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Scenes from a Marriage

Yujin x male reader

word count: 16K

You’ve been to this restaurant many times, but never for a reason this strange.

Twenty minutes have already passed. twenty minutes you spent scrolling through your phone, pretending you're not nervous as hell. The server has refilled your water glass twice and offered you bread three times, and you've politely declined each time because starting without her feels wrong, even if she did completely ghost the first dinner your families arranged.

You're not even mad about that, honestly. When your father sat you down three weeks ago and told you that you'd be marrying Ahn Yujin - yes, that Ahn Yujin, the one from IVE - you'd laughed. You thought it was a joke.

it wasn't.

On the razor’s edge between dream and nightmare: she will be your wife.

The Ahn family and your family have been circling each other for years. Something about merging business interests, something about her father's entertainment investment firm needing the backing of your family's tech conglomerate for some massive project. You don't know the full details because frankly, you've never cared much about the business side of things. You're the youngest son, the one they didn't expect much from, the one who went into software development instead of finance because you liked building things more than moving money around. But marriages are leverage in families like yours, and your older brother already married for love (the bastard), which means you're the spare piece on the chessboard.

And apparently Yujin is too.

The door to the private room slides open, and she walks in, and god, she's even more stunning in person than she is on screen. She's tall - you knew that, everyone knows that, she's famously one of the tallest idols in the industry - but seeing her in real life hits different. She's wearing a simple black dress. Her long, thick legs are completely on display, making it impossible not to sneak at least a quick look. Her hair is down, falling past her shoulders, and her face is exactly as beautiful as every high-definition fancam has shown you.

"Sorry I'm late," she says, and she doesn't sound sorry at all. She sits down across from you, sets her phone face-down on the table, and immediately reaches for the menu like she's hoping it'll shield her from having to look at you.

"No worries." You try to sound relaxed. "I figured idol schedules are pretty crazy. Did you just come from practice?"

She doesn't answer. She's studying the menu. You wait. The silence stretches. The server comes in, takes your orders (she gets a salad, you get the steak because you're starving and also because ordering a salad would feel like you're trying too hard to impress her), pours wine that neither of you touch, and leaves.

More silence.

You clear your throat. "So, funny story about my week."

She looks up at you with a completely neutral expression. It's not encouragement, exactly, but it's not a stop sign either, so you barrel forward.

"I had to sit through this four-hour board meeting on Tuesday. Four hours. And I was the youngest person in there by like, thirty years minimum. Everyone else was these executives who've been doing this since before I was born, and they're all using these buzzwords like 'synergy' and 'leverage our core competencies' and I'm just sitting there trying not to fall asleep."

Her expression doesn't change.

"Anyway, at some point they asked me to share my thoughts on the new product rollout, and I was so zoned out that I accidentally said 'I think we should just vibe with it and see what happens.' Just. Said the word vibe. In a corporate board meeting. To a room full of sixty-year-old executives."

You laugh. It's your genuine laugh, the slightly too-loud one that your mother always told you to keep under control in polite company.

Yujin does not laugh. She doesn't even crack a smile. She just looks at you with those beautiful, unimpressed eyes.

"And then," you continue, because at this point you're committed, "the CEO, who is this really intense guy, never smiles, he just nodded and said 'vibe with it, I like that, very millennial.' And now it's a thing. They're putting it in the company newsletter. 'The Vibe Initiative.' I've accidentally started a corporate movement."

You're laughing alone. Yujin is just staring at you. You feel your cheeks heating up, that familiar flush of embarrassment that comes from bombing a joke in front of a crowd that isn't having it.

"Okay," you say, still grinning even though it's a little forced now. "Tough crowd. That's fair. That story is funnier when you're not being forced to have dinner with a stranger you're supposed to marry."

"Look. I'm going to be direct with you because I don't want any misunderstandings."

"Okay." You sit up straighter, giving her your full attention. "Direct is good. I appreciate direct."

"This marriage," she says, "is happening because our families want it to happen. Not because I want it. Not because you want it, I assume."

"I mean—"

"It's business." She cuts you off. "Your family wants connections in entertainment. My family wants backing for their expansion. We're the transaction."

You don't argue with that. You can't, because she's right. That's exactly what this is. You've known it from the moment your father explained the arrangement, laying out the benefits like he was presenting a merger proposal. The Ahns get financial security and influence. Your family gets a foot in the entertainment industry and the social cachet that comes with having a famous idol in the family. Everyone wins.

Except the two people who actually have to live with each other.

"So here's how this is going to work." Yujin's tone hasn't warmed up even a single degree. "We get married. We move into the penthouse that our families are buying. And that is where our relationship ends."

"Okay." You nod slowly. "What does that mean, practically?"

"It means separate bedrooms. Separate lives." She ticks the points off on her fingers, long and elegant, her nails painted a subtle nude pink. "You don't touch me. You don't kiss me. You don't even think about trying anything. There's no romantic relationship here. There's no relationship at all, actually. We're roommates who happen to share a last name on some legal documents."

Her eyes are hard, daring you to argue. You don't.

"And when this is over, when my family gets what they want and they stop paying such close attention, we divorce quietly. We go our separate ways. We pretend this never happened." She leans forward slightly. "At most, we show up to family dinners together a few times a year and act like we can stand each other. That's it. That's the deal. Is that clear?"

You look at her for a long moment. She's so tense, so guarded, like she's bracing for you to argue or get angry or try to negotiate. Like she's expecting you to be exactly the kind of guy she's clearly decided you are: some rich asshole who thinks he can buy anything, including a wife.

"Yes ma'am," you say simply.

She blinks. It's subtle, but you catch it.

"That's it?" she asks. "You're not going to fight me on this?"

"Why would I?" You shrug, leaning back in your chair. "Yujin, I get it. I really do. This whole thing was dropped on both of us without any warning. One day you're living your life, doing your job, being one of the biggest idols in the country, and the next day some guy you've never met is suddenly your fiancé because your parents made a deal. That's insane. Of course you're not thrilled about it."

She's watching you warily, like she's waiting for the catch.

"I'm not going to pretend I'm in love with you," you continue. "I'm not going to pretend this is some fairy tale romance. We both know what this is. And if separate bedrooms and no touching is what makes you comfortable, then that's what we do. Your boundaries are your boundaries. I'm not here to violate them."

"You're being very... agreeable," she says slowly.

"I'm being realistic." You rest your chin on your hand, elbow propped on the table. Your mother would yell at you for the improper posture, but your mother isn't here. "Look, you don't know me. You have no reason to trust me. All you know is that I'm some rich guy from a family that makes deals like this, and in your experience, guys like that are probably entitled jerks who think they can do whatever they want. Right?"

She doesn't confirm it, but she doesn't deny it either.

"So I could sit here and tell you I'm different, but that would just be words. You'd have no reason to believe me. The only thing I can do is show you, over time, that I'm going to respect what you've asked for. And if that means we're roommates who occasionally pretend to like each other at dinner parties, then that's what we are." You spread your hands. "I'm not here to make your life harder than it already is."

"You're not what I expected," she says, sounding relieved and a little frustrated at the same time.

"What did you expect?"

"Someone more..." She searches for the word. "Pushy."

"I've been called a lot of things. Pushy isn't usually one of them. Awkward, sure. Talks too much, definitely. Once got called 'aggressively mediocre' by my brother, which I think was supposed to be an insult but honestly felt pretty accurate."

The corner of her mouth twitches. It's not a smile, not even close, but it's something. "Since we're already here," you say, "and the food's coming anyway, can we at least talk a little? Like actual human beings having an actual conversation?"

"About what?"

"I don't know." You tilt your head, considering. "Tell me about idol life. What's it actually like? Because from the outside it looks exhausting but also kind of amazing, and I've always been curious about the day-to-day reality of it."

"You're interested in that?"

"I like K-pop." You say it plainly, without embarrassment. "It's 2025. Everyone likes K-pop. Half of America is learning Korean because of BTS. It's not weird anymore."

"And you...?" She trails off, the question implicit.

"I may have," you admit, "had a very brief moment of internal screaming when I found out I was going to marry Yujin from IVE. Just a small one. Like, thirty seconds max. I was very cool about it."

"You were not cool about it."

"I was not cool about it at all," you agree. "But after I processed the news, I managed to calm down a bit. Just a bit.”

"So you're a fan," she says flatly.

"I'm a normal amount of fan. I own zero lightsticks. I have never learned a single fanchant. I just... think the music is good and the performances are impressive. That's all."

"This is very strange."

"The whole situation is strange. We might as well lean into it." The server arrives with your food, breaking the tension. Yujin picks up her fork, pushes a piece of lettuce around her plate, and then, without looking at you, starts talking.

"It's a lot of waiting," she says. "You think it's all performances and music shows and glamour, but mostly it's waiting. Waiting in dressing rooms. Waiting for sound checks. Waiting for the next schedule to start."

You eat quietly, listening, not wanting to interrupt now that she's actually talking.

"And it's exhausting, but not always in the ways you'd expect. The physical stuff is hard, obviously. The dancing, the performances, the dieting. But the mental stuff is worse. You're always on. You can't have a bad day in public because someone will take a photo and suddenly you're 'in crisis' or 'having a breakdown' according to Naver."

"That sounds incredibly stressful."

"You get used to it." She shrugs. "Or you don't, and then you quit. There's no middle ground."

"What are you working on right now? New album? Comeback?"

"We have some things in the works. I can't really talk about specifics."

"Fair enough." You don't push. You've already gotten more out of her than you expected. "Secret idol business. I respect it."

She looks at you for a long moment, trying to figure out your angle. You don't have one, but she doesn't know that yet.

"You're strange," she says eventually.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't meant as one."

"I'm taking it as one anyway." You grin at her, and she rolls her eyes, turning her attention back to her salad.

Dinner goes by a little awkwardly, but not nearly as hostile as you thought it would be, which you consider a win. She answers your questions about idol life in vague, careful terms, giving you just enough to keep the conversation going. You tell her more stories about your disasters at work. She doesn’t laugh at any of them. But she also doesn’t tell you to shut up. And when the dinner ends and you both stand to go your separate ways, she pauses at the door and looks back at you.

"You really meant it?" she asks. "About respecting what I asked for?"

"I really meant it."

She nods once, and then she's gone, disappearing into the night with her security trailing behind her. You stand there in the empty private room, heart still beating a little too fast, and think about the fact that in two weeks, you're going to be married to Ahn Yujin.

She doesn't want you. She doesn't trust you. She's already planning the divorce. But she talked to you. For almost two hours, she sat across from you and talked.

It's not much. But it's a start.

—

The penthouse is stupid nice. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Seoul, sleek minimalist furniture, a kitchen with appliances you're pretty sure you'll never figure out how to use. Your family and hers went all out on this place, a monument to the merger of two dynasties disguised as a marriage.

You've been traveling for the past week. Work stuff, mostly. A conference in San Francisco where you presented some research and shook some hands. You'd texted Yujin exactly twice during that time: once to let her know your flight landed safely (she'd responded with a single thumbs up emoji), and once to ask if she needed you to bring anything back from the States (she'd responded "no thank you" and nothing else). Riveting communication. Really building that foundation of marital intimacy. Now you're standing in the doorway of what is technically your home, your shared home, with your suitcase in one hand and a carry-on bag slung over your shoulder, and Yujin is sitting on the massive sectional sofa in the living room, her legs tucked underneath her, scrolling through her phone.

You can't help yourself.

"Honey, I'm home!"

Yujin looks up from her phone. Her expression doesn't change. Not a smile, not a frown, just that flat, unimpressed stare that you're starting to think might be her default setting around you. She's wearing an oversized gray hoodie that swallows her frame and black sweatpants, her face bare of any makeup; comfortable and devastatingly pretty.

"That's not funny," she says.

