.”

“I see.” She pauses. “Just so you’re aware, interdepartmental relationships aren’t prohibited, but they must be disclosed. And should any conflicts of interest arise, especially with one of you in a supervisory role-”

“She’s ungovernable,” Seungcheol says solemnly. “Definitely not under my influence.”

“Choi,” you hiss, elbowing him in the ribs.

Haein stares. “Right. And you understand that public social media displays, especially when involving direct reports, can create an appearance of favoritism?”

You nod so hard your brain rattles. “Totally understood. No more soft launches.”

“Mm.” She clicks her pen. “And—purely hypothetically—if this were a fake relationship…”

You stop breathing.

Seungcheol leans in slightly. “But it’s not. We’re disgustingly into each other.”

“I made him a Google Calendar invite for our first kiss,” you lie.

Haein doesn’t blink. “You’re both insufferable. Meeting adjourned.”

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: hr hates me

Juri: hr is jealous of you

Hana: what’s the legal status of pretending to kiss someone for a calendar invite

You: spiritually illegal

Juri: was he hot in the meeting tho

You: unreasonably leaned against the wall like a ceo/vampire hybrid

Hana: you’re going to fall for him for real

You: gonna? bestie i’m already on the floor

—

After the HR incident, you expect Seungcheol to back off.

He does not.

He sends you morning coffees with sticky notes that say things like "for my favorite corporate liability 💖."He walks you out of the building with his hand at your waist like this is some K-drama and not a financial district. He flirts. Constantly.

And you—professional, stable, emotionally intelligent you—flirt back.

It’s not real. It’s not.

Until it starts to feel like it is.

—

You’re at your desk, finishing reports, when he sends a message.

Seungcheol: got a meeting in 10. do i look okay?

You glance up. He’s across the office in the glass boardroom, holding his phone like a teenage girl at a sleepover. He’s wearing his navy suit—the one that does things to your pulse—and that dumb dimple’s showing.

You type back.

You: you look like a man who just made someone fall in love with him in a google calendar

He doesn’t respond immediately. Then—

Seungcheol: i hope it’s you.

—

You sit frozen, half-blinking, heart punching your ribs.

You don’t know what’s happening anymore.

You’re fake dating. You’re soft launching. You’re flirting across boardrooms. You’re surviving HR.

And you’re starting to wonder:

What if none of this is fake anymore?

—

There’s something deeply humiliating about crying in a copy room.

Maybe it’s the sound of the paper tray thudding like a heartbeat. Maybe it’s the way the fluorescent light reflects off your tears like a bad indie film. Or maybe it’s because your fake boyfriend is standing outside the door, knocking gently like a damn Hallmark character.

“Hey,” Seungcheol says. “Y/N? You okay in there?”

You swallow a sob, which only makes it louder. Fantastic.

“Fine!” you croak. “Totally fine! Just the toner fumes!”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Is this about the press leak?”

You freeze.

Of course he knows.

The article had dropped half an hour ago: “CEO Choi Seungcheol Dating Internal Hire?”

Complete with blurry photos, fan theories, and a very smug screenshot of his Instagram soft-launch.

The whole building saw it. The company Slack is one wrong emoji away from imploding.

“It’s not your fault,” he says through the door. “It’s mine.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve, a piece of copy paper stuck to your wrist. “No, it’s not. I should’ve said no to all of this. I should’ve—god, I don’t even know what we’re doing anymore.”

“Then let’s figure it out,” he says softly. “Together.”

You laugh. It’s watery and sharp. “We’re not actually together, Seungcheol. Remember?”

Another silence. Longer.

Then, very quietly:

“But I want to be.”

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: so the ceo of this company just confessed to me

Juri: ???

Hana: wait like confessed confessed???

You: said he WANTS to be together

Juri: omg do you want to be together with him

You: i don’t know it was supposed to be fake

Hana: babe your heart is not fake

You: he’s my BOSS

Juri: and you’re his BRAIN

Hana: and you’re hot. like, professionally hot. so he’s right.

—

You expect him to pull back after the confession.

He doesn’t.

He brings you tea the next morning. Doesn’t say anything. Just places it on your desk like it’s a peace offering.

Later, you find a message:

Seungcheol: i’m not expecting anything just wanted you to know i meant it no more pretending if you don’t want to but i still like you. fake label or not.

You stare at the screen.

Then your heart does something dangerous.

It softens.

—

That night, you sit on your bed, staring at the Google Calendar invite from weeks ago.

Title: First (fake) kiss Time: 6 minutes after our imaginary anniversary dinner Location: Somewhere cinematic

You click on “Edit.”

Then, without thinking, you change the title.

Title: First kiss (maybe real?) Note: Just in case.

—

The next day, you pass him in the hallway.

He doesn’t say anything. Just gives you a little smile.

You almost don’t do it.

But something in your chest takes over.

You reach out and slip your fingers around his wrist.

“Seungcheol,” you say softly. He stops. Looks at you like you’re gravity itself.

“If we do this for real,” you say, “you can’t soft launch me again. The next time you post me, I want it loud.”

His eyes crinkle. “Deal.”

Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles. Just once. Just long enough to make your bones melt.

The copy room doesn’t feel so embarrassing anymore.

—

You wear your best Casual Friday outfit and feel anything but casual.

Because how are you supposed to look effortlessly chic when the CEO (your fake boyfriend, maybe-real crush, habitual knuckle kisser) keeps glancing at you like you’re the sun and he’s never seen light before?

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches as you sip your coffee and scroll through your inbox, entirely pretending to not be melting under his gaze.

Then: “Are you doing anything after work?”

Your hand jerks. Coffee spills on your desk. “What?”

Seungcheol blinks. Then quickly grabs tissues. “I meant like—dinner? As two people. Who enjoy each other’s company. With possibly…romantic undertones?”

You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a real date.”

“Yes.”

“After I spilled coffee all over myself.”

“You still look incredible.”

“Seungcheol.”

“Yes?”

“Stop flirting. I’m vulnerable and damp.”

—

You say yes.

Of course you say yes.

And the office explodes with theories when he walks you out of the building.

He opens the door for you like you’re royalty. Offers you his coat when the wind picks up. You catch the reflection of a coworker’s jaw physically dropping in the elevator glass.

You lean in.

“Bet they think we’re doing this for show,” you whisper.

He looks down at you.

“Let them,” he murmurs. “But this part’s for me.”

And then, in full view of the security camera, he presses a kiss to your temple. Gentle. Reverent. Real.

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

Hana: SOOOOOO

Juri: [image attachment: you and seungcheol on a sidewalk, his hand on your lower back, both of you glowing like a pinterest couple] Hana: CARE TO EXPLAIN????

You: um it’s casual friday

Juri: BABE YOU’RE IN HIS COAT

You: okay. it’s slightly less casual friday.

—

Dinner is… magical.

Not in the grand, candlelit, cinematic sense.

It’s just a tiny place tucked behind your apartment complex, where the staff knows your name and the food is warm and greasy and perfect.

But he listens when you talk. Really listens.

You tell him about your old dreams. Your worst heartbreak. The fact that your favorite flower isn’t roses, but freesia, because your grandmother used to grow them outside her window.

He absorbs it all.

At one point, you realize he’s not even eating anymore.

He’s just watching you.

“What?” you ask, self-conscious.

He smiles. “Just memorizing.”

—

Afterward, he walks you to your door.

“Want to come in?” you ask.

His brows lift. “That’s bold.”

“I just meant for tea.”

“That’s somehow bolder.”

You both laugh.

But then—he steps closer. His hand lifts to your cheek.

“You don’t have to invite me in,” he says softly. “I’d wait outside all night if you asked me to.”

You blink.

“Why?”

“Because you’re the first thing that’s made sense in months.”

Your heart trips. He catches it. With his voice. With his eyes. With all the stupid, tender feelings wrapped up in this ridiculous arrangement you fell into by accident.

He doesn’t kiss you.

He just…leans in. Foreheads touching. Breath shared.

And somehow, it’s better than any kiss.

—

[Late Night Text — Seungcheol]

Seungcheol: just wanted to say thank you for not being afraid of how messy this got i know we didn’t start this the normal way but i don’t think i’ve ever liked someone this much and i’m terrified but also really, really happy

also: freesia noted 🌼

—

You should have said no.

You should have blocked your ex the moment his name popped up on your screen with a casual:

“Hey, I’m in town. Want to catch up?”

You meant to ignore it.

But you’re an idiot.

So now you’re here—wearing your most emotionally detached outfit and regretting your life choices—because apparently closure is a drink you share over overpriced cocktails.

And of course, the moment your ex walks in, he looks exactly the same.

Same smug smile. Same arrogant half-buttoned shirt. Same faint trace of cologne that used to make you weak in the knees.

He hugs you like he earned it.

“So,” he says, already ordering for you. “Still writing poetry in spreadsheets? Or have you upgraded to being the CEO’s pet project?”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on. I’ve seen the tabloids. ‘Mysterious New Flame of CEO Choi’? That's not accidental.”

You open your mouth to snap something back—but a voice behind you beats you to it.

“You’re right,” Seungcheol says, casually sliding into the booth beside you. “It’s not accidental. I picked her on purpose.”

—

Your ex stares. “Who-?”

“Her boyfriend,” Seungcheol says, clapping a hand on your shoulder like this is his show now.

You whip your head toward him, eyes wide. “How—how did you find me?”

“Location-sharing. You never turned it off after that wine festival.”

You gape. “That was months ago.”

He shrugs. “I’m thorough.”

—

The tension at the table is so thick it might need its own drink menu.

Your ex clears his throat, clearly flustered. “Didn’t mean to offend. Just… surprised. She usually went for less controlling types.”

“Controlling?” Seungcheol repeats, voice suddenly all steel.

“She hated being told what to do,” your ex continues with a smirk. “But I guess every girl gets tired of chasing pipe dreams eventually.”

You make a sound halfway between a gasp and a growl. “You don’t know anything about me anymore.”

“I know enough.”

Seungcheol puts his arm around you. “You know nothing. She’s brilliant. She’s brave. And she’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Silence.

Your ex looks… uncomfortable.

Good.

He stands. “Well. It’s been—something. Take care of yourself.”

You don’t say goodbye.

Neither does Seungcheol.

—

Outside, you lean against a wall and exhale shakily.

Seungcheol leans beside you. Quiet.

Finally: “I wasn’t trying to crash your dinner. I just saw where you were and panicked.”

You don’t respond.

He tries again. “You okay?”

You nod. “I should’ve known better.”

He looks at you—really looks at you. “Don’t beat yourself up. Closure’s a liar. You don’t owe that guy anything.”

