weakforsvt

I knock on the Wheelers’ door 3 times before waiting for a response. Mrs. Wheeler answers the door, “Hi Vivienne. Do I need to get Nancy?” I nod my head, “Yes ma’am, I’m returning a blouse she let me borrow the other day for a date Steve and I went on.” She turns around. “NANCY! VIVIENNE IS HERE!” I hear Nancy say something indistinctly. Mrs. Wheeler turns back to me. “She’ll be down in just a second.” I chuckle, “I’m glad you said that cause I couldn’t hear that at all. I had a traumatic brain injury a few years ago that has damaged my hearing.” I explain, Mrs. Wheeler just nods. 

Nancy comes down the stairs before Mrs. Wheeler can say anything else. “I managed to remember to return your blouse.” I laugh, Nancy smirks, “Wow, I thought I might have to call you.” I give her an offended look. “I even washed it so you can just put it back in your closet.” She smiles, “Okay, thanks. I’ll see you later.” I nod, “Yeah, bye.” 

I turn to leave, but Mrs. Wheeler stops me, “Oh, Vivienne, I was going to ask if you and Steve would like to come over for Thanksgiving, seeing as we can’t leave and all, I know you won’t be able to see your family?” Shock erupts over my face, and I turn away as tears well up in my eyes. “Oh, did I say something wrong?” She asks. I turn back to her, “Oh no ma’am, I just haven’t had a real Thanksgiving in 4 years, so it’s a bit emotional. I’m not on speaking terms with my parents over religious and old-fashioned views.” I explain. “Steve and I would be more than happy to attend. Thank you so much for the offer.” 

She smiles, “Lovely. Dinner starts at 5, you don’t have to bring anything unless you want to.” I smile back, “Okay, I’ll see you then. Good night.” I leave and get in my car. Mrs. Wheeler calls out a “Good night” as I leave. 

Thanksgiving comes quickly, and Steve and I decide on just bringing some rolls. The drive to the Wheelers is quiet. “Are you okay?” Steve asks from the driver’s seat. “Yeah, just nervous, that’s all,” I reply, looking out the window. “Hey, there’s nothing to be nervous about.” Steve glances over at me. “Eyes on the road, babe.” I scold, “I know it’s just, it’s been 4 years since I’ve been a part of something like this, so it’s hard not to be nervous.” 

He smiles sympathetically, “Just don’t freak out on me, okay?” I shake my head, “If I start to feel upset, I’ll let you know. I know the system by now.” Steve pulls into the Wheelers’ driveway. “I know, I just want to make sure.” He puts the car in park. He gets out, shutting his door behind him, and circles the car to open the passenger's side door for me. I grab my purse and the dish of rolls from the floorboard. I give Steve a small smile as he shuts the door behind me. I sling my purse over my right shoulder and hold the dish of rolls in my right hand. As soon as I get situated, Steve grabs my left hand with his right, intertwining them together. He rubs gentle circles with his thumb, and I can feel my racing heart slow. Steve’s always been good about that kinda thing. 

The walk from the car to the front door feels like an eternity, but in reality, it was probably only a few minutes. We get to the front door, and Steve rings the doorbell with his free hand. Mike is the one who answers the door. It’s surprisingly loud inside. “Mom, Steve and Viv are here!” He calls, “Hey, guys.” He greets. “Hey Mike.” I smile. Mike motions behind him, “The kitchen is this way.” We silently follow him. 

In the kitchen, Nancy, Mrs. Wheeler, and Ms. Byers are busy working on the last of the food. “Hi everyone!” I greet, trying to be cheery. All three look up for a second before Nancy and Ms. Byers return to the food they are working on. “Hi guys!” Mrs. Wheeler greets. “Oh, Vivienne, you can put the rolls over here.” She points to a spot on the island. Steve lets go of my hand as I walk to set the rolls down. “They’re already warm, Mrs. Wheeler. I heated them up before we left the house, so it’s one less thing to worry about.” I tell her while setting them down. “Okay, thank you, honey.” She smiles. “We should be ready here in a minute. Ted, will you come and cut the turkey so we can eat?” Mrs. Wheeler calls. After a few minutes, Mr. Wheeler appears and begins cutting the turkey while everyone else slowly piles into the kitchen. After Mr. Wheeler is done cutting the turkey, everyone slowly circles the island and the bar, getting food and dessert. Steve and I end up on the couch in the living room with Nancy and Jonathan on the other side of us. Dinner is mostly uneventful, with mostly small talk. 

