𐔌 𑣲 amora ⁺˖ ꒱ @cupidmora - Tumblr Blog

365 Days - Lee Heeseung

Rich boy!heeseung x poor!reader

all heeseung has ever known is women throwing themselves at him and endless money. so what happens when his parents bribe a poor girl to marry him for one year to teach him a lesson? Can he adapt to the poor lifestyle or will he fail before the 365 days are over?

Warnings: mentions parental death and illness, heeseung's parents suck, heeseung is a major dick at first, they fight alot, Heeseung has jealousy issues, slow burn AF

What was only 9 days of waiting was really two months for me 🥲This took me from January until yesterday I won't lie I kept getting stuck and then after the announcement I obsessively wrote the rest. you guys do not understand the genuine rage I dealt with all day from 7 AM to 11 PM of trying to post this stupid fake because of the Tumblr rules of how long a paragraph can be and how many “paragraphs“ can have you can only have 1000 and I spent hours adjusting this and having to copy and paste a paragraph by paragraph to be able to get all of this in 😭

ao3 version

WC: 23k

The strong smell of antiseptic was giving you a headache. The elevator wouldn’t move fast enough, and the doors wouldn’t open fast enough. Your feet slammed the ground as you rushed through the hallways of the hospital, eyes darting between the number plaques on the walls until you reached the room you were looking for. Inside the room, your mother lay in a hospital bed, pale and hooked up to monitors. You couldn’t hear the beeping of the machines over your heart pounding in your chest. “Mom..” your voice cracked, tears finally spilling. You dropped your bag, basically throwing yourself to her bedside, tightly grasping her hands in yours. Her head fully turned towards yours, exhaustion clearly written on her features. “Y/N..” Her hand shakily stroked your head once before slipping back down to her side. A mix of anger and sadness brewed in your chest. “I told you to rest. I can handle the restaurant myself.” She coughed lightly, and you noticed the faint tremor in her fingers. “I’m… trying, sweetheart. But the medicine… It’s expensive. Too expensive for us.” The words hit you like a punch. Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you felt the weight of the world pressing down. One month’s rent, the ingredients for the restaurant, her bills… it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. You shook your head frantically, desperation rising. “There has to be a way, Mom. I’ll work more shifts, I’ll save… I’ll—” She cut you off softly, her voice weak but firm. “Y/N… I can’t ask you to risk yourself more than you already do. I just… can’t.” A sudden knock caught your attention. Looking towards the door, a nurse with a clipboard. “A special patron is asking to speak to...” She looked down at the papers, flipping between them for a moment, “the daughter of Miss Sunja.” Slowly, you rose to your feet, heart hammering in your chest. Who would be asking for you? "That would be me.” A deep voice cut.

Your eyes snapped to locate the voice. It belonged to a tall man in a suit. Standing next to him was a woman. Every detail about them screamed wealth—polished shoes, designer clothes, you could even smell the woman’s expensive perfume from feet away. The man’s eyes burned holes into your skin as he looked you up and down. Suddenly, you felt slightly insecure about your worn clothes. “Can I speak to you in the hallway?” It was a demand framed as a question. You hesitated for a moment, staring at him. Swallowing, you gave a quick nod. “Fine.” He gestured toward the hallway, and cautiously you stepped out, keeping your hands in front of you. As soon as the door closed behind you, the cold air of authority hit harder. “My family donates generously to this hospital. We've been informed about your… Situation.” Heat rose in your chest at the mock pity in his tone describing your current life. “I have a proposition.” Suspicion filled you. “What do you want from me? I don't have anything to offer.” “My son needs to learn a lesson. He’s lived comfortably for far too long. No responsibility. No consequences. He wastes money because he’s never had to think about earning it.”

Heat crept up your neck. “And that has something to do with me?” His gaze sharpened. “Everything. For one year, you marry him. He lives without access to our money. No allowance. No safety net. He will live your life—your village, your routines, your reality.” Your breath caught in your throat. “You want to use me to discipline your son?” “I want to give him perspective,” he corrected calmly. “You’ll give him structure. Humility. Reality.” Anger flared bright and sudden. “So I’m what? some kind of punishment? You think using me—someone poor, struggling—is the way to teach him?” He let out a soft, amused laugh. “Struggling? Oh, my dear, this is struggling?” He gestured vaguely at the hospital, at your hands, at the way your posture carried years of hard work. “I have to admit, it’s… quaint. Charming, almost. But far too inconvenient for my son. He’ll live your life for a year. Perhaps then he’ll stop acting like the world revolves around him.” Heat rose in your chest. “So I’m supposed to be your… your lesson plan?” “Not supposed to,” he said, voice smooth, almost cutting. “You are. Your misery, your poverty, your… quaint little life—everything about you—is the perfect antidote to the arrogance of my spoiled heir.” Your jaw tightened. “You think my life is a joke.” He arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Oh, it’s more than a joke. It’s an experience. And for him, it’s necessary. For you… Well, it’s an opportunity—one year. Your mother’s treatment is paid for. Top-tier care. And perhaps, if you’re clever, to make it out without losing your dignity entirely.” Your hands clenched at your sides. Pride screamed at you to walk away, to spit in his face for the condescension. But your mother’s pale, fragile form in the hospital bed—the bills stacking impossibly high—kept your feet planted. You swallowed hard. “…I’ll do it,” you said, voice low but resolute—one year. I can survive for Mom. The man’s smirk widened, sharp and satisfied, as if he’d won some private game. “Excellent. Bold, clever… and desperate enough to matter. I like that. One year. That’s all we need.” And as his gaze lingered, cold and assessing, you realized: this man—this wealthy, arrogant monster—saw everything about your life as trivial, pitiful… and yet, he expected you to survive it, for his son. The hallway fell quiet after his words, the weight of the agreement settling heavily on your chest. Before you could say anything else, the click of polished shoes echoed down the corridor. Slow. Unhurried. Confident. You turned instinctively.

He arrived like he owned the building. Lee Heeseung was tall—taller than you expected—and dressed far too well for a hospital hallway. A black coat draped effortlessly over his shoulders, his hair perfectly styled despite the sterile setting. He looked bored, almost amused, as if this were just another inconvenience added to his day. His gaze flicked from his parents to you.

And lingered. Not politely. Not kindly. Slowly. Assessing. Taking in your worn clothes, the tension in your posture, the way your hands curled into fists like you were bracing for impact. “So,” he said lazily, voice smooth and rich with arrogance, “this is her?” Something about the way he said her made your skin crawl. You straightened instinctively, lifting your chin. “I have a name.” His lips curved—not into a smile, but a smirk. “Do you?” His eyes flicked briefly to his father. “You didn’t think to mention that.” His mother sighed softly. “Heeseung.” “What?” He shrugged. “I just expected someone… different.” His gaze swept over you again, unapologetic. “You look smaller than I imagined.” Heat flared in your chest. “And you look exactly like someone who’s never worried about paying a hospital bill.” That earned you his full attention. For the first time, the amusement in his eyes sharpened into something alert. Interested. “Well,” he chuckled, tilting his head, “this is already more entertaining than I thought.” His father stepped forward. “Enough. This is the woman you’ll be marrying.” Heeseung blinked once. Then laughed. A real laugh. Disbelieving. “You’re joking.” “No,” his father said flatly. “One year. No access to family funds. You’ll live with her. Her life. Her village.” Heeseung’s smirk slowly faded as the words settled. “…You’re serious,” he muttered. You watched the realization hit him in stages—confusion, disbelief, irritation, and finally something darker. He looked back at you. Really looked. “You?” he said, incredulous. “This is the lesson?” Your jaw tightened. “Trust me. I didn’t ask for this either.” Something flickered across his face at that. Not guilt. Not sympathy. Annoyance. “So let me get this straight,” he said coolly. “I’m supposed to give up my money, my home, my life… and move into whatever hole-in-the-wall village you crawled out of?” Your breath hitched—but you didn’t look away. “Yes,” you said evenly. “And if you can’t survive one year of my ‘hole-in-the-wall’ life, then maybe you really are as useless as your parents think.”

Silence. His mother sucked in a quiet breath. His father’s lips twitched—almost approving. Heeseung stared at you, eyes darkening. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer until you were standing toe-to-toe. He smelled expensive—cologne, wealth, entitlement.

“You’re brave,” he murmured. “Or stupid.”

You met his gaze without flinching. “I’ve survived worse than you.”

For a moment, something unreadable passed through his eyes.

Then he smiled.

Sharp. Dangerous. “Fine,” he said. “One year.” His gaze dipped briefly—possessive, calculating—before returning to your eyes. “But don’t get it twisted. I don’t lose.”

Your heart pounded—but you refused to back down.

“Neither do I.” His father adjusted his cufflinks as if this were nothing more than another business meeting concluded. “Everything will be arranged. Her mother’s treatment will begin immediately.”

“And my things?” Heeseung asked sharply. “My car. My phone.” “You won’t need them,” his father replied without looking back. “You’ll have what everyone else has.”

Then they were gone. No driver appeared. No black car pulled up to the curb outside the hospital. Just the automatic doors sliding shut behind them, leaving the two of you standing under harsh fluorescent lights.

Heeseung exhaled slowly. “…You’re kidding.”

You followed his gaze to the empty entrance. “About what?”

“The car,” he said flatly. “This is a joke, right?” “They were serious,” you replied, already turning toward the exit. “One year. No money. No help.”

He scoffed. “You expect me to walk?”

“No,” you said. “We’re taking the bus.”

That finally snapped something in him. “The—” He stopped himself, rubbing his face in disbelief. “I don’t do buses.” You didn’t slow down. “Then you’re going to have a rough year.” Outside, the evening air was cold and damp. The bus stop sat across the street—a metal bench, faded route map, a small cluster of people waiting quietly. An old man. A woman holding groceries. A student with headphones in.

Heeseung stopped dead.

You noticed. The way his shoulders stiffened. The way his eyes scanned the crowd, the cracked pavement, the crooked bus schedule taped to the glass.

“This is disgusting,” he muttered. “Do people actually live like this?”

You turned sharply. “Watch it.”

He blinked, startled by your tone. “I mean—” he gestured vaguely as a bus roared past, exhaust filling the air. “There’s no space. No privacy. It smells like—like metal and oil.”

“And survival,” you snapped. “It smells like people getting to work.” The bus pulled up with a hiss. Doors folding open. People shuffled forward.

Heeseung didn’t move. “You’re not serious,” he said again, quieter now. “I’m wearing designer shoes.” You stepped onto the bus, swiping your worn transit card without ceremony. Then you turned back and met his eyes. “Then stay here,” you said simply. “But my mom doesn’t get her medicine if you don’t get on.”

That did it.

His jaw clenched. Pride warred openly with disbelief.

Finally, with obvious disgust, he stepped on. The bus lurched forward almost immediately. He grabbed the nearest pole, grimacing as someone bumped into him. His coat brushed against a stranger’s sleeve, and he recoiled.

“This is unbelievable,” he muttered. “People are touching me.”

You took a seat by the window. “Get used to it.”

The ride was long. Loud. Cramped. Heeseung refused to sit, staring at the scuffed floor like it personally offended him. Every bump made him scowl. Every stop earned a sharp exhale.

At one point, he leaned down toward you, voice low.

“You live like this every day?”

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

He straightened slowly.For the first time since he arrived, he had nothing to say.

When the bus finally pulled into your village stop, the doors hissed open again. Darkness stretched beyond the streetlights—uneven roads, small houses tucked close together.

You stood. “This is us.”

Heeseung stepped off behind you, shoes crunching against gravel.

He looked around.

Then back at you.

“This,” he said flatly, “is where I’m supposed to survive for a year?”

You met his gaze without flinching. “This,” you said, “is where you’re going to learn.”

And as the bus pulled away—taking the last trace of his old life with it—you saw it finally sink in. Lee Heeseung had never been this powerless before. And he hated it.

The walk from the bus stop was quiet. Not peaceful—just heavy. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you led the way down the narrow road, streetlights flickering inconsistently overhead. The village had settled into its nighttime rhythm: doors shut, lights dim, the distant hum of a television through thin walls.

Behind you, Heeseung walked stiffly, every step careful, irritated by the uneven ground. His shoes were already dusted, his coat brushing too close to fences and walls for his liking. “So,” he said after a few moments, breaking the silence, “how much farther is this?” “Not far,” you replied, not slowing. He scoffed softly. “You know, in Seoul this would barely qualify as a road.”

You didn’t respond. You stopped in front of a small, weathered house. One floor. Peeling paint near the door. A single light glowing faintly from inside. “This is it,” you said. Heeseung stared. “This?” he repeated. “Yes.” He looked around again, as if expecting the real house to appear behind it. “You’re telling me… this is where you live?”

You unlocked the door. “If you don’t like it, the bus stop’s still open.” The inside was warm—but cramped. One small bedroom off to the side. A narrow bathroom barely large enough to turn around in. The kitchen and living space blended into one another—a small table, two mismatched chairs, a worn couch pushed against the wall.

Heeseung stepped inside and immediately froze. “You’re joking,” he said, disbelief sharp in his voice. “Where’s the rest of it?” “There is no rest of it.” He turned slowly, eyes darting. “This is… everything?” “Yes.”

His face twisted. “How do you breathe in here?” You kicked off your shoes and moved past him, setting your bag down by the table. “You get used to it.” He exhaled loudly, shrugging off his coat like it had offended him. “I’m starving, by the way. We didn’t eat.” You didn’t look at him. You went straight to the sink to wash your hands, then to the cupboard. “I’m serious,” he added, irritation creeping in. “I haven’t eaten since—” “I heard you,” you said calmly. You pulled out a small bag of rice and a few vegetables—onions, zucchini, and a single carrot. Nothing fancy. Nothing extra. He watched you in disbelief. “That’s it?”

You ignored him, rinsing the rice carefully, the practiced motions automatic. You set a pot on the stove, poured in water, and turned the flame on low. Heeseung wandered the space restlessly, opening cabinets without asking. “Why do you have so few plates?” “Why is everything so old?” “Is this table going to collapse if I lean on it?” “Don’t touch that,” you snapped when he reached for a loose cabinet door. He lifted his hands. “Relax.” He wandered toward the bedroom, peering inside. “Where do you sleep?”

“There,” you said flatly. “And me?” “You’ll figure it out.” He frowned. “There’s only one bed.” You didn’t answer. Instead, you carefully sliced the vegetables and added them to the pot as it began to simmer. The soft bubbling filled the room, grounding you. He leaned against the counter, watching you now, quieter. “…Where’s your dad?” he asked suddenly. Your hand stilled.