You glance down at your heels. “I think I just wanted to prove I wasn’t the mess he left behind.”

“You didn’t have to prove anything.”

He reaches for your hand.

“You’re not a mess,” he says quietly. “You’re the whole damn masterpiece.”

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

Hana: did he really show up

You: yes. like a bad haircut.

Juri: AND SEUNGCHEOL JUST???

You: stormed in. defended my honor. held my hand.

Hana: that’s the most romantic thing since juri cried at her own proposal

Juri: IT WAS THE MUSIC

You: i think i’m in trouble.

Hana: oh babe you’re in love.

—

Later that night, you find a small bouquet placed at your front door.

Not roses. Not lilies.

Freesias.

With a note:

“For closure. And for everything after it. -SC.”

—

You are not panicking.

You are simply adjusting to the reality that you are Seungcheol Choi’s date to the biggest company event of the year, where everyone—including your coworkers, your enemies, and that weird guy from IT who always microwaves fish—will be watching your every move.

Your phone buzzes.

Hana: is he hot or is he i might actually fall in love with my fake boyfriend hot

You: shut up

Hana: so hot then

—

The moment you step into the ballroom, it’s like a movie scene.

Crystal chandeliers.

Golden light.

Soft jazz.

And Seungcheol beside you, in a black suit so sharp it could cut glass, offering you his arm like this isn’t fake. Like this is the most natural thing in the world.

"You okay?" he murmurs, his hand brushing your lower back.

"Yes," you lie.

You are not okay.

You are freaking out because his cologne is perfect and his touch is warm and when he turns to you, he smiles like you belong here with him.

—

Across the room, someone gasps.

"Is that the CEO with his girlfriend?"

You almost correct them. Almost.

But then Seungcheol says it first.

“Yeah,” he says casually, like he’s done it a hundred times. “She’s mine.”

—

You turn toward him slowly. “She’s yours?”

“Temporarily,” he adds, mouth twitching.

You squint. “So you do know this is fake.”

He grins down at you, utterly infuriating. “It’s fake. But the dress? That’s real.”

You flush.

You told him not to say anything like that.

He ignored you on purpose.

—

Halfway through the night, after smiling until your cheeks ache and answering a hundred polite “how did you two meet?” lies, you sneak outside to breathe.

Seungcheol follows. Of course he does.

“You okay?” he asks again, this time softer.

You sit on the edge of a marble fountain. “This whole night feels like I’m playing a character.”

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re the main event.”

You roll your eyes. “Smooth.”

“Accurate.”

He sits beside you. You look at the sky.

Quiet hum of city traffic. A streetlamp flickering nearby. The soft thump of music from inside.

Then—

“You’re doing amazing, by the way,” he adds. “People think I upgraded.”

You snort. “You did. From single and brooding to fake-dating a disaster in heels.”

He chuckles. “You’re not a disaster.”

“You haven’t seen my kitchen sink.”

“I’d marry you just to fix it.”

You stare.

He freezes.

"...I didn’t mean that."

“You kind of did.”

“Okay but like—hypothetically.”

You’re both quiet.

Then you laugh, half-crazed. “You can’t say that. Not while I’m in heels and emotionally unstable.”

“I’ll take note.”

—

Inside again. More dancing. More watching.

Then suddenly-

A flash of camera. A reporter. "One photo for the company archives?”

Before you can protest, Seungcheol slips his arm around your waist and kisses your temple.

Soft.

Gentle.

Like it’s not the first time.

Like it’s not a lie.

—

You don’t know how you walk to the car. Or how you manage not to hyperventilate when the driver rolls the windows up and the city disappears behind tinted glass.

You don’t say anything until the silence becomes unbearable.

“…You kissed me.”

“You had glitter on your temple.”

“You kissed me.”

He doesn’t look at you. “Do you want me to apologize?”

You pause. “No.”

“…Do you want me to do it again?”

You don’t answer.

But your hand, halfway across the seat—doesn’t pull away when he touches it.

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: HE KISSED MY TEMPLE

Hana: oh we’re in stage three

Juri: what’s stage three

Hana: delusion and forehead kisses

You: it wasn’t even the forehead

Hana: dear god

—

Later that night, there’s a knock on your door.

It’s Seungcheol.

In sweatpants.

Holding a takeout bag.

“I figured you’d be hungry,” he says, sheepish.

You stare at him. “This is… domestic.”

“I can leave.”

“…No. Come in.”

—

You sit beside each other on the floor of your living room, eating pad thai in silence.

And somewhere between bite five and six, he reaches over and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Your heart lurches.

Because this feels real.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

—

Your morning starts like any other—coffee in hand, a playlist humming softly in your ears, and a to-do list that’s already growing.

Except today, Seungcheol’s in the office early, and he’s not alone.

Across the room, his assistant Jiwoo is showing him a presentation on a tablet. You watch their easy smiles and shared jokes, and suddenly your stomach tightens.

Jealousy, you realize with a pang, is a thing.

—

Seungcheol spots you watching and raises an eyebrow.

“Did you miss me?”

You clear your throat, clutching your mug. “You’re here early. Busy day?”

“Always,” he smirks. “But I could be busier if you weren’t distracting me.”

“Me?” You laugh, but the sound is brittle.

Jiwoo waves at you from across the room. “Morning.”

You force a smile.

—

By lunch, the awkwardness is palpable.

Seungcheol slides into the seat opposite you at the company cafeteria, dropping his tray loudly.

“So,” he says, voice low. “How about we make this fake thing a little more… real?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He leans in, lowering his voice. “Jealous, huh?”

You almost choke on your salad.

“I caught you watching me and Jiwoo.”

You fold your arms, trying not to smile. “Was I supposed to pretend I wasn’t?”

“You’re impossible.”

“Same goes for you.”

—

Back in the office, you catch him stealing glances at you, his usual confident composure faltering.

You decide to play along.

Later, when Jiwoo drops by your desk to chat, you keep your voice light but a little pointed.

“So, how long have you two been ‘business partners’?”

Jiwoo laughs. “Since last month. But you’re the one I hear about most.”

You smirk. “Lucky me.”

—

Seungcheol catches your eye across the room, then suddenly strides over.

“Enough games,” he says, voice serious.

You raise an eyebrow. “What games?”

He cups your face gently, surprising you.

“Fake or not, I don’t like sharing you.”

Your heart pounds.

“Good.”

—

Later that day, he texts you.

Seungcheol: Let’s stop pretending.

You: You mean keep pretending at work?

Seungcheol: Only there.

You smile to yourself.

—

That night, you replay the day’s moments in your head—his jealous looks, his touch, the way your heart raced.

Maybe the line between fake and real isn’t so clear after all.

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: He’s jealous. I’m jealous. Send help.

Hana: officially shipping you two hard

Juri: “Let’s stop pretending” is literally a romance novel title

You: now you’re just making me want to write fanfic

Hana: please do

—

You're typing a report late one evening when Seungcheol appears in your doorway, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

“Can we talk?”

You nod, heart thudding.

He walks in, closes the door, and leans against your desk.

“This fake relationship…” He trails off, then meets your gaze. “It stopped feeling fake a while ago.”

You stare. “What are you saying?”

“I think I was in trouble the second you marched into my office and yelled at me over a coffee machine.”

You blink. “That was not my best moment.”

“It was my favorite.” His voice softens. “I like you, Y/N.”

The room stills.

And then, because your heart is stupid and brave all at once, you whisper, “I like you too.”

—

He grins—boyish, wide, like he’s just won a prize he didn’t dare hope for.

“I’m your boss,” he says, like he’s reminding himself.

“I sent you a breakup text that wasn’t meant for you,” you counter. “We’ve both made choices.”

He laughs, takes your hand.

“Can I take you on a real date?”

You squeeze his fingers. “You better.”

—

The next morning, you walk into work with a coffee in each hand.

When you hand one to Seungcheol, he grins and says loud enough for the office to hear, “Wow, thanks babe.”

You nearly drop yours.

Jiwoo, across the floor, snorts into her tablet.

“Still fake dating?” she asks sweetly.

You and Seungcheol exchange a glance.

“No,” he says, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“Not anymore.”

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: WE’RE DATING. OFFICIALLY. I THINK.

Juri: HE ASKED YOU OUT???

Hana: caps lock ON for romance

You: i hate all of you

Hana: u love us

Juri: send kissy selfies rn

You: bye

—

That weekend, you have your first official date—real food, no staged paparazzi, no fake smiles. Just the two of you, laughing like you’ve been doing this forever.

Afterward, he walks you to your door, fingers brushing yours.

“You know,” you say, “you never did fire me.”

He leans in, voice low. “Should I?”

“You’d have to fake date someone else,” you tease.

“Terrifying thought,” he murmurs before kissing you.

—

It’s sweet, slow, and a little dizzying—like every built-up emotion finally unraveling in the best way.

When you pull away, he’s smiling.

“Worst mistake you ever made,” he says, “was sending me that text.”

You grin. “Best mistake I ever made, actually.”

—

Later that night, he sends you one more message.

Seungcheol: CEO. Crybaby. Crush. You’re stuck with me now.

You: good. i don’t want out.

Seungcheol: come over?

You: you had me at “crybaby”

—

The scent of freshly baked bread hit you before anything else. But it wasn’t the comforting, cozy kind that made you think of home, of cinnamon and shared laughter. No, this was the suffocating kind—the kind that followed a man who showed up forty minutes late to a dinner you didn’t even know was a marriage meeting.

You stared across the meticulously set table, chopsticks frozen mid-air, the half-eaten plate of what your mother had enthusiastically described as "a very auspicious pasta with a secret family sauce" suddenly tasting like ash. The front door creaked open, and in walked him.

Rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms dusted with a fine layer of white. A flour-dusted apron was still tied firmly at his waist, a testament to whatever culinary emergency had delayed him. Dark hair, usually neat in the photos your mother had subtly (and not-so-subtly) shown you, was ruffled like he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly in the car. His expression didn’t read "sorry I’m late." More like, “I’d rather be elbow-deep in fish guts than here.”

Same. A silent, emphatic agreement settled in your chest.

Your mother turned to you with that practiced smile—the one she only pulled out when she was scheming, a smile that promised both sugar and a hidden agenda.

“Y/N, darling, this is Seungcheol. Seungcheol, this is my daughter.” Her voice was saccharine sweet, the kind that usually preceded a request to call some distant relative you’d never met.

You managed a tight smile, the muscles in your cheeks protesting the forced pleasantry. “Wow. What a totally casual and not-at-all-orchestrated dinner. The surprise element really adds to the charm.”