"Yeah, I felt that one die in the air," you admit, dragging your suitcase inside and closing the door behind you. "Won't try it again. Lesson learned." You drop your bags in the corner near the entryway, making a mental note to actually unpack at some point instead of just living out of your suitcase like you did for most of your twenties.

From your carry-on, you pull out a heavy object wrapped in a soft cloth. You unwrap it carefully, revealing a crystal trophy mounted on a dark wooden base. You carry it over to the living room, setting it on one of the built-in shelves next to a decorative vase.

Yujin watches you with mild curiosity, her phone temporarily forgotten. "What is that?"

"Oh, this?" You step back, admiring the placement. "It's an award. The Grace Hopper Award, specifically. They give it out for outstanding contributions to computing by people under a certain age."

"What did you do to get it?"

"I developed this new approach to distributed database architecture. Basically figured out a way to make large-scale systems handle data synchronization more efficiently without the typical bottlenecks." You shrug, feeling suddenly self-conscious under her gaze. "It sounds boring when I say it out loud, but it actually ended up being pretty useful. A lot of major tech companies use variations of the protocol now. Helps with everything from cloud storage to real-time financial transactions."

"So you're a genius." The way she says it isn't quite a compliment. It's more like she's filing away information, updating some internal profile she's been building about you since that first dinner.

"No, definitely not." You shake your head, settling onto the opposite end of the sectional, leaving a careful distance between you. "I just got lucky with timing. The problem I was working on happened to be something a lot of people were struggling with at the same time, so when I published my solution, it got a lot of attention. Right place, right moment. Half of success in tech is just that."

She doesn't respond, just looks at you for a long moment before turning her attention back to her phone. The two of you, sitting on opposite ends of a very expensive couch in a very expensive apartment that neither of you asked for, legally bound to each other by a ceremony that happened five days ago.

"This is strange," you say eventually.

Yujin lets out a small breath that might almost be a laugh. "Yeah. It is."

"Not the strangest thing that's happened recently though." You lean back into the cushions, staring up at the ceiling. "The wedding was weirder. This is just... aftermath weirdness. Secondary weirdness."

"The wedding was..." She trails off, seeming to search for the right word. "Surreal."

That's one way to put it. The ceremony had been held at a private estate outside of Seoul, a place that old-money families use for exactly these types of events: weddings that need to happen but can't be seen. Guest list strictly controlled. No phones allowed inside. Every attendee signing NDAs before they could even step through the gates. Because Ahn Yujin getting married is not something that can leak. Not yet. The industry would lose its collective mind. You remember standing at the altar (if you could call it that, it was more like an extremely fancy wooden arch covered in white flowers), watching her walk toward you in a wedding dress. She'd looked unreal, easily the most beautiful girl you've ever seen in your entire life.

She'd also looked like she wanted to be anywhere else on the planet.

"You looked beautiful," you say. "At the wedding, I mean. In the dress. It's just an observation. Not hitting on you. Just stating a fact. The dress was nice. You looked nice in it. Factual statement. Journalism."

She gives you a look that clearly communicates she thinks you're an idiot.

"Okay," she says slowly.

"Sorry. I'm awkward. You've probably noticed."

"I've noticed."

Another silence. You drum your fingers on your knee, trying to think of something to say that won't make things worse. It's harder than it should be. Normally you're good at talking. But with Yujin, every word feels weighted. Like you're being evaluated. "Look on the bright side," you try. "It could be worse."

She turns to face you more fully, one eyebrow raised in that skeptical way she has. "How could it be worse than an arranged marriage?"

"Well." You sit up, warming to the topic now that you've committed to it. "Both of our families could be involved in occult rituals. That's a classic old-money thing. Secret societies, weird ceremonies in the woods, chanting around fires. You know. Like in Eyes Wide Shut."

She stares at you blankly.

"The Kubrick movie? Tom Cruise? Nicole Kidman?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Okay, that's fair, it's kind of an old reference. My point is, compared to being initiated into a secret cabal or having to participate in a human sacrifice, a regular arranged marriage is pretty tame. At least we just had to sign some papers and wear fancy clothes. No one made us put on deer heads or drink weird ceremonial wine or pledge our souls to an ancient deity."

"Although," you continue, "the deer head thing would have been kind of cool, aesthetically speaking. Great Instagram content if we were allowed to post it.'"

"You're being weird. Again.”

"I'm trying to be funny."

"Those are the same thing with you."

You laugh. That was almost a joke. An insult-shaped joke, but still. "Fair enough. I'll stop."

She shakes her head slightly, returning her gaze to her phone.

"You don't need to try so hard," she says, not looking at you. "To be funny or charming or whatever it is you think you're doing. We have an agreement. You just need to respect it. That's all."

"I know."

"Then stop... performing. It's exhausting to watch."

Hearing her say that stung a bit. You weren't performing, not really. You were just being yourself, the version of yourself that fills awkward silences with dumb jokes and rambling tangents. But she doesn't want that version of you. She doesn't want any version of you, really. She just wants you to exist quietly in your designated corner of this penthouse, fulfilling the terms of a contract you both signed under pressure.

"Yeah." You stand up. "You're right. Sorry. I'm just... I'm gonna go check out my room. Maybe get some sleep. Long flight and all that."

She doesn't respond, which is fine. You didn't expect her to.

You grab your bags from where you left them near the door, slinging the carry-on over your shoulder and dragging the suitcase behind you. The hallway that leads to the bedrooms is long and impeccably decorated, more art on the walls, more tasteful lighting, more evidence of money being thrown at the problem of making a living space feel "curated." Your room is the second door on the left. Hers is the last door at the end of the hall. Maximum distance. She probably planned that.

You're heading down the hallway when her voice stops you.

"I made dinner."

You turn around. She's still sitting on the couch, still looking at her phone, but she's half-turned in your direction.

"Earlier. When I was... anyway. There's leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry."

A small smile appears on your face. It's nothing, really. Just a practical statement. She made food, there's extra, she's informing you of its existence like any roommate would. It doesn't mean anything.

"Thank you," you say. "Really. That's... thanks, Yujin."

She nods once, quick and dismissive, and turns back to her phone.

You stand there for a moment longer, watching the curve of her profile in the soft evening light. The way her hair falls loose from the bun, framing her face. The way her fingers move across the screen. The way she exists in this space that's supposed to be yours too.

Part of you wants to go back, sit down, try again. Find the right words that would make her see you as something other than an obligation.

But she asked you to stop performing. So you do.

You turn away, cross the hallway, and go into your bedroom.

Later, around midnight, you get up and pad quietly to the kitchen. You find the leftovers in the fridge, neatly stored in containers, and you heat up a plate of bibimbap that tastes better than anything you've eaten in days.

You eat standing at the kitchen counter, alone, in the dark, and you think about the fact that she made enough for two.

—

One month of marriage and almost nothing has changed. Yujin still retreats to her room the moment she gets home. You still eat most of your meals alone at the kitchen counter. Conversation is rare, functional, limited to things like "I'll be late tonight" or "There's milk in the fridge if you want some" or "Your package arrived, I left it by your door." It's not hostile anymore, not quite. It's just... distant. Two people sharing a very expensive living space.

But you're getting used to it. That's the strange part. You're getting used to waking up and knowing that somewhere in this penthouse, Ahn Yujin is also waking up. You're getting used to seeing her mug in the sink (she drinks her coffee black, you've noticed, which feels like information you shouldn't find as interesting as you do). You're getting used to the sound of her moving around at odd hours, the quiet pad of her footsteps in the hallway when she comes home late from schedules, the muffled sound of whatever show she watches before she falls asleep.

You're getting used to being married to an idol. Even if she barely acknowledges you exist.

Today, though, you decided to do something different.

IVE has a concert. Not a huge arena tour thing, but a smaller showcase event, the kind that gets broadcast online and brings in a few thousand lucky fans. You don't have a ticket, but you do have something better: a last name that opens doors and a family connection to Starship Entertainment.

Which is how you ended up backstage, in the dressing room, surrounded by five of the most famous young women in South Korea, all of whom are currently treating you like you're the most fascinating person they've ever met.

“My turn to sign now!” Leesseo says, snatching the pen from Rei’s hand to sign the album you’re holding. "I want to sign the page with my solo photo. It's my best one.”

"They're all your best one," Rei says from beside her. She's already signed one of your photocards. "You say that about every photo."

"Because it's true!"

Wonyoung laugh, and you have to remind yourself not to stare because holy shit, she's even more stunning in person, which shouldn't be possible given that she's literally famous for being stunning. She's sitting in front of a mirror, touching up her makeup, but she keeps glancing over at you with those big doe eyes like she's genuinely entertained by your presence.

"He's nice," Gaeul says, nudging Liz with her elbow. "I thought he'd be all stuffy and formal, but he's actually funny."

"Everyone thinks I'm some mysterious tycoon because of my family." You flip through the album Leeseo signed, looking for her solo page. "Old money families are weird, I know. But my family's relatively normal, all things considered, but Yujin's side? Who knows what kind of deer-head ceremonies they get up to."

Liz giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. She's been quieter than the others, but she's been smiling the whole time.

"Deer heads," Leeseo repeats, delighted. "That's so creepy. I love it."

"Right? Great for family photos."

The door to the dressing room opens, and you all turn to look.

Yujin walks in, adjusting the collar of her stage outfit. It's the IVE uniform for this particular performance, a coordinated look in black and silver. Her long legs are on full display, her hair styled in loose waves, her makeup dramatic for the stage lights. She looks incredible, but that's not news. She always looks incredible.

What is news is the expression on her face when she sees you sitting there, surrounded by her group members, holding a stack of signed merchandise.

She stops dead. Her eyes go wide.

"What are you doing here?"

"Hey!" You wave cheerfully. "I came to see the show. Figured I'd say hi to the girls first since I had access."

"You have access?"

"I have a lot of access, actually. Perks of the whole… Situation. The staff were very accommodating once I explained who I was."

She looks at the other members, who are all watching this exchange with poorly concealed amusement, and then back at you.

"He's been telling us about your wedding," Wonyoung offers. "It sounds like it was very... atmospheric."

"Deer heads," Leeseo adds helpfully.

"There were no deer heads at our wedding," Yujin says through gritted teeth.

"Not yet," you say. "But the night is young. Could still happen at the anniversary party."

Rei actually snorts. Liz is hiding her face in her hands, but she can't hide the suppressed sound of her laughter.

"You look amazing, by the way." You stand up, tucking your signed albums and photocards into the bag you brought. "That outfit is really something. I feel like you could kick my ass in that and I would thank you."

Yujin stares at you.

"That's a compliment," you clarify. "To be clear.”

"If you're done getting your things signed," she says with neutral tone of someone who is trying very hard not to strangle you in front of witnesses, "you should probably go. We need to finish getting ready."

"Yeah, of course. Don't want to be in the way." You sling your bag over your shoulder, but before you head for the door, you pull out your phone and show her the case.

There, nestled behind the clear plastic, is one of her photocards. It's from the After Like era, you think, a close-up of her face with that confident expression she does so well. You'd slipped it in there a few weeks ago, partly as a joke and partly because... well, because she's your wife, technically, and it felt weird to not have any evidence of that anywhere in your life.

"It's so strange," you say, looking at the photocard and then at her. "That this is my wife. Like, I have a photocard of my wife in my phone case. That's a real thing that's happening in my life. Wild."

"Stop calling me that."

She grabs your arm, her fingers wrapping around your bicep with strength, and starts steering you toward the door. You go willingly, laughing a little at the absurdity of being physically escorted out of a dressing room by your own wife.

"Good luck tonight!" you call over your shoulder to the other members. "You're all going to be amazing!"

"Thank you!" they chorus back.

At the door, Yujin releases your arm and fixes you with a look.

"You're impossible."

"Probably," you agree. "But I'll be in the audience cheering for you, so that's something. Good luck, Yujin. Really. I know you'll be incredible."