“What?” you said, not turning. “I mean,” he shrugged, “your mom is in the hospital, and no mention of a dad. So where is he?” The room felt colder. “He’s dead,” you said simply. He froze. “Oh.” Silence stretched. You kept cooking, stirring the pot slowly. “He died when I was sixteen. Heart attack. No insurance.”

He didn’t say anything for once. The soup finished cooking not long after. You ladled it carefully into two small bowls, measuring portions. Rice on the side. You set the bowls on the table. Heeseung stared at them. “…That’s it?” he said flatly. “Yes.” He laughed once, incredulous. “You’re kidding. This wouldn’t even qualify as an appetizer.” Something in your chest snapped. “This is dinner,” you said sharply. “For who?” he scoffed. “A child?”

You slammed the ladle down harder than necessary. “This is what we eat.” He looked up at you, startled by the edge in your voice. “You expect me to survive on this?” “I’ve survived on it my entire life.” He gestured to the bowl. “This is barely enough for one person.” Your hands curled into fists. “Then don’t eat it.” He blinked. “What?” “If it’s not good enough for you, don’t touch it,” you snapped. “But don’t stand there and insult the only food I can afford.” The room went quiet. Heeseung looked at you—really looked at you this time. Your clenched jaw. The way your shoulders were tense. The anger barely masking exhaustion. “…You’re serious,” he said quietly. “Yes,” you replied. “Dead serious.” For the first time that night, he didn’t complain. He sat down slowly.

And ate. The bowls sat drying on the counter, water droplets clinging to their rims. The house felt quieter now—too quiet—like it was holding its breath. The old clock above the fridge ticked steadily, each second loud in the cramped space. You wiped your hands on a towel and glanced toward Heeseung. He was still standing by the table, shoulders tense, like he wasn’t sure whether to sit, pace, or complain again. “So…” he said eventually, dragging the word out. “Sleeping.” You already knew this was coming. “What about it?” He gestured vaguely around the house. “There’s one bedroom.” “Yes.”

“And one couch,” he added, eyes narrowing as he actually looked at it this time. “If that thing qualifies.” You crossed your arms. “I sleep in the bed.” He blinked. “That was fast.” “It’s my house.” “We’re married,” he shot back. “In paperwork,” you replied coolly. “Not in reality.” He scoffed, dragging a chair back and sitting down heavily. “You don’t seriously expect me to sleep on that.” You walked over, pulled open a cabinet, and retrieved a folded blanket—thin, faded, but clean. You placed it on the couch and gave it a small pat. “There. That’s yours.”

He stared at it like it might bite him. “That’s not a blanket. That’s a suggestion.” “It works.” “For you,” he muttered. You turned toward the bedroom, already done with the conversation. “You can take it, or you can stand all night. I’m going to sleep.” “…There aren’t even sheets,” he complained. “There’s one pillow. Use it wisely.” He let out a dramatic sigh, collapsing onto the couch experimentally. It dipped immediately, springs creaking in protest. “Oh, this is fantastic,” he deadpanned. “I’m going to wake up folded in half.”

You stepped into the bedroom and closed the door most of the way, leaving it cracked just enough to let light through. The room was barely bigger than the bed itself. You changed quietly, the familiar routine grounding you. When you lie down, the mattress dips softly, springs sighing beneath you.

Outside, you heard Heeseung shifting again. The couch groaned.

“This thing hates me,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly despite yourself.Minutes passed. Then more.

“…Do you always sleep this early?” he asked, voice softer now.

“Yes.”

Another pause. The fridge hummed.

“…It smells like soup in here,” he said. “Not bad. Just… different.”

You turned onto your side, staring at the wall. “My mom used to make it when I was little. Said it helped you sleep.”

The couch creaked as he adjusted. “Guess she was right.”

Silence settled again—thicker this time, but not as sharp.

“…Hey,” he said quietly.

You hesitated. “What?” “…I’m not used to this.” You didn’t ask what this meant. You already knew. “I know,” you said instead. Another long pause. “…Goodnight,” he said, awkward and almost unsure. You closed your eyes. “Goodnight.” The house creaked softly as it settled around you—small, imperfect, but warm. Outside, the village was quiet, wrapped in darkness. Inside, two lives collided under one fragile roof. On the narrow couch, wrapped in blankets that smelled faintly of detergent and soup, Lee Heeseung stared up at the ceiling, wide awake. Uncomfortable. Out of place. But for the first time that night, not entirely angry. And in the small bedroom, you lay listening to his breathing through the thin walls, knowing tomorrow would be hard—but for now, the quiet was enough.

-

The alarm went off at 4:30 a.m. The sharp, tinny sound cut through the quiet like a blade. You reached for it instantly, slapping it silent before it could ring twice. The last thing you wanted was to wake him—but the damage was already done. You sat up slowly, muscles aching, eyes heavy. Dawn hadn’t even begun to lighten the sky yet. The room was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones. You pulled on a hoodie, changed quickly, and tied your hair back with practiced movements. This was your routine. You’d been doing this long before Heeseung entered your life. You slipped out of the bedroom and froze. Heeseung was sitting upright on the couch, hair a mess, blanket tangled around his waist. His expression was thunderous—jaw tight, eyes sharp with disbelief as he took in the room again. The cracked table. The tiny kitchen. The thin blanket. “What the hell is this?” he snapped. You paused, one hand on your bag strap. “Morning to you, too.” He rubbed his face hard, like he was trying to wake himself up. “No. No—this isn’t real. I fell asleep somewhere awful, and this is just a nightmare.”

You exhaled slowly. “It’s real. And you’re awake.”

He stood abruptly, the couch springs screaming in protest. “You expect me to believe that I actually slept here?” He gestured wildly. “On that thing? With that blanket?” “Yes.” “You didn’t even warn me I’d wake up at the crack of dawn,” he added, glancing toward the window where the sky was still pitch-black. “I didn’t wake you up on purpose,” you said flatly. “I have work.” “At five in the morning?” His laugh was sharp and humorless. “Doing what? Punishing yourself?” Your grip tightened on your bag. “I run the restaurant.” He blinked. “Run it?” “I open it. I prep. I cook. I serve. I clean. Every day.” You stepped past him toward the kitchen, reaching for the kettle. “Some of us don’t get to sleep in.” “That’s insane,” he snapped. “You’re telling me this is your life? This—” He looked around again, disgust curling his lip. “This miserable schedule, this place—” “Watch it,” you warned, voice low. He ignored you. “My father said I’d live your life, not be tortured.” You turned to face him fully now, eyes blazing. “You think this is torture?” “Yes!” he shouted. “This is humiliating. I wake up in some shoebox, starving, sore, freezing, and now you’re just leaving me here?” “I don’t have a choice!”

“You always have a choice,” he snapped back. “You just like pretending you don’t.” The words hit harder than he intended—or maybe exactly as hard. You went still. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” you said quietly. “Then explain it to me!” he shot back. “Explain why you’re letting my family walk all over you. Explain why you’re okay with this—why you’re okay being dragged down!” That did it. You slammed your bag onto the table. “Dragged down?” you repeated, incredulous. “This is my life, Heeseung. This restaurant? It keeps the lights on. It paid for my mom’s medicine before your father ever opened his mouth. You don’t get to call it being dragged down just because it’s not wrapped in money.” He faltered for half a second—but his pride surged back just as fast. “You’re acting like this is noble,” he scoffed. “It’s pathetic. You’re working yourself to death and calling it responsibility.” “And you’re waking up on a couch and calling it suffering,” you shot back. “I’ve been doing this since I was sixteen.”

Silence cracked between you. His eyes narrowed. “So what—this is how it’s going to be? You disappear all day and I just… rot here?” “You can come to the restaurant if you want,” you said sharply, grabbing your jacket. “But you’re not going to stand in my house and insult my life.” “Your house?” he echoed. “Yes. Mine.” He stepped closer, towering over you. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.” You met his gaze without flinching. “I absolutely do.” “Do you know who I am?” his fists checked at his side. “Remember. Your status here means nothing.” For a moment, it felt like neither of you would back down. The air was thick, charged, buzzing with anger and exhaustion. Then you broke eye contact first—not because you were weaker, but because you were running out of time. “I’m leaving,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “There’s food in the fridge. Eat it or don’t. I don’t care.”

He laughed bitterly. “Unbelievable.” You stopped at the door, hand on the handle. “Get used to it. This is your life now, too.” You didn’t wait for a response. The door shut behind you with a final, hollow click. Left alone in the dim, silent house, Heeseung stood frozen, chest heaving. The smell of rice and vegetables still lingered in the air. The blanket lay crumpled on the couch where he’d slept. Slowly, the anger ebbed—just enough for something else to creep in.

This wasn’t a nightmare.

And for the first time, that realization scared him more than anything else.-

The bell above the restaurant door chimed softly as you unlocked it, the sound far too gentle for the storm brewing inside you.

You shoved the door open harder than necessary, flipping the sign to OPEN with a sharp snap. The place was still dark and quiet, smelling faintly of yesterday’s broth and rice. You dropped your bag behind the counter and stood there for a moment, hands braced against the wood, head bowed.

What the hell did I do?

Your chest rose and fell unevenly as you stared at the familiar space—the scuffed tables, the worn stools, the faded menu handwritten by your mother years ago. This place had always been your anchor. You're constant. And now it felt… contaminated. Like something foreign had been dragged into your carefully balanced life and knocked everything off-kilter. Married. To him. You scoffed under your breath, running a hand through your hair. “Unbelievable,” you muttered to the empty room. “Absolutely unbelievable.” The argument from that morning replayed in your head whether you wanted it to or not—his anger, his disgust, the way he looked at your house like it was something he’d stepped in by accident. Your jaw tightened. I should’ve said no. I should’ve walked away You moved mechanically, turning on the lights, tying on your apron. The familiar motions usually calmed you, grounded you. Today, they did nothing. “One year,” you whispered to yourself bitterly. “I agreed to ruin my life for one year.” You slammed a pot down on the stove harder than needed, the clang echoing through the restaurant. The sound made you flinch—and then laugh humorlessly. I could still end it.

The thought came unbidden, sharp and tempting. You froze, hands hovering over the ingredients. I could go back. Tell his parents I changed my mind. Tell them I won’t do it. I won’t be humiliated in my own home. I won’t babysit a spoiled man-child who thinks my life is a joke. Your heart started to race as the idea grew roots. The relief it promised was intoxicating. Then your mother’s face flashed in your mind—pale against white sheets, fingers trembling, eyes tired but still so gentle when she looked at you. Your chest tightened painfully. “…Mom,” you whispered. The guilt hit like a wave, heavy and suffocating. Ending the arrangement meant ending her treatment. No more medication. No more stability. No more time. You pressed your palm flat against the counter, breathing through the ache in your chest. “I can’t,” you murmured. “I can’t do that to her.”

So you swallowed it. The anger. The regret. The resentment. You shoved it all down where you’d always put things you couldn’t afford to feel. Just endure it, you told yourself. Just survive one year. The bell over the door chimed again—louder this time. “Y/N-ah!” a familiar voice called out cheerfully. “You’re open already?” Mrs. Kang stepped inside, bundled in her cardigan despite the warming morning, followed closely by two other regulars. The quiet was shattered instantly. You straightened, forcing a smile onto your face. “Morning.” They all paused, looking at you a little too closely. “…You look tired,” Mrs. Kang said, eyes narrowing with concern—and curiosity. “I didn’t sleep well,” you replied, turning back to the stove. “Well,” another woman chimed in, grin spreading, “I hear you had company.” Your hand stilled. Company.

You felt it before they even said it—the buzz, the barely contained excitement. “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Kang added knowingly. “The handsome young man. Tall. Expensive-looking. That one.” Your stomach dropped. So it already spread. You kept your back turned. “People talk too much.” The women laughed. “In a village this small?” one of them teased. “Of course they do! You bring home a husband like that and expect silence?” “Husband?” Mrs. Kang echoed, delighted. “Is it true, Y/N? You got married without telling us?” You turned slowly, irritation flashing across your face. “It’s not like that.” “Oh, don’t be shy,” another auntie said, waving her hand. “We saw him. So handsome. Like a movie star! Where were you hiding him all this time?”

Heat rushed to your face. “I wasn’t hiding anyone.” “Is he rich?” someone asked bluntly. “Does he treat you well?” another added. “Does he eat properly? He looked thin,” Mrs. Kang said, already worrying. Your head started to pound. You set a bowl down harder than necessary. “Please,” you said sharply. “Can we not do this?” The chatter faltered. “I don’t want to talk about it.” The aunties exchanged looks—surprised, confused, a little hurt. “Oh,” Mrs. Kang said softly. “We were just teasing…” “I know,” you replied, voice strained. “I’m just… tired.” An awkward silence settled. One by one, they moved to their seats, murmuring apologies; the excitement dampened.

As you worked, their whispers faded, replaced by the familiar clatter of bowls and spoons. But the damage was done. You stared into the simmering broth, jaw clenched. Great. Not only did I sell my life for a year, but now the whole village knows about him, too. You imagined Heeseung waking up in your house again. Complaining. Judging. Existing in your world like he didn’t belong. Your grip tightened on the ladle. “I really messed up,” you whispered to yourself. And yet—despite everything—you kept cooking. Kept serving. Kept moving. Because that was what you always did. The lunch rush had finally tapered off. The clatter of dishes, the sizzle from the stove, and the chatter of regulars faded to a comfortable hum. You wiped down the counter, tying your apron a little tighter as you tried to shake off the lingering exhaustion from waking so early.

“Y/N-ah!” came the familiar teasing voice. You looked up to see Taehyun at the door, smiling as if he’d been waiting all day for this exact moment. His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hair slightly messy from rushing over. “You came again,” you said, half-smiling, half-exasperated. “Of course I did,” he replied, leaning casually against the doorframe. “I had to make sure my favorite chef was surviving the chaos you call a morning.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m surviving. Barely.” He smirked. “Barely is better than not at all.” You shook your head, laughing softly. There was a comfort in his presence, a lightness that made the heaviness of your life momentarily lift. It had always been like this when he came by—flirting, teasing, playful—but never overstepping. As you cleared some plates from a table, Mrs. Kang popped her head around the corner with a sly smile. “Ah, Y/N, speaking of favorites…” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I was just telling Taehyun here that you have a husband now.”Your heart skipped. You froze mid-step, hands gripping the plate.