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.

“You’re kidding,” you said flatly.

Across the passenger seat of the very full, very overpacked family van, Yoon Jeonghan had the audacity to grin like this was all part of some grand master plan.

“Look, I didn’t think they’d actually ask to meet you, okay? It was just—my mom was getting nosy, and I panicked.”

“So your first instinct was to lie about having a girlfriend?”

“Not a lie,” he said, far too casual. “A preemptive relationship announcement.”

You scoffed. “With who?”

“Well, you live across the hall, and we already bicker like a married couple.”

“Because you steal my laundry slots and label your milk passive-aggressively!”

“And yet,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses with flair, “here you are, coming on a weekend family trip to save my ass.”

You glared at him. “Only because you bribed me with three months’ worth of your mailroom favors and cleaning up after your nightmare cat.”

“She’s not a nightmare. She’s emotionally complex.”

“She bit me.”

“Love bite.”

You opened your mouth to argue but were interrupted by his mom in the front seat turning back to you, beaming. “We’re so happy you could come, sweetheart! You’ve been dating our Jeonghan for over a year and we’ve never met you! Can you believe it?”

You smiled, the tight, polite kind. “Yeah. Time really flies when you’re in… love.”

Jeonghan tried not to laugh beside you. You jabbed your elbow into his side.

The cabin was cute.

Cozy.

Charming.

And had one bed.

You stood in the doorway, staring at the neatly made queen-size mattress that absolutely screamed “good luck, suckers.”

“Absolutely not,” you said.

“What?” Jeonghan walked in behind you, setting his duffel down with a dramatic sigh. “They think we’re together. Do you want to blow the whole thing up now?”

You turned to him. “Then you sleep on the floor.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You got us into this mess. I’m not sleeping on the damn floor.”

He raised a brow, arms crossing. “Do I look like someone who can survive a hardwood situation? I’m delicate.”

You pointed at the floor. “Delicate your way down there.”

But he just grinned, the kind that was all cheek and absolutely no remorse. He spread his arms wide like he was announcing a magic trick.

“It’s an adventure, darling.”

You rolled your eyes. “Congrats. In this adventure, you’re sleeping on the floor.”

The cabin creaked in the dark. Somewhere in the distance, a cricket chirped like it had a personal vendetta against your ears. The faint hum of Jeonghan’s mom watching a late-night drama drifted through the walls, barely audible.

And then—just loud enough to drive you insane—

Rustle.

Rustle.

You groaned. “Are you trying to be loud?”

Across the room, from the sad little nest of blankets and throw pillows he’d dramatically built on the floor, Jeonghan’s voice floated back at you.

“I’m adjusting my spine for optimal survival. You know, since I’ve been banished from the comfort of the bed.”

“You’re lucky you’re still breathing.”

“You’re lucky I have impeccable restraint,” he muttered.

You turned onto your side, scowling into the darkness. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I was forced to fake-date my neighbor because of a single panic lie. Forgive me for needing to emotionally process.”

You scoffed. “You’re not processing. You’re fishing.”

“…Did it work?”

“No.”

He exhaled a laugh, low and lazy. Then it was quiet again. For a moment, you thought maybe he’d finally fallen asleep.

Until—

“You… really didn’t have to say yes, you know.”

You blinked at the ceiling.

“I know.”

“I just mean…” His voice was softer now. “You didn’t owe me anything. Especially after the whole… hallway coffee incident.”

You bit back a smile. He remembers the coffee incident?

“You mean when you bumped into me, spilled hot latte all over my skirt, and then had the audacity to ask if I had a towel?”

“I panicked,” he mumbled. “Also, I still stand by the fact that the hallway is too narrow.”

“It’s a normal hallway, Jeonghan. You just have zero spacial awareness.”

Another laugh. This one sounded real.

Silence again.