She hesitates. Whatever Yujin was going to say, she gives up. She sighs instead.

"...Thanks."

It's quieter than the thanks she gave you after the dinner. Less reluctant. Almost like she means it.

You grin at her and head down the hallway toward the venue.

—

The show is phenomenal.

You've watched IVE perform before, obviously. Countless times. Music show stages on YouTube, concert fancams, award show performances, but none of that prepared you for the reality of seeing them live.

They're all incredible.

But Yujin.

Yujin is something else entirely.

You watch her, this woman who sleeps in the room down the hall from yours, who leaves her mug in the sink, who made you dinner, and you think: how is this the same person?

How is this goddess on stage the same girl who wears oversized hoodies and falls asleep watching dramas on her phone?

It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense.

But god, she's amazing.

—

You beat her home by about two hours.

You shower, change into comfortable clothes, and settle onto the couch with your laptop, pretending to work while actually just thinking about the way Yujin looked on stage, the way she moved, the way she smiled at the crowd like she was giving them a gift just by existing.

When the front door finally opens, you look up.

Yujin walks in looking like a different person than the one you saw at the venue. Her stage makeup is mostly gone, you can see the bare-faced exhaustion of someone who just performed for two hours under hot lights. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. She's wearing a simple black tracksuit.

She doesn't say anything. She just walks to the couch, and then she collapses face-first onto the cushions next to you, face buried in the pillows.

"Mmmmmph," she says into the fabric.

"I'm going to interpret that as 'hello, dear husband, lovely to see you.'"

"Mmph."

"You were incredible tonight." You set your laptop aside, turning to face her even though all you can see is the back of her head. "Seriously. I've watched you perform before, but live? Completely different experience. You guys killed it."

She turns her head just enough to free her mouth from the pillow.

"I messed up."

"What? When?"

"Third song. There's a part where we all do a synchronized turn, and I was half a beat late. You could see it if you watch the fancams. It's going to be everywhere by tomorrow."

"Yujin, I was literally there, and I didn't notice anything."

"The fans will notice."

"The fans were too busy losing their minds over how good you looked to care about half a beat." You say it firmly, because it's true. "I'm serious. Nobody's perfect. You had one tiny moment that was slightly off in an entire two-hour show that was otherwise flawless. That's not a failure, that's called being human."

She doesn't respond. Her face is still mostly buried in the pillow.

"You were amazing," you repeat. "Really. I know you don't want to hear it from me, but you were."

A long silence. Then, muffled by the pillow:

"I'm hungry."

"I figured you would be. That's why I ordered your favorite."

Her head comes up. She twists around to look at you, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"My favorite?"

"Tteokbokki from that place in Mapo. The one you talked about in that V-Live from like three years ago. And the jjajangmyeon from the restaurant you mentioned in your last magazine interview, the one where you said it reminds you of your mom's cooking."

She stares at you.

"How do you know all that?"

"I did research." You shrug like it's nothing. "Took me maybe five minutes. You've done a lot of interviews, and you mention food pretty often. It wasn't hard to figure out."

You get up before she can say anything, heading to the kitchen where the delivery containers are waiting.

"Come on. Sit at the table. I'll serve you."

You hear her following you, her footsteps slow and tired. By the time she settles into one of the dining chairs, you've already got the containers open, plating the food in a way that looks semi-presentable.

"You don't have to keep doing this," she says.

You set the plate in front of her. Tteokbokki glistening with red sauce, jjajangmyeon dark and savory beside it. Her favorites.

"Doing what?"

"Trying to please me." She looks up at you. "I told you. You don't need to—"

"I'm not trying to please you."

"I'm not," you repeat, sitting down across from her. "Look, if I was trying to please you, I would have made all of this myself. I would have spent hours in the kitchen, slaving over a hot stove, putting my heart and soul into every dish. I would have lit candles and put on romantic music and made it this whole big thing."

You gesture at the delivery containers still sitting on the counter.

"This? This took me five minutes of Googling and one phone call. It's literally the least amount of effort I could have put in while still technically feeding you. If anything, this meal is proof that I don't care about you at all."

She stares at you.

"In fact," you continue, "this meal is an insult. By ordering delivery instead of cooking, I'm basically telling you that you're not worth my time."

Something happens to Yujin's face.

It starts at the corners of her mouth. A tiny twitch. Then her lips press together, like she's trying to hold something in. Her shoulders shake once, twice.

And then she laughs.

It's not a big laugh. But it's real. Her eyes crinkle up, and her whole face changes, softening into something warm and bright and so beautiful it makes you smile a bit.

"Okay," she says, still fighting back giggles. "So I'm eating a meal prepared by my husband who hates me."

"Exactly. Glad we're on the same page."

"And you put absolutely no thought into this."

"Zero thought. Well, five minutes of thought. That's basically nothing."

She picks up her chopsticks, still smiling. It's a

small smile, but it's there.

"This is very cruel of you."

"I know. I'm a monster."

"A terrible husband."

"The worst. Truly. I didn't even research what dessert you like, so I just ordered whatever I felt like. You're going to have to suffer through some random cake that I chose entirely for my own selfish enjoyment."

She takes a bite of the tteokbokki, and you watch her close her eyes, savoring it.

"You're impossible," she murmurs around the food.

"So I've been told."

"This is really good, though."

"Don't thank me. I hate you, remember? The good food is a coincidence."

She laughs again and keeps eating.

You sit there across from her, watching her enjoy the meal you ordered, watching the tension slowly drain from her shoulders as she relaxes into the comfort of good food.

She doesn't thank you. She doesn't tell you she appreciates it.

But she's laughing. She's eating. She's sitting at the table with you instead of retreating to her room.

It's not much.

But it's more than yesterday.

—

The routine shifts in ways so small you almost don't notice them at first.

It starts with mornings. For the first few weeks of this arrangement, you and Yujin moved around each other like ghosts, careful to never occupy the same space at the same time. She would wake early, shower, make her coffee, and be gone before you even opened your bedroom door. Or you would stumble into the kitchen at seven a.m. only to find evidence that she'd already been there and left: a rinsed mug in the sink, the coffee maker still warm, the faint trace of her shampoo lingering in the air.

But somewhere around the two-month mark, that starts to change.

You come out of your room one Tuesday morning and she's still there. Sitting at the kitchen island in an oversized t-shirt and shorts, her long bare legs dangling from the high stool while she scrolls through her phone and sips from her mug. She glances up when she hears you, and instead of immediately finding an excuse to leave, she just nods.

"Morning."

"Morning." You head for the coffee maker, trying to act like this is normal. "You're up late today."

"Schedule got pushed back. Don't have to be at the company until eleven."

"Nice. Rare day off?"

"Something like that."

And that's it. That's the whole conversation. But she doesn't leave. She stays there at the counter, scrolling through her phone, occasionally making small noises of amusement or annoyance at whatever she's reading, while you make your coffee and toast and sit down across from her to eat.

It happens again the next week. And the week after that.

Pretty soon it becomes something like a routine. On the days when her schedule allows it, you have breakfast in the same room. Sometimes you talk. Mostly you don't. But the silence isn't uncomfortable anymore. It's just... quiet. Peaceful, even.

The warmer weather brings its own changes.

April slides into May, and Seoul starts to heat up in that oppressive way it does every year, the humidity settling over the city. The penthouse has excellent air conditioning, obviously, but Yujin still dresses for the warmth even indoors. You come home one evening after work to find her stretched out on the couch in tiny cotton shorts and a loose tank top.

You stop in the doorway, bag still over your shoulder, and for a moment you just... look.

She's not doing anything special. Just lying there, watching something on her tablet, one hand idly twirling a strand of hair around her finger. But god, she's beautiful. The late afternoon light coming through the windows catches the curve of her cheekbone, the fullness of her lips, the elegant line of her throat. Her tank top has ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of stomach that's flat and firm.

"You're staring."

Her voice startles you. She hasn't looked away from her tablet, but there's a knowing tilt to the corner of her mouth.

"Sorry." You clear your throat, forcing yourself to move, to set down your bag, to act like a normal person instead of a creep caught ogling his wife. "Got distracted. Long day. Brain's not working right."

"Mmhm."

She doesn't seem bothered by it. A month ago, she would have tensed up, would have pulled a blanket over herself or left the room entirely. Now she just keeps watching her show, comfortable in her own skin, comfortable with you in her space.

That's something. That's a lot, actually.

The conversations come more frequently now. Still not deep, soul-baring exchanges, but real conversations. She asks about your work sometimes, and you try to explain it in terms that don't make her eyes glaze over (you're getting better at this, you think, although she still looks mildly confused whenever you mention distributed systems architecture). She tells you about her schedules, the variety shows she's filming, the upcoming comeback that's keeping her at the practice room until midnight most nights. She complains about her manager and laughs at your jokes (occasionally, not always, but occasionally) and once, when you made ramyeon at two in the morning because neither of you could sleep, she sat across from you at the kitchen counter and told you about her trainee days, about how hard it was, about how many times she wanted to quit.

You just listened, and when she was done talking, you said "I'm glad you didn't quit," and she looked at you with something soft in her eyes and said "Yeah. Me too."

You're falling in love with her.

You can admit it to yourself now, in the privacy of your own head. You're falling in love with your wife, which should be a normal thing but feels absolutely insane given the circumstances.

You're falling in love with the way she scrunches her nose when she's concentrating. With the way she hums under her breath when she's cooking (she's started cooking more often, actual meals instead of just delivery). With the way she looks in the morning, soft and sleepy, before she puts on her idol armor and goes out to face the world.

You're falling in love with her, and she still thinks this is just an arrangement, a business transaction, a temporary inconvenience that will end as soon as your families lose interest.

You don't know what to do about that. So you do nothing. You just keep being there, keep respecting her boundaries, keep making her laugh when you can, and hope that somehow, someday, something changes.

—

The family dinner is at your parents' estate, which means it's going to be insufferable.

You know this going in. Your mother has planned these things before, and they always follow the same script: too much food, too much wine that makes the conversation increasingly awkward, and too many pointed questions about when you and your lovely wife are going to start thinking about children. The Ahns will be there too, of course, which means Yujin has to contend with her own set of parental expectations while simultaneously pretending to be madly in love with you.

Fun times.

The car ride over is quiet. Yujin sits beside you in the backseat, her posture perfect, her makeup flawless, her dress a deep burgundy number that makes her look like she belongs at a film premiere. She's staring out the window, watching the city roll by.

"Hey." You reach over, not quite touching her, just letting your hand rest on the seat between you. "We've got this. A few hours of performance, and then we're out."

"You're good at this," she says. "The pretending. Sometimes I forget you're actually faking it."

You're not sure how to take that, so you just smile and say "Years of practice. Board meetings, investor presentations, family gatherings. It's all the same skill set. Smile, nod, say what they want to hear."

"That's depressing."

"Welcome to generational wealth. We're all dead inside."

That gets a tiny crack of a smile from her, which you count as a win.

The dinner itself is exactly as painful as you expected. Your mother spends the first hour asking Yujin invasive questions about her diet and exercise routine (because apparently being an idol means everyone thinks they're entitled to know exactly what you put in your body). Your father and Mr. Ahn talk business in that boring, self-important way that rich men always do, while your older brother (who got to marry for love, the lucky bastard) keeps shooting you sympathetic looks from across the table.

You and Yujin play your parts perfectly. You hold her hand when the parents are watching. You call her "honey" and "sweetheart" in that slightly-too-sweet way that married couples do. When your mother asks about your relationship, you tell a carefully rehearsed story about how you knew she was special from the moment you met her, which is technically true even if the circumstances were nothing like what you're implying.

Yujin leans into you, rests her head briefly on your shoulder, laughs at the right moments. She's a better actress than you expected, honestly. She makes it look effortless.

Halfway through dessert, you feel her fingers squeeze yours under the table. You glance over, and she leans in close, her lips brushing your ear.