Taehyun’s brows shot up. His eyes flicked between his mother and you. “Husband?” His voice was quiet, but something in it—hurt, surprise, disbelief—made your chest tighten. “Yes,” Mrs. Kang said, oblivious to the tension she’d created. “Married last week, apparently. Handsome, apparently very rich. The whole village has been talking about it.” She winked and disappeared before either of you could respond. Silence stretched. Taehyun’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Congratulations,” he said finally, voice careful. He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding looking directly at you. “Thanks,” you said softly, unsure of what else to say. He hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged. “I still want to walk you home after your shift,” he added, a small, tentative smile playing at the edges of his lips. “If that’s… okay.” You felt your cheeks warm. It was like nothing had changed, even though everything had. “…Yeah,” you said softly. “That’s fine.” The day dragged on, and the afternoon rush felt heavier than usual. Every time you caught Taehyun glancing your way, your chest tightened. When the last customer left, you leaned against the counter for a moment, rubbing your sore shoulders. “You ready?” Taehyun asked gently, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. You nodded, grabbing your bag. Together, you stepped out into the crisp evening air, the street quiet except for the distant hum of the village.

They walked side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing. Taehyun kept the conversation light, teasing about small things—the way Mrs. Kang fussed over the customers, the stubborn regulars who never finished their soup, even joking about how you were the hardest worker he’d ever met. You laughed softly, thankful for the distraction, and for the few stolen moments where it felt like things could almost be normal. “So… how’s married life?” he asked after a while, careful in his tone, but the faint curiosity in his voice made your stomach twist. You froze, glancing at him. “…It’s… fine. Complicated,” you said lightly, hiding the truth about Heeseung and the arrangement for your mom’s medical bills. It wasn’t a story you wanted to share. He nodded slowly, a small, understanding smile tugging at his lips. “I see. Well… good for you, I guess. You deserve to be happy.” You smiled faintly, grateful for his kindness, though a pang of guilt stabbed through you. As the two of you neared the narrow gravel path that led to your house, your chest tightened. The lights from your small home cast a soft glow across the front yard—and there, leaning against the wall near the door, was Heeseung. The same clothes he’d arrived in yesterday. His expression dark, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes sharp. He didn’t move as you approached, but the tension radiating from him made your skin prickle. Taehyun’s steps faltered slightly, and your hand brushed against his as you slowed. You didn’t know if Heeseung had seen the way you laughed at something Taehyun said, or the way you had leaned slightly toward him during the walk—but the moment your eyes met Heeseung’s, something cold and unreadable passed across his features.

Before you could say anything, he spun on his heel, storming inside without a word. The slam of the door echoed sharply in the quiet evening, and the warmth of the small home suddenly felt suffocating. You stood frozen on the path, Taehyun by your side, watching the door close, your chest tight and shoulders tense. “I… guess he doesn’t like company,” Taehyun said quietly, his voice softer now, tinged with awkward concern. You forced a small laugh, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “That’s one way to put it,” you muttered, watching the door as though it might reopen at any moment. The walk home had been peaceful moments ago, but now, with Heeseung inside waiting, the air felt charged. And even though you didn’t know how he’d act next, you were already bracing yourself.Because nothing about this year was going to be easy.

The door creaked softly as you pushed it open.

The house was dim, the only light coming from the small lamp near the couch.

He was exactly where you expected him to be.

Heeseung sat rigidly on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together as if he were holding himself back from saying something he might regret. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor.

He didn’t look up when you stepped inside. But you knew he knew you were there. You slipped off your shoes quietly and set your bag down by the table. The air inside felt heavier than when you left, thick with tension. Still, he said nothing. Fine. You walked past him into the kitchen area without acknowledging him. If he wanted to sulk, he could sulk. You had bigger things to worry about than a spoiled rich boy’s bruised ego.| You washed your hands at the sink, the water running loudly in the quiet house. From the corner of your eye, you could see him shift slightly on the couch. Still not looking at you. You opened the fridge and pulled out what little you had—half a zucchini, a small onion, leftover rice from the morning. Your movements were calm, practiced. Knife against cutting board. Vegetables sliding into a pan. The quiet stretched. The soft sizzle of oil filled the room. Behind you, the couch creaked. You didn’t turn around. Heeseung finally spoke. “…Who was he?” Your knife paused mid-slice. You kept your voice neutral. “A friend.” Silence. Then a short, humorless laugh. “Right.” You ignored him and kept cutting—another pause. “Friends usually touch your hand like that,” he said. You turned the stove flame down slightly, still not looking at him. “You’re imagining things.” “I’m not blind.” Neither am I, you thought bitterly, remembering the way he’d stormed inside earlier like a jealous child. But you didn’t say it. The pan hissed softly as you stirred the vegetables. He shifted again, irritation radiating off him. “You didn’t answer my question.” “I did,” you replied simply. “You avoided it.” “I don’t owe you explanations.” That did it. The couch groaned as he stood abruptly. “You’re my wife.”

You turned slowly to face him, unimpressed. “On paper,” you said. “For one year.” His eyes flashed. “That still means something.” “No,” you said calmly. “It means my mother gets treatment. That’s it.” For a moment, he just stared at you. The anger in his expression faltered—only slightly—but you caught it. Then his pride snapped back into place. “So you’re just going to parade guys around while I’m stuck here?” he muttered. You blinked in disbelief. “Parade?” you repeated. “Yes.” Your laugh was sharp. “He walked me home.” “And you were smiling.” You set the spatula down with a quiet clack. “You are unbelievable.” “And you’re avoiding the point.” “There is no point!” you snapped. “Taehyun has been my friend for years. He walks me home because the streets are dark and because he’s a decent person.” The words hung between you.

Something unreadable flickered across Heeseung’s face.

“…Taehyun,” he repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

He scoffed and ran a hand through his hair, clearly annoyed that he’d learned the name.

“Whatever.”

You turned back to the stove, done with the conversation.

The silence returned—but it wasn’t the same as before.

Now it buzzed with something sharper.

You finished cooking quickly, spooning the rice and vegetables into two bowls before placing them on the small table.

“Dinner’s ready,” you said flatly.

He didn’t move.

You sat down and started eating.

After a few seconds, the chair across from you scraped the floor.

Heeseung sat down.

Still scowling. Still clearly irritated. But he picked up the spoon anyway.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the room was the quiet clink of metal against ceramic.

Then, out of nowhere, he muttered under his breath—

“…You smiled more with him.”

Your spoon stopped halfway to your mouth.

You slowly looked up.

He was staring down at his food like he hadn’t said anything at all.

Like the words had slipped out by accident.

“You’re jealous,” you said bluntly.

His head snapped up immediately. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“I barely know you,” he scoffed.

“Exactly,” you replied calmly. “Which makes this even weirder.”

His jaw clenched. “I’m not jealous,” he repeated. “I just don’t like looking like an idiot.”

“You looked like an idiot because you slammed the door like a child.”

That hit its mark. His eyes narrowed.

“You brought him to our house.”

“I didn’t bring him anywhere. He walked me home.”

“And you let him.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

“You do realize you sound insane right now.”

He opened his mouth to argue—but stopped.

Because deep down, he probably knew you were right.

The tension slowly drained out of him as he leaned back in the chair, running a hand through his messy hair.

“…This place is too small,” he muttered after a moment.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I can hear everything,” he said. “Every step. Every door. Every breath.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“And?”

“And it’s annoying.”

You rolled your eyes and returned to your food.

After a few more quiet bites, he suddenly spoke again.

“…Your friend.”

You sighed. “What now?”

“He likes you.”

You didn’t even look up.

“He’s nice.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You shrugged lightly. “Maybe he does.”

His spoon hit the bowl a little harder than necessary.

“And you’re just… okay with that?”

You finally lifted your eyes to meet his.

“What exactly are you asking me, Heeseung?”

The room went quiet.

For a moment, he looked like he actually didn’t know how to answer that.

His gaze dropped back to the table.

“…Nothing,” he muttered.

You watched him for a second longer before shaking your head slightly and finishing your dinner.

When you stood to rinse your bowl in the sink, you felt his eyes follow you again.

But this time, there was something different in his expression.

Not just irritation or pride.

Something quieter. Something conflicted.

And even though neither of you said another word that night, one thing was painfully clear.

Living together was starting to affect him far more than he wanted to admit.

Morning sunlight crept slowly through the thin curtains, pale gold lines stretching across the worn wooden floor. The house was unusually quiet. No alarm. No rush. No frantic morning routine.

But you were already awake.

Years of waking before dawn had trained your body too well. Even on your rare day off, sleep refused to hold you.

You sat at the small kitchen table, a chipped mug of tea warming your hands. A pencil rested between your fingers as you scribbled numbers across the back of an old receipt. The paper was already covered in crossed-out totals and small circles where you’d tried to make the math work.

Rent. Utilities. Restaurant supplies. Bus fare.

Your brow furrowed as you added another column.

Groceries.

You exhaled slowly, circling the smallest number you could manage beside vegetables. It still felt like too much.

The couch's quiet creak broke your concentration.

You didn’t turn around right away, but you knew he was awake.

You could almost feel the confusion radiating off him.

Heeseung slowly pushed himself upright on the couch, blanket tangled around his legs like he’d fought it in his sleep. His hair stuck out in different directions, and his expression was somewhere between exhausted and offended by his surroundings.

He blinked a few times, squinting toward the window where soft morning light had begun to leak through.

“…Why isn’t the alarm screaming?” he asked groggily, voice thick with sleep.

You took a slow sip of your tea before answering.

“Because I turned it off.”

His eyebrows knit together.

“…Why?”

“I have the day off.”

That seemed to wake him up more than anything else.

“You get days off?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Sometimes,” you replied dryly, tapping your pencil against the paper.

He leaned back against the couch cushions, stretching his arms over his head. The movement lasted all of two seconds before his face twisted in pain.

“…My back is ruined.”

You didn’t even look up.

“That’s what happens when you sleep on a couch.”

“That couch is a medieval torture device,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck like it had personally betrayed him.

“Yet you survived.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a complaint about lawsuits and human rights violations.

After another moment of sulking, he pushed himself to his feet and wandered toward the kitchen area. His steps were slow, like he was still half asleep and unsure where exactly he was.

“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning slightly against the counter.

“Making a list.”

“For what?”

“Groceries.”

His eyes drifted down toward the small piece of paper in your hand. He leaned a little closer, squinting at the short list.

“That’s it?” he asked.

You glanced down at the paper.

“Yes.”

“That’s barely anything.”

“It’s what I can afford.”

His mouth opened slightly, like the usual sarcastic comment was waiting to come out—but then he stopped himself. His gaze lingered on the list for a second longer before he looked away.

You folded the receipt neatly and stood from the table, grabbing your worn jacket from the chair.

“When do you get groceries?” he asked.

“Now.”

You moved toward the door, sliding your shoes on.

Behind you, the couch creaked again as he straightened up.

“Wait.”

You paused and turned slightly.

Heeseung was already pulling on his coat.

“…I’m coming.”

You blinked slowly.

“No, you’re not.”

“Ye,s I am.”

You stared at him.

“Why?”

He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I need food too.”

“There’s food here.”

“That soup again?” he said, horrified.

“It’s called leftovers.”

He ignored you completely and slipped his arms through his coat.

“I’m not staying in this shoebox all day.”

“You don’t even know how to grocery shop.”

He scoffed, pushing his hair back. “It can’t be that hard.”

You crossed your arms. “Have you ever bought groceries before?”

He hesitated for exactly half a second. “…I’ve been inside a store.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

But he had already grabbed the door handle.

“Well,” he said as he pulled it open, “today you can educate me.”

Cold morning air rushed into the house immediately.

You watched him for a moment, studying his stubborn expression. “You’re going to hate it,” you warned.

“Probably.”

“It’s crowded.”

“Fantastic.”

“And you’re carrying the bags.”

His confidence flickered.

“…How many bags?”

You smiled faintly.

“Enough.”

—A few minutes later, the two of you were walking down the narrow gravel road toward the village market.

The morning air was crisp and fresh, carrying the faint scent of wet grass and distant cooking fires. Birds chirped somewhere in the trees overhead, and a few villagers were already outside sweeping their front steps or watering small gardens.

Heeseung walked beside you with his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. His eyes moved constantly, scanning everything around him with thinly veiled disbelief.

“…People really live like this,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes.

“You said that yesterday.”

“And I’m still shocked.”

As you approached the market, the quiet village sounds gradually gave way to the low hum of voices and movement.

Stalls lined the street beneath colorful cloth canopies. Wooden crates overflowed with vegetables—green onions, cabbage, peppers stacked neatly in piles. Baskets of apples and pears glowed in the morning light, and the smell of fresh bread and grilled fish drifted through the air.

Heeseung stopped walking.

“What is this?” he asked slowly.

You looked back at him.

“The market.”

“This is outside.”

“Yes.”

“Where are the carts?”

“There are no carts.”

His expression darkened.

“…You’re joking.”

You walked straight toward the vegetable stand.

“Morning, Y/N!” the old vendor greeted warmly.

“Morning,” you replied with a small smile.

Behind you, Heeseung hovered awkwardly, looking deeply out of place among the bustling stalls and chatting villagers.

You picked up a cabbage, turning it carefully in your hands.

“Two thousand won,” the vendor said.

You handed over the money.

Beside you, Heeseung looked horrified.

“…You’re touching all of them.”