Then, gently—

“…I didn’t expect you to help me.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I didn’t expect you to say ‘please.’”

He was quiet for a long moment. Long enough that you thought he might be asleep.

And then— “…Can I ask something?”

You turned to face his direction, even though you couldn’t see him. “What?”

His voice was small, almost teasing. “On a scale of one to ten… how convincing do you think we are as a couple?”

You hesitated. “…like… six.”

“SIX?” he cried in a whisper. “That’s barely passing!”

You grinned. “Maybe if you didn’t look so smug every time I touch your arm.”

“I do not— okay, fine, but you laughed when I kissed your cheek earlier!”

“You missed! You kissed my ear!”

A beat.

“…Right. Yeah. Six. Fair.”

And then—quiet laughter.

Yours.

Then his.

And before either of you knew it, the silence that followed didn’t feel so awkward anymore.

It just… was.

Two strangers.

Two liars.

Two people figuring out how to fall asleep in the same room without falling apart.

You stared up at the ceiling, sleep nowhere in sight. Your pillow was slightly too soft, the room slightly too warm, and your fake boyfriend slightly too annoying.

“Hey,” you whispered.

Jeonghan’s voice floated back from the floor, muffled and suspicious. “What.”

“Can we go over our ‘how we started dating’ story? Again. Just in case anyone asks tomorrow.”

There was a dramatic sigh. Fabric rustled.

“Seriously?” he groaned. “It’s a family trip, not an interrogation.”

“Yes, seriously,” you snapped quietly. “Your sister already asked how long we’d been together. What if someone wants details?”

“I gave you the details.”

“You gave me concept art, Jeonghan. You gave me vibes.”

Another dramatic sigh.

“Fine,” he muttered, like it was the greatest burden of his life to clean up his own mess. “Okay, so… we tell them it started after you tripped down the stairs, right?”

Your face immediately contorted in disbelief. “I’m sorry—what?”

“And I caught you at the bottom,” he continued, completely unfazed, “like a scene straight out of a drama. Your hair was glowing, the light behind you was all soft and golden, and you looked at me like I’d just saved your life.”

“I looked at you like I had a concussion.”

“Exactly! The impact of love.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “You want me to tell your entire family I fell in love with you because you caught me falling down a staircase?”

“Do you hear how good that sounds?”

“It sounds like I have zero standards and you have a hero complex.”

Jeonghan rolled over with a groan, now half-visible from the floor. “Fine. We’ll say it happened when I helped you carry your groceries up to your apartment.”

“That’s actually not bad.”

“And then I leaned against your doorframe all charming and irresistible—”

“Nope. There it is.”

“—and you said, ‘Wow, no man has ever carried my oat milk so tenderly before.’”

You flung your pillow at him. It hit the floor with a thump.

He laughed, low and pleased with himself. “Admit it. You’d fall for me.”

“Fall on you, maybe. Just to knock you out.”

“Romance.”

“Delusion.”

He smirked, voice trailing off into the dark. “I think you’re enjoying this fake dating thing a little too much.”

You turned back to your side, blanket pulled over your shoulder. “I think you’re confusing ‘enjoying’ with ‘surviving your dumbassery.’”

Silence fell for a moment.

Then—

“…Oat milk though. That was a good line.”

You threw the spare pillow next.

You woke to the sound of someone knocking—not on the door, but on your brain cells.

Jeonghan’s voice cut through the early light like a dull blade. “They’re making pancakes.”

“Why are you talking like that’s urgent news?”

“Because they’ll think we’re having morning couple time if we don’t show up soon.”

You sat up, hair wild, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak of regret. “I should’ve let you sleep on the porch.”

Jeonghan, already dressed and way too smug for 8AM, only winked.

When you stepped into the kitchen together, his hand found your lower back automatically. Warm. Light. Familiar.

You didn’t think about it. Until you did.

His sister, who was cutting fruit at the counter, didn’t miss a thing. Her eyes narrowed. “Well, well, well. Look who finally woke up.”

You smiled. The kind that didn’t reach your eyes. “We took our time. You know. Jeonghan’s a cuddler.”

He choked. “I—I am not.”