"Do you want to get out of here?"

"What?"

"I can't do another hour of this. My mother is about to start asking about grandchildren, I can feel it coming, and if I have to answer that question one more time I'm going to scream. So do you want to get out of here or not?"

"Yes." You don't even hesitate. "God, yes. Please."

She pulls back, her expression smoothly transitioning back into that loving-wife mask, and stands up from the table.

"I'm so sorry, everyone." She's addressing the whole table, but her hand is still in yours, tugging you gently to your feet. "I'm feeling a bit under the weather. I think we need to head home early."

Your mother makes concerned noises. Mr. Ahn frowns slightly. But nobody argues with an idol who says she's not feeling well, because everyone knows how grueling their schedules are and how important it is for them to rest.

Five minutes later, you're in the car, pulling away from the estate, and you both let out matching sighs of relief.

"Oh my god." Yujin slumps back against the seat, all the rigid posture draining out of her in an instant. "That was unbearable."

"Your mom definitely had the grandchildren speech locked and loaded."

"She's been practicing it for months. I can tell."

You laugh, and after a second, she laughs too.

The car is heading toward the penthouse, but on impulse, you lean forward and tap on the partition, asking the driver to pull over somewhere in Hongdae instead. Yujin gives you a questioning look.

"We just escaped a torture session," you explain. "Seems like a waste to go straight home. Let's walk around for a bit. Clear our heads."

She considers this for a moment. Then, slowly, she nods. "Yeah. Okay."

—

Hongdae at night is a different world.

The streets are crowded with university students and tourists and buskers. Neon signs glow pink and blue and green, and everywhere you look there's movement, life, energy. It's the opposite of the stuffy formality of your family's estate, and you can feel yourself relaxing into it.

Yujin walks beside you, her heels replaced with the flats she'd stashed in her bag (smart woman, always prepared), her designer dress looking slightly out of place among the casual crowd. But no one recognizes her. That's the thing about being famous in a country of fifty million people: unless you're actively promoting, unless you're on a stage or in a venue where people expect to see you, you can disappear into the crowd pretty easily. Just another tall, beautiful woman walking the streets of Seoul.

"Thank you," she says suddenly.

You glance over at her. She's looking straight ahead, not meeting your eyes.

"For what?"

"For... all of it. For playing along at dinner. For getting me out of there. For not being..." She trails off, searching for the word. "For not being what I expected you to be."

You're quiet for a moment, not sure how to respond to that. "What did you expect me to be?"

"I don't know. Entitled. Demanding. The kind of guy who would see this arrangement as an opportunity to get what he wants from someone who can't say no. That's what rich guys are usually like, in my experience."

"I'm sorry you've had enough experiences with rich guys to have a usual."

"It comes with the territory. Being an idol means being a commodity. Everyone wants a piece of you. And the people with money and power think that means they're entitled to whatever piece they want."

"I'm not going to pretend I'm some perfect guy with no flaws," you say quietly. "But I meant what I said at that first dinner. Your boundaries are your boundaries. I'm not here to push them. I'm just here to... I don't know. Make this situation as okay as it can be, I guess."

"You're different," she says softly. "You really are."

You don't know what to say to that, so you don't say anything. You just keep walking, side by side, through the neon-lit streets of Hongdae.

At some point, she links her arm through yours. Casually, like it's nothing. Like she's done it a hundred times before.

Your heart is going to explode. You're almost certain of it.

"I want to go home," she says eventually, after you've wandered past street vendors and coffee shops and a guy playing guitar so beautifully that you both stopped to listen for a few minutes. "But I don't want the night to be over yet."

"What do you want to do?"

"Watch a movie. With you. On the couch, like normal people."

You stare at her. "Really?"

"Don't make it weird."

"I'm not making it weird. You're making it weird by suggesting we do something normal like a normal married couple."

"We are a married couple."

"On paper."

"On paper counts."

She's smiling now, that small, private smile that you've only seen a handful of times since this whole arrangement started.

"Okay," you say. "Movie night. Let's do it."

—

When you two get back to the penthouse, Yujin disappears into her room to change out of her dress, and you do the same, trading your suit for sweatpants and an old university hoodie.

When you emerge, she's already on the couch. She's wearing that oversized gray hoodie again, the one from your first night in the apartment together, her legs curled underneath her, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. She looks like she belongs here.

She looks like someone you could love for the rest of your life.

"Stop staring and pick a movie," she says, without looking away from the TV.

"You pick. I'm terrible at choosing. I'll spend thirty minutes scrolling through options and then give up and watch The Office again."

"The Office is for people with no taste."

"Excuse you, The Office is the pinnacle of comedy."

"No one actually likes The Office; people just pretend to like it because everyone else does. Same with Friends."

"Okay, first of all, how dare you."

She laughs, that real laugh that you love so much, and grabs the remote.

You settle onto the couch beside her. Not too close, still respecting the invisible boundary that's always been between you, but closer than you would have dared a month ago. She scrolls through the streaming options, making dismissive noises at most of the suggestions, until finally she lands on something.

"This one."

"A romance?"

"You have a problem with romance?"

"No, I just... I didn't peg you as a romance movie person."

"There's a lot you don't know about me." She presses play, and the opening credits start. "Now shut up and watch."

You shut up and watch.

The movie is fine. It's sweet and predictable and has exactly the kind of ending you'd expect from a romantic comedy. But you're not really paying attention to the plot, because about halfway through, Yujin shifts on the couch and leans slightly in your direction, and by the time the credits roll, her head is resting against your shoulder.

You don't move. You barely breathe.

"That was good," she murmurs, not lifting her head.

"Yeah,” you agree. "It was."

You stay like that for a while, neither of you moving, neither of you acknowledging what's happening. The credits finish. The TV auto-plays some trailer for another movie. The night deepens outside the windows. Exhaustion calls.

Eventually, she stirs.

"I should go to bed."

"Yeah." You still don't move. "Me too."

She lifts her head, and for a moment she's so close you can see every detail of her face: the slight flush on her cheeks, the way her lips are parted just slightly, the way her eyes search yours like she's looking for something.

"Goodnight," she says softly.

"Goodnight, Yujin."

She stands, stretches, and pads toward her bedroom. At her door, she pauses and looks back at you.

"Tonight was nice."

"Yeah." You smile at her, that helpless, hopeless smile you can't seem to control around her anymore. "It was."

She disappears into her room, and you sit there on the couch in the dark, heart pounding, replaying every moment of the evening in your head.

She leaned on your shoulder. She chose to spend time with you. She said tonight was nice.

How are you supposed to sleep after all of that? Yeah, you won’t.

But you’ll end up daydreaming about her.

—

You've been planning this for weeks.

It started with a group chat. You got the IVE members’ numbers specifically for this occasion. Yujin’s birthday was coming up, and there’s nothing better than a surprise planned by the people she loves most in this world - oh, and you too, of course.

The hardest part was getting the members to lie to her all day.

You know it worked because Yujin texted you around four in the afternoon, a rare occurrence. "Everyone's busy today. Weird timing." That was all she said, but you could read the disappointment between the lines. Her birthday, and all her closest friends had excuses for why they couldn't see her.

You texted back: "That sucks. Want me to order dinner for when you get home?"

"Sure. Whatever you want."

Whatever you want. Like she'd given up on the day already.

God, you hope this works.

Now it's almost eight, Yujin must be coming back from a photoshoot. The penthouse looks nothing like it did this morning. Rei went absolutely wild with the decorations: streamers in IVE's colors, pink and purple. Balloons clustered in the corners, a banner across the living room that says "HAPPY BIRTHDAY YUJIN" in glittery letters. The kitchen counter is covered in food (too much food, but the girls insisted), and there's a cake in the center with Yujin's name written in elegant script.

"She's gonna cry," Leeseo says confidently, bouncing on her heels near the door. "I'm calling it now. Tears. Guaranteed."

"She doesn't cry," Gaeul says, but she sounds uncertain.

"She's going to cry," Wonyoung agrees. "I've seen her cry at puppy videos. She's a secret softie."

The elevator light flicks on. Someone is coming up. Everyone scrambles into position, ducking behind furniture and pressing themselves against walls, and suddenly the penthouse is silent except for the sound of six people trying very hard not to giggle.

You're standing near the back, heart pounding stupidly fast. This is either going to be amazing or a complete disaster. There's no in-between.

The elevator doors slide open and Yujin walks in, she's wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, super casual, her hair slightly windswept, her expression tired and a little sad. She reaches for the light switch.

"SURPRISE!"

The lights flood on. Six voices scream in unison. Confetti (Leeseo's contribution, she'd insisted) explodes from somewhere, raining down in a glittering cascade.

Yujin freezes.

For a long moment, she doesn't react at all. She just stands there, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, staring at the scene in front of her: her five groupmates and her husband, surrounded by decorations and food and a pink cake, all of them grinning at her like idiots.

Then her face crumples.

"Oh my god,” she murmurs softly. "Oh my god, you guys."

"Told you," Leeseo whispers triumphantly, and then Yujin is being swarmed by her members, all of them hugging her at once.

You hang back, watching. This isn't your moment. This is theirs. The six of them, this family they've built together through years of training and debuting and performing, through scandals and comebacks and everything in between. You're just the guy who happens to live here.

But then Yujin's eyes find yours over Wonyoung's shoulder.

"You did this?"

"I had help." You shrug, trying to play it cool even though your heart is threatening to beat out of your chest. "The girls did most of the work. I just provided the venue."

"He's lying," Rei says immediately. "He planned the whole thing. Made a spreadsheet and everything."

"There was a spreadsheet?" Yujin's lips twitch.

"A very detailed spreadsheet," Liz confirms.

"I'm a project manager by nature. It's a curse."

Yujin laughs, and suddenly she's crossing the room toward you. Before you can process what's happening, she's hugging you. Her arms wrap around your neck, her body pressing against yours, and she's warm and she smells like whatever perfume she wore for the photoshoot and you forget how to breathe.

"Thank you," she murmurs against your ear. "Really. Thank you."

"Happy birthday, Yujin."

Then Leeseo is tugging her toward the cake and the moment breaks.

The party is everything you hoped it would be.

There's food (so much food, you're going to be eating leftovers for a week), drinks and music playing from someone's phone connected to the penthouse's sound system. The girls take over the living room, sprawled across furniture, passing bottles around, catching up on gossip and inside jokes that you only half understand.

You stay on the periphery, mostly, content to watch. But they keep pulling you in. Gaeul demands to know your opinion on their latest choreography (you tell her it's incredible, which it is). Rei asks about your work with genuine curiosity. Wonyoung corners you at one point to interrogate you about your intentions toward Yujin, and even though her tone is light, you can tell she's serious underneath.

"I just want her to be happy," you tell her honestly. "Whatever that looks like. Even if it's not with me."

Wonyoung studies you for a long moment, then she finally says: "You really mean that."

"I really do."

"Good. Because if you hurt her, I know people.” You weren't expecting a veiled threat coming specifically from Wonyoung, but it's okay, you totally understand.

"I don't doubt that for a second."

Gifts happen somewhere around the third bottle of soju. The members have gone in together on some things: expensive skincare, a designer bag Yujin has apparently been eyeing for months, a framed photo of all six of them that makes Yujin tear up again. Individual gifts too, each one more thoughtful than the last, each one proof of how well these girls know each other.

Then it's your turn.

You hand her a small wrapped box, nervous in a way you haven't been all night.

"It's not as good as what they got you. I just... I noticed you mentioned it once, in an old interview, and I thought maybe..."

She unwraps it carefully, and her breath catches.

It's a music box. Antique, ornate, pretty vintage. You'd tracked it down through an absolutely absurd number of phone calls and internet searches, because she'd mentioned once, in a magazine interview from two years ago, that her grandmother used to have one just like it and she'd always loved the sound it made.