“I’m checking which one’s fresh.” “There are no gloves.” The vendor blinked slowly at him. You sighed. “Relax.” He leaned slightly closer to you, lowering his voice. “Do people just… grab things here?” “Yes.” “That’s barbaric.” The vendor snorted loudly. You kicked Heeseung lightly in the shin. “Behave.” He glared at you, rubbing his leg. “You kicked me.” “You deserved it.” You moved to the next stall, picking up eggs and tofu. Heeseung followed behind you like a reluctant shadow. But after a few minutes, something changed. His expression slowly shifted from disgust to curiosity. “…Why are those cheaper?” he asked, pointing to a pile of slightly bruised apples. “Because they’re ugly,” you said simply. “But they taste the same?” “Yes.” He stared at the apples like he’d just discovered a flaw in the universe. “…That’s stupid.” “Welcome to grocery shopping.” You paid for the apples and handed him the bag without warning. He fumbled it awkwardly, clearly not used to carrying anything heavier than a phone. “…You weren’t kidding about the bags.” “We’re not done.” His eyes widened. “Not done?” You were already walking toward the next stall. “Come on, city boy.” He sighed dramatically but followed after you, the grocery bag dangling from his hand. Yet as he walked beside you through the lively morning market—listening to the chatter of vendors, watching the small negotiations over prices, smelling the mix of fresh produce and warm street food—something unfamiliar settled into his expression. Not anger. Not disgust. Just quiet curiosity. The market grows busier as the two of you move between stalls. You moved through it all easily, greeting people with small nods and quiet smiles, picking up the last few things on your list. Behind you, Heeseung followed with noticeably less confidence. The bag of apples hung awkwardly from his hand as he tried to keep up. Every few steps, someone brushed past him, and each time, he stiffened like he’d been personally insulted by the concept of crowded spaces. “Do people not believe in personal space here?” he leaned down, muttering quietly. You didn’t even turn around. “No.” He let out a long sigh but kept walking. You were reaching for a bunch of green onions when a voice suddenly rang out across the market. “Y/N-ah!” Your hand froze mid-reach. Slowly, you turned your head. Three familiar figures stood a few stalls away, staring in your direction with expressions that could only be described as delighted shock. Your stomach sank immediately. Mrs. Kang stood in the middle, her cardigan buttoned up despite the warming weather. On either side of her were two other village aunties, their heads already leaning together as they whispered excitedly. Their eyes weren’t on you. They were locked directly onto the tall man standing behind you. “Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Kang gasped softly. “That must be him,” one of the other women whispered. “He’s even taller than they said!” Before you could even think of escaping, the three of them began marching toward you with determined steps. You closed your eyes for half a second. This is going to be a disaster. “Y/N!” Mrs. Kang said brightly as they stopped right in front of you. “What a surprise seeing you here this morning!” You forced a polite smile. “Good morning.” But the women barely acknowledged your greeting. Their attention had already shifted completely. Three pairs of curious eyes turned slowly toward Heeseung. He froze instantly. The bag of apples nearly slipped from his hand as he suddenly found himself the center of intense scrutiny. “Ahhhh,” one auntie hummed thoughtfully, looking him up and down with open interest. “So this is the husband.” Heat rushed to your face. Heeseung blinked.

“…The what?” “The husband,” Mrs. Kang repeated cheerfully, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. You cleared your throat quickly. “Yes… this is—” But the women had already surrounded him. “Oh my, he’s very handsome.” “So tall too.” “He looks like one of those actors from television!” Heeseung’s ears started turning red almost immediately. He looked completely caught off guard, glancing at you quickly like he was silently asking for help. You suddenly found the cabbage in your hands extremely interesting. “Are you eating well?” one of the aunties asked him kindly. “Does Y/N cook enough for you?” “Are you adjusting to village life?” another chimed in. The questions came so quickly that he barely had time to process them. “I—uh—” “You have very nice shoulders,” one auntie added approvingly. Heeseung’s eyes widened slightly. His cheeks were noticeably pink now. Another auntie reached out and lightly poked his arm, testing the muscle there. “Oh!” she laughed. “Strong too!” Heeseung looked like he might actually short-circuit. His gaze flicked helplessly toward you again. You pressed your lips together tightly to stop yourself from laughing. “And look!” Mrs. Kang suddenly exclaimed, pointing at the bag in his hand. They all gasped dramatically. “You’re carrying the groceries!” “Oh, what a good husband!” “Such a hardworking man!” “Most men wouldn’t even hold one bag!” Heeseung stared down at the apples like they had betrayed him personally. “This?” he said slowly, lifting the bag slightly. “This counts as hardworking?” “Yes!” Mrs. Kang said proudly. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, clearly embarrassed by the sudden praise. “…It’s just a bag,” he muttered. But the aunties looked thoroughly impressed. “Oh, he’s humble too,” one of them whispered loudly. You nearly choked trying not to laugh.

“Oh, Y/N,” another auntie said teasingly, leaning closer to you. “You hid him from us for so long!”“I didn’t hide anyone,” you protested weakly.

“But he’s so handsome,” she insisted. “Where did you find him?”

Heeseung muttered under his breath beside you.

“She didn’t find me.”

Unfortunately for him, Mrs. Kang heard that.

“What was that?”

Heeseung immediately straightened up slightly, clearly realizing he had to play along now.

“…Nothing,” he said quickly.

The women exchanged amused looks.

“Well,” Mrs. Kang said warmly, patting his arm again, “you must take good care of our Y/N.”

The touch made him stiffen slightly again.

But this time, his expression shifted just a little.

“…I will,” he said quietly.

The words came out before he seemed to realize it.

Your head snapped toward him slightly.

He noticed.

His ears turned even redder.

The aunties, however, looked absolutely delighted.

“Ahhh,” one of them sighed dramatically. “Young love.”

You almost dropped the cabbage. “It’s not—”

But they were already moving away, whispering excitedly among themselves again.

“I told you he was handsome.”

“And polite too!”

“Such a good husband!”

Their voices slowly faded as they continued down the row of stalls.

Silence settled between you and Heeseung.

He slowly turned his head toward you.

His expression was somewhere between exhausted and mortified. “…That was terrifying,” he said quietly.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore.

You burst out laughing. “They like you.”

“They interrogated me.”

“That means they like you.”

He glanced down at the grocery bag again. “…They called me hardworking.” You smirked. “You should hear what they call the men who don’t carry bags.” He ran a hand through his hair, still looking a little flustered. “…Your village is weird.” But as the two of you continued walking through the market, he didn’t let go of the grocery bag. And this time, when another elderly woman passed by and smiled knowingly at him— He lowered his head slightly. Just a little bashful. The days after the market trip began to slip into something neither of you had expected. Routine. Not the kind that arrived suddenly with some grand realization or dramatic change. It crept in quietly, settling into the small spaces of everyday life. At first, you barely noticed it happening. The tension between you still lingered, still sharp in certain moments, but the constant friction slowly started to wear down. The days began to flow in familiar patterns, and before long, the house started to feel less like a place where two strangers were forced to coexist… and more like a place that simply held both of you.

Mornings were still early. They always had been. Your body had long since grown used to waking at the same hour, trained by years of responsibility and necessity. Even on mornings when your bones felt heavy with exhaustion, your eyes would still open before the alarm had the chance to ring. Still, the alarm buzzed softly beside your bed. The sound was sharp in the quiet house. Your hand reached out automatically, turning it off before it could wake the entire neighborhood. At first, that sound had been enough to wake the person sleeping in the living room. Every morning. From the couch, Heeseung would groan loudly, his voice muffled beneath the blanket as he buried his face deeper into the pillow. “Why does it ring like the building’s on fire?” he would complain, his voice thick with sleep and irritation. You would roll your eyes quietly while tying your hair back into a loose ponytail. “It’s called an alarm.” His response usually came immediately. “People shouldn’t be awake at this hour.” You would sling your bag over your shoulder, glancing toward the living room with a flat expression. “People with jobs are.” At the beginning, that exchange usually started an argument. Not always a big one.

But enough for the morning air to fill with the familiar edge of annoyance. He would complain about the hour, about the noise, about the cold floor when his feet touched it. You would snap back about responsibility, about work, about how some people didn’t have the luxury of sleeping all morning. But after a few days, something about those arguments began to soften. The sharpness in his voice slowly faded. The complaints didn’t disappear entirely, but they grew quieter… shorter… almost half-hearted.

Some mornings, he still groaned, but more often, he simply rolled over and pulled the blanket higher over his head, letting you move around the house without another word.

And sometimes…

When you stepped out of the bedroom, ready to leave for the restaurant, you would find something unexpected.

He would already be awake.

Sitting on the couch with messy hair sticking out in every direction, his shoulders slouched slightly forward as he stared blankly at the wall like his brain hadn’t quite caught up with his body yet.

The first time you saw him sitting there, you stopped in the doorway.

“Why are you up?” you asked, confused.

He rubbed his eyes slowly, blinking against the dim light. “The alarm woke me up.”

“Then go back to sleep.”

He shrugged lazily, leaning back into the couch. “Too late now.”

You watched him for a moment longer than necessary.

Something about the quiet way he sat there made the house feel… different. But you pushed the thought away quickly and left for work.

At the time, it didn’t seem important—just another strange habit. But as the days passed, more small changes began to appear.

By the end of the first month, the couch blanket was folded neatly every morning.

The first time you noticed it, you thought you were imagining things.

You returned home late in the afternoon, the familiar ache of a long shift settling into your shoulders. The house was quiet as usual, sunlight stretching through the window and across the living room floor.

Your eyes drifted toward the couch automatically.

The blanket was folded.

Neatly.

The pillow had been placed carefully on the armrest instead of being tossed aside like usual.

You stood there for a moment, staring at it.

“…Did you do this?” you asked slowly.

From the table, Heeseung looked up, his expression completely casual. “Do what?”

You gestured toward the couch. “The blanket.”

He glanced at it briefly before shrugging. “It looked messy.”

You blinked. “…You folded it.”

“Yeah?” His tone carried a hint of confusion, like he couldn’t understand why it mattered.

You turned slowly back toward the kitchen, still processing the sight. “…Weird.”

But despite the word leaving your mouth, something warm flickered quietly in your chest.

— A few days later, you came home to something else.

The dishes were done. Not perfectly. One bowl still had a faint streak of soap clinging to the side, and the pan had clearly been rinsed more than properly scrubbed. But they were clean. You stood in the kitchen doorway staring at the drying rack, momentarily stunned by the sight. Two bowls. Two spoons. One pan. All washed and sitting carefully beside the sink. “…What happened here?” you asked cautiously. From the couch, Heeseung didn’t even look up. “I washed them.” Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Why?” He shrugged lazily. “You cooked.” You stared at him for a long moment. “…That’s it?” “Is there supposed to be another reason?” His tone was so simple that it caught you off guard. You didn’t answer. But something about the quiet fairness of it loosened the tight knot that had been sitting in your chest since he first arrived. Eventually, he started coming to the restaurant. Not every day. Just… sometimes. The first time he showed up, he stood awkwardly in the doorway like someone who had accidentally walked into the wrong building. The regular customers noticed immediately. “Y/N-ah!” Mrs. Kang called loudly from her seat. “Your husband is here again!” You groaned quietly behind the counter, pressing your palm against your forehead. Across the room, Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, clearly still not used to being publicly announced like that. “I was bored,” he muttered when he finally approached the counter.

You slid a bowl of soup toward him without looking up. “Sit down.” He did. At first, you assumed he would eat quickly and leave. But he didn’t. Instead, he stayed. Sometimes for hours. He sat quietly in the corner, watching the small chaos of the restaurant unfold around him—the steady rhythm of customers coming and going, the loud conversations between regulars, the clatter of dishes and spoons against bowls. Occasionally, your eyes would flick toward him. And every time, he was watching the room with quiet curiosity. The lunch rush finally began to slow. The restaurant fell into one of those rare quiet moments where the air itself seemed to exhale after the chaos. Only a few customers remained, finishing their meals slowly while chatting softly among themselves. Behind the counter, you stood wiping down a stack of bowls, your movements slower now that the rush had passed. Your shoulders looked heavy. Across the room, Heeseung watched you carefully, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. The thought returned. It had been circling his mind for days now. He could ignore it. Pretend it didn’t exist.

But every time he saw the faint exhaustion in your movements, it pushed itself forward again. Finally, before he could overthink it, he stood up. You noticed immediately. Your head lifted from the counter the moment his chair scraped softly against the floor. Your eyes followed him as he walked over, suspicion already settling into your expression. “What?” you asked. Your tone carried that familiar edge, the one you used whenever you expected him to say something annoying. He leaned his elbows against the counter, hesitating for just a second. “I’ve been thinking.” Your eyebrows rose instantly. “That’s concerning.” Under any other circumstances, he would have rolled his eyes. But this time, he didn’t. “…Let me work here.” For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Your hand froze halfway through wiping the bowl. Your brain struggled to process the words. “…What?” He straightened slightly, repeating himself more clearly. “Let me work here. At the restaurant.” You stared at him like he had just suggested something completely insane. “You want to… work here.” “Yes.” “You?”

“Yes.” You slowly set the bowl down on the counter, your mind racing. Out of all the things you expected him to say… This had not been one of them. “…Why?” you asked. He shrugged lightly, but there was something awkward about the movement, like he wasn’t entirely comfortable explaining it. “You clearly need help.” You scoffed immediately. “I’ve been doing it alone for years.” “And you’re exhausted.” The bluntness of his answer caught you off guard. Your lips parted slightly. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Because the worst part was… He wasn’t wrong. But admitting that felt like admitting weakness. “I’m fine,” you said quietly. He tilted his head slightly, studying you in that annoyingly observant way he had developed recently. “No, you’re not.”

Your chest tightened. You opened your mouth to argue again, but he continued before you could. “I’m here anyway,” he said simply. “I might as well do something useful.” Something about the way he said it made your heart stumble slightly. Not dramatic. Just… unexpected. You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to regain control of the conversation. “You’ve never worked in a restaurant.” “So teach me.” “You don’t know how to cook.” “I can carry bowls.” “You don’t know the menu.” “I can learn it.” You crossed your arms tightly. “And when you get bored after two days?”

His jaw tightened just slightly. “I won’t.” The quiet certainty in his voice made you pause. This didn’t sound like one of his impulsive ideas. He had actually thought about it. For a moment, the two of you simply stared at each other across the counter. Your mind raced through every possible reason this could go wrong. He would hate the work. He would complain. He would quit after a week. And yet… You thought about the folded blanket. The washed dishes. The way he had started carrying bowls during the lunch rush without being asked. Maybe… Maybe he was serious.

You sighed softly, rubbing your hand across your forehead. “…This is a terrible idea.” “Probably,” he admitted easily. “But you’re still asking.” “Yes.” Silence stretched between you again. Your eyes drifted around the restaurant—the empty tables. The dishes are waiting to be cleaned. The quiet exhaustion still lingering in your arms. When you looked back at him, he was still standing there. Waiting. Not impatient. Not smug. Just… steady. You exhaled slowly. “…You’d have to start small.” His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Small?” “Cleaning tables. Carrying dishes. Taking simple orders.” “That’s fine.” “And if you mess up, I’m yelling at you.” He gave a small shrug. “You already do that.” Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched slightly. “Don’t get used to it,” you muttered.