He raised a dark eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Did you also get tricked into this elaborate carb-loading session?”

“Absolutely. I was promised jjajangmyeon and a quiet evening with Netflix, not a proposal disguised as a pasta night.”

A snort escaped him, a genuine, unguarded sound that surprised you. His eyes crinkled at the corners, softening his otherwise sharp features. “Good. Then we’re on the same sinking ship.”

You didn’t expect to laugh. But there it was, bubbling up like a secret understanding between two strangers thrown into the same ridiculous, sauce-splattered situation.

Dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation that felt anything but. Your mom gushed about your burgeoning writing career, exaggerating your freelance articles into the next great literary sensation. His father, a stern-faced man with kind eyes, boasted about his son’s Michelin-starred potential, his words painting a picture of a culinary prodigy. You exchanged increasingly bewildered looks with Seungcheol every five minutes, a silent language passing between you that translated to: is this real life? Are our parents actually serious?

And then came the bombshell, delivered with the same casual sweetness your mother reserved for offering you a second helping of suspiciously healthy vegetables.

“We’ve drawn up a six-month agreement,” your mother said, her smile unwavering. “Live together. Get to know each other. See if… compatibility blossoms. If it doesn’t work, no harm done. We’ll simply consider it a well-intentioned experiment.”

Your wine glass hit the table a little too hard, the clink echoing in the suddenly tense silence. A splash of red stained the white tablecloth like a dramatic punctuation mark. “I’m sorry—what agreement?”

Cheol didn’t look surprised. Just… resigned. A weariness settled on his face, etching lines around his mouth.

“They talked to me about it last week,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the tablecloth. “I said no. Several times.”

“So did I,” you echoed, the absurdity of the situation hitting you with the force of a rogue wave.

A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken expectations and parental determination.

Then:

“We’re still doing it,” your mom said, her tone leaving no room for argument. That was that. The finality in her voice was a familiar, frustrating force of nature.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of hushed phone calls between your parents and his, logistical nightmares disguised as helpful suggestions, and a growing sense of surreal detachment. You found yourself signing papers you barely read, nodding along to conversations you only half-heard. It felt like you were sleepwalking through a bizarre play where you’d somehow landed the lead role in a romantic comedy you definitely hadn’t auditioned for.

Then came the day you found yourself standing in a sterile, brightly lit room, the scent of industrial-strength cleaner overpowering even the nervous sweat prickling your skin. A justice of the peace, a woman with tired eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, droned on about the legalities of marriage. Your parents beamed from the front row, their faces radiating a triumphant “we know best” glow. His parents, while less overtly enthusiastic, offered polite, if somewhat strained, smiles.

Beside you stood Seungcheol. He looked… surprisingly calm. He wore a simple but elegant dark suit, the flour long gone, his hair neatly styled. He looked like he belonged here, in this official setting, taking these serious vows. You, on the other hand, felt like an imposter in the borrowed cream dress your mother had insisted on, your hands clammy as you clutched a small bouquet of white roses.

You hadn't had a proposal, no romantic declarations, no whispered promises under a starry sky. Instead, you had a late dinner, a shared sense of being tricked, and a six-month agreement. Yet, here you were, about to legally bind yourself to a man you’d met less than a month ago.

The justice of the peace turned to you. “L/N Y/N, do you take Seungcheol to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Your throat felt dry. You looked at Seungcheol, really looked at him. Beyond the initial annoyance and shared disbelief, you saw a flicker of something… else. A quiet understanding, a shared burden, maybe even a hint of reluctant curiosity.

Taking a deep breath, you said, your voice surprisingly steady, “I do.”

Then it was his turn. “Choi Seungcheol, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

He met your gaze, his dark eyes holding a depth you hadn’t noticed before. There was a seriousness there that went beyond the absurdity of the situation. “I do.”

And just like that, with a few signatures and the exchange of simple, unadorned silver bands that felt more like handcuffs than symbols of love, you were married.

The apartment you moved into together a week later was bigger than you expected. Minimalistic, all neutral tones and clean lines, with a kitchen so pristine it clearly belonged to someone who knew how to use it. Aka, definitely not you.

“You take the left room,” he said, lugging in a surprisingly heavy box labeled “Spices – Handle with Extreme Care.” “I’ll take the right.”

“Thanks. Also, no offense, but if you burn something past midnight and set off the fire alarm, I will throw you and your precious spices and you off the balcony.”

“Fair. And if you leave so much as a single strand of your hair in the drain, I’m reporting you to the housing gods for crimes against plumbing.”

You smiled, a genuine smile this time, as you set your suitcase by the door of your designated room. “Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful fake marriage.”

He turned away, his shoulders slightly hunched as he wrestled with another box. But not before you caught it—a small, real smile playing on his lips.

That night, you lay in bed, the unfamiliar silence of the apartment amplifying the frantic spinning of the ceiling fan. From the kitchen, a soft clinking of pots and pans drifted through the thin walls. Maybe he was cooking, a late-night creation born out of habit and passion. Or maybe, like you, he was stress-baking his way through the sheer, unbelievable reality of it all.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Woozi : please tell me this isn’t real please tell me he’s not hot You sighed, picking up your phone and typing back, a small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. You: he showed up with flour in his hair and he made me laugh. and yeah… he looked surprisingly decent in a suit today. so yes. I’m doomed.

Deadlines felt less like a ticking clock and more like a pack of rabid badgers gnawing at your sanity. You’d been surgically attached to your laptop for what felt like a geological epoch, the blue light from the screen tattooing itself onto your retinas.

Eight hours. Eight glorious hours spent wrestling with the elusive nuances of Seoul’s underground supper club scene, a world apparently fueled by more secrecy than the CIA and questionable amounts of soju. Your editor, bless their demanding soul, had graced your inbox with a string of three increasingly frantic question marks.

Your stomach, meanwhile, had long since moved past rumbling and was now emitting a low, mournful groan that echoed the general state of your existence. You were too caffeine-addled and deadline-induced to even register hunger as a tangible sensation.

So, when the unmistakable aroma of garlic sautéing in sesame oil began to snake its way under your door and infiltrate your cramped office-slash-bedroom, your initial reaction wasn’t a Pavlovian surge of appetite.

No, it was a sharp pang of guilt, the kind that usually accompanied forgetting your best friend’s birthday or accidentally liking a tweet from 2012. This guilt, however, had a distinctly culinary origin. You knew exactly who was responsible for the tantalizing scent assaulting your senses.

With the slow, deliberate movements of a zombie emerging from its digital grave, you swiveled your chair around.

The kitchen lights blazed with an almost aggressively cheerful brightness, illuminating Seungcheol as he navigated the small space with an unnerving level of calm. Olive oil hissed gently in a pan, a soft sizzle that spoke of practiced hands and controlled heat. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent a shower of perfectly diced carrots into a gentle, aromatic tumble.

He looked… composed. Unflustered. Like he wasn’t currently orchestrating a meal for a roommate who had communicated with him solely through a series of increasingly desperate Slack messages to her editor and the occasional frustrated sigh that probably vibrated through the shared walls.

“I… didn’t ask you to cook,” you mumbled from the hallway, your voice raspy from disuse and the sheer effort of forming coherent words.

He didn’t even glance up, his focus entirely on the sizzling vegetables. “Didn’t ask for your permission either.”

You blinked slowly, the sarcasm bubbling up despite your exhaustion. “Wow. How utterly… romantic. Should I expect a serenade next? Perhaps a sonnet dedicated to the exquisite aroma of sautéed onions?”

“I’m not trying to be romantic,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of any playful inflection. “I’m trying to prevent you from collapsing face-first onto your keyboard and leaving a permanent imprint of the ‘shift’ key on your forehead.”

His bluntness, while undeniably practical, still managed to make your ears burn with a faint blush. You opened your mouth to deliver a suitably withering retort, something about the inherent dangers of unsolicited culinary interventions, but the way he was now meticulously plating fluffy white rice into a bowl stopped you. There was a quiet focus in his movements, a deliberate care that seemed at odds with the forced nature of your cohabitation.

Then, with a silent grace that felt almost theatrical, he slid the filled bowl across the countertop towards your designated spot at the small kitchen table.

You froze, halfway between the hallway and the kitchen. The aroma hit you then, fully, and it was like a punch to the gut. It was your comfort food, the culinary equivalent of a warm hug on a bad day. Soy-braised beef, cooked the way your mom used to make it.

The meat was impossibly tender, glistening with a hint of honey in the rich, savory glaze. And the carrots… the carrots were cut into perfect little stars. Your mom had always insisted on that flourish, a ridiculously time-consuming detail that had annoyed your younger self to no end, but now… now it just felt like a memory, warm and unexpected.

“How did you—?” The question hung in the air, a mixture of disbelief and something akin to… gratitude? You weren’t entirely sure.

He finally wiped his hands on a clean kitchen towel, his expression still neutral. “You mentioned it in passing last week. Something about childhood comfort food and the psychological benefits of star-shaped vegetables. I Googled a bit.”

“You… Googled the recipe of my childhood comfort food?” The absurdity of the situation almost made you laugh, a dry, humorless sound.

You sat down slowly, the wooden chair scraping against the linoleum. You picked up the offered chopsticks, the smooth bamboo feeling strangely foreign in your hand.

You didn’t say thank you. The words felt too inadequate, too… real for this bizarre, orchestrated reality.

But you cleaned the bowl. Every last morsel of tender beef, every star-shaped carrot, every grain of rice soaked in the sweet and savory sauce. You even used a stray piece of lettuce to mop up the remaining glaze, a testament to your unexpected hunger and the undeniable deliciousness of the meal.

Later that night, the glow of your laptop screen finally fading, you padded out of your room in search of water, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor. Sleep clung to you like a heavy blanket, blurring the edges of your vision.

The faint sliver of light emanating from beneath Cheol’s closed bedroom door caught your attention. You were about to shuffle past, heading straight for the blessed oblivion of the kitchen sink, when a soft sound made you pause. The rhythmic click-click-click of a mouse. And then… a familiar headline.

Your name.

Curiosity, that insidious little gremlin, nudged you forward. You stepped closer to his door, your ear pressed lightly against the cool wood. The soft glow intensified, illuminating the space just beyond the frame.

He was reading your article. The one that was currently three frantic question marks away from being submitted.

You peeked just enough to see his screen. Your opening paragraph, the one you’d rewritten approximately seventeen times, was highlighted in a soft blue. His head was tilted slightly as he read, his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth quirked in that thoughtful way you’d briefly observed during your disastrous first dinner. Then, a small, almost imperceptible huff escaped him. Was he…? Was he actually… smiling?