She opens it. A soft, tinkling melody fills the room.

"How did you..." She's staring at it, not looking up. "I only mentioned this once. Years ago."

"I did research." You explain, making light of it. "Remember? I'm good at research."

She looks up at you then, and her eyes are shining, and for a second you think she might cry again.

"You're impossible," she whispers.

"Yeah, you've told me that a few times.”

The party continues. More drinking. More laughter. More of the members giving you significant looks that you pretend not to notice.

Yujin gets drunk.

You've never seen her drunk before. Tipsy, maybe, that one time after a family dinner when she had an extra glass of wine, but never fully, properly drunk. It transforms her. All the careful control she usually maintains just... melts away.

"You know what," she announces at one point, pointing at you with a half-empty soju bottle. "You know what."

"What?"

"You still don't have my autograph. On your IVE stuff. You have everyone else's. But not mine."

"You've refused to sign anything every time I've asked."

"Well, I'm signing it now." She makes grabby hands at you. "Give me. Give me the things. I'm going to sign everything. Right now."

"You're drunk."

"I'm the birthday girl and I want to sign your stuff. Get it."

You get it. You’ve been carrying her photocard in your phone case for months, waiting for this moment to finally happen (pathetic? maybe, but you prefer to think of it as prepared), and you also grab the album from that backstage visit, the one with everyone's signature except hers.

She signs with a flourish, her handwriting messier than usual but still legible, adding a little heart next to her name.

"There." She shoves the photocard back at you, looking immensely satisfied. "Now you have the complete set. Collector's item. Very valuable."

"I'll treasure it forever."

"You better."

Slowly, the party winds down. Leeseo is the first to leave (early schedule tomorrow, she claims, though she looks devastated to miss out). Liz and Rei go together, Rei practically carrying Liz who has apparently had more soju than anyone realized. Gaeul hugs Yujin for a long time, whispering something in her ear that makes Yujin laugh and blush simultaneously. Wonyoung is last, lingering at the door, giving you one final assessing look before she disappears into the night.

And then it's just you and Yujin.

The penthouse now settles into silence, the post-party exhaustion wrapping itself around the two of you, but it's a strangely good feeling. The decorations are still up, confetti scattered across the floor, empty bottles lined up on the counter. Yujin is on the couch, her legs tucked under her, her cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol, her eyes slightly unfocused but still bright.

"That was, hmm… nice," she says, almost inaudible. "Really nice. I can't believe you did all that."

"You deserved it." You're cleaning up a little, gathering plates, trying to keep your hands busy so you don't do something stupid like stare at her all night. "You work so hard. You should get to celebrate."

"Mmm." She's quiet for a moment, watching you move around the room. Then: "You know what I keep thinking about?"

"What?"

"How things could be different." She says it quietly. "Under other circumstances. You know?"

You stop. Set down the plates you're holding. Turn to look at her.

"What do you mean?"

She blinks, and suddenly she looks embarrassed, like she didn't mean to say that out loud. The flush on her cheeks deepens.

"Nothing. I don't know. Ignore me. I'm drunk."

"Yujin."

"I just mean..." She's fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie, not meeting your eyes. "If we'd met differently. If this wasn't... if our families hadn't... I don't know. Maybe things would be..."

"Fuck it. Come here," she says suddenly, changing the subject with all the grace of a drunk person trying to avoid an awkward conversation. "I want a hug. Birthday girl privileges. Come here."

You cross the room toward her, heart pounding. She stands up from the couch, unsteady on her feet, reaching out for you.

And then her foot catches on the edge of the rug.

It happens in slow motion. Her eyes go wide. She lurches forward. You try to catch her, but her momentum is too much, and suddenly you're both falling backward, tumbling onto the couch. She lands on top of you. All of her. Her body pressed against yours, her face inches away, her hair falling around you like.

"Oops." She laughs.

"You okay?"

"I'm great." She's grinning down at you. "Are you okay? I probably squished you."

"I’m not the strongest guy in the world, but I can handle the weight of a Yujin on top of me.”

She doesn't move to get up. Neither do you. You're very aware of everywhere her body is touching yours. Her hips against your hips. Her chest against your chest. Her hands braced on either side of your head.

"You've been so nice to me," she murmurs. "This whole time. So patient. So kind. Even when I was terrible to you."

"You weren't terrible."

"I was a little terrible."

"Maybe a little. But I understood why."

She's quiet for a moment. Her eyes drop to your lips. Then back up to your eyes.

"I want to give you a reward," she says softly. "For being nice. For doing all this. For... for being you."

"Yujin, you don't have to—"

She kisses you.

Her lips press against yours, tasting faintly of soju. You're trying not to make any embarrassing sounds, but it's harder than it looks. She's really kissing you. Ahn Yujin, your wife, the woman you've been falling in love with for months, is kissing you on the couch in your shared penthouse on her birthday. It's hard to believe, but the taste of her in your mouth is very, very real.

It only lasts a few seconds. Then she pulls back, looking at you with hazy, happy eyes.

"There," she whispers. "A reward. For being the best fake husband ever."

You don't have words. You literally cannot form words. Your entire vocabulary has abandoned you.

She settles against you, her head dropping to rest on your chest, her body relaxing into yours. She's so warm. So soft. So close.

“Let’s stay like this,” she says softly, growing drowsy. “Just a little longer. You’re comfortable.”

"Okay. Okay, Yujin." That's all you can say.

She hums contentedly, nuzzling closer, and within minutes her breathing evens out. She's asleep. Passed out on your chest like a cat that's found the perfect sunny spot. You lie there, barely daring to move, one hand coming up to gently stroke her hair. It's soft. Everything about her is soft, when she lets herself be.

"I hope you don't regret this in the morning," you murmur into the quiet of the penthouse.

She doesn't stir. Just keeps sleeping, her breath warm against your neck, her body a comfortable weight on yours. You close your eyes and let yourself have this. Just for tonight. Just this once.

—

The morning after her birthday, you wake up with a crick in your neck and Yujin still draped across your chest.

You don't move. You barely breathe. Yujin's hair is spread across your shoulder in a dark wave, and her breathing is slow and even against your collarbone. She's still asleep. Still here. Still warm and soft and real.

Then she stirs.

You feel the exact moment she wakes up. Her body tenses, her breathing changes, and there's a beat of absolute stillness where you're certain she's going to bolt. Going to pull away, apologize, retreat behind her walls and pretend last night never happened.

Instead, she lifts her head and looks at you with sleepy, slightly bloodshot eyes.

"Hi," she says, sounding rough from sleep and alcohol.

"Hi."

"I kissed you last night," she says.

"You did."

"I remember."

"Do you regret it?"

She takes a while to answer; you don't know if it's for dramatic effect or if she's weighing the importance of what she's about to say.

"No," she says finally. "I don't regret it."

You exhale, releasing all the air you were holding in.

"But," she continues, and there it is, the caveat you'd been waiting for, "don't get too emotional about it. Okay? I'm not saying... I'm not promising anything. I just think maybe we could... take things slowly. See what happens."

"Slowly," you repeat.

"Slowly. I need time to figure out what I'm feeling, and I don't want you to get your hopes up and then be disappointed if I decide this isn't..."

She trails off, looking uncertain.

"Yujin." You reach up, carefully, giving her time to pull away. She doesn't. Your fingers brush a strand of hair from her face. "I've been taking things slowly since the day we met. I can keep doing that. Whatever pace you need. I'm not going anywhere."

She studies you for another long moment. Then, slowly, she nods.

"Okay. Slowly, then."

She lays her head back down on your chest, and you feel her relax against you.

"This is nice, though," she murmurs. "You're comfortable."

"I always knew you’d like having me as your pillow.”

"Pillows don’t talk. Quiet.”

“Fair point. I’ll just pretend to be a corpse, don’t worry.”

She laughs, soft and sleepy, and you close your eyes and let yourself enjoy this.

Slowly. Yeah, you can do slowly.

—

Slowly turns out to mean something different than you expected.

It's not a straight line. It's not a romantic comedy where one kiss leads inevitably to declarations of love and a happily ever after. It's messier than that. More complicated. There are days when Yujin is open and warm, when she seeks out your company, when she falls asleep against your shoulder while you're watching TV. And there are days when she retreats, when she needs space, when she barely says two words to you before disappearing into her room.

You learn to read her moods. To give her space when she needs it and to be present when she wants company. You learn that she gets quiet before big schedules, that she's irritable when she hasn't slept enough, that she stress-cleans the kitchen when she's anxious about something.

You learn her.

And slowly, she learns you too.

She starts asking about your work. Not just polite questions, but real ones. She sits next to you on the couch while you're coding, peering at your laptop screen with a furrowed brow.

"I don't understand any of this," she admits. "It just looks like random letters and symbols."

"That's basically what it is. Random letters and symbols that tell the computer what to do."

"But how do you know what letters and symbols to use?"

You try to explain. You're not great at it. Programming is intuitive to you in a way that's hard to articulate, like asking a musician to explain why a particular chord progression sounds right. But she listens anyway, nodding along even when it's clear she's lost, asking follow-up questions that show she's actually paying attention.

"It's like choreography," she says eventually. "Right? You have these individual moves, and they don't mean much on their own, but when you put them together in the right order, they create something."

"Yeah. Actually, that's a really good analogy."

"I'm not just a pretty face." She says it with a smirk, teasing.

"I know you're not." You say it seriously, meeting her eyes. "I've known that since the beginning."

She holds your gaze for a moment. Then she looks away, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

"You're being emotional again."

"Sorry. Glacially slow. Right. I'll dial it back."

"You don't have to dial it all the way back." She's still not looking at you, but there's a small smile on her lips. "Just... a little."

—

Falling asleep on your shoulder becomes routine.

You don't know exactly when it shifts from occasional to expected, but at some point, evenings on the couch start ending the same way. You'll be watching something together (she's converted you to K-dramas, god help you), and gradually her weight will settle against your side, her head will droop onto your shoulder, and her breathing will slow into the steady rhythm of sleep.

The first few times, you wake her up. Gently shake her shoulder, tell her she should go to bed.

"Too tired," she mumbles. "Just let me stay here."

"You'll hurt your neck."

"Don't care."

So you start carrying her.

You scoop her up from the couch, one arm under her knees and one behind her back, and she makes a soft sound of protest that's more reflex than actual objection. She's mostly asleep, her head lolling against your chest, her arms loosely circling your neck.

The first time you carry her to her room, you feel like you're doing something sacred. Like you've been entrusted with something precious.

You lay her down on her bed, pull the covers over her, and she murmurs something unintelligible and burrows into her pillow.

"Goodnight, Yujin."

"Mmm. Night."

You leave her door slightly open, just in case.

It becomes a thing. She falls asleep on the couch, you carry her to bed. Sometimes she wakes up enough to mumble a thank you. Sometimes she's out cold, completely dead to the world. Either way, you tuck her in, brush the hair from her face, and retreat to your own room.

Until one night, she doesn't let go.

You're lowering her onto her bed, trying to disentangle yourself from her arms, and she clings tighter.

"Stay," she mumbles, still mostly asleep.

"What?"

"Don't go. Stay here. 'S cold."

It's not cold. The penthouse has excellent climate control. But you don't point that out.

"Yujin, I don't think—"

"Please."

That one word, soft and sleepy and vulnerable, breaks something in you.

You kick off your shoes and climb into bed next to her. She immediately curls against you, her head on your chest, her leg thrown over yours, her body seeking warmth she doesn't actually need.

"Better," she sighs.

You lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding so hard you're sure she can feel it.

You don't sleep much that night. But you don't move either.

—

After that, she stops going to her own room entirely.

It's not a dramatic declaration. She doesn't announce that she's moving into your room. She just... starts sleeping there. First occasionally, then regularly, then every night. Her clothes migrate from her closet to yours. Her skincare products appear in your bathroom. Her phone charger takes up permanent residence on your nightstand.