She gasped, mock horror on her face. “Jeonghan? Touchy? In the morning?”

“He mumbled in his sleep,” you said sweetly. “Called me his ‘oat milk angel.’”

He stared at you like you had personally just ended his whole career.

“I did not.”

“You did too. I was touched. Emotionally.”

His sister was cackling now. “I can’t believe this. My brother’s in love.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes and grabbed a banana from the counter in retaliation. “We’re not doing this.”

“Oh, we are. We are absolutely doing this.” She pointed her knife dramatically. “Because you’ve never brought anyone home before. This is like watching a rare animal leave its den after twenty-seven years.”

You turned to him, mock-offended. “You told me I was special.”

“I did not say that.”

“Wow. First he forgets our anniversary, now this.”

You pouted, and for dramatic flair, he reached for your hand, dramatically clutching it with two hands like he was repenting for a sin he did not commit.

“My love,” he said solemnly, “forgive me. I shall make it up to you by massaging your shoulders later.”

“I demand breakfast in bed.”

“I’ll hand-feed you grapes.”

You snorted.

His sister stared between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re both awful actors.”

Jeonghan raised a brow. “Says who?”

She gestured with her fruit knife. “Says my intuition. And the fact that your hand’s still holding hers even though that whole bit ended a full thirty seconds ago.”

Your stomach fluttered.

Jeonghan let go like he’d been burned. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you echoed, barely above a whisper.

But it was too late.

The feeling had already curled somewhere in your chest.

Because his hand had been warm. His thumb had rubbed circles without thinking. You hadn’t wanted to pull away.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

And something was there.

Not loud. Not obvious.

But there.

It started with Jeonghan’s mom saying, “We’re out of eggs,” and ended with the two of you in a cozy little convenience store five minutes from the cabin, pretending you weren’t sharing one brain cell and an alarming amount of chemistry.

You held the basket. He pushed the cart even though you only needed two things.

“Should’ve just made your mom send one of your siblings,” you muttered, scanning the shelves.

“Yeah, but then who would I fake domestic bliss with?” he said, casually tossing in a bottle of your favorite drink. You blinked at it. “What? I’ve seen you drink it, like, five times this month.”

“…Stalker.”

He grinned. “Observant.”

You stopped in front of the ramen section, head tilted. “They have your spicy one.”

He reached over your shoulder, grabbing the exact brand without hesitation. “We’ll get two. I’ll make it for you tomorrow.”

You stared at him.

“What?” he asked, shrugging. “Fake boyfriend duties. Let me cook for you so my parents continue to believe I’m a gift to the earth.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the snack aisle.

But your heart was… beating a little weird.

It didn’t help that somewhere between “we need eggs” and “ooh they have strawberry Pocky,” Jeonghan’s hand had somehow ended up on the small of your back again.

Like it belonged there.

Like it fit.

You tried not to think about it.

At checkout, he handed over his card before you could pull out yours.

“Jeonghan.”

“Relax, sugarplum. It’s like, $11. I can afford our fake life together.”

You shoved him lightly as the cashier laughed under her breath. He winked.

The walk back was quiet. But not uncomfortable. At one point, your fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away. And neither did you.

Back at the cabin, his mom peeked into the bag.

“Got everything?”

Jeonghan nodded. “Yep. Even her favorite drink.”

She smiled, just a little too knowingly. “You’re already acting like an old married couple.”

You opened your mouth to protest.

But Jeonghan beat you to it.

With the softest, most dangerous smile he’s ever worn—

“We’ve had practice.”

Your stomach flipped. Your fingers curled around the strap of the bag just to ground yourself.

Because god help you—

The cute stranger looked up from his laptop, watching you in shock like you had just magically appeared before him. You froze, unable to look away despite how desperate you were to do so, but kept eye contact with the beautiful man on the train. He awkwardly smiled, lifting his hand from the laptop and doing a half-wave. The gesture made you giggle, he seemed just as adorable as his appearance, and you waved back to him.

The cute stranger looked up from his laptop, watching you in shock like you had just magically appeared before him. You froze, unable to look away despite how desperate you were to do so, but kept eye contact with the beautiful man on the train. He awkwardly smiled, lifting his hand from the laptop and doing a half-wave. The gesture made you giggle, he seemed just as adorable as his appearance, and you waved back to him.