Panic, swift and sharp, shot through you. You backed away from the door as if it had suddenly become electrified, your bare feet padding silently back towards your own room.

Once inside, you leaned heavily against the closed door, the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat echoing in your ears.

He made you your mom’s ridiculously specific dish.

He was reading your work.

You were so utterly and completely screwed. This wasn't just a bizarre living arrangement anymore. This was… something else. Something unsettlingly domestic. Something that threatened the carefully constructed wall of sarcasm you’d erected around your unwilling participation in this matrimonial farce.

Whereas, cheol's phone kept buzzing.

mingyu: sooooooo mingyu: she licked the plate clean, didn’t she? Those star carrots really did the trick, huh? You're practically a culinary Cupid. cheol: shut up mingyu: OH MY GOD HE RESPONDED. The silent chef speaks! And with such eloquence! This is progress, my friend. Next thing you know, you'll be holding hands and gazing longingly at each other over a shared bowl of tteokbokki. cheol: blocked

This was going to be a long six months. A very, very long six months filled with unexpected acts of kindness, the lingering scent of delicious food, and increasingly uncomfortable eye contact that hinted at a reality far more complicated than a simple agreement.

Next Morning <3

You’d barely managed to peel your eyelids apart when the email notification chimed, a digital herald of the day’s impending absurdity.

Subject: New Series: Love in the Everyday—Couples Who Cook Together, Stay Together Your marriage is adorable. Myself as a editor, I am obsessed. First article & content due next week. Go wild, Mrs. Choi ❤️ Your lovely, Unhinged editor!

You stared at the glowing screen, the word “adorable” practically dripping with saccharine irony. Your contract marriage. Adorable. The sheer audacity of it made you want to bang your head gently against the headboard.

This was supposed to be a strategic alliance, a mutually beneficial arrangement built on tax breaks and convenient cohabitation, devoid of any genuine sentiment. Yet, your professional life was now hinging on convincing the world that you and your fake husband were the poster couple for domestic bliss.

Your life had officially devolved into a poorly written rom-com where the leads were constantly improvising a love story they weren’t actually living.

You found Cheol in the kitchen, a serene island of culinary focus amidst your internal storm. He was meticulously chopping vegetables, the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of his knife a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling in your brain. He looked effortlessly domestic, a stark reminder of the role he was about to play.

“Hey,” you began, the laptop clutched under your arm like a shield against the impending awkwardness. “So, about this video series… the editor really wants us to lean into the ‘adorable married couple’ thing.” You cringed internally at your own words.

He didn’t look up, his concentration unwavering. “Adorable, huh? Should I start wearing matching aprons with little hearts on them?”

“Please, no,” you pleaded. “Just… you know… the usual. Cooking, maybe some light banter. But she specifically mentioned wanting to see the ‘husband and wife dynamic’ shine through.”

Cheol finally paused, wiping his hands on a pristine kitchen towel. “So, more… ‘my wife this’ and ‘my wife that’?”

You nodded, a wave of secondhand embarrassment washing over you. “Pretty much. Apparently, the readers are eating it up.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Eating up a lie. Fascinating.”

“It pays the bills,” you reminded him, a weak justification for the charade.

“True,” he conceded with a sigh. “Alright, Mrs. Choi. Let’s give the people what they apparently crave: a heaping serving of marital fiction.”

The first video shoot felt like a masterclass in forced intimacy. Every time you fumbled a step, Cheol would smoothly step in, his hand briefly covering yours as he corrected your technique, murmuring a casual, “My wife always struggles with this part.” The phrase felt foreign and yet… strangely natural coming from him.

“My wife has a particular fondness for extra garlic,” he’d declare to the camera, adding another clove with a knowing smile that wasn’t directed at you.

“Actually, my husband here sometimes overdoes it,” you’d retort, forcing a playful eye roll that felt about as genuine as a three-dollar bill.

By the third video, a strange rhythm had developed. Cheol seamlessly integrated the “my wife” moniker into his explanations, his tone a casual blend of affection and mild exasperation that, you had to admit, sounded surprisingly convincing.

“My wife insists on adding this much chili,” he’d say, holding up a generous pinch of red pepper flakes, a slight shake of his head that somehow conveyed years of loving compromise.

“Well, my husband has the taste buds of a toddler,” you’d fire back, a genuine smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

The fan comments exploded with even more fervor. @ KitchenGoddessFan: OMG the way he says “my wife” # marriedlife # soinlove @ KDramaObsessed: Their chemistry is OFF THE CHARTS! He’s totally whipped for his wife! # husbandgoals @ SwooningStans: Every time he calls her “my wife” I get butterflies! This is the cutest couple ever!

You tried to remain detached, reminding yourself that it was all an act, a carefully constructed performance for an audience that believed your carefully curated online persona. But with each casual “my wife,” a tiny crack seemed to appear in the wall you’d built around your emotions.

One evening, while filming a particularly chaotic attempt at making homemade pasta, flour dusted both of your faces. Cheol reached out, his thumb gently wiping a smudge from your cheek.

“My wife is a disaster in the kitchen,” he said to the camera, his voice softer than usual, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he looked at you.

Your breath hitched. The warmth of his touch lingered, and the casual endearment, spoken so naturally for the camera, resonated in a way it shouldn’t have.

Later, while editing, you replayed that moment countless times. The way his eyes had crinkled at the corners. The almost imperceptible tenderness in his touch. The easy, possessive way he’d said “my wife.”

It was all for show. You knew that. But a small, treacherous part of you couldn’t help but wonder if, somewhere beneath the layers of performance, a sliver of something real was starting to emerge.

Your phone buzzed.

Woozi : okay that “my wife” compilation your fans are making is genuinely concerning it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion You: tell me about it i think i need to move to another continent Woozi : maybe just… stop letting him call you his wife so much on camera? You: easier said than done bestie the editor is OBSESSED with the “husband and wife dynamic” i think i’ve created a monster

One month after the “Love in the Everyday” videos had inexplicably turned your bizarre contractual arrangement into internet gold, you found yourself wishing for the sweet oblivion of a root canal. Family gatherings on your mother’s side were less about familial warmth and more about a meticulously orchestrated judgment parade, with you and your life choices invariably taking center stage.

And tonight’s special guest of honor? Your husband. Your arranged husband. Choi Seungcheol. The chef. The infuriatingly talented, quietly observant, and undeniably attractive man who had a disconcerting habit of positioning himself just slightly behind you in social situations, as if unsure if he’d been granted permission to occupy the spotlight.

Apparently, some things never changed, even with a burgeoning online fanbase and articles dissecting your “adorable” marriage.

“Ah, the literary sensation graces us with her presence,” your Aunt Hyemi sang out as she greeted you at the door, her arms opening wide in a gesture that felt more performative than welcoming. “Still churning out those little think pieces that set the internet ablaze, dear?” Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, which held a familiar glint of condescension.

Then, her gaze slid to Cheol, lingering for a moment as if he were an unwelcome piece of furniture she hadn’t noticed until now.

“And the… husband,” she drawled, the word stretched out like a particularly unpleasant note in a poorly sung song. “Still… playing with food?” The implication hung heavy in the air: while you were out conquering the world with your intellect, he was merely toiling away in a kitchen.

Your grip on Cheol’s hand tightened instinctively, a silent offering of solidarity. He, as always, responded with a gentle squeeze and a polite bow, his expression serene.

"Still cooking, yes, Auntie. Someone has to ensure Y/N eats something other than lukewarm coffee and deadline-induced anxiety,” he replied, his tone even and devoid of any defensiveness. “Her work is important. I’m just here to… support her endeavors.” His choice of words, “support her endeavors,” felt deliberately understated, a subtle deflection of the implied slight.

You knew that smile. It was the carefully neutral mask he wore when people became too loud, too invasive, too prone to making assumptions based on outdated societal norms. It was the smile that preceded his polite but firm deflections when people asked him what it felt like to be married to someone “more successful” or when they patted him on the back and told him he’d “landed himself a good one.”

Your aunt tilted her head, her gaze sharp and probing. “Mm. Must be… peculiar, though. To be constantly in your wife’s shadow. A man… defined by his wife’s accomplishments.”

You choked on the lukewarm tea you’d just been handed, a sputtering cough escaping your lips. Cheol, however, didn’t so much as flinch.

He simply chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly genuine despite the underlying tension. “I find immense satisfaction in Y/N’s achievements. Being ‘in her shadow,’ as you so eloquently put it, doesn’t bother me in the slightest. We’re a team. Her wins are my wins.”

You weren’t sure if the sudden heat rising in your chest was pride at his quiet strength or a simmering fury at your aunt’s blatant rudeness. Perhaps it was a volatile cocktail of both.

Your aunt snorted, the sound akin to a cat hacking up a hairball. “That’s what men with no ambition say. A man content to stir pots while his wife ‘conquers the world’ with her… little articles?” She punctuated her statement with a loud, brittle laugh that echoed through the suddenly hushed living room. “He’s practically dirt under your heels, sweetheart. A charity case you keep around for the cooking and… well, whatever else a docile husband is good for.”

The room went utterly silent. Forks paused mid-air, halfway to pursed lips. Snippets of conversations died mid-sentence. Every eye in the room swiveled towards the unfolding drama.

Something inside you, something you hadn’t even realized was holding itself together with frayed edges, finally snapped. It didn’t crack subtly; it shattered into a million sharp pieces.

You stepped forward, your grip on Cheol’s hand tightening until your knuckles were white. Your voice, when it finally emerged, was low and sharp, each word clipped and cold as glass. “Say that again, Auntie.”

Your aunt blinked, her painted eyebrows arching in feigned surprise. “What, dear?”

“No, I want you to repeat it. Every single condescending, belittling word you just spewed about my husband. Go on. Say it again so I can hear just how utterly pathetic and small-minded you sound.” The polite facade you usually wore at these gatherings had completely crumbled, replaced by a raw, protective anger.

She recoiled slightly, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Excuse me, young lady—”

“No, you excuse me,” you interrupted, your voice rising slightly. “You think because he chooses to work in a kitchen, because his passion lies in creating something tangible with his hands, that he’s somehow less of a man? He runs a kitchen that feeds hundreds of people every single day. He manages a team of skilled individuals. He knows more about the complexities of human nature in an hour of observing his diners than you’ve learned in a lifetime of judging others over lukewarm tea and stale gossip.”

You could feel Cheol’s steady gaze on your back, a silent presence of support.