You wake up every morning with Yujin in your arms, and every morning it feels like a miracle.

"This is still slow," she insists one night, her head on your chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your stomach through your shirt. "We're just sleeping. That's not a big deal."

"Whatever you say."

"I'm serious. Lots of people share beds without it meaning anything."

"Mmhm."

"Stop agreeing with me in that tone."

"What tone? I'm just agreeing."

"You're agreeing sarcastically."

"I would never."

She lifts her head to glare at you, but there's no real heat in it. Her eyes are soft in the dim light, her lips curved in a reluctant smile.

"You're impossible," she says.

"So I've been told."

She lays her head back down, and you feel her smile against your chest.

"I like sleeping here," she admits quietly. "With you. It's... I don't know. It feels safe."

"I like it too."

"You're warm. And you don't move around a lot in your sleep. And you don't snore."

"High praise."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

She laughs, that soft, real laugh you love so much, and burrows closer. "Go to sleep, you dork."

"Yes ma'am."

—

The first time you have sex, it's not planned.

It's a Sunday afternoon, lazy and slow. You've been on the couch for hours, ostensibly watching a movie, but really just existing in each other's space. She's curled up next to you, her legs across your lap, your hand resting on her bare thigh where her shorts have ridden up. You've been touching her more lately. Nothing dramatic, just casual contact that's become normal between you. A hand on her waist when you pass her in the kitchen. Fingers intertwined while you're watching TV. Her playing with your hair while you rest your head in her lap.

But today something is different. She shifts, and your hand slides higher on her thigh, almost to the hem of her shorts.

You both freeze. "Sorry." You start to move your hand away. "I didn't mean—"

"Don't."

You look at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips slightly parted. "Don't move your hand," she clarifies. "I... I liked it."

Your heart stops. Genuinely stops for a solid two seconds before kicking back into overdrive. "Yujin..."

"I know we said slowly." She's not quite meeting your eyes. "And we've been doing slowly. For months. And I think..." She takes a breath. "I think I'm tired of slowly." She moves then, shifting to straddle your lap in one fluid motion. Her long legs bracket your hips, her hands rest on your shoulders, her face is inches from yours. "Tell me if you don't want this," she says. "Tell me and we'll go back to watching the movie and pretend this never happened."

"Yujin." You can barely get her name out. "I've wanted this since the day I met you."

Her expression shifts, goes soft and warm and wanting, a combination you've never seen in her before. "Good," she breathes. "That's good."

She kisses you.

Her mouth opens against yours, hot and hungry, and her tongue slides past your lips, and suddenly you can't think about anything except how she tastes and how she feels and how desperately you need more.

—

After that first time, it happens again.

And again.

Sex becomes another part of your routine, as natural as breakfast and evening movies and falling asleep in each other's arms. Sometimes it's slow and tender, whispered words and gentle touches in the dark of your shared bedroom. Sometimes it's fast and desperate, barely making it through the front door before you're on each other. Sometimes she wakes you up in the middle of the night with her hand on your cock and a hungry look in her eyes. Sometimes you ambush her in the shower and drop to your knees to eat her out until she's begging and the water's gone cold.

It's not just the sex, though. It's everything.

It's the way she kisses you goodbye when she leaves for schedules, a quick press of lips that's become as automatic as breathing. It's the way she texts you random things throughout the day: a funny meme, a complaint about her manager, a photo of her lunch. It's the way she curls into you at night.

It's the way she looks at you now, soft and warm and open, nothing like the guarded stranger you married six months ago.

You come home from work one evening to find her already there, which is rare. Usually her schedules run late. But today she's curled up on the couch with her tablet, wearing one of your hoodies (she's stolen approximately half your wardrobe at this point), and when she hears the door open, she looks up.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi yourself. You're home early."

"Schedule got cancelled." She sets the tablet aside, unfurling from the couch. "I was hoping you'd be back soon." She crosses the room to you, and before you can even put down your bag, she's in your arms. Her lips find yours, the kind of kiss that says I missed you and I'm glad you're here.

You kiss her back, dropping your bag somewhere behind you, your hands coming up to cup her face.

"Hi," you say again when you finally break apart.

"Hi." She's smiling. "Welcome home."

Welcome home.

You think about those words. About how this penthouse that was supposed to be a stage for a fake marriage, has somehow become exactly that. Home. Because she's in it. Because she's here, warm and real and yours in every way that matters.

"It's good to be home," you say.

She kisses you again, and you don't let her go for a very long time.

—

You wake up with your entire body screaming at you.

It's not an unfamiliar sensation anymore. Yujin sleeps like she's trying to absorb you into her body, limbs thrown everywhere, her head on your chest, one leg hooked over yours, her arm flung across your stomach. She's tall enough that when she sprawls, she really sprawls, and you've become her personal mattress topper whether you like it or not. You like it, obviously. Even when it means waking up with a dead arm and a crick in your neck and her elbow somehow lodged between your ribs.

Her schedule is clear today. No schedules, no recordings, no practices. A rare day off that she deserves after the chaos of IVE's latest comeback. So when you carefully extract yourself from beneath her, moving with the practiced stealth of someone who's done this many times before, you make sure not to jostle her awake.

She mumbles something unintelligible and immediately rolls into the warm spot you've left behind, hugging your pillow to her chest like a replacement. Her face is soft in sleep, all the idol armor stripped away, just Yujin. Your Yujin.

You lean down and press a kiss to her forehead.

"Sleep well," you murmur. She doesn't stir.

The kitchen is your domain now. Two years of marriage, most of it spent actually learning how to be a partner instead of just a contractual obligation, has turned you into a halfway decent cook. You move through the space with confidence, pulling out ingredients for a proper breakfast. Eggs, vegetables, rice from last night, some beef for bulgogi that you start marinating while the pan heats up.

You're plating the food when you hear her footsteps in the hallway. You abandon the kitchen and head toward the bathroom, you skipped your morning routine to prepare breakfast, that's when you nearly collide with her in the corridor.

"Bathroom?" she asks, still sleepy.

"Bathroom."

"Same." You end up side by side at the double sink. She squeezes toothpaste onto her brush, then onto yours without being asked, and you both start brushing in companionable silence.

"So," she says around a mouthful of foam. "Anniversary trip. Thoughts?"

You spit, rinse. "I've been considering options."

"And?"

"Antarctica."

She stares at you in the mirror, toothbrush frozen mid-motion. "Antarctica," she repeats flatly.

"You said you wanted to go somewhere no one would recognize us. I'm pretty sure the penguin population doesn't follow K-pop."

"That is not what I meant and you know it."

"The northern lights are romantic. Or wait, that's the Arctic. Antarctica has... different lights. Southern lights. Aurora australis. Very romantic."

"Nothing about freezing to death is romantic."

"Agree to disagree. Huddling for warmth? Peak romance."

She spits into the sink with more force than necessary, clearly expressing her opinion of your suggestion. "I want somewhere warm. With beaches. And room service. And no parkas."

"Counterpoint: penguins."

"I'll buy you a stuffed penguin. We're going somewhere tropical."

You grin at her in the mirror. "Fine. But I'm saving Antarctica for next year's anniversary. Start mentally preparing."

"I'm filing for divorce before I agree to Antarctica."

"Empty threat. You love me too much." She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling, she can't help it.

Breakfast is laid out on the table by the time she's finished her morning skincare routine (extensive, idol-mandated, involving approximately fifteen products that you still can't tell apart). She slides into her seat and makes an appreciative noise at the spread.

"You're getting good at this."

"I've had practice. Captive audience, very demanding."

"I'm not demanding."

"You sent your eggs back three times last month."

"They were undercooked. I have standards." You sit across from her, watching her eat, enjoying the simple domesticity of a morning together. These moments still feel precious, still feel earned. You remember those early days, the cold distance, the separate bedrooms, the careful dance of two strangers forced into proximity. Now she steals food off your plate without asking and complains about your cold feet in bed and kisses you goodbye every morning.

"It's funny," you say, "that we were already married when we started dating."

She pauses, chopsticks halfway to her mouth. "I think about that sometimes. How backwards everything was."

"Most people date, then move in together, then get married. We did it completely reversed."

"We got married, moved in together, hated each other, tolerated each other, and then started dating."

"You never hated me."

"I strongly disliked you."

"That's different from hate."

"Fine. I strongly disliked you, then I tolerated you, then I found you mildly amusing, then I accidentally fell in love with you. Happy?"

"Extremely."

She shakes her head, smiling despite herself. "Two years," she says softly. "I can't believe it's been two years. I really thought... back at the beginning, I thought I'd be counting down the days until I could escape. And now..."

"Now you're stuck with me."

"Now I can't imagine being anywhere else."

You reach across the table, taking her hand. "I always knew I was husband material," you say. "Everyone always told me that."

She snorts. "No one has ever told you that."

"They have. Constantly. I hear it all the time."

"From who? Your mother?"

"From... people. Many people. Strangers on the street."

"You're lying."

"I'm lying." You squeeze her hand. "But I always knew I'd be good at this. At being yours."

She looks at you with those soft eyes, the ones that used to be so guarded and cold and are now warm enough to melt you. "You are," she says quietly. "Good at it. At being mine."

After a romantic breakfast and washing the dishes, you go to the living room, reaching for the remote.

"Let's see what's happening in the world. I feel like nothing could go wrong right now. Today is a perfect day."

You flip on the TV. The entertainment news channel blares to life, and there's Yujin's face filling the screen. Your first thought is pride, the automatic surge of "that's my wife" that you get whenever you see her on TV or in magazines or trending on social media.

Then you actually register what the anchor is saying.

"—breaking news this morning as photos have surfaced revealing that IVE's Ahn Yujin has been secretly married for approximately two years. The identity of her husband has been confirmed as—" A photo appears. The two of you. It looks like it was taken at one of the family dinners, someone's phone capturing a moment when you weren't paying attention. You're looking at her with obvious adoration. She's laughing at something you said.

The anchor continues, but you've stopped hearing the words.

You turn to look at Yujin. Her face is unreadable, the water bottle in her hand stalled halfway to her mouth, eyes locked on the TV.

"You jinxed it," she says.

"Yeah." You swallow hard. "Maybe I was a little hasty with the 'nothing could go wrong' comment. My bad.”

—

"I understand this news may come as a surprise to many people. Yes, I am married. I have been for two years. My husband is a wonderful person who has shown me nothing but kindness and respect from the very beginning of our relationship. I am genuinely happy, and I hope that the people who have supported me and IVE throughout my career can understand that my personal happiness does not diminish my dedication to my work or my love for our fans. I will continue to do my best as a member of IVE. I hope you can support me as I build the life I want, both on stage and off. Thank you."

You read the statement three times at your desk, grinning like an idiot at your computer screen.

Your coworker glances over. "Good news?"

"The best." You can hardly believe this is the same woman who sat across from you at that first dinner and laid out the terms of your fake marriage like she was negotiating a hostile business acquisition. The same woman who flinched when you accidentally brushed her hand. The same woman who spent months treating you like an inconvenient roommate she was counting the days to be rid of.

Now she's telling the entire country that you make her happy. That she's choosing you.

Two years. What a difference two years makes.

You leave work early, something you almost never do, but today feels different. Today feels like the kind of day you should be home, with her, facing whatever comes next together.

The penthouse is quiet when you walk in. Yujin is on the couch, legs curled underneath her, scrolling through her phone with a expression of detached calm. She looks up when she hears the door, and her face softens into a smile.

You cross the room and lean down to kiss her. It's brief, casual, the kind of kiss that's become as natural as breathing between you.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself." You settle onto the couch beside her. "I read the statement. You did well."

She shrugs, setting her phone aside. "It was nothing. Just said what needed to be said."

"It wasn't nothing. You were perfect. Direct, honest, didn't apologize for being happy. I was proud of you."