The cute stranger looked up from his laptop, watching you in shock like you had just magically appeared before him. You froze, unable to look away despite how desperate you were to do so, but kept eye contact with the beautiful man on the train. He awkwardly smiled, lifting his hand from the laptop and doing a half-wave. The gesture made you giggle, he seemed just as adorable as his appearance, and you waved back to him.

You looked away after that, biting your bottom lip and smiling like a fool, scrolling through your phone. He continued to watch you, another thing making you smile, as though curious. Perhaps just as curious about you as you are about him.

A loud announcement interrupted the little game of cat and mouse between you both, informing you of your stop in the train line. You stood up, looking back at the cute guy and noticing his eyes widened as he scrambled to stand up as well - something else which just made you giggle to yourself. There was something so endearing about how clumsy he seemed, though you probably (definitely, if you were honest with yourself) had that bias.

The train doors opened for you and you stepped onto the platform, noticing how he quickly did the same. He fell into line beside you, adjusting his laptop bag and looking around at the dark train station. And then…

“Hi,” his voice was that of honey. Sweet and tempting, you could already see yourself falling deep into anything so long as he was involved. All he would need to do is say the word.

You watched the train slowly ride off, before wandering your eyes back to the man and his messy hair - courtesy of the headphones being pulled off in his rush. “Hi.” He looked over the station again, a small frown on his face and you furrowed your eyebrows. “Is this your usual stop?”

“Can’t say that it is.”

Cocking your head to the side; you took a step forward and turned back to him, a glint of a cheeky smile peeking on your face. “Then why did you get off the train?”

He rubbed his foot over the other, a nervous habit you also had, and he looked from the ground to your eyes. Though you were expecting that frown to still be there, he had his own smile, albeit small, in replacement of it. “Because you were.”

Rushing from your class was something you had to do often, and you would assume that after many years there would be some level of finesse. Though as you sat down at the restaurant, your hair messy from the running and your outfit slightly askew from how urgent you had been on the way there, you realised that there was no level of finesse. Not even a single shred of it.

“Sorry I’m late,” he sat down opposite you with a lazy grin, and you felt your heart pound. Maybe you did have a slight talent for remaining presentable after running, and only it was your nerves regarding the date he had asked you on that had ruined the whole task.

His hair was neater than when you first met, combed and styled, and his glasses were slightly crooked on his face. It made you smile, your body relax, and your heart pound dramatically at how cute he looked. He really did have a comfortable vibe, just looking at him was enough to make you relax. Even though you were on a date with one of the funniest, nicest and most attractive men you had met.

“It’s no stress,” you adjusted your clothes and smiled at him, “I only just got here too.”

He had chosen a good restaurant, the whole vibe of the restaurant was warm and nice. While you still felt a little underdressed (whether from your own fears or fact, you may never know) you blended in rather nicely. It felt almost family run, even with a fine dining menu, and you were glad he chose to bring you there.

Well, he could take you anywhere and you’d love it all the same. So long as you were with him, really.

“You never did tell me what you were working on…” trailing off, you took a small bite of the cake you were both sharing. He looked sheepish at your words, glasses acting like a shield almost, and he bit on his full bottom lip. Yes, anything he did would be attractive in your eyes - but you gave yourself a break with this gesture as it brought your attention to his very kissable lips.

He took a bite of the cake as well, cheeks slightly red as he looked at you. “Super secret project,” he wiggled his eyebrows at you with a stupidly cute grin that made you chuckle, “if I tell you I’d have to kill you. And you are far too cute to kill.”

You felt flustered, eyes widened slightly and body tingly. “Your compliments may be adorable, but they won’t distract me,” you leaned in on the table, smiling at him as he mimicked your actions. Your faces were so close, his addictive looking lips that you were sure could poison you if you dared taste mere centimeters from your own. “You know, a much better lie is saying that it’s for work.”

“Then my super secret project is for work.”

“You’re not that smooth are you?”