“He has more strength, more integrity, more sheer grit in his pinky finger than half the men in this room who are currently trying to impress each other with their fancy business cards and hollow boasts. And if you genuinely believe that the size of someone’s bank account is the sole measure of their worth, the only reason to marry someone—then frankly, Auntie, I’m eternally grateful that your husband chooses to sleep in a different room, likely to escape your poisonous opinions.”

A stunned silence descended upon the room, thick and heavy. Your aunt’s perfectly painted mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air. Someone coughed nervously. Another relative muttered a low, impressed “damn.”

Cheol was still quiet, but the tips of his ears were flushed a delicate shade of pink, a rare outward display of his usually well-contained emotions.

You took his hand, your grip firm and possessive, and turned to address the rest of the room, your gaze sweeping over their stunned faces. “Anyone else have something they’d like to add? Any other insightful commentary on my husband’s chosen profession or his supposed lack of… backbone?”

They didn’t. The silence remained unbroken, save for the faint clinking of silverware as someone nervously resumed eating.

Later that night, after the tense atmosphere had (somewhat) dissipated and you’d retreated to the guest bedroom, you found a small tray outside your door. On it sat a bowl of still-warm stew, the comforting aroma filling the hallway. A neatly folded napkin lay beside it, and beneath it, a simple, handwritten note.

“You’ve been standing for me since day one. Let me be your place to fall. – Cheol”

You found him in the kitchen, the familiar quiet of his sanctuary enveloping him. His elbows were resting on the cool countertop, his dark hair tousled as if he’d been running his fingers through it, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance.

He didn’t look up when you walked in, his posture radiating a quiet weariness. “I didn’t expect you to go that hard.”

“I didn’t expect her to be that… cruel,” you admitted, the anger from earlier having receded, leaving behind a hollow ache.

“She’s your family,” he said softly, a statement of fact, not an excuse.

You walked over to him, the silence between you comfortable and understanding. You pulled out the chair next to his and sat down, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floor.

“You’re my husband,” you said, the words spoken softly but with a newfound conviction that surprised even yourself.

Cheol finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting yours. For the first time since the ink had dried on the ridiculous contract, his carefully guarded expression cracked, just a little. A flicker of something vulnerable, something real, softened the sharp angles of his face. It was as if the lines between the performance and the unexpected connection you shared were finally starting to blur beyond recognition.

He smiled. Not the polite, reserved smile he offered to the world. This was a different smile. A real one. A smile that reached his eyes and held a hint of something… more.

You didn’t sleep in the guest bedroom that night. You found yourself drawn to the quiet comfort of the hallroom's couch. You fell asleep with your legs tangled together, your head resting on his steady chest, his hand gently resting on your waist, a silent promise of support and understanding passing between you in the darkness.

Next day, you find woozi's texts, you had vented to him….you always did. After all he is your bestfriend.

💬 Woozi : You defended him in front of your entire family? Like a freaking knight in shining armor? 💬 You: I wasn’t about to stand there and let her talk about him like he was disposable. Like his worth was tied to a paycheck. 💬 Woozi : Girl. You are so screwed. You know that, right? This isn't just some cooking show anymore.

The silence in the apartment had become a tangible thing, a heavy blanket suffocating the vibrant energy that had once flickered between you. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet of shared understanding, but a hollow echo in the spaces where laughter used to bounce off the walls. A silence that felt stolen, a temporary reprieve before the inevitable storm.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours ticking down with agonizing slowness until the contract expired. Until the apartment keys were exchanged, his worn leather apron would be folded away into a box, the subtle, comforting scent of his cologne would vanish from the bathroom counter, leaving behind only the ghost of his presence.

You’d meticulously constructed a narrative of readiness in your head, a mental checklist of practicalities and detached acceptance.

It was a lie. A pathetic, paper-thin fabrication that crumbled a little more each day.

You felt his absence in the way your hand instinctively reached for his when you navigated crowded spaces, only to grasp empty air. In the way your footsteps hesitated outside his closed bedroom door at night, a silent plea for connection warring with a stubborn refusal to acknowledge the ache in your chest. It intensified with the muffled sound of his laughter during phone calls with Mingyu, a pang of longing twisting in your gut because that unrestrained joy wasn’t directed at you.

And then Woozi, bless her oblivious heart, had dropped a conversational grenade with the casualness of commenting on the weather.

“You gonna write about his Paris job in the last article?”

Your feet had slammed to a halt in the middle of the living room, the mundane task of watering the wilting basil plant suddenly forgotten.

“His what?” The question hung in the air, laced with a dread you couldn’t quite articulate.

Later, with a trembling hand, you’d navigated to his open laptop, the screen glowing with an email that felt like a betrayal waiting to be discovered.

Subject: An Invitation to Paris – Chef Choi Seungcheol Chef Seungcheol, We are thrilled to extend an invitation to join our esteemed team in Paris… Our establishment boasts three Michelin stars… We offer a long-term residency with full creative freedom…

It was everything a chef of his caliber dreamed of, the pinnacle of his profession. A chance to truly shine.

And you hadn’t heard a single word.

He walked in later, the familiar comforting scent of cinnamon and star anise clinging to his clothes. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the familiar dusting of flour, his dark hair endearingly messy, his cheeks flushed a healthy pink from the kitchen’s heat. He looked vibrant, alive, on the cusp of something extraordinary.

You stood frozen at the counter, his laptop screen a silent accusation between you.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his easy smile fading as his gaze landed on the open laptop.

“You got an email,” you stated, your voice flat, devoid of inflection.

Cheol didn’t move, his eyes locked on the glowing screen. “You… you read it?”

You nodded, your fingers gripping the cool edge of the marble countertop as if it were the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“You weren’t going to tell me.” The words were a quiet accusation, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within you.

“I was going to,” he said, his voice low, defensive.

“When?” you pressed, the question laced with a bitter edge. “Before you packed your knives? Or after the plane took off, with a casual postcard saying ‘Wish you were here, wife’?”

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly. He finally broke eye contact, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere over your shoulder. “Why does it matter? This… this was always fake. Right?”

The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, the comfortable warmth replaced by a glacial chill.

“You made it very clear from day one,” he continued, his voice tight. “We do the contract. We play the part. We get what we need. Then we leave. No strings. No… expectations.” He still wouldn’t meet your eyes, and the avoidance felt like a physical blow.

You opened your mouth to argue, to deny the sudden, sharp pain that pierced through your carefully constructed indifference, but the words caught in your throat. He was right. That had been the agreement.

But the agreement hadn’t accounted for the unexpected warmth of his smile, the quiet understanding in his eyes, the way your lives had inexplicably intertwined in the shared space of your fake marriage. The agreement hadn’t factored in the terrifying realization that you were falling for the man you were contractually obligated to leave.

That night, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime of shared meals, you cooked. You hadn’t done it in months. Not since the wedding, a distant, surreal memory. Not since he’d started anticipating your hunger, feeding you without a word, without expectation. Not since you’d realized how much you’d come to rely on his quiet care.

You made something simple, something that tasted of home before home became this strange, temporary space with him. A comforting kimchi jjigae, the familiar spicy aroma filling the silent apartment.

He took one tentative bite, his eyes closed, and then slowly, deliberately, set the spoon down.

“What?” you asked quietly, your voice barely a whisper in the echoing silence.

He shook his head, his gaze distant. “Tastes like… distance.” The word hung in the air, a heavy, unspoken truth.

The apartment became a battleground of unspoken words and averted gazes. He retreated to the comforting chaos of the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans a stark contrast to the heavy silence emanating from your closed bedroom door where you furiously typed words that refused to capture the storm raging within you. Dinners were eaten hours apart, cold and solitary affairs. Your carefully synchronized routines, once interwoven like delicate threads, now lay untangled, frayed at the edges.

But your heart, that stubborn, foolish organ, never stopped searching for him in the empty spaces.

Two nights later, with a heavy heart and trembling fingers, you submitted the final article draft. The one your editor had eagerly anticipated – the grand finale of “Love in the Everyday,” featuring you and your adorably, undeniably real-seeming husband.

But the words on the screen weren’t the lighthearted anecdotes she expected. You didn’t write about the joy of shared cooking, the enthusiastic fan comments, or the viral videos that had chronicled your fabricated romance.

Instead, you wrote about him.

About the quiet strength with which he carried your world, never demanding center stage. About the way he’d wait patiently outside your office with a packed lunch, a silent gesture of care amidst your chaotic deadlines. About the fierce, unwavering support he’d offered that night with your family, standing steadfastly behind you, unflinching in the face of their cruel judgment.

You wrote about the terrifying, gut-wrenching realization of falling in love with someone who had never explicitly stated if he was allowed to love you back, within the confines of your bizarre, temporary arrangement. You poured your raw, vulnerable truth onto the digital page, a confession disguised as a farewell.

You hit send before your courage failed you, the click of the button echoing the finality of the impending goodbye.

💬 Mingyu : You really gonna leave without telling her how you feel, you idiot? She practically went to war for you. 💬 Cheol: What if… what if the ‘my wife’ thing was just for the cameras? What if the comfort food was just a nice gesture? What if I’ve completely misread everything? The contract ends in two weeks, Mingyu. Two weeks and this whole… performance is over. 💬 Mingyu : She made you dinner, Cheol. After finding out you’re leaving for Paris. A home-cooked meal filled with the taste of… distance, according to you. That’s not just a friendly gesture. That’s practically a declaration in Y/N-speak. She might as well have proposed with a side of kimchi. Don’t be a fool.

--

Choi Seungcheol, a man who could coax flavor from the simplest ingredients, had become a master of emotional suppression, a skill honed in the demanding heat of Michelin-starred kitchens where sentimentality was a weakness.

He had meticulously constructed a fortress around his burgeoning affection for Y/N, each brick a layer of logic, practicality, and the stark, unyielding reality of their contractual arrangement. Mingyu’s hopeful pronouncements, filled with the saccharine optimism of a K-drama fanatic, had been dismissed as mere fantasy. Love? A dangerous delusion.

Their entire relationship had been a carefully orchestrated performance, a series of “my wife this” and “my wife that” delivered for the insatiable gaze of the internet, a cruel pantomime of intimacy. The absence of a single genuine kiss, a fundamental act of connection, underscored the hollowness of their charade.

And a persistent, agonizing question gnawed at him: did she even need him beyond the occasional recipe critique and the shared performance of marital bliss?

And so, with a heart heavier than any cast-iron skillet, he had adhered to the cold, unyielding terms of their agreement. On the fourteenth day, the expiration date circled in his mental calendar since their first disastrous dinner, he had placed the signed divorce papers on the pristine kitchen counter, the crisp finality of the document a stark counterpoint to the messy tangle of his emotions.