"Save the pride for later. I still have to survive the chaos this is going to cause." She stares disinterestedly at her phone. "My manager's already called four times. The company wants to have a meeting tomorrow. There are think pieces being written as we speak about what this means for IVE's image."

You study her face, looking for signs of stress or panic. There aren't many. "You don't seem that worried."

She considers this for a moment.

"I am worried. A little. But..." She exhales slowly. "I always knew this was going to happen eventually. We couldn't hide forever. And honestly? Part of me is relieved. No more sneaking around. No more lying to everyone. It's out there now. Whatever happens, happens."

You're quiet for a moment, watching her. Thinking about everything you've built together, everything you almost didn't have because you were both too stubborn and scared to admit what you were feeling. "You know," you say carefully, "if you wanted... we could still get divorced."

She goes very still.

"I mean it," you continue. "If this is going to hurt your career, if the backlash is too much, if you need to choose between IVE and me... I would never ask you to sacrifice everything you've worked for. Your happiness matters more to me than—"

"Stop." She's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read. Somewhere between exasperation and tenderness. "I know you would do that," she says quietly. "I know you would let me go if you thought it would make me happy. That's exactly the kind of person you are. It's one of the reasons I fell in love with you."

She moves then, shifting on the couch until she's straddling your lap. Her hands rest on your shoulders, her face close to yours, her dark eyes holding your gaze. "But that's not what I want. I spent years building my career. Training until my body ached, performing until I couldn't stand, smiling when I wanted to cry. I love what I do. I love IVE, I love the girls, I love our fans. But for so long, that was all I had. Work. Schedules. The next comeback, the next performance, the next goal."

She cups your face in her hands. "Then you came along. And you were so... annoying."

You laugh despite yourself. "Romantic."

"You were. With your dumb jokes and your spreadsheets and your stupid photocard in your phone case. You were this goofy, awkward, ridiculously kind person who kept showing up, kept respecting my boundaries, kept making me laugh even when I didn't want to. And somewhere along the way, I realized that I didn't just want a career. I wanted a life. A real one. With someone who sees me, not the idol, not the image. Just me."

Her thumb strokes your cheek. "I want to build that life with you. I want anniversary trips and lazy Sunday mornings and fighting about whose turn it is to do dishes. I want all of it. The boring stuff and the hard stuff and everything in between."

She leans in, pressing her forehead to yours. "So no. I don't want a divorce. I want you. Whatever chaos comes with that, we'll figure it out together."

She kisses you. Deep and slow and full of promise.

When she pulls back, your eyes are stinging with something you refuse to call tears.

"I want that too," you manage. "All of it. Everything. With you."

Her smile is radiant. "I love you," she says. "I should have said it sooner. I should have said it a thousand times by now. But I love you."

You pull her closer, burying your face in her neck. "I love you too, babe. I have loved you for so long."

She wraps her arms around you, and you stay like that, tangled together on the couch, while the world outside loses its mind over the news of your marriage.

You stay like that for a while, existing in each other’s bodies, though this is a position you usually use for reasons other than emotional support. So, eventually, Yujin shifts in your lap, her hips rolling in a slow, deliberate grind that makes your breath hitch. She's looking at you with those dark eyes, half-lidded and full of intent, and there's a smile playing at the corners of her lips that tells you exactly where this is headed.

"Do you know what I'm thinking right now?"

She punctuates the question with another roll of her hips, pressing down against the growing hardness in your pants. Your hands move on instinct, sliding down her back to cup her ass through those tiny cotton shorts she wears around the house. You squeeze, pulling her tighter against you, and she lets out a soft hum of approval.

"I think I have an idea."

"Bedroom." She says it like a command, her fingers already working at the buttons of your dress shirt. "Now."

Your hands slide under her thighs and you lift her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around your waist as you stand. She's light in your arms, all long limbs and lean muscle, and she laughs against your neck as you carry her down the hallway. That laugh turns into a gasp when you toss her onto the bed, her body bouncing once on the mattress before she settles, propped up on her elbows, watching you with those beautiful eyes.

You take a moment to just look at her.

Yujin, sprawled across your bed in a tank top and shorts, her dark hair fanned out against the pillows, her chest rising and falling with quickened breath. Your wife. After everything, after the arrangement and the coldness and the slow, painful process of falling in love, she's yours. Really, truly yours. And she's looking at you like she wants to devour you whole.

"You're staring," she says.

"I'm appreciating."

"Appreciate faster. I'm getting impatient." You kick off your shoes, letting them fall somewhere behind you. Your blazer follows, shrugged off your shoulders and discarded on the floor. You take your time with the dress shirt, undoing each button slowly while she watches, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. "You're doing that on purpose."

"Doing what?"

"Being slow. To torture me."

"I would never." You pull the shirt off, tossing it aside, and her eyes roam over your chest with obvious appreciation. You climb onto the bed, positioning yourself between her legs, and her thighs fall open automatically to accommodate you. Your fingers find the waistband of her shorts, hooking into the fabric.

"Can I?"

"If you don't, I'm going to scream."

You pull them down slowly, dragging the material over her hips, down her thighs, past her knees. She lifts her legs to help you, and the shorts join the growing pile of clothes on the floor. She's wearing simple cotton panties underneath, light pink, already showing a dark spot of dampness at the center.

"Fuck," you breathe.

"What?"

"You're so wet already."

"That's what happens when my husband carries me to bed like a romance novel hero." She lifts her hips, impatient. "Take them off." You hook your fingers into the waistband of her panties and peel them down with the same deliberate slowness. She makes a frustrated noise, but you ignore it, watching as inch by inch of her is revealed to you. The neat strip of dark hair. The soft outer lips, already glistening. The pink, swollen folds underneath.

The panties drop to the floor and you sit back on your heels, just looking.

"You're beautiful," you tell her. "Every single part of you."

"You're sappy." But her cheeks are flushed, and not just from arousal. "Now stop talking and put your mouth on me."

"So demanding."

“You love your wife being bossy."

You do. God, you really do.

You lower yourself onto your stomach, settling between her spread thighs. This close, you can smell her arousal, musky and sweet, and your mouth waters in anticipation. But you don't go straight for where she wants you. That would be too easy. Instead, you press a kiss to the inside of her right thigh.

"Tease," she accuses.

You kiss higher, your lips brushing against soft, warm skin. Another kiss, closer to the crease where her thigh meets her hip. She shivers beneath you, her hips twitching, trying to guide you where she needs you. "Patience."

"I don't have patience. I have needs."

You switch to her other thigh, pressing the same trail of kisses from knee to hip. Her skin is impossibly soft here, smooth and warm, and you take your time tasting her, licking and sucking little marks that will fade by morning. Her fingers find your hair, threading through the strands, not quite pushing but definitely encouraging.

"Please,” she breathes. "Please, I need—"

You finally turn your attention to her cunt.

She's so wet. Her folds are slick and swollen, her arousal coating her inner thighs. You lean in and drag your tongue in one long, slow lick from her entrance to her clit, and the sound she makes is obscene.

"Fuck—"

You do it again, slower this time, savoring the taste of her. She's tangy and slightly sweet, and you will never get tired of this, never get tired of having her fall apart on your tongue. Her hips buck against your face, seeking more friction, but you pin them down with your hands, keeping her still while you explore.

"More," she pants. "Please, more, I need—"

You seal your lips around her clit and suck gently, and her whole body arches off the bed.

"Oh god oh fuck oh—"

You alternate between sucking and licking, learning her rhythms all over again. You know her body so well by now, know exactly what makes her gasp and what makes her moan and what makes her dig her nails into your scalp hard enough to sting. You flatten your tongue against her clit, rubbing in slow circles, and she whimpers above you, her thighs trembling on either side of your head.

"Your mouth," she gasps. "Your fucking mouth, I can't— God, I love you."

You pull back just enough to look up at her. Her tank top has ridden up, exposing the flat plane of her stomach, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Her face is flushed, her lips parted, her eyes glazed with pleasure.

"You taste so good." You punctuate the words with another slow lick. "Could do this for hours."

"Don't you dare— don't you dare stop—" You have no intention of stopping.

You return to her pussy with renewed focus, licking and sucking and teasing until she's writhing beneath you, her moans filling the bedroom, her hands gripping your hair like she's afraid you'll disappear. You slide two fingers inside her while your mouth works her clit, feeling her inner walls clench around you, hot and wet and desperate.

"Yes yes yes, right there! Keep going, babe."

Her whole body is trembling now, every muscle pulled taut, her back arched and her head thrown back against the pillows. You curl your fingers, finding that spot inside her that makes her see stars.

Your fingers pumping steadily, your tongue circling her clit, your free hand splayed across her stomach to feel every shudder and shake. She's so responsive, so beautiful in her pleasure, and you could watch her like this forever.

So you keep the pace, relentless now, your mouth working her with single-minded devotion. Every lick and suck draws another broken sound from her throat, and you drink them in like they're sustenance. Her thighs are shaking on either side of your head, her hips rolling in desperate little circles despite your hands trying to hold her still. She's chasing your mouth, chasing the pleasure, and you let her take what she needs while you give her everything you have.

"Fuck, your tongue is perfect."

Her hands release your hair, and you feel her shift above you. When you glance up without stopping your ministrations, you see her palms pressing against her breasts through the thin fabric of her tank top, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh. Her nipples are hard points poking against the cotton, and she pinches them between her fingers, rolling them, adding to the sensations overwhelming her body.

"That's it," you murmur against her pussy, the vibration of your voice making her gasp. "Touch yourself. Let me see you."

"Feels so good, babe—" She's groping herself desperately now, pulling at her tank top until it bunches up beneath her chin, exposing her bare breasts to the cool air. They're small and perfect, pale with dusky pink nipples that she's abusing with her own fingers, pinching and twisting while you devour her below. The sight of her like this, so lost in pleasure that she's abandoned all pretense of composure, makes your cock throb painfully in your pants.

You redouble your efforts, your tongue flicking rapidly against her swollen clit. She's so wet that your chin is slick with her arousal, and the obscene sounds of your mouth on her pussy fill the room. Wet, slurping, hungry sounds that would be embarrassing if they weren't so fucking hot.

"Please please please! " She's chanting now, the words tumbling out in a breathless stream. "Please I need it I— oh my god!"

You push a third finger inside her alongside the two already buried in her heat. She's so slick, so ready, that they slide in easily, and the stretch makes her cry out. Her inner walls flutter around your fingers, gripping and releasing in desperate pulses. You curl them, pressing against that rough patch of nerves inside her, and her whole body jolts. "Right there! Oh god oh fuck right there don't stop—"

Her hands abandon her breasts to grip the sheets. Her back is arched so severely that only her shoulders and heels are touching the mattress, her body curved like a bow drawn to its limit. Every muscle in her body is trembling, straining, desperate for release.

You give her everything. Your fingers pumping relentlessly, hitting that spot over and over. Your mouth sealed around her clit, sucking in a steady rhythm. Your free hand slides up her body to cup one of her breasts, your thumb brushing across the stiff peak of her nipple, and that's it, that's the final piece.

She shatters.

"Fuck! I'm cumming, I’m—” Her orgasm crashes through her suddenly. Her pussy clamps down on your fingers hard, pulsing rhythmically as wave after wave of pleasure tears through her body. Her thighs slam shut around your head, trapping you against her, but you don't stop, you don't ease up, you work her through every single second of it. Her screams dissolve into wordless sobs of pleasure, her body shaking and convulsing, her arousal gushing against your chin and soaking the sheets beneath her.

You lap at her gently as she comes down, soothing the oversensitive flesh with soft, slow licks. Her thighs gradually release their death grip on your skull, falling open limply against the mattress. Her chest is heaving, her eyes closed, her lips parted as she struggles to catch her breath.

"Holy shit," she whispers. "Holy fucking shit."