He chuckled and leaned back, smiling at you and adjusting his glasses - still somehow making them crooked. “Well, I got you on a date didn’t I? Clearly I must have at least a little game.”

Being sick was so annoying. You despised it with your entire being, but today, it was different. This time, you had him right beside you and waiting on your hand and foot. His hand stroking the sides of your face and pushing back any hair, a soft warm smile reminding you that it’ll all be over soon.

You curled up in the bed, hugging a pillow to your stomach and groaning into the pulled sheets. He had put on a drama for you both to watch, though you could barely pay attention in your fever-caused haze - you could still faintly hear it playing from that laptop of his. The one he had been so focused on when you first met all those months ago on the train. He, himself, sat on the floor beside your head, his head half lain on the mattress and half on the pillow against your stomach, eyes shut and quiet snores falling from his full lips.

You should have also been sleeping, despite how you had been the majority of the day (he had practically refused to let you stay awake) you couldn’t let yourself give in to the still-there exhaustion. Not when you could instead stay awake and admire how beautiful he was. And though he was uncomfortably kneeling on the floor, his head cocked at an awkward angle, he still looked simply perfect.

How could you watch some silly drama when he was there?

His chest rose and fell in a calm rhythm, lips pouted to allow his quiet snores - you’d never seen anything so peaceful. So pure. But then, his softly closed eyes opened up, slow and sleepy, before settling on you. He took a moment, eyes sliding over your features, before a sleepy smile graced his face. Just another thing about him that was beautiful, that was so purely him.

“Hi,” he whispered, your name soon falling from those full lips in a silent call, the sound not even reaching your ears. It reminded you of back at the train station, only now the silence between you both was from a lack of need to talk. There was nothing to say, it was simply warm and comfortable.

Just like him.

“Hi,” your words came out raspy and a harsh cough scratched your throat. You felt the mattress lift slightly, though you were far too preoccupied with the coughing fit to care, and a soft hand went to your back, rubbing soft circles onto it. His soft hand.

You looked up at him, his once kneeled and contorted body now stood up and looking down at you with slightly worried eyes. “Are you okay? Do you need anything? Have you drunk enough water? I can’t believe I fell asleep - I’m supposed to be looking after you!”

It made you giggle how rapidly he was talking. You doubted he had even stopped to take a single breath. His lips moved faster than your mine could process, his head moving from side to side… your giggles quickly turned to loud, if broken, laughs at how adorable he was acting. Plus, it was rather flattering having someone so worried over you!

“Hey,” your cold hands went to his warm ones, a quickly shiver working up your spine, “I’m okay. Promise.”

He stopped, staring down at you with his shallow breaths returning to normal. “Are you sure?” You shuffled in the bed, snuggling into the tangled sheets and watching him from your sleepy, though comfortable, position. He smiled down at you, one which you returned despite your cheek being squished against the pillow, and placed his hand upon your face, cradling your exposed cheek. “Good.”

Then, he began to lean in, his eyes fluttering shut and those full lips you’d always dreamed of kissing finally approaching your own. But, you quickly placed a finger to those lips, despite the shouting of your heart and the throbbing of your brain from the fast movements. “You’ll get sick.”

“Worth it,” he gently moved your finger from his lips and closed off the small gap between you both.

Those lips were so soft and you melted at the feeling. You kissed back, as softly as he had, and moved your arms around his neck. It was slightly awkward, but you loved it, because so was he. In fact, the first kiss between you both was just like him.

Awkward. Warm. Comfortable. Safe.

Addictive.

Life was unfair at the best of times - though, right now, you’d argue that life was a stone cold bitch. Why? Because your shortcut through the park to reach the cinema where he was waiting had failed tremendously, you’d fallen into two mud puddles and it had begun raining horribly. Not to mention the frizz on your head making you resemble a ball.

You just wanted to burst out crying, or perhaps kick over fifteen rubbish bins to release your frustration. And though the second was much more appealing, you knew the first was much more realistic to your situation.

Weaving through a group of people, you sighed in relief at the familiar cinema lights appearing in front of you. A quiet sniffle left you, it really hadn’t been your day, but thankfully, you were about to see him. And he always made you feel better.