The silence as he’d closed the apartment door behind him had been a deafening testament to the chasm he was leaving behind. The gleaming promise of a prestigious kitchen in Paris, a lifelong ambition realized, felt like ash in his mouth, the bitter taste of what he was sacrificing lingering on his tongue.

The journey to forget Y/N, the woman he had sworn to protect his heart from, stretched before him, a desolate and seemingly endless road.

Your final article went live at 7:00 a.m., a digital ghost released into the vast echo chamber of the internet. You didn’t refresh the page, didn’t dare to scroll through the comments section, a battlefield of opinions dissecting a love story that had never truly been yours. Woozi’s frantic texts remained unanswered, each unanswered ping a testament to your profound emotional exhaustion.

Instead, you remained on the cold kitchen floor, a fetal curl of despair amidst the sterile normalcy of the apartment. Your gaze was fixed on the empty space where Cheol’s favorite skillet had hung, a phantom weight pulling at your chest.

He was gone. The silence he’d left behind was a suffocating shroud, each breath a painful reminder of his absence. You replayed the soft click of the closing door in your mind, a sound that had severed the fragile thread connecting your lives. The image of his neatly packed suitcase leaning against the door the night before was a fresh wound.

And so, as the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the empty rooms, you didn’t move. You simply let him go, the unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings a leaden weight in your soul. The future stretched before you, a vast and terrifying expanse devoid of his quiet presence.

But what you didn’t know, as you sat amidst the ruins of your almost-love story, was that miles above the earth, suspended in the sterile cabin of an airplane, your raw, vulnerable words were finding their mark.

[YOUR ARTICLE: EXCERPT] "He always used to say the right meal could mend a broken spirit. I was skeptical, a cynic of grand gestures and easy comfort. But then there were nights when the weight of the world pressed down, when the carefully constructed walls around my heart threatened to crumble, and he would simply offer a warm bowl, a silent presence, a tangible act of care that spoke volumes without uttering a single word of forced comfort. He held space for my anxieties, my exhaustion, the messy, unfiltered parts of myself that I usually kept hidden from the world. He saw the cracks in my facade, the vulnerabilities I fought so hard to conceal, and instead of recoiling, he offered a quiet understanding, a shared meal that tasted of acceptance. He never demanded explanations, never pushed for vulnerability I wasn’t ready to offer. He simply was, a steady anchor in the turbulent sea of my emotions. And now, the thought of a future without the comforting aroma of his cooking filling this apartment, without the quiet strength of his presence a constant reassurance, without the unexpected warmth of his hand brushing mine in a fleeting moment of shared laughter… the thought is a vast, echoing emptiness. The idea of navigating life without his quiet support is a chilling prospect, a flavor of profound loss that no amount of professional success or fleeting internet fame can ever hope to mask."

Seungcheol sat rigidly in seat 14A of his first class, the leather of his worn satchel digging into his clenched fists. The plane remained stubbornly grounded, the pre-flight announcements a distant, meaningless drone. Outside the window, the grey expanse of the tarmac mirrored the desolate landscape of his heart.

His gaze was fixed on the illuminated screen of his phone, your words a searing indictment of his carefully constructed logic. Each sentence was a fresh wound, tearing through the layers of denial he had so painstakingly built. He saw the quiet moments you described, the unspoken language of shared meals, the fragile connection he had so readily dismissed as mere performance.

A wave of agonizing regret washed over him, a bitter taste of what he was so carelessly leaving behind. He had prioritized a lifelong ambition over the quiet, unexpected love that had bloomed in the most unlikely of circumstances. He had chosen the glittering promise of Paris over the raw, vulnerable truth reflected in your words.

With a sudden, visceral certainty, he knew he was making a catastrophic mistake. The Michelin stars, the accolades, the culinary triumphs – they all paled in comparison to the simple, profound connection he had shared with you.

He unbuckled his seatbelt with a trembling hand and stood abruptly, his bag clutched like a lifeline.

“Sir, we are now preparing for departure—” the flight attendant began, her voice laced with professional concern.

“I can’t,” he choked out, the words a raw whisper torn from his throat. “I have to go back.” He didn’t meet her questioning gaze, his focus solely on the urgent, desperate need to return to the woman whose quiet strength had unknowingly become his own anchor.

You heard the hesitant knock around noon, a fragile sound that barely penetrated the heavy silence of the apartment. You remained curled on the floor, a hollow ache where your heart used to be.

Then another knock, slightly more insistent, followed by the soft, hesitant murmur of your name. His voice. The sound, so familiar yet so unexpected, sent a jolt of disbelief through your numb despair.

With a slow, almost agonizing movement, you pushed yourself up, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. He stood in the doorway, his breath ragged, his dark hair disheveled, the familiar fabric of his apron peeking out from beneath his rumpled jacket. He looked like a man who had run across continents for a single breath of air.

“I… I came back,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes searching yours with a desperate intensity.

A single tear traced a lonely path down your cheek. “Why?” The question was barely a whisper, laced with a fragile hope you didn’t dare to believe.

He held up the small bento box, his hands trembling slightly. The warmth radiating from it was a tangible reminder of his quiet care. Inside, nestled amongst the carefully arranged ingredients, was the simple, comforting stew he had made on the night your carefully constructed world had threatened to shatter.

“I made you this,” he said, his voice low and raw. “Because… because you once said it helped you survive. And… and your words… they made me realize… I don’t want to just survive without you, Y/N.”

He took a hesitant step closer, his gaze locking onto yours, his dark eyes filled with a raw vulnerability you had never witnessed before.

“You… you’re more than just someone I cooked for. You… you help me breathe,” he confessed, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. “I was so afraid… afraid of ruining what we had, even if it was… unconventional. I didn’t know if I was allowed to feel this… this real. I was so terrified of being rejected, of misreading every small gesture…”

Before he could unravel further, you reached for him, your fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his jacket, your face pressing into the familiar comfort of his chest. The scent of him, a blend of spices and something uniquely his, filled your senses, a lifeline in the suffocating emptiness.

“You always were,” you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears, the words a fragile affirmation of the feelings you had both tried so hard to deny.

He leaned down, his lips finding yours with a desperate tenderness, a kiss that tasted of regret, of longing, and finally, of a hesitant, burgeoning hope. It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t careful, wasn’t a performance for an audience. It was real, raw, and a promise of something more than a contract.

That night, the silence in the apartment was finally replaced by the comfortable hum of shared presence. He moved around the kitchen with a familiar grace, preparing a simple meal while you sat on the counter, legs swinging, watching him with a newfound tenderness. You stole bites from the simmering pans, and he didn’t stop you, his gaze lingering on you with a soft smile. When you burned your tongue on a particularly eager taste, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss that tasted of forgiveness and the promise of a future finally worth savoring.

💬 Woozi : So… real marriage now? No more pretending for the internet? 💬 You: Real everything, Woozi. Finally. And it tastes so much better than any viral video. 💬 Woozi : My best friend’s finally whipped. Beautifully, irrevocably whipped. About damn time.

Having Seungcheol as your ex-boyfriend means that, even though you’re definitely not on speaking terms, he’s still the one carrying every last box into your new apartment after you finally move out. “Do you want me to put this here or in the bathroom?” he asks, his fingers gripping the white cardboard box stuffed with your hair tools. “You can just leave it there,” you reply quietly, pointing toward the empty spot on the floor beside you as you sort through a stack of books. He exhales sharply. “Yeah, bullshit,” he mutters under his breath. “You can’t carry this crap on your own.” Before you can respond, he’s already walking off toward the bathroom, the box still in his hands.

Having Seungcheol as your ex-boyfriend means you have no private life. He never really ends it, not completely. Somehow, you’re still his. Did you go on a date? He knows. Of course he does. He found out through a friend of a friend of the guy you went out with. And best believe that when you finally get home, the first notification lighting up your phone isn’t from the guy who just dropped you off, it’s from Cheol. A paragraph, too long, too emotional, too raw, him pouring his heart out through the haze of one too many drinks.

Having Seungcheol as your ex-boyfriend means he can be in his car at two in the morning, halfway to a meaningless hookup, trying to drown you out of his mind, but the second your name flashes on his screen, everything stops. You sound small and scared. “I… I need your help,” you whisper, your voice muffled through the speaker. He doesn’t even think. “I’m coming right now,” he says, already spinning the wheel in the middle of the road, the screech of tires and angry honks chasing after him as he speeds toward you.

Having Seungcheol as your ex-boyfriend means that you still wear one of his old gym t-shirts to bed, not because you can’t let go, but because it’s soft and familiar, and it still smells faintly like him when you bury your face in the fabric. It makes you feel safe in a way that nothing else has since. Meanwhile, on the other side of town, he still slides into bed on the left side of the double queen, your side, leaving the other half untouched, just as it’s been for the last four months since you walked out. Your pink pillowcase is still there, a little faded now, your green water bottle still sits on the nightstand, half full, and the bracelet he gave you on your third anniversary rests quietly in the marble bowl, gathering dust but never forgotten.

Seungcheol let out a long, heavy sigh, shaking his head. His patience was hanging by a single, fraying thread.

Today wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’d woken up thinking—no, hoping—he could finally have a day that didn’t chew him up and spit him out. Rehearsal in the morning, a bit of rest, and then maybe—just maybe—some uninterrupted time with you after a week of being swallowed whole by the schedule. He hadn’t even seen you in days.

The day started fine… well, he thinks it did. He ate something for breakfast—an apple… or was it a guava? Hell if he knows. Not that it mattered, because by the time he reached practice, the universe had clearly decided to play games with him.

First, Mingyu was in full baby-giraffe mode—stepping on him not once, not twice, but three times during choreography. Then Hoshi, running on what had to be six espressos, was yelling loud enough to wake the dead, bouncing around to “get the energy up.” Jeonghan was in peak moody-cat form, dancing just lazily enough to make everyone repeat the same part again… and again. And Jun? Jun was firing off jokes every five minutes—good ones, sure, but Seongcheol couldn’t even muster a smile.

Today, everyone seemed… extra. And he was running out of extra to give.

The door creaked open mid-song, and their manager poked his head in with that too-cheerful-for-this-hour smile.

“Alright, boys. Quick thing—we need you to try on the costumes for the upcoming event. Oh, and we’ll need everyone’s updated measurements so the fitters can adjust them properly.”

Seungcheol froze. He turned his head so slowly it could’ve been in a horror movie.

“…Right now?”

“Yep! Shouldn’t take long,” the manager chirped.

Shouldn’t take long. That was the final straw.