He leaned back from the counter, something like quiet satisfaction settling into his posture. “So that’s a yes?” You hesitated for half a second. Then you sighed. “…Come in tomorrow morning.” For the first time since the conversation began, a small smile appeared on his face. Not teasing. Not smug. Just… genuinely pleased. “Alright.” As he turned to walk back toward his table, you watched him carefully. Your chest felt strangely warm. Because when he had first appeared in your life, bringing nothing but trouble and frustration with him… The last thing you ever imagined was this. The two of you standing in the same small restaurant… Working toward the same thing. Together. The next morning, Heeseung officially started working at the restaurant, and the village somehow found out before the doors had even opened. You weren’t sure how news traveled so fast in such a small place. Still, by the time you unlocked the front door and flipped the sign to OPEN, two familiar aunties were already sitting at their usual table, whispering excitedly to each other like they had front row seats to something important. Heeseung stood behind the counter, staring at the room with a mixture of determination and mild dread. “You didn’t say there would be an audience,” he muttered under his breath. You didn’t even look at him as you tied your apron. “It’s a village. There’s always an audience.” He exhaled slowly through his nose, mentally preparing himself. But nothing could have prepared him for the aunties. The moment he stepped out from behind the counter carrying his first tray of bowls, Mrs. Kang clasped her hands together dramatically. “Ahhh! Look at him!”

The other auntie gasped loudly. “He’s really working!” Their voices carried easily through the small restaurant. Heeseung froze mid-step. His ears immediately turned pink. You leaned against the counter, watching the scene unfold with poorly hidden amusement. “He’s so tall carrying those bowls,” another woman said. "And so polite!” “He’s helping his wife!” At that word—wife—Heeseung nearly tripped over his own feet. “I’m not—” he started automatically. But he stopped himself halfway through the sentence. Because the moment his eyes flicked toward you, he realized something strange. You weren’t correcting them anymore. Not like you used to. Instead, you simply sighed softly and continued chopping vegetables behind the counter. “…Just put the bowls down,” you murmured to him. He cleared his throat awkwardly and did exactly that. Over the next few days, the restaurant somehow became even busier than usual. Word had spread through the village that your “husband” was helping at the restaurant now. And the villagers were very interested. Especially the aunties. Every afternoon, they filled the tables like a small council of gossip and curiosity, watching Heeseung work with thinly veiled delight. “Ahhh, look at him wiping the tables!” “Such a hardworking young man.” “Y/N is so lucky.”

Every time they said something like that, Heeseung’s ears turned red again. At first, he tried to argue. But the aunties never listened. Eventually, he gave up. Instead, he focused on the work. And to his own surprise… he started getting better at it. He learned the menu faster than you expected. He stopped spilling soup. He learned how to balance multiple bowls on one tray without looking like he was performing a dangerous circus act. And slowly, working beside you began to feel… natural.

You moved around each other easily now, slipping past one another in the narrow kitchen space without bumping shoulders. Sometimes your hands brushed briefly when you both reached for the same utensil. Each time it happened, something strange flickered through his chest. He never said anything about it. But he noticed. Every time.

– The air carried the faint scent of the fields outside, mixed with the comforting smell of rice already cooking in the kitchen.

You stood by the stove stirring the pot slowly, still half lost in the calm of the early morning. Behind you, you could hear Heeseung moving around the house. The soft creak of floorboards. The sound of the back door opening and closing. He had gotten into the habit of starting the day with you now.

At first, you had thought it was strange—Heeseung waking up early in a quiet village after spending most of his life in the city—but somehow he had adapted faster than either of you expected. You glanced over your shoulder just as he walked back into the kitchen. Your breath caught slightly. He had clearly just come in from outside. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, his hair slightly messy from the morning wind, and there was a faint sheen of sweat along the back of his neck from carrying the crates of groceries. For a moment, you forgot to stir the pot. When did he get this… handsome? It wasn’t like you hadn’t noticed before. Heeseung had always been good-looking. But lately it felt different. Maybe it was the way he moved now—comfortable in the small space of your home as he belonged there. Maybe it was the way his shoulders filled out the simple shirts he wore when working. Or maybe it was the quiet focus on his face whenever he was concentrating on something. He set the crate down on the counter beside you. “These were the last ones,” he said. You blinked, snapping out of your thoughts. “Oh… thank you.”

Your voice came out a little softer than you intended. Heeseung didn’t notice. He was already reaching for a knife to start cutting the vegetables, his movements easy and familiar now after weeks of helping in the restaurant. You watched him from the corner of your eye. The way his hands worked. The way his brows furrowed slightly when he focused. The faint muscle in his jaw shifted as he concentrated. Your chest felt strangely warm. He looks good doing something so simple. It was ridiculous. He was just chopping vegetables. But somehow he made even that look… attractive. You quickly looked back down at the pot before he could notice you staring. Across the counter, Heeseung felt your gaze for a moment. He didn’t say anything. But the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Later that afternoon, the two of you were at the restaurant. The lunch rush had arrived in full force. Customers filled nearly every table, voices overlapping with the clatter of bowls and chopsticks. The aunties sat at their usual table near the window, whispering and giggling like they always did whenever Heeseung walked past. “Oh my, look at him,” one of them whispered loudly. “He’s such a good husband.”

“Handsome too,” another added. You tried very hard not to react. Heeseung, meanwhile, had turned slightly pink. He carried a tray of bowls across the room, his shoulders stiff with embarrassment as the aunties continued to gush. “Such broad shoulders.” “That face could be in a drama!” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile pulling at your lips because they weren’t entirely wrong. From where you stood behind the counter, you watched him move around the restaurant. The way he greeted customers politely. The way he carefully balanced the trays. The way he bent slightly to listen when the older villagers spoke to him. Your chest warmed again. He really does look like he belongs here now. It was strange remembering how tense things had been between you at the beginning. Now the two of you moved around each other effortlessly. When he passed the counter, his arm brushed lightly against yours. Neither of you pulled away. Later, when the restaurant finally quieted down, Heeseung leaned against the counter beside you with a tired sigh. “Your aunties are terrifying,” he muttered.

You laughed softly. “They like you.” “They stare at me like I’m a zoo animal.” You glanced at him sideways. “Well… you do give them something nice to look at.” He turned his head quickly. “…What?” Your face immediately grew warm. You hadn’t meant to say that out loud. You quickly looked down at the dishes. “I didn’t say anything.” But Heeseung was already staring at you. His heart beat a little faster. Because hearing you say something like that, even accidentally, made something warm spread through his chest. And for the rest of the afternoon, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Meanwhile, you tried very hard not to look at him again. Because now that the thought had crossed your mind… It was impossible not to notice. The way his sleeves rolled up when he worked. The way his hair fell into his eyes. The way his voice softened when he spoke to you. And every time you caught yourself staring— Your heart skipped just a little.

–Your shared day off didn’t happen often.

Running the restaurant meant that most mornings bled into long afternoons and quiet evenings of cleaning, planning, and preparing for the next day. But today the restaurant door remained closed, the sign read "closed for the day," and for the first time in weeks, neither of you had anywhere to be.

The morning air in the village was cool and gentle, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant fields as you and Lee Heeseung walked slowly along the small dirt path that wound between houses and shops.

For once, neither of you was rushing.

Your hands were loosely clasped behind your back as you walked, occasionally stopping to greet villagers who passed by. The older residents smiled warmly at the two of you, some offering small waves while others gave knowing looks that made you pretend not to notice.

Heeseung walked beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

At first, he focused on the path. On the quiet sounds of the village. On the comfortable silence that had settled between the two of you.

But slowly… his attention drifted because you looked different today. Not in a dramatic way.

You weren’t dressed up, and you certainly weren’t trying to impress anyone. Your clothes were simple—just a soft sweater and a long skirt that moved lightly with the breeze.

Your hair wasn’t tied back the way it usually was when you worked in the restaurant. Instead, it fell loosely around your shoulders, shifting gently every time the wind passed through the narrow streets.

Heeseung glanced at you once. Then again. And before he realized it… he had started staring. Since when was she this pretty?The thought arrived suddenly and refused to leave. Maybe it was because he was so used to seeing you busy and focused in the restaurant—hair tied up, sleeves rolled, hands constantly moving. Seeing you like this felt different. Softer. Lighter. More… you. You stopped suddenly in front of a small fruit stand. Heeseung nearly walked right past you before realizing you had paused. “You’re not paying attention,” you said casually as you looked over the fruit. “I am,” he replied quickly.You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

Heeseung tried to pretend he hadn’t just been staring at you for the past five minutes. “I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

He hesitated. Because the honest answer would be about how pretty you look today. And somehow saying that out loud felt far more terrifying than dealing with the aunties at the restaurant. “…Nothing important.” You hummed softly but didn’t press further. Instead, you reached out to pick up a peach from the stand, turning it over in your hands as you examined it. Heeseung watched you again. The sunlight fell across your face in soft gold, catching faintly on your eyelashes. When you smiled politely at the shop owner, your whole expression seemed to brighten in a way that made something warm twist in his chest. She smiles like that all the time… how did I never notice it before? The realization made his heart beat a little faster. Because lately, it felt like every small thing about you stood out more. The way you laughed quietly at the aunties’ jokes. The way your voice softened when you called his name from the kitchen. The way your hand brushed his when you passed bowls across the counter. It was all suddenly impossible to ignore. You turned slightly toward him, holding up the peach. “Do you think this one is good?” For a moment, they didn’t answer. He had been too busy looking at your face again. “…Heeseung?” He blinked quickly. “Yes—yeah, it looks good.”

"You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You didn’t even look at it.” “I did.” “You’re a terrible liar.” You handed the peach to the shop owner anyway. Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. Why was it suddenly so hard to act normal around you? As you continued walking through the village together, your shoulder brushed lightly against his. The contact was brief. But it sent a small jolt through his chest. He looked down at you again. The wind lifted a few strands of your hair, and you absentmindedly tucked them behind your ear as you walked. Your expression was relaxed. Peaceful. Happy. And suddenly the realization settled heavily in his chest. I like seeing her like this. Not tired from work. Not stressed from the restaurant. Just… enjoying the day. Heeseung’s heart softened slightly as he watched you. Because somewhere along the way, the quiet life you shared here had started to mean more to him than he ever expected. And walking beside you through the peaceful village streets, he couldn’t stop thinking the same thing over and over.

She’s really… beautiful.The thought made his chest feel warm. And strangely nervous at the same time. Because the more he noticed things like that… The harder it became to pretend his feelings weren’t growing deeper every day.–

The quiet afternoon had settled over the restaurant like the slow exhale after a long breath.

After the rush of lunch, the small space had relaxed into one of those rare peaceful moments where everything softened. Sunlight streamed through the front windows in warm golden beams, stretching across the worn wooden floor and catching the faint steam still drifting from the kitchen.

The smell of broth and rice lingered warmly in the air.

The village aunties sat near the window, their teacups resting between wrinkled hands as they whispered to each other, occasionally glancing toward the counter where you stood drying bowls.

Your arms ached faintly from the hours of work, but the calm after the rush always made it easier to breathe.

Across the room, Lee Heeseung wiped down one of the tables. At this point, the restaurant almost felt like his place, too, which was strange.

A few months ago,o he wouldn’t have imagined himself here at all—standing in a small village restaurant, wiping tables and carrying bowls like it had always been his job.

But somewhere along the way, the routine had become… comforting. And if he was honest with himself, it wasn’t the restaurant that kept him coming back every day. It was you.

He glanced up from the table without meaning to.

You stood behind the counter, focused on drying the dishes, your hair slipping slightly loose from its tie. The sight made something warm stir in his chest.

Then the bell above the door chimed. The moment you looked up, everything shifted.

Your hands stilled around the bowl. Your shoulders tensed.

Heeseung noticed instantly. Something uneasy curled in his stomach. Slowly, his eyes followed yours toward the door. A man stood there. Tall. Composed. Familiar. Kang Taehyun stepped inside, the door closing quietly behind him. The moment his eyes landed on you, something in Heeseung’s chest tightened. “Y/N.” Taehyun said your name softly. Too softly. Like he had said it a thousand times before. “…Taehyun.” You hadn’t expected to see him here. For a moment, you forgot that Heeseung was standing just a few feet away. “It’s been a while,” Taehyun said gently. “Yes,” you replied. Your voice sounded calmer than you felt. From across the room, Heeseung watched the two of you carefully. The way Taehyun looked at you made something unpleasant twist in his chest. It wasn’t obvious. But there was familiarity there. Something comfortable. Something that clearly existed long before Heeseung had ever appeared in your life. Taehyun’s gaze drifted around the restaurant before landing on Heeseung. Recognition flickered across his face. “So you’re the husband.” Something about the way he said it made Heeseung’s jaw tighten. “And you are?” Heeseung asked.

Taehyun gave a small,l polite smile. “Someone who knew Y/N before you.” The words made something uncomfortable settle in Heeseung’s chest. Taehyun turned back to you. “I came to see you.” Your arms folded lightly. “…Why?” For a moment, Taehyun didn’t answer. Then he said quietly: “I wanted to see if you were actually happy in your marriage.” The words hit the room like a stone. Heeseung’s grip tightened around the cloth in his hand. Actually happy? A sharp flare of anger rose in his chest. Before he could stop himself— “…What’s that supposed to mean?” Taehyun glanced at him calmly. “It means exactly what it sounds like.” Heeseung stepped closer without realizing it. “You came all the way here just to question our marriage?” Taehyun didn’t look bothered. “I came to see how she was doing.” His eyes flicked toward Heeseung. “And who she married.” The quiet tension stretched tight between them. “I know Y/N,” Taehyun added. Something about those words hit Heeseung harder than they should have. Because it was true, Taehyun knew you in ways he didn’t. There were memories between you that Heeseung would never be part of. And suddenly an unfamiliar feeling twisted painfully inside his chest.

Jealousy. Real, sharp jealousy. Why does that bother me so much? Heeseung clenched his hands at his sides. Because hearing another man talk about you like that, Looking at you like he still belonged in your life, Made something protective and desperate rise in his chest. Taehyun looked at you again, his voice soft. “You deserve to be happy.” Before either man could speak again, your voice cut through the tension. “I am.” Both of them looked at you. Your heart was beating faster than you wanted to admit because Taehyun’s question had forced you to face something you had been avoiding for weeks. You met his eyes firmly. “I am happy.” Taehyun frowned slightly. “You don’t have to say that—” “I’m not lying.” Your voice was steady. But inside, your chest felt tight. Because saying the words out loud made something else painfully clear. Your eyes flicked toward Heeseung. He stood there tense, jaw tight, clearly angry. But beneath that anger, you could see something else. Something raw.