You pushed through the cinema doors, your shoes squeaking on the flooring and making you wince as it cut through the mostly quiet cinema. All you’d wanted was to sneak in quietly, give your boyfriend a quick kiss and then watch the stupid movie - why couldn’t anything go right today?

Well, at least he was here.

There he stood, that beautiful smile of his growing on his face and his glass, as always, crooked as they laid on his nose. You took a deep breath, the world almost slowing around you, and your own smile grew. He looked perfect standing there, his hair messy from his headphones (now around his neck instead of covering his ears as usual) and hands occupied with popcorn and drinks for you both.

You walked up to him, quickly kissing the corner of his mouth with a smile as you grabbed one of the drinks from his cardboard tray. “Sorry I’m late, stupid weather caught me…” Your face dropped as you remembered just how horrible you looked because of the many mud puddles and the weather. And he looked so good! You groaned and slammed your palm on your forehead. “I look awful! I’m filthy!”

“No! You look beautiful, as always.” He grabbed your chin softly, putting the drinks and popcorn down on one of the cinema chairs outside the screening rooms, tilting your face to make you look at him.

You were silent, just like he was, and your faces were so close together. It was like when you first kissed, many months ago now, a comfortable silence as you both just admired one another. His beautiful eyes zoned in on each part of your face, and while you wanted to do the same, you couldn’t make yourself look away from his bespeckled eyes. They were just so deep, so full of life despite his quiet exterior.

You would happily fall into those eyes for years and years - and you would never find yourself bored. Not with all the little colours mixed in with the deep brown. Not with him.

“I love you.” His eyes widened slightly at his admission, while you gasped quietly and your body froze. He loved you… he loved you? Any other day, any other person, you would have questioned their words. But not this time. This was him. The man who got sick from you because he couldn’t not cuddle and kiss you. The man who was so stupid and clumsy and unique. The man who made you happier than anyone else.

So, instead of the doubt that would have plagued you with anyone else, you smiled as your eyes watered with happiness flying through your body. You pushed your hands down to where his were, interlacing your fingers softly and sighing at how perfectly they felt together.

“I love you too.”

The train jolted and you were shaken from the daydreams of your brain. You felt disoriented, something that always happened when you completely fell into the idiotic fantasies of your brain, and you quickly focused on something still on the train.

The man with his laptop. He was still so focused on it, almost refusing to look away from it. Oh, how you wanted to learn just what he was working on - what could be so important that he would be so adamant about working on it at midnight?

The loud announcement informing you of your upcoming stop played through the train car speakers, and so you stood up and prepared for the arrival. Your fingers tightened on the train handlebars as it continued to ride toward your platform, and you pulled yourself up from your seat.

Only for the train to jolt once more and make you stumble down.

Yet, you never hit the floor.

Instead, the man’s arms caught you and stopped the fall. You felt like swooning at the gesture, but instead you did your best to remain straight-faced and looked up into his eyes. They were large, urgently looking over your face to make sure you were okay - either from pain or to ensure you were comfortable with him catching you. You were flattered either way.

“Are you…”

You nodded hastily, “I am! Thank you…”

It was a bit awkward between you both, you assumed it was from how he was still holding you while you were bent at an awkward angle and looking up. Yet, you didn’t entirely care - far too focused on staring into his deep brown eyes. It felt as if time had stopped around you, leaving just you and the man there to continue.

Though it was awkward, it was oddly warm.

“Oh! Right, ugh… here,” he helped you stand up properly, and you did so with a small smile and quick nods - your own rambles of agreement joining his. It was when you had properly held onto the handlebar of the train you noticed his laptop haphazardly pushed onto the seat beside his previously occupied one, music making software open and beats flowing from the headphones connected. “I’m Han.”

You gave him a half smile, telling him your own name as the train doors opened behind you to your platform.

⎯⎯ notes ‣‣‣ i have no idea if this makes sense, but i was trying to go for that idea of falling in love with a stranger, imagining a future with them, etc. i know hyunjin has talked about how he does that, and I've noticed i do it as well hahaha, but anyways yes that's this story. also i kinda tried to hint at it cause of how reader never uses his name in their daydreams... since they don't know it.. alright byeeeee thank you for reading

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