“Are you kidding me?!” Seungcheol’s voice cracked through the room like a gunshot, making everyone flinch. “We’ve been here since morning, running the same damn eight counts because someone”—he shot a glare at Jeonghan—“can’t commit to moving his lazy body!”

Jeonghan blinked, stunned.

“And Mingyu—stop stomping on me like I’m a floorboard you’re trying to break!”

Mingyu’s eyes went wide. “Hyung, I—”

“No! Don’t even start.” He pointed at Hoshi. “And you—either tone down your voice or buy me new eardrums. I’m this close to losing hearing in my left ear.”

Hoshi shut his mouth instantly.

“And Jun—STOP making jokes! No one’s laughing except you!”

Jun raised his hands like he was surrendering.

“And now,” Seungcheol turned back to the manager, his tone dripping with disbelief, “you want us to waste another hour trying on itchy, glitter-infested costumes instead of letting us breathe for five damn minutes?!”

Silence. Pure, heavy silence.

He raked a hand through his hair, muttering, “Unbelievable. I swear, if one more thing gets added to today’s schedule, I’m walking out and moving to a cabin in the mountains. Don’t test me.”

The silence after his rant was suffocating—everyone frozen, barely blinking. But then the manager, clearly suicidal, mumbled,

“…And, uh… you also have your dietitian check-up today. It’s already on the schedule.”

That was it. Something in Seungcheol’s soul snapped like dry twigs under a tank.

“ARE YOU—” he practically roared, “—KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?!”

He spun so fast his baggy shirt flared out like a cape. “You think I can survive this week, survive rehearsal with circus clowns for members, and THEN go sit there while someone tells me I’ve had one too many grains of rice?!”

"Circus Clowns?" Someone's offended voice reached his ear.

He turned and jabbed a finger at Mingyu. “STOP existing like a newborn deer. My toes are crying, Mingyu. CRYING.”

Mingyu looked like he would cry. Hoshi looked at him with pity and turned to Seungcheol to defend his poor mate but-

“Lower your voice by ten decibels or I will duct tape your mouth shut. Don’t test me, Soonyoung.”

Jeonghan glared at Seungcheol as he turned to him. “You—either dance or admit you’re here for the paycheck. I am done watching you channel limp spaghetti.”

Jun backed away but seungcheol caught him too “Crack one more joke and I’m sending you to perform at a funeral.”

But then… he turned on the good ones.

Joshua blinked, confused. “Cheol—”

“JOSHUA, I DON’T TRUST PEOPLE WHO ARE TOO QUIET. You’re too perfect. It’s suspicious. You’re plotting something.”

He turned his gaze to DK, who stepped back. “I was just—”

“SEOKMIN, STOP SMILING LIKE THAT! Nobody is that happy during hell week unless they’ve lost their mind!”

Woozi looked up from his corner. To defend them but “Scou—”

“And YOU, WOOZI—wipe that calm face off. You think you’re safe ‘cause you’re short and innocent? NO. You’re the ringleader of half this chaos, I know it.”

Vernon, blinking slowly: “… he didn’t even—”

“VERNON, WAKE UP. Blink faster or something, you look like a Windows XP loading screen.”

Even Dino wasn’t spared.

“And YOU, MAKNAE—stop breathing so loud. You sound like a puppy. I can’t handle puppy noises right now!”

By now he was breathing like a bull in a rodeo, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes darting around for the next victim. “Matter of fact—NONE of you are safe. I am done with all thirteen of you, done with costumes, done with dieticians, done with EVERYTHING!”

Seungcheol snatched his phone off the table like it had personally wronged him, stomped out of the practice room, and slammed the door so hard the mirror rattled. His footsteps echoed down the hallway, heavy and fast, until they faded into the distance.

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. It was like a horror movie where everyone’s waiting to see if the killer comes back.

Then… click. The faint, distant sound of a door locking.

Jun’s eyes went wide. “He’s in his studio,” he whispered like they were discussing a hostage situation.

Joshua frowned. “That’s fine, right? He just needs space—”

“No.” Jun shook his head slowly. “When Seungcheol locks the studio door, it’s DEFCON 1. He’s either gonna write an angry diss track about us or burn the whole schedule to the ground.”

Mingyu gulped. “Should… we check on him?”

Jun gave him a look. “Do you want to lose your head?”

Everyone collectively looked at the floor, pretending to be fascinated by their shoes.

Jun sighed, pulling out his phone. “There’s only one person who can get him out of this without bloodshed.”

The members all stared. “You’re calling her?”

Jun nodded gravely and hit your number. The phone rang, once… twice…

The moment you picked up, Jun didn’t even say hello.

“Y/N… listen to me very carefully. We have a situation.” His voice was low, urgent, like he was calling from a warzone.

You frowned. “What kind of—”

“A Code Crimson,” he cut in. “The General has snapped. I repeat—Seungcheol has gone rogue. No one is safe. Not even Vernon.”

You blinked. “…Not even Vernon?”

Jun’s tone turned grave. “He called him a Windows XP loading screen. Unprovoked.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Oh god.”

“Oh god is right,” Jun rushed on. “First Mingyu got stepped on—no, Mingyu stepped on him three times, and that was the first crack in the dam. Then Hoshi yelled in his ear, Jeonghan decided to be a limp noodle during choreo, Jun—that’s me—made a harmless joke, and suddenly I’m public enemy number one. And the good boys? Oh, don’t think they escaped. Joshua got accused of being ‘too quiet’ and ‘plotting something.’ Seokmin got yelled at for smiling. Woozi was apparently the ‘ringleader of all chaos.’ Dino was told to stop breathing. Breathing, Y/N.”

You stifled a laugh. “Is he… okay?”

“NO, he’s not okay! He’s in his studio. Locked the door. You know what that means!”

“…That he need space?"

Jun gasped like you’d just blasphemed. “No! It means he’s in bunker mode. Last time this happened, he wrote a spite album in one night. Half the lyrics were about killing us. We had to perform them in front of our families.”

You rubbed your temples. “So you’re calling me because…?”

“Because only YOU can get him out before he either commits career homicide or drives us into early retirement. I’m begging you—bring snacks, bring affection, bring… whatever sorcery you have over him. Without you, we’re doomed.”

You sighed. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

Jun exhaled in relief. “God bless you, Y/N. And hurry. The clock is ticking.”

___

The hallway had been eerily quiet since Jun hung up with you—until the heavy, sharp footsteps started again.

Bang! The practice room door flew open so hard it bounced off the stopper. Seungcheol stood there, still radiating pure rage, hair messy, jaw tight. His eyes swept the room like he was about to resume the purge.

Everyone froze like deer in headlights.

He stomped straight to the corner table, snatching up his car keys. “Forgot these,” he muttered, voice still low and dangerous, like a storm rumbling in the distance.

He was halfway to the door again when it opened from the other side.

And there you were.

You didn’t even have to say anything—just standing there made the tension shift. The members all stared between you and him like they were watching a bomb defuse itself.

Seungcheol froze mid-step, staring at you. His anger was still there, tight in his shoulders, but his grip on the keys loosened just slightly. “…What are you doing here?” His voice wasn’t as sharp now, but it was still edged.

Jun, from the back, mouthed Thank god and stepped behind Joshua like he was hiding from crossfire.

You arched a brow. “Heard you went nuclear on everyone.”

Seungcheol’s jaw flexed, eyes flicking away like a kid caught misbehaving. “…They were testing me.”

From the corner, Mingyu muttered, “Hyung, all I did was—”

One sharp glare from Seungcheol shut him right up.

You stepped fully into the doorway, blocking his exit. “Keys down. You’re not running off.”

He tilted his head, defiance in his eyes. “And if I do?”

You smirked, voice calm but firm. “Then I’m dragging you back by the collar. Your choice.”

The room held its breath.

For a moment, he looked like he might argue… but then he sighed, shoulders sinking the tiniest bit, and muttered, “Fine.”

Behind you, Jun whispered to the others, “See? Sorcery.”

“Sit.”

He stared at you for a beat like he might refuse… but then sat, shoulders hunched, frown still carved deep into his face.

You crouched in front of him, resting your hands on his knees. “Cheol-ah… talk to me. What’s going on in that overworked, stressed-out head of yours?”

He looked away, muttering, “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Mm-hm,” you hummed. “You’re so fine you went Godzilla on twelve innocent men?”

His brow furrowed. “They weren’t innocent—”

“Yes, they were,” you cut in gently. “Mingyu didn’t step on you on purpose, Hoshi wasn’t yelling at you, Jeonghan was just tired, Jun was making you laugh even if you didn’t feel like it… and the others? They were just breathing, Cheol.”

His lips twitched like he wanted to protest. “They—”

“They’re your members,” you said softly, brushing a hand over his arm. “Your family. They’ve been working just as hard as you. They didn’t deserve the full Seungcheol wrath.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I just… I haven’t had a second to breathe this week. I wanted today to be calm, to spend time with you, and then it just… kept piling on.”

Your expression softened instantly. “See? That’s what I wanted to hear. Not this scary leader act.”

You cupped Seungcheol’s face, making him meet your eyes. “Next time, instead of bottling it up until you’re yelling about Windows XP, maybe… tell someone. Tell me. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

He exhaled, finally letting some of the tension go. “…I might’ve gone too far.”

Behind you, the members exchanged glances like might was the understatement of the year.

You smiled faintly. “A little. But they’ll forgive you. Especially if you apologize… and maybe buy them dinner.”

He groaned again. “You’re siding with them.”

“I’m siding with you, Cheol. Because this isn’t you. And I like you better when you’re calm and smiley, not terrifying everyone into silence.”

That earned you a tiny, reluctant smile. “…Fine. Dinner’s on me.”

From the back, Hoshi pumped a fist. “Yes!”

You straightened up and offered your hand. “Come on.”

He eyed it suspiciously. “…Where are we going?”

“To apologize.”

His nose scrunched. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” you said, slipping your fingers into his and tugging him to his feet. “And I’m holding your hand the whole time so you can’t storm off like an angry grandpa.”

That earned a few muffled laughs from the members.

You led him to the center of the room, planting him there like a kid about to recite an apology in class. “Alright, go ahead.”

He sighed so dramatically you thought he might collapse from sheer suffering. “…I’m sorry.”

You squeezed his hand. “Try again. Like you mean it.”

He shot you a look, but your raised brow made him cave. “…I’m sorry for yelling. I was… stressed, and I took it out on all of you. Even the ones who didn’t deserve it.”

From the back, Vernon mumbled, “That’s all of us, hyung.”

Seungcheol’s jaw flexed—your hand squeeze stopped the comeback before it formed. “…Yes. All of you.”