Something vulnerable. “He works here every day,” you said quietly. “He helps with the restaurant. He handles customers. He fixes things when they break.” Heeseung blinked in surprise. You rarely praised him out loud. “But more than that,” you continued softly, “he chose to stay.” Your chest tightened as you spoke the next words. Because they were the truth you had been trying not to admit. “I’m happy because of him.” Silence filled the restaurant. Heeseung’s heart stuttered painfully in his chest. Because of… me?He stared at you like he had misheard. You avoided his eyes for a second, your fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. Your thoughts raced. When did this happen?Somewhere between the quiet mornings. The shared dinners. The way he laughed when the aunties teased him. The way he always made sure you ate before the restaurant got busy. Somewhere in those small moments— You had fallen for him.Taehyun studied your face carefully. Then he sighed softly. “…Then I guess I have my answer.”

He glanced briefly at Heeseung. This time, his expression wasn’t skeptical. It was understanding. “I’m glad you’re happy,” he said.

When he turned and left, the bell above the door chimed softly again.

The restaurant fell quiet. The aunties slowly returned to whispering. But Heeseung barely noticed. Because his chest felt like it might explode. Your words echoed loudly in his mind. I’m happy because of him. Because of him. A warmth spread through his chest so suddenly it almost hurt. But tangled inside that warmth was something terrifyingly clear. Because the jealousy he felt earlier— The anger at Taehyun. The fear that you might choose someone else. None of that made sense unless one thing was true. Slowly, Heeseung realized it. The truth settled into his chest with overwhelming clarity. He loved you. Completely. And hearing you admit that your happiness came from him, even indirectly, made his heart feel so full it was almost painful. For a moment, neither of you spoke. But in the quiet space between you, something had undeniably changed. The restaurant didn’t suddenly get louder. If anything, it felt quieter. Too quiet. The clinking of spoons, the low hum of conversation from the aunties—it all faded into the background like distant noise underwater.

Because all you could hear was your own heartbeat. And him. You swallowed, fingers still gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. You hadn’t meant to say it like that. You hadn’t meant to say it at all. But now it was out there. And he heard you. Heeseung didn’t move at first. He just stood there, staring at you like he was trying to piece something together—like everything that had happened over the past few months had finally clicked into place all at once. “Y/N…” his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it. Not annoyed. Not teasing. Just… careful. Your chest tightened. “What?” You didn’t look away this time. You couldn’t. He took a slow step forward. Then another. Each step felt louder than it should’ve, like the whole room could hear it—even though no one was paying attention anymore. “You said…” he started, then stopped, like the words didn’t come as easily as they usually did for him. That alone made your stomach twist. “When you said you’re happy because of me…”

Your breath hitched slightly. “I didn’t mean—” you started quickly, instinctively, but he cut you off. “Don’t,” he said softly. You froze.“Don’t take it back.”

That made your chest ache.

Because you weren’t trying to take it back.

You were trying to protect yourself.

He finally reached the counter, close enough now that you could see the small shift in his expression—the way his usual confidence was gone, replaced with something more uncertain. More real.

“I need to know,” he said, voice low, almost rough. “Was that true?”

The question sat heavily between you.

You could lie.

You could brush it off, laugh it away, say it didn’t mean anything.

That would be easier.

Safer.

But you were tired of pretending. Your fingers slowly loosened their grip on the counter. “…Yeah,” you admitted quietly. The word barely made it past your lips. But it was enough. Something in his expression broke—just slightly. Not in a bad way. Just… like something he’d been holding onto finally gave way. His shoulders dropped a fraction. And then he let out a small breath you didn’t realize he’d been holding. “…Good,” he murmured. Your brows pulled together. “Good?” A faint, almost disbelieving smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Yeah,” he said. “Because I don’t think I could’ve handled it if you said no.” Your heart skipped. “What are you talking about?” He looked at you then. Really looked.

And this time, there was no arrogance. No teasing. No distance. Just honesty. “I was jealous,” he said simply. You blinked. “I noticed.” He huffed a quiet breath, almost amused. “Not just today. Not just because of him.” His jaw tightened slightly before he continued. “Every time someone looks at you. Talks to you like they know you better than I do.” Your chest tightened. “I hate it,” he admitted. The words came out blunt. Unfiltered. “I hate that there are parts of your life I wasn’t there for. That someone else was.” Silence. You didn’t know what to say to that. Because part of you understood. Too well. “I didn’t understand it at first,” he continued, running a hand through his hair, frustration creeping into his voice—but not at you. At himself. “I just thought it was… pride. Or annoyance. Or whatever.” He let out a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “But it’s not.” Your heart started pounding harder. Because you knew where this was going. And it terrified you. His eyes met yours again. “It’s because I—”

He stopped. For a split second, doubt flickered across his face. And that alone was enough to shake you. Because Lee Heeseung didn’t hesitate. Not like this. Not ever. Your voice came out softer than you expected. “…Because you what?” He swallowed. Then said it. “I like you.” Your breath caught. But he didn’t stop there. “That’s not even it,” he added quickly, shaking his head like that wasn’t enough. “I’ve liked you for a while now.” Your chest felt tight. Too tight. “And I didn’t realize how bad it was until I thought—” he paused, jaw clenching slightly, “—until I thought you might actually choose someone else.” Your fingers curled slightly against the counter. “…Heeseung—”

“I’m serious,” he said, voice firm now. “I don’t like the idea of you with anyone else. I don’t like seeing you smile at someone the way you smile when you’re comfortable. I don’t like feeling like I could lose something I didn’t even realize I had.” Your heart was racing. Because everything he was saying… You felt it too. “I don’t know when it happened,” he admitted more quietly now. “Somewhere between the mornings. The restaurant. You yelling at me for doing things wrong.” You almost laughed through the tension. “Hey—” “But it did,” he said, cutting you off gently. “And now I can’t pretend it didn’t.” Silence fell again. But this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was fragile. Like something important was balancing between you, waiting to see if it would fall apart—or finally settle. Your throat felt dry. “…You’re making this complicated,” you whispered.

He shook his head slightly. “No. It’s already complicated.” That was true. A fake marriage. A one-year contract. Feelings that weren’t supposed to exist. You looked down at your hands.“…We weren’t supposed to feel like this.”

“I know.”

“…This wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I know.”

Your chest tightened.

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

That was the real question.

He didn’t answer right away.

For once, he didn’t have something quick or confident to say.

Instead, he leaned slightly against the counter, closer to you now than he had ever been before.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth from him.

Close enough that your heart wouldn’t slow down.

“…I don’t know,” he admitted.

Honest.

Again. “But I know I don’t want to go back to how it was before.” Your eyes lifted slowly to meet his. “…Me neither.” The words slipped out before you could stop them. And the moment they did— Something shifted. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just quietly. Like two pieces finally falling into place. Heeseung’s gaze softened. And for the first time since all of this started… Neither of you felt like you were pretending anymore. “…We should get back to work,” you said quietly. Neither of you moved. “Yeah,” he replied. Still nothing. Your fingers tightened slightly against the counter. “Heeseung.” “Mm.”

“You’re still standing there.” “I know.” You exhaled softly, something between a sigh and a nervous laugh. “This is weird.”

“…A little.”

But his voice didn’t sound uncomfortable.

If anything, it sounded… calmer than before.

That made your stomach flip.

Finally, you forced yourself to move—turning slightly, reaching for a stack of bowls just to give your hands something to do.

The moment you shifted, the space between you returned. And somehow, that felt worse. You focused on the dishes, trying to ignore the way your thoughts kept circling back to what he said. I like you.Not teasing. Not careless. Real. You swallowed. Across from you, Heeseung picked up the cloth again, wiping down the counter—but his movements were slower now. Less automatic. Like his mind wasn’t fully there anymore.

“…So what now?” he asked after a moment.

You paused.

That question again.

It sounded heavier this time.

You set the bowl down carefully. “…I don’t know.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

Silence.

He leaned his weight slightly against the counter, eyes on you. “We can’t just ignore it.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“But you’re not exactly doing anything either.”

You shot him a look. “What do you want me to do?”

He held your gaze.

And for once, he didn’t have a quick comeback.

That should’ve made you feel better.

Instead, it made everything feel more real.

“…This wasn’t supposed to happen,” you said again, softer now.

“I know.”

“…We made a deal.”

“One year.”

“And then it’s over.”

The words hung there.

Sharp.

Too sharp.

Heeseung’s jaw tightened slightly. “…Is that what you want?” he asked.

The question caught you off guard. Your brows pulled together. “What?”

“When the year ends,” he said, more slowly now, like he was choosing each word carefully, “do you actually want it to be over?”

Your heart stuttered.

You hadn’t let yourself think that far.

You weren’t supposed to.

This was temporary.

It had always been temporary.

But now—

The thought of him leaving felt… wrong.

Your grip on the edge of the counter tightened. “…I don’t know,” you admitted.

It was honest.

It was terrifying.

He watched you closely, like he was trying to read something you weren’t saying out loud. “…That’s not a no.”

You let out a small breath. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Read into everything I say.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips—but it didn’t fully form. “Too late.”

You rolled your eyes, but it came out weaker than usual.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

You were thinking about it now.

About the end.

About what it would mean to go back to a life where he wasn’t there—no early morning complaints, no quiet help in the kitchen, no presence filling the small space of your home.

Your chest tightened. “…You’d leave,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He blinked. “What?”

“When the year ends,” you clarified, trying to sound casual and failing slightly. “You’d go back to your life.”

“My life,” he repeated.

“Your real one.”

Something in his expression shifted. “…You think this isn’t real?” he asked quietly.

You hesitated. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

You looked away briefly, gathering your thoughts. “…I mean… this isn’t where you’re supposed to be.”

He let out a quiet breath. “And where exactly am I supposed to be?” he asked.

“In the city. With your family. Your money. Your—everything.”

“And leave this?” he asked.

You looked back at him.

He gestured lightly around the restaurant. “…Leave you?”

Your heart skipped. “That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant.”

“No,” you said quickly. “I just—this isn’t your world.”

He went still.

For a second, you thought you’d crossed a line.

Then—

“…Maybe it is now.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t say it loudly. He didn’t need to.

Because something about the way he said it—steady, certain—made it land harder than anything else he’d said so far.

“You really think I’m going just to walk away from this like it didn’t matter?” he continued.

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know how.

“I hated it at first,” he admitted. “The house. The bus. The food. Everything.”

You huffed faintly. “I remember.”

“But that’s not what it is anymore.”

Your chest tightened again. “…Then what is it?” you asked quietly.

He held your gaze. “You.”

The word hit harder than it should have.

Simple.

Direct.

Dangerous.

Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out.

He took a small step closer again—not as close as before, but enough to make your heart start racing all over again. “This place matters because you’re here,” he said. “The restaurant matters because it’s yours. None of this feels like something I’m being forced into anymore.”

Your throat felt tight.

“So no,” he added softly. “I don’t think I’d just leave.”

Silence wrapped around you again.

But this time, it felt heavier.

Because now the line between “fake” and “real” had blurred beyond recognition.

“…You’re making this harder,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“…You’re not supposed to say things like that.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Why not?”

“Because,” you exhaled, frustrated, “this isn’t supposed to be real.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he stepped just a little closer.

Close enough that if either of you leaned even slightly—

You swallowed.

“…What if it is?” he asked quietly.

Your heart pounded.

“This—us,” he continued. “What if it stopped being fake a long time ago and we just didn’t want to admit it?”

You couldn’t breathe properly.

Because he was right.

And that made everything more complicated than you were ready for.

“…Heeseung,” you said softly, almost a warning.

But it didn’t sound like one.

It sounded like hesitation.

Like uncertainty.

Like something else entirely.

His gaze dropped briefly—to your lips—then back to your eyes.

And that tiny shift was enough to send heat rushing through your chest.

The air between you changed instantly.

Thicker.

Charged.

Neither of you moved.

But neither of you pulled away either.

Your voice came out barely above a whisper.

“…Don’t.”He stilled.

“Don’t what?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t answer right away. Because you didn’t even know what you were asking him not to do. Don’t cross the line? Don’t make this real? Don’t make it harder to pretend later? Your chest rose and fell unevenly. “…Don’t make this something I can’t walk away from,” you finally said. The words landed softly. But they hit. Hard. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Not hurt. Not exactly. But something close.“…What if I don’t want you to walk away?” he said.

Your heart clenched. “That’s not your choice.”

“Maybe not.” Silence. “But it’s not just yours either.”

You froze.

Because he was right again.

And that scared you more than anything.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then— The bell above the door chimed. Loud. Sharp. Real. Both of you pulled back slightly, like the moment had been interrupted just in time. A couple stepped inside, chatting casually, completely unaware of the storm they had just walked into. You turned quickly, grabbing the nearest towel just to keep your hands busy. “Welcome,” you said, your voice almost normal. Almost. Behind you, Heeseung let out a slow breath. And for the rest of the afternoon— Neither of you said another word about it. But the tension didn’t fade. If anything… It settled deeper. Because now you both knew. There was no going back to how things were before. And sooner or later—

One of you was going to have to decide what this really meant. That night, the house felt different. Not quieter. Not louder. Just… heavier. Like something had followed you home from the restaurant and settled into the walls, into the air, into every small space between you. You moved through your usual routine on autopilot—washing dishes, wiping the counter, setting things back where they belonged. Heeseung did the same, drying the last bowl beside you without being asked. Neither of you brought it up. Not what he said. Not what you said. But it lingered anyway. It was there in the way your shoulders brushed once… and neither of you pulled away immediately. In the way your eyes met for a second too long over something meaningless. In the silence that wasn’t empty anymore—just full of things neither of you knew how to say. Eventually, there was nothing left to do. The lights dimmed. The house settled.