Mingyu’s eyes softened. “It’s okay, hyung.”

Hoshi grinned. “I forgive you if you take us to barbecue tonight.”

Seungcheol groaned, but you smiled sweetly at him. “Right, Cheol?”

He muttered, “…Fine. Barbecue. My treat.”

The room erupted into cheers, the tension finally breaking. Jun leaned toward Joshua and whispered, “See? She’s the only one who can tame him.”

Seungcheol, still holding your hand, glanced at you with a tiny smirk. “…You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

You grinned. “Oh, absolutely. Now smile for your boys before they start thinking you’re still mad.”

The room had mostly relaxed after Seungcheol’s apology, everyone chatting about dinner plans. But you noticed Jeonghan hadn’t said a word. He was leaning against the mirror in the corner, arms crossed, gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

You walked over, crouching slightly to meet his eye level. “And why are you over here looking like a kicked puppy?”

He glanced at you, lips jutting out in a pout. “Ask your boyfriend.”

You blinked, then looked back at Seungcheol—who suddenly found the floor very interesting. “Cheol-ah… what did you say to him?”

Seungcheol rubbed the back of his neck. “…I might have… told him to stop dancing like limp spaghetti.”

Jeonghan scoffed, turning his head away dramatically. “Might have? You basically called me useless in front of everyone.”

You frowned and gently touched his arm. “Hannie, you know he didn’t mean it like that. He was mad at everyone, remember? You just got caught in the crossfire.”

He still wouldn’t look at you. “…I’ve been working hard too, you know. And then he yells at me like I’m not trying.”

That made Seungcheol finally step closer, guilt written all over his face. “Hannie… I’m sorry. I was frustrated, and I took it out on you. You have been working hard. You’re one of the reasons we’re even holding it together.”

Jeonghan peeked up at him, still half-pouting. “…Barbecue and you carry my bag tomorrow.”

Seungcheol chuckled, relieved. “Fine.”

Everyone had finally settled, laughing here and there, the tension fading. But of course, Hoshi couldn’t resist stirring the pot.

You smiled, patting Jeonghan’s shoulder. “There we go. Two big boys making up.”

“Hey, remember when Mingyu almost cried earlier?” he said with a grin, elbowing DK.

DK snorted. “Almost? His eyes were glassy, man. One more glare from Seungcheol and he would’ve burst.”

Jun leaned in with mock seriousness. “I swear, I saw his bottom lip trembling. Like a cartoon puppy.”

The room erupted in laughter, except for Mingyu—who sat there, blinking rapidly. “Yah—stop—” he mumbled, trying to laugh it off. But the more they teased, the more that tight feeling in his throat came back.

Seungcheol raised a brow. “Wait… are you—”

“I’m not crying!” Mingyu said quickly, voice suspiciously shaky.

Joshua leaned forward. “Oh my god, you’re actually tearing up again.”

Mingyu scrubbed at his eyes. “I—It’s just—ugh, it was scary, okay?! Hyung was yelling, I didn’t know what I did wrong, and my foot still hurts from stepping on him—” His voice cracked on the last word.

The members howled, Hoshi clutching his stomach. “You’re making me cry from laughing!”

You stepped in before they could push him over the edge. “Alright, alright, leave him alone. He’s sensitive.” You patted Mingyu’s arm, giving him a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry, Gyu, I thought you were brave.”

He sniffled, mumbling, “Thanks, Y/N… at least someone is on my side.”

From the back, Jun muttered, “You still look like you’re one glare away from bawling.”

“JUN!” you and Mingyu shouted in unison

Mingyu was still sniffling, rubbing at his eyes while the others chuckled. Seungcheol, who had been watching quietly, finally sighed and stepped forward.

Without a word, he wrapped those long arms around Mingyu, pulling the giant puppy into his chest. Mingyu froze for half a second before melting into it, his head dropping onto Seungcheol’s shoulder.

“There,” Seungcheol said, his voice softer now, rumbling against Mingyu’s ear. “Stop crying. You’re my favorite kid, you know that?”

Mingyu sniffled again, muffled against him. “…Really?”

“Of course,” Seungcheol chuckled, rubbing his back like he was patting down a big Labrador. “You drive me insane, but you’re still my favorite.”

From across the room, Jeonghan crossed his arms. “Wow. And here I thought I was the favorite.”

“Same,” DK pouted.

Hoshi gasped dramatically. “Hyung, I gave you half my lunch yesterday and this is how you repay me?”

Seungcheol just tightened his hug on Mingyu, smirking. “Sorry, kids. This one’s mine.”

You just shook your head, smiling. “I think you all just need hugs.”

Mingyu grinned through the remnants of his tears, leaning into the hug a little more. “…Okay, now I feel better.”

Seungcheol glanced at you with a knowing look. “You volunteering?”

You laughed nodding.

Seungcheol pulled back from Mingyu, giving his arm a final squeeze. Then he glanced around the room, lips curling into a half-smirk.

“…You know what? Everyone line up.”

The members blinked.

Joshua frowned. “Line up… for what?”

“Hug apologies,” Seungcheol said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “In order of how badly I yelled at you.”

Jun immediately pointed at Mingyu. “Then he should’ve been first—”

“He already got his,” Seungcheol cut in. “Next.”

Reluctantly, Jeonghan stepped forward, still half-pouting. Seungcheol sighed and wrapped him in a hug. “Sorry for calling you limp spaghetti.”

Jeonghan smirked against his shoulder. “…I was dancing lazy, though.”

“Shh,” Seungcheol muttered, pulling back. “Next.”

Hoshi bounced up. “Apology accepted in advance if this hug comes with barbecue.”

Seungcheol rolled his eyes but hugged him anyway. “Sorry for the eardrum comment. You are… slightly quieter than a jet engine.”

Woozi walked up slowly, eyebrow raised. “You called me the ringleader of chaos.”

“You are the ringleader of chaos,” Seungcheol said while hugging him, earning a rare laugh from Woozi.

DK got his hug with a sheepish, “Sorry for yelling about your smile. I love your sunshine energy"

Then it was Vernon’s turn. Seungcheol sighed. “Sorry for the Windows XP thing.”

Vernon shrugged mid-hug. “It was kind of accurate, though....and real creative”

Finally, Dino stepped up, looking nervous. “And… me?”

Seungcheol hugged him with a chuckle. “Sorry for telling you to stop breathing. That one was… maybe a little harsh.”

From the back, you crossed your arms with a teasing smile. “You forgot one person.”

He looked at you, confused. “Who?”

You tilted your head. “Me. You didn’t yell at me, but you did make me come all the way here to babysit you.”

Seungcheol’s grin softened into something warmer. “That hug’s gonna be longer.”

The members groaned dramatically as he pulled you in.

Seungcheol wrapped his arms around you, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him alive. his voice dropping to a quiet murmur only you could hear.

“I need cuddles… kisses… and a lot of attention.”

You smiled against his shoulder, whispering back, “You’re gonna get all of them.”

“Baby, I’m leaving for practice.” Seungcheol’s voice cut through the quiet morning as he stepped out of your shared bedroom, stretching long limbs toward the kitchen. He already knew where you’d be—coffee in hand, hair messy from sleep, heart just beginning to wake.

“When will you be—” You moved instinctively to meet him, to hug him, to send him off like you always did. But your words caught in your throat the moment your eyes settled on him.

And you almost dropped the coffee.

He froze, tilting his head slightly as he registered the wide-eyed stare, the slack jaw, the almost audible thump of your pulse. He glanced down at himself, as if noticing the outfit for the first time. Then, slowly, deliberately, he looked back at you.

And that smile—oh, that smile. The kind of smirk that could make knees weak, blood rush, and brains short-circuit all at once.

He was wearing black sweatpants, simple, innocuous. But the shirt… that damned black compression shirt. It clung to him like it had been sculpted over his body by some cruel, beautiful hand. It hugged his shoulders, tracing the curve of his biceps perfectly. It pressed across the planes of his chest and the hard ridges of his abs, molding to him in a way that felt almost sentient, like it knew exactly how to tease you.

Your throat went dry.

“You’re not leaving the house in that,” you blurted, the words sharper than intended. “A man shouldn’t be allowed to wear something this… indecent.” You let the joke hang in the air, the kind usually said to women—but even as you spoke, your pulse betrayed you. Because truthfully, you didn’t want him to go. Not today. Not like this.

“Does my baby like it so much?” he asked, stepping closer, deliberate, stalking, until the only space left between you was the width of a breath. Your body leaned back, pressed against the edge of the counter, and he tilted his head slightly. The movement made your stomach clench, dizzying, disorienting.

“Do you want to keep me here,” he murmured, his voice teasing but edged with something sharp that made your breath catch, “so only you get the view?”

You bit your lip, a smirk trying to fight its way onto your face. “I could, if I wanted.” But the words lacked confidence. He always had this power over you, this way of letting you taste control without ever actually letting you hold it.

He leaned closer, lips barely brushing your ear. “And how,” he asked, low, soft, almost intimate, “would you do that?”

“Cheol…” You exhaled, trying to muster firmness, trying to push him toward the door. “You said you had practice. The boys are waiting—go.”

He hummed against your skin, a sound that was almost a growl, and slid his hands to your waist, holding you with a gentle yet iron grip. “But you’re the one who said you’d lock me up,” he whispered. “So tell me… how exactly? Tie me up and… use me?” His closeness made your hands twitch to his shoulders without permission.

“Cheol…” you tried again, weak and breathless.

He didn’t let you finish. “We both know,” he murmured, voice a dangerous lull, “that if you actually tried, you’d get tired halfway through… and end up begging me to take over. Isn’t that right?”

You shivered involuntarily, and you hated that it was true.

“L-let’s see then,” you stuttered, embarrassed by the weakness in your own voice.

His laugh was low, amused, infuriatingly sexy. “I’d love to see you try.”

In one fluid motion, he caught your wrists and drew them behind you. His other hand ghosted along your neck and jaw, fingers trailing in a way that made your head tilt back, a soft whine slipping out before you could stop it. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as his proximity—and that shirt, stretched over every line of his body—overwhelmed you.

You cursed your life quietly.

But you couldn’t deny it. The way he held you, the way his lips hovered so close to your skin, the smirk pressed just lightly against your throat—it was maddening. Breathless. Torturously perfect.

“You couldn’t keep your word for even a second, hmm?” he said, voice soft, teasing, dangerous, and every word was a challenge that made your knees feel ready to give in.

You opened your mouth, heart hammering, searching for a reply, but the words failed. And in that moment, you knew—he had won, just by standing there, in that shirt, close enough to steal your breath and keep your mind spinning.