And the moment you had been avoiding all evening finally arrived. Sleeping. You stood near the kitchen, hands resting lightly against the table, staring at nothing in particular. Behind you, the couch creaked softly as Heeseung shifted, grabbing the familiar thin blanket. The same one he had complained about months ago. Now he didn’t say anything. That somehow made it worse. You turned slightly, watching him out of the corner of your eye. The way he moved—quieter now, more used to the space. Like he had already accepted it. Like he wasn’t expecting anything more. “…You don’t have to sleep there.” The words slipped out before you could stop them. He froze, the blanket paused halfway in his hands. Slowly, he looked up at you. “…What?” he asked. You swallowed, heart already starting to race. “I said…” You hesitated, suddenly very aware of how small the house felt, how close he was, how there was nowhere to hide from this. “…you don’t have to sleep on the couch.” Silence. Heeseung straightened slowly, the blanket slipping slightly from his grip. “…Where else would I sleep?” he asked, quieter now. You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “The bed.” The words hung in the air. Clear. Unavoidable. For a second, he didn’t react at all. Then—

“…With you?” he said. Your face warmed immediately. “It’s not a big deal,” you said quickly, even though it very much was. “There’s enough space. And the couch is—” you glanced at it briefly, “—terrible.” A faint breath left him, almost like a laugh, but softer. “You just figured that out?” You ignored that. “I’m serious,” you added, voice steadier now. “You don’t have to keep sleeping there.” Another pause. He looked at you—really looked this time, trying to read something. “…Are you sure?” he asked. And that question— It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t arrogant. It was careful. Like he knew this meant more than just sleep. Your chest tightened again. Because he was right. It did. You hesitated for half a second too long. But then you nodded. “…Yeah.” Your voice came out softer this time. “I’m sure.” Silence stretched. Heeseung exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “…Okay.” Just one word. But it shifted everything. You nodded once, turning quickly before he could see the way your expression changed. “I’ll—uh—change first.” You disappeared into the bedroom faster than you meant to. The moment the door closed behind you, you leaned back against it, pressing your hand lightly to your chest.

What are you doing?

Your heart was pounding too fast.

This was just sleeping.

That’s it.

Nothing else.

You changed quickly, hands moving faster than your thoughts could keep up. But your mind wouldn’t quiet.

You remembered the way he looked at you earlier.

The way his voice softened when he said your name.

The way he almost—

You shook your head, pushing the thought away.

Don’t think about it.

Just sleep.

You pulled the blanket back and climbed into bed, staying firmly on one side, leaving space.

A lot of space.

Just in case.

Outside, you could hear him moving.

Slower.

More hesitant than usual.

The couch creaked one last time—then stopped.

A few seconds passed.

Then the door opened.

You felt it before you saw him.

Your entire body tensed slightly as he stepped inside.

Heeseung paused near the doorway.

The room suddenly felt even smaller than usual.

“…You’re taking up half the bed,” he said quietly.

You stared straight ahead at the wall. “There’s still space.”

“Barely.”

“Then don’t move around so much.”

A small breath of amusement left him.

But he didn’t argue. Instead, he moved closer.

Each step felt louder than it should have.

The mattress dipped slightly as he sat down on the edge.

Your heart jumped.

Then—

He shifted.

And laid down.

Carefully.

Like he was trying not to disturb you.

The bed dipped again under his weight, the space between you shrinking instantly.

Not touching.

But close.

Too close.

The warmth from him was immediate.

You stared at the wall, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—the sound of his breathing, the slight movement of the mattress when he adjusted, the faint scent of soap and something distinctly him.

“…This is better than the couch,” he muttered quietly.

You huffed softly. “Obviously.”

Silence.

But not the same silence as before.

This one was… charged.

Your hands rested stiffly against the blanket, unsure of where to go.

You could feel him beside you.

Every inch.

“…You’re tense,” he said after a moment.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m fine.”

A small pause. Then—

“…Relax.”

You almost scoffed. “Easy for you to say.”

“You invited me.”

Your face warmed again. “Don’t remind me.”

A quiet chuckle came from beside you. And somehow, that sound did more to settle your nerves than anything else. Your shoulders loosened just slightly.

Minutes passed.

Neither of you moved much. But slowly… the tension began to ease.

Your breathing evened out. Your body adjusted to the unfamiliar presence beside you.

And then—

Without thinking—

You shifted. Just slightly.

Your arm brushed against his.

Both of you stilled. The contact was light. Barely anything. But it felt like everything.

Your breath caught. You waited for him to move away.

He didn’t. Instead—

His arm shifted too. Just enough that it rested more comfortably beside yours.

Not pulling away. Not pulling you closer. Just… there.

Your heart started racing again. But this time, it wasn’t panic. It was something softer. Warmer.

“…Y/N,” he said quietly.

You swallowed. “…Yeah?”

A pause.

Like he was thinking.

Then—

“…Goodnight.”

You blinked.

That’s it?

Something in your chest loosened unexpectedly.

“…Goodnight,” you replied softly.

The room fell quiet again.

The kind of quiet that didn’t feel heavy anymore.

Just… full.

Safe.

And as the minutes passed, your body slowly relaxed further, your eyes growing heavier.

Beside you, his breathing steadied.

And for the first time since all of this started—

You didn’t feel like you were pretending. You didn’t feel like this was temporary. You just felt…

Comfortable.

Your fingers shifted slightly against the blanket. Then, without thinking—they brushed his again.

This time, neither of you pulled away.

And somewhere between that quiet contact and the steady rhythm of his breathing—

You fell asleep. Together.

The room is quiet in that soft, fragile way that only exists late at night. You don’t mean to say it out loud.

Morning comes quietly.

Soft light slips through the curtains, pale and warm, brushing across your face.

You don’t wake up all at once. It’s slow—like your body realizes something before your mind does.

Warmth.

Weight.

Comfort.

Your fingers twitch slightly, and that’s when you notice it.

You’re not just close anymore. You’re curled into him.

Your face is tucked against his chest, one arm loosely wrapped around his side, your leg tangled with his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His arm is draped around you, hand resting securely against your back, holding you there even in sleep.

For a second, you freeze. Your heart stutters, then starts racing.

When did this happen…?

Carefully—very carefully—you tilt your head just enough to look up at him.

Heeseung is still asleep.

His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it. No tension, no teasing smirk, no guarded look—just peaceful. His grip on you tightens slightly, almost instinctively, like he’s reacting to your movement even without waking up.

Like he doesn’t want you to go.

Your breath catches. Something warm spreads through your chest, unfamiliar and overwhelming all at once.

You should move. You know you should. But you don’t.

Instead, you stay there for a moment longer than you mean to, listening to his steady heartbeat under your ear, feeling the quiet comfort of being held like this—like you belong there.

Then, slowly, his breathing shifts.

His eyes flutter open. For a split second, he looks confused. Then he realizes. And freezes.

Neither of you move.

Neither of you speak.

But the space between you—gone now, completely gone—feels heavier than ever.

His eyes meet yours. And just like that, everything becomes real.

You’re still pressed against him. His arm is still wrapped around your back, holding you like he forgot how to let go. Your leg is tangled with his, your hand resting against his chest, where you can feel his heartbeat—fast now, no longer calm like it was moments ago.

Neither of you moves.

It’s like if either of you does, the moment will shatter.

“…Morning,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual, still rough with sleep.

You swallow. “…Morning.”

But neither of you makes any effort to pull away.

Your mind is screaming at you to move—to create space, to fix this, to make it less something—but your body won’t listen. Not when he’s warm, not when he’s looking at you like that.

Like he’s thinking the same thing you are.

Don’t move yet.

His fingers shift slightly against your back, barely there, but enough for you to notice. Like he’s becoming aware of what he’s doing… and still not stopping.

“You move a lot in your sleep,” he murmurs, a small, almost teasing smile tugging at his lips.

Your brows knit together. “I do not—”

“You do,” he interrupts softly. “You were all the way over there.”

His hand lifts just enough to gesture vaguely behind you before settling back against you again—like it belongs there.

“And then you just…” he hesitates, glancing down at the way you’re curled into him, “…ended up here.”

Heat rushes to your face.

“I didn’t mean to,” you mumble, suddenly very aware of everything—how close you are, how your hand is still resting on him, how his thumb is slowly, absentmindedly brushing against your back.

He hums quietly. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

Your breath catches.

There’s a pause.

A long one.

The kind that stretches just enough to feel dangerous.

Your fingers curl slightly against his shirt. “We should probably—”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

But he doesn’t move.

You don’t either.

Instead, his gaze softens, drifting over your face like he’s memorizing it—like he’s noticing things he hasn’t let himself notice before.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks suddenly.

The question catches you off guard.

“…What?”

“Like this,” he clarifies, quieter now. “With me.”

Your heart pounds.

You should lie.

You should brush it off, laugh it away, make it easier for both of you.

But the words don’t come.

“…Yeah,” you admit softly.

His expression changes—just slightly, but enough.

Something in his eyes warms, deepens. “…Me too.”

The air shifts.

It’s not awkward anymore.

It’s something else.

Something softer.

Something a little harder to ignore.

His hand slides just a little more securely against your back, pulling you a fraction closer—not enough to be obvious, but enough that you feel it.

Enough that it means something.

You exhale slowly. “People are gonna talk if they see this,” you whisper, even though there’s no one around.

A faint smile tugs at his lips. “Let them.”

Your heart stumbles.

That shouldn’t make you feel the way it does.

But it does.

And neither of you pulls away.

Not yet.

His gaze drops.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker—but you notice.

From your eyes… to your lips.

And then back again.

Your breath catches, the shift so small but so loud at the same time.

Heeseung goes still.

Like he’s realizing it too.

Like he didn’t mean to look—but now that he has, he can’t stop.

The space between you suddenly feels thinner than ever. One small movement, and—

His hand tightens slightly against your back.

Not pulling you in. Not pushing you away. Just… holding.

Like he’s stuck in the middle of a decision he’s not sure he’s allowed to make.

Your heart is racing now, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it. Your fingers curl more firmly into his shirt without you meaning to, like you’re bracing yourself for something that hasn’t happened yet.

He swallows. “…Y/N.” Your name sounds different coming from him like this. Quieter. Careful.

You don’t answer.

You’re not even sure you can.

His eyes flick down to your lips again, slower this time. Lingering.

And this time… he doesn’t look away right away.

You feel it—the hesitation, the want, the restraint.

He inches closer.

Barely.

So close you can feel his breath now, warm against your skin.

And then he stops.

Right there.

Like there’s an invisible line he’s afraid to cross.

His brows knit slightly, conflict written all over his face. “I don’t know if I should—”

But he doesn’t finish the sentence.

Because he already knows the answer.

Or maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe that’s the problem.

His thumb brushes against your back again, slower this time, grounding himself. “Say something,” he murmurs, voice low, almost unsteady. “Because if you don’t…” He exhales shakily. “…I’m not sure I’ll stop.”

The words hang between you.

Heavy.

Honest.

And so, so close to dangerous.

He doesn’t move any closer.

But he doesn’t pull away either.

He’s waiting.

For you.

You don’t say anything.

And somehow… that is your answer.

His eyes search yours one more time—like he’s giving you a chance to stop him, to pull away, to make this easier.

You don’t.

Your grip on his shirt tightens just slightly instead.

That’s all it takes.

Heeseung exhales softly, as if something in him finally gives way, and then he closes the distance.

The kiss is gentle.

Careful.

Like he’s afraid you might disappear if he presses too hard.

For a second, it’s barely there—just the soft brush of his lips against yours, testing, uncertain.

And then—

You melt into it.

Your eyes flutter shut, your hand instinctively sliding up from his chest to rest against his shoulder, holding onto him like you need something steady. The hesitation between you fades, replaced by something warmer, deeper, something that had been building long before this moment.

His hand shifts against your back, pulling you closer—this time without stopping, without second-guessing.

The kiss deepens, not rushed, not overwhelming—just… real.

Like he’s been wanting this.

Like you both have.

Your heart is pounding so hard it almost feels unreal, your thoughts completely scattered, reduced to nothing but the feeling of him—warm, close, here.

When he finally pulls back, it’s slow.

Reluctant.

His forehead rests lightly against yours, both of you breathing a little heavier now, like you just crossed something neither of you can undo.

Neither of you speaks at first.

You just stay there.

Close.

Too close to pretend this didn’t mean anything.

His thumb brushes softly against your side again, almost absentminded, but there’s nothing uncertain about him anymore.

“…So,” he murmurs, voice low, a little breathless. “That happened.”

A small, nervous smile tugs at your lips, even though your heart is still racing.

“…Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

Then his gaze softens again, something more certain settling in this time.

And instead of pulling away—

He leans in again.

Because now that he’s kissed you once…

He doesn’t want to stop.

–

Rain tapped softly against the windows, steady and quiet, like the world had decided to slow down for the night.

The house was dim, lit only by a single lamp in the corner and the faint glow from the kitchen. Everything felt warmer when it rained—closer somehow.

You sat on the floor near the low table, a blanket draped over your legs, carefully folding laundry that had long since cooled. It was a simple task, one you didn’t mind. It gave your hands something to do, your thoughts somewhere soft to land.

Heeseung, however, had been watching you for the past five minutes.

Doing absolutely nothing about it.

You could feel it without even looking up.

“…What?” you finally asked, not bothering to hide the small smile tugging at your lips.

There was a pause.

Then, casually, “Nothing.”

You glanced up.

He was stretched out on the couch, one arm behind his head, the other lazily draped over the edge—completely relaxed, but his eyes were fixed on you in a way that made your chest tighten just a little.

“You’ve been staring,” you said.

“Am I not allowed to look at my wife?”

You rolled your eyes softly, folding another shirt. “Not like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking too much.”

That made him smile.

He pushed himself up slowly, running a hand through his hair before walking over. The floor creaked lightly under his steps, and then he was right there—hovering just long enough to make your heart beat faster before he dropped down beside you.

Closer than necessary.

Always closer than necessary.

“You caught me,” he said quietly.

You didn’t look at him this time. “What were you thinking about?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, his hand found the edge of the blanket over your legs, absentmindedly smoothing it out—like he needed something to do while he figured out how to say it.

“…This,” he said finally.

You paused, fingers stilling on the fabric in your hands. “Folding laundry?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “No.”

His shoulder bumped lightly against yours.

“You. Here. Like this.” His voice softened. “It still doesn’t feel real sometimes.”

Your chest tightened, just a little.

You set the shirt down slowly. “It’s real.”

“I know,” he said. “I just… didn’t think I’d get this.”

There was something honest in the way he said it. Not sad—just… genuine.

Like he was still adjusting to being happy.

You turned your head to look at him, really look at him. The softness in his expression, the way his eyes lingered on you like he was afraid you might disappear if he looked away.

“You gave up everything,” you said quietly.

He shook his head immediately. “I told you—”

“I know what you said,” you interrupted gently. “But it’s still true.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The rain filled the silence for you.

Then, slowly, you reached over, taking his hand in yours. His fingers curled around yours instantly, like it was instinct now.

“Then I’ll just have to make it worth it,” you said.

His expression shifted—something deeper, softer.

“You already do.”

Your heart skipped.

He leaned in slightly, his forehead brushing against yours, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

“You have no idea how much.”

The world outside kept moving—the rain falling, the wind brushing softly against the house—but inside, everything felt still again.

Safe.

Warm.

He tilted his head just enough, his nose brushing yours in that familiar, gentle way that always made you forget what you were saying.

“You’re distracting me,” you murmured, though your grip on his hand tightened.

“That’s the point.”

You let out a quiet breath, a small smile slipping through before you closed the distance.

The kiss was soft at first—slow, familiar, like something you’d both learned by heart. But when his hand came up to cup your cheek, pulling you just a little closer, it deepened without thinking.

Not rushed.

Not uncertain.

Just… sure.

Like everything between you had settled into something steady and real.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his again, both of you lingering there like neither of you wanted to let go fully.

After a moment, he glanced down at the half-folded laundry.

“…We’re not finishing that tonight, are we?”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Definitely not.”

“Good,” he said, already pulling the blanket further over both of you as he leaned back, taking you with him.

You didn’t protest.

Didn’t need to.

You just settled against him, your head resting comfortably against his shoulder as the rain continued outside.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Just the quiet. The warmth. The steady rhythm of something that felt like peace.

But then—

“…We should tell her soon.”

His voice was softer this time. Careful.

You stilled slightly against him.

You knew who he meant.

Your mom.

Your fingers tightened just a little in the fabric of his shirt. “I know.”

Another pause.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

You let out a small breath, staring ahead at nothing in particular. “A little.”

That felt like an understatement.

It wasn’t that you thought she’d be angry—no, that wasn’t it. It was the opposite.

She loved you. She worried about you. She had been through so much already.

And now you were going to stand in front of her and say: I got married.

Just like that.

Quietly.

Without her there.

“I don’t want her to feel left out,” you admitted.

Heeseung’s arm tightened around you instantly.

“She won’t,” he said gently. “She knows you. She knows this wasn’t… some careless decision.”

You swallowed.

“She’s going to cry.”

He huffed softly. “Yeah. She definitely is.”

Despite yourself, you smiled a little.

“And what if she doesn’t like you?” you added, glancing up at him.

He looked down at you, pretending to think about it.

“…Then I’ll just have to win her over.”

“You already did,” you murmured. “You just don’t know it yet.”

His expression softened at that.

“Then we’ll be okay,” he said.

You nodded slowly, letting your head fall back against his shoulder again.

“We’ll go tomorrow,” you said quietly. “Or… soon.”

“Soon,” he agreed.

His hand found yours again under the blanket, fingers lacing together like they always did.

No hesitation.

No doubt.

Just steady.

The rain began to lighten outside, the soft tapping fading into something quieter, gentler—like the storm was passing.

And somehow, it felt the same for you.

There were still things ahead.

Conversations.

Reactions.

Change.

But here, in this moment, wrapped up in his arms with your future waiting just a little closer than before—

It didn’t feel overwhelming.

It felt possible.

And as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, holding you just a little tighter, you realized—

You weren’t afraid of it anymore.

Because you wouldn’t be facing it alone.

Your hand is still wrapped around Heeseung’s as you step inside, your thumb brushing faintly against his skin like you need the reassurance that he’s really here. That this is real.

“…You ready?” he murmurs.

You nod, even though your heart is beating a little too fast. “Just—let me talk first.”

He gives a small smile. “I’ll behave.”

You glance at him. “…You better.”

That earns a quiet huff of amusement, and for a second, it calms you.

Then you step into the sitting room.

Your mom is already there.

She looks up the moment she hears you, her eyes immediately softening when they land on you—like they always do.

But then she notices him.

Her gaze lingers.

Curious. Gentle. Careful.

“…You brought someone,” she says quietly.

You nod, stepping forward slightly. “Mom, this is Heeseung.”

Heeseung straightens beside you, respectful, calm. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She gives a small nod, but her attention is already shifting back to you—reading you, the way she always has.

“…What is this?” she asks, not harshly. Just… needing to understand.

You take a breath.

Your fingers tighten in his.

“We wanted to tell you something.”

Something in her expression softens further—like she already senses this matters.

“…Okay,” she says gently. “Tell me.”

Your throat feels tight.

But you say it anyway.

“We’re married.”

The words hang there.

Your mom doesn’t react right away.

She just looks at you.

Then at him.

Then at your hands.

And slowly… her expression changes.

Not to anger.

Not to shock.

But to something softer.

Something full.

Her hand lifts to her chest like she needs to steady her breathing. “…Married?” she repeats, her voice quieter now.

You nod.

“It’s been… a quiet romance,” you explain, glancing briefly at Heeseung. “We didn’t want to make it a big thing.”

Heeseung nods in agreement. “We just wanted it to be ours.”

Your mom’s eyes fill slightly.

And that catches you off guard.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, letting out a soft, emotional laugh as she wipes beneath her eyes. “I just—” She looks at you again, really looks. “You look… happy.” Your chest tightens. “I am,” you whisper. She exhales shakily, smiling through the tears. “Then that’s all I needed to know.” Relief hits you so suddenly that it almost makes your knees weak. “Really?” you ask. She nods, stepping closer. “Really.” Her gaze shifts to Heeseung again—but this time, it’s different.

Warm. Welcoming. “You must care about her very much,” she says softly. Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. “I do.” “And you’ll take care of her?” His grip on your hand tightens just slightly. “Always.” Something in her expression melts completely at that. She reaches out, gently taking his free hand in both of hers. “Then…” she says, her voice trembling just a little, “I’m grateful you found each other.” You blink quickly, your vision blurring. “Mom…” She pulls you into a hug without warning, holding you tighter than usual—like she’s been waiting for this moment longer than you realized. “I’m so happy for you,” she whispers. You cling to her, your heart full and aching all at once. When she pulls back, she laughs softly again, wiping her eyes. “…I never thought I’d see the day.” Then she looks at Heeseung, smiling warmly. “I suppose I have a son-in-law now.” Heeseung blinks, a little surprised—but something soft settles in his expression. “…I’d like that,” he says quietly. Everything feels… right. Light. Like maybe, just maybe, things are going to be okay. — Later, as you and Heeseung step outside, the evening air feels cool against your skin. You exhale softly, your shoulders finally relaxing. “That went better than I expected,” you admit. Heeseung lets out a quiet breath beside you. “Yeah…” There’s something in his tone. Not doubt. Just… awareness. Like he knows things aren’t fully settled yet. Your fingers tighten in his again. “We’ll figure everything out,” you say softly. He glances at you, a faint smile forming. “We will.” Footsteps echo from behind you. You turn— And your heart drops. Heeseung’s grip on your hand goes rigid. His parents stand at the end of the path. Watching. Your stomach twists instantly. His mother speaks first, her voice tight. “So it’s true.” Silence crashes down. Heeseung steps slightly in front of you—not fully, but enough. “…What are you doing here?” he asks. His father’s expression is unreadable. “We came to bring you home.” “I’m not going back.” The words come too fast. Too certain. “You disappear, you ignore your responsibilities, and now you show up here and say something like that? As if it’s nothing?” “It’s not nothing,” he says, firmer now. “Then what is it?” she demands. “A rebellion? A phase? Because I promise you, this—” her gaze flicks to you again, sharp and dismissive, “—this is not worth throwing your life away. All for some poor girl.” Your chest tightens painfully. Before you can stop yourself, your fingers twitch in his hand—but Heeseung squeezes back, grounding you, stopping you from pulling away. “She's not just some poor girl, she's my wife,” he says, glaring coldly. His father finally moves, stepping further into the room, his presence immediately commanding all attention. “You will come home,” he says, voice low and final. “We’ll discuss this properly.” “No.” The word is quiet. But it lands harder than anything else. His father’s eyes narrow. “…What?” “I’m not coming back,” Heeseung repeats, more clearly now. “I’m staying here.” Your breath catches. His mother lets out a disbelieving laugh again, but there’s no humor in it now—just anger. “You don’t get to decide that.” “I already have.” “You’re being irrational—” “I’m being honest,” he cuts in, sharper now. The shift is immediate. You feel it in the way his hand tightens around yours, in the way his shoulders square—not defensive anymore, but certain. His father’s voice drops even lower. “You are not throwing away everything we have built for you over a girl you barely know.” Something in your chest twists at that—but before you can react— “I know her enough,” Heeseung says. There’s something dangerous in how calm he sounds. “And I’m not throwing anything away.” His father takes another step closer. “You are if you stay here.” “Then maybe it wasn’t worth keeping.” The room goes completely still. Even your breathing feels too loud.

His mother stares at him like she doesn’t recognize him anymore. “Listen to yourself,” she says, her voice trembling slightly now—not weak, but furious. “Your future—your career—everything you’ve worked for—” “It was never mine,” he says. That lands. Hard. “You don’t mean that,” she insists. “I do.” “You’re just confused—” “I’m not confused,” he snaps, the first crack in his composure finally showing. “For once, I actually know what I want.” Silence. Heavy. Suffocating. His father exhales slowly, like he’s reached the end of his patience. “…If you walk away from this family,” he says, each word deliberate, “you do not come back.” Your heart drops. You feel it—this is it. The line. The point of no return. Heeseung doesn’t look at them. He looks at you. Just for a second. And there’s so much in that glance—certainty, apology, something soft and unspoken that makes your chest ache. Then he looks back at them. “…I know.” His mother’s composure finally cracks. “Heeseung—” “I’m staying,” he says. Final. Unshakable. His father’s expression hardens completely, any trace of emotion gone. “Then you will have nothing.” The words hit like a slap. “No inheritance,” he continues coldly. “No financial support. No connection to this family whatsoever.” Your stomach twists. His mother doesn’t argue. She just turns her face away, jaw tight, eyes glassy—but she says nothing. That silence hurts more than anything. “And when this falls apart,” his father adds, glancing at you with quiet disdain, “do not expect us to be there to fix your mistakes.” Your chest burns. But before you can react— “Don’t,” Heeseung says, low and sharp. It’s not loud. But it’s enough. His father pauses, eyes narrowing slightly—but he doesn’t continue. Instead, he turns. His mother hesitates for just a second—like she might say something, like she might reach for him— But she doesn’t. Then they're gone. The night feels heavier now. Colder. You look up at him, your heart twisting. “…Heeseung, I’m so sorry—” He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t,” he says, his voice softer now. “But—” “I meant what I said.” His hand tightens around yours again, pulling you just a little closer. “I’m staying,” he repeats. Your eyes sting. “You just lost everything…” He looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something in his expression softens in a way that makes your heart ache even more. “…Not everything.” Your breath catches. Behind you, the door opens. Your mom steps outside, her expression shifting immediately when she takes in your faces—then the empty path where his parents had been. “…What happened?” she asks softly. You don’t answer. You don’t need to. She looks at Heeseung. The way he's still holding your hand, at the quiet, heavy understanding in his eyes. And something in her softens even more. She steps closer, gently placing a hand on his arm. “…Then you’re not alone,” she says quietly. Heeseung blinks, just slightly. Your mom gives him a small, tearful smile. “You may have lost something tonight,” she continues, “but you gained a family too.” Your heart swells. His fingers tighten around yours again. And this time— He doesn’t look back. The house felt different after everything. Quieter—but not in the hollow, lonely way it once had been. This quiet was warm. Lived in. Sunlight spilled lazily through the curtains, painting soft gold across the wooden floors. You stood near the window, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of your sleeve, still not entirely used to how calm your life had become. No more hiding. No more fear of being taken away. No more pretending your heart didn’t belong to him. Behind you, you heard the faint creak of the floorboards before familiar arms slipped around your waist, gentle but sure. Heeseung rested his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. “Thinking again?” he murmured. You smiled, leaning back into him. “Just… everything.” His grip tightened slightly, like he was grounding himself—like he still needed to remind himself you were really here. “We survived it,” he said softly. You nodded, your gaze drifting toward the kitchen. Your mom was there, moving slowly—carefully—as she stirred something on the stove. The sound of her quiet humming filled the space, softer than it used to be, but still there—still hers. The medicine had helped. More than anyone had dared to hope. It hadn’t been easy—the cost, the waiting, the fear that it might not work—but somehow, it had. Enough to bring her home. Enough to give her color back in her cheeks, even if it was faint. She was still weak. You could see it in the way she leaned a little too heavily against the counter sometimes, in how she tired more quickly than she used to. But she was here. And that was everything. Your chest tightened slightly, but not with sadness—something softer. Something grateful. Heeseung followed your gaze, his arms tightening around you just a little. “She looks stronger today,” he said gently. You nodded. “She is… because of you.” He shook his head immediately, almost stubbornly. “No. Because she fought. I just… helped where I could.” You turned in his arms, looking up at him. There was something different in his eyes now—not the polished confidence he used to wear, not the weight of expectation from a life he’d left behind.

This was lighter. Freer. Happier. “You gave up a lot,” you whispered. Heeseung didn’t hesitate this time. “I chose something better.” His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing gently over your skin like it was something precious—something he still couldn’t believe was his. “I chose you.” Your heart stuttered, even now, even after everything. “You’re my home,” he added quietly. For a moment, all you could do was look at him. At the boy who had walked into your life unexpectedly, who had stayed when it was hard, who had chosen love when it cost him everything else. And somehow, neither of you regretted it. Not even a little. You leaned in first this time, pressing a soft kiss to his lips—familiar now, easy, filled with something deeper than that first hesitant moment. He smiled into it, his arms pulling you closer like he always did, like he always would. From the kitchen, your mom glanced over at the two of you, a soft, teary smile forming on her lips. She didn’t say anything—she didn’t need to. That look said enough. It wasn’t the life any of you had planned. But it was yours. Simple mornings. Careful steps. Shared glances. Quiet laughter. Hands always finding each other without thinking.

And love—steady, unwavering, chosen every single day.

Heeseung pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing briefly.

“Do you ever miss it?” he asked.

“The old life?”

You thought about it.

The fear. The loneliness. The distance.

Then you looked at your mom—still fragile, but alive. Still here. Then back at him.“No,” you said, your voice certain. “Not when I have this.” His smile was soft, but it held everything. “Good,” he whispered. Outside, the world moved on like it always did. But inside, in that small sunlit home, time felt slower. Kinder. Like it had finally decided to give you all a chance to just… be. Together.

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