You press one last kiss to her pussy, making her twitch, then crawl up her body. She's boneless beneath you, completely wrecked.

You lean down and kiss her.

It's dirty and deep, your tongue pushing past her lips to tangle with hers. She can taste herself on you, you know she can, and she moans into your mouth, sucking on your tongue like she's savoring the flavor.

"Mmm." She breaks the kiss with a satisfied hum, licking her lips. "I taste really good."

You laugh, dropping your forehead to rest against hers. "Conceited."

"It's not conceited if it's true." Her eyes are sparkling, her smile teasing. "You seemed to enjoy it."

"I always enjoy it."

Her hand slides down between your bodies, and you inhale sharply when her palm presses against the bulge straining your dress pants. You're painfully hard, have been since she started grinding in your lap, and her touch - even through layers of fabric - makes your hips jerk involuntarily.

"Someone's excited," she teases, her fingers tracing the outline of your cock through the material.

"Someone's been eating his gorgeous wife's pussy for the last ten minutes. What did you expect?"

"I expected this." She squeezes gently, and you groan. "I was hoping for it, actually."

"Yeah?"

"Mmhm. Your turn now." She tugs at your waistband impatiently. "Take these off. I want to see you." You roll off her just long enough to deal with your remaining clothes. Your belt buckle clinks as you undo it, and you push your pants and underwear down together, kicking them off the edge of the bed. Your cock springs free, hard and flushed and already leaking from the tip. The relief of being freed from the confining fabric makes you sigh.

Yujin props herself up on her elbows, her eyes fixed on your erection with undisguised hunger.

"Come here," she says. "I need you.”

You settle between her legs, your cock resting against her slick folds, and she wraps her long legs around your waist to pull you closer. The tip of your erection nudges against her entrance, catching on the wet heat there, and you both shudder at the contact.

"Missionary?" She raises an eyebrow, a teasing lilt to her voice despite how wrecked she still looks from her orgasm.

"It's what a responsible married couple would do." You shift your hips, letting your cock slide through her folds without entering, coating yourself in her arousal. "Very traditional. Our parents would approve."

"Oh my god." She smacks your shoulder. "Do not talk about our parents while your dick is literally touching my pussy."

"You're right. That wasn't sexy at all."

"The opposite of sexy. The anti-sexy."

"I apologize."

"Good. Now stop teasing and fuck me already."

You line yourself up, the head of your cock pressing against her entrance. You haven't used a condom in months. She's on the pill, has been since before you even started sleeping together, and somewhere along the way you both decided you preferred it without the barrier. There's something intimate about it, something raw. Feeling her with nothing between you. Knowing that when you finish inside her, she'll be full of you for hours afterward.

You push forward.

The first inch makes you both groan. She's still so wet from her orgasm, slick and swollen, but she's tight too, her walls gripping you like a fist as you sink into her. You go slow, savoring every sensation, watching her face as you fill her inch by inch. "Fuck." Her head tips back against the pillows, her eyes fluttering closed. "You feel so big like this."

"Like what?"

"When you go slow." Her nails dig into your shoulders. "I can feel every… every inch of you." You bottom out, your hips flush against hers, your cock buried to the hilt in her tight heat. For a moment you just stay there, fully sheathed inside her, feeling her pulse around you. She's so warm, so wet, her inner walls fluttering and adjusting to the stretch. You could stay like this forever, connected in the most intimate way possible.

But she's impatient.

"Move." Her legs tighten around your waist, her heels digging into your ass. "Please, I need you to move." You pull back slowly, dragging your cock through her gripping heat until only the tip remains inside. Then you thrust forward again, smooth and deep, and the sound she makes is pure pornography.

You set a rhythm. Slow and deep at first, each thrust deliberate, each withdrawal making her whimper at the loss. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting fill the bedroom, obscene and perfect. She's so slick that every time you push into her, you can hear it, that filthy squelching noise that means she's absolutely drenched for you.

"You feel incredible," you tell her. "So fucking tight. So wet."

"It's— fuck— it's because of you." She's panting now, her chest heaving beneath you. "You make me so wet, babe."

You shift your angle slightly, lifting her hips with your hands, and the next thrust hits something deep inside her that makes her cry out. Her back arches off the bed, her nails raking down your back hard enough to leave marks.

"There! Oh fuck right there—"

You hit that spot again. And again. Building a rhythm that has her moaning on every stroke, her pussy clenching around you in desperate pulses. Her tank top is still bunched up under her chin, her breasts exposed, and they bounce with each impact of your hips against hers. Small, perfect, the nipples hard pink peaks that you want to put your mouth on.

So you do.

You lower your head, capturing one nipple between your lips while you continue to thrust into her. You suck hard, flicking your tongue against the stiff peak, and she keens above you, her hands flying to your hair to hold you in place.

"Yes! Suck them, don't stop!" You switch to the other breast, giving it the same treatment. Licking, sucking, gently biting until she's squirming beneath you, overwhelmed by sensation from above and below. Your cock is pumping into her steadily now, faster than before, the slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls. "Harder," she begs. "Please, I need it harder."

You give her what she wants.

Your hips snap forward with more force, driving into her deep and rough. The bed frame creaks beneath you, protesting the intensity, but you don't care. All you care about is the way she feels around you, the way she sounds, the way her whole body shakes with each thrust.

Her legs are wrapped so tight around you that you couldn't pull away if you wanted to. Her heels dig into your ass, urging you deeper, harder, faster. Sweat is beading on your forehead, dripping down onto her chest, and she's just as wrecked, her skin flushed and glistening, her hair a tangled mess against the pillows.

"You take me so well," you growl against her throat, pressing kisses and bites along the column of her neck. "Such a good girl. Taking every inch."

"Your cock! Love your cock so much!”

You pound into her relentlessly, your balls slapping against her ass with each thrust. Her pussy is gripping you so fucking tight now, her inner walls rippling around your shaft like she's trying to milk you dry. You can feel every ridge of her, every flutter and clench, and it's taking everything you have not to lose yourself completely.

"So good," she's babbling now, beyond coherent thought. "So good so good so— oh my god— don't stop— please don't ever stop!" You have no intention of stopping. Not until she's screaming. Not until she's shaking apart beneath you. Not until you've wrung every last drop of pleasure from her body.

Your hand slides between your bodies, finding her clit. You press your thumb against the swollen nub, rubbing in tight circles while you continue to fuck her, and the reaction is immediate.

Her whole body goes rigid, trembling on the edge of something massive. Her nails score lines down your back, her pussy clamping down on you like a vice. She's so close you can feel it, can feel the way her walls are fluttering desperately around your cock.

But you don't let her fall yet.

You push yourself upright, rising to your knees between her spread thighs. The change in angle makes her gasp, your cock shifting inside her, pressing against different spots. From here you can see everything. Her flushed face against the pillows, her heaving chest with those perfect small breasts exposed, the flat plane of her stomach trembling with each breath. And lower, where your bodies are joined, your thick cock stretching her pink pussy wide, glistening with her arousal every time you pull back.

"God, look at you," you breathe, gripping her hips with both hands. "Look at how you take me."

Your hips snap forward in a punishing rhythm, using your grip on her hips to pull her onto your cock as you thrust. The new angle lets you go deeper than before, bottoming out with every stroke, and she's making these broken little sounds every time you hit that spot inside her.

Your right hand leaves her hip and slides down to where you're connected. You find her clit easily, swollen and slippery, and press your thumb against it. The effect is instantaneous. You rub in tight, fast circles, matching the rhythm of your thrusts. Your cock pumping into her from below while your thumb works her clit from above. Double stimulation that has her thrashing on the bed, her head tossing side to side, incoherent sounds spilling from her lips.

"That's it," you encourage, watching her come undone. "Let go. I've got you."

"I can't! It's too much—"

"Yes you can, babe. You can take it."

You've learned her body over these months together. Learned exactly how to touch her, how much pressure she needs, the specific rhythm that makes her fall apart. You know what's building inside her right now, can feel it in the way her pussy is clenching around you, fluttering desperately with each stroke. She's going to squirt for you. She doesn't do it every time, but when she does, it's definitely the hottest thing in the world. "Let me feel it," you coax, your thumb moving faster on her clit. "Let me feel you come all over my cock."

"I'm— something's—"

Her back arches impossibly high, then she’s screaming at the top of her lungs. You can feel it happening, the way her inner walls suddenly clamp down on you hard enough to stop your thrusts, the rhythmic pulsing that starts deep inside her and radiates outward.

Then she gushes.

Clear fluid sprays from her pussy, soaking your stomach, your thighs, the sheets beneath you. It comes in waves, each pulse of her orgasm pushing more out of her, and you don't stop, you keep fucking her through it, keep rubbing her clit even as she floods you with her release.

Her eyes have rolled back in her head, only the whites visible, her whole body convulsing with pleasure. She's completely gone, lost in the overwhelming sensation, and you've never seen anything more beautiful. Ahn Yujin, undone and wrecked and squirting all over you because you learned exactly how to take her apart.

You slow your thrusts as she comes down, gentling your touch on her oversensitive clit. Her body is still twitching with aftershocks, little tremors running through her muscles, her chest heaving as she gasps for air. The sheets beneath her are soaked, dark with her release, and you're dripping with it too, her arousal cooling on your skin.

"Holy shit," she breathes when she finally remembers how to speak. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. "That was— I can't feel my legs."

"You squirted so hard." You can't keep the awe out of your voice. "God, you're incredible."

She laughs weakly, still trying to catch her breath. Her hands are shaking as she reaches down to grab the hem of her tank top, the one that's been bunched up uselessly under her chin this whole time. She pulls it over her head and tosses it aside, finally completely naked beneath you.

"Mmm." She stretches luxuriously, her body long and lean and glistening with sweat. Her nipples are still hard, her skin flushed pink from her face down to her chest. "That was amazing."

"Was?" You raise an eyebrow, your cock still hard inside her, twitching at the way her walls are still fluttering around you. "We're not done."

Her lips curve into that wicked smile you love so much.

"Good." She rolls her hips experimentally, making you both groan. "Because I want more."

"Good." Her lips curve into that wicked smile you love so much. "Because I want more." Before you can respond, her hands are on your chest, pushing you backward. You go willingly, letting her guide you down until your back hits the mattress and she's rising above you, straddling your hips. Your cock slips out of her briefly during the transition and you both hiss at the loss, but then she's reaching down, wrapping her fingers around your slick shaft, and positioning you at her entrance again.

"I love it when a woman takes control," you say, grinning up at her.

"I know you do." She sinks down onto you slowly, inch by agonizing inch, her eyes never leaving yours. "You probably liked it when I was cold with you too. Back at the beginning."

"No."

She raises an eyebrow, fully seated now, your cock buried to the hilt inside her tight heat.

"Maybe."

She rolls her hips experimentally, and you groan. "Just a little."

"Knew it." She's smiling, that beautiful smile that shows her dimples. "You're into ice queens."

"I'm into you. Whatever version of you I can get."

She braces her hands on your chest and starts to move. Slow. So fucking slow it's almost torturous. She lifts herself up, her pussy dragging along your shaft, gripping you tight the whole way, until just the tip remains inside. Then she sinks back down, taking you deep, her eyes fluttering closed as she savors the sensation of being filled.

"Mmmmm." The sound she makes is pure satisfaction. "You feel so good inside me."

"You look incredible up there."

And she does. God, she really does. Ahn Yujin, naked and flushed, straddling your hips, your cock buried in her pussy. Her long dark hair is a mess, tangled and wild from the way she was thrashing against the pillows earlier. Her breasts are perfect, nipples hard and pink, swaying gently with each movement of her body. Her stomach is taut, muscles flexing as she rides you. And her face - that beautiful face that graces magazine covers and music videos - is soft with pleasure, those cute dimples on full display as she smiles down at you.

"You're staring again," she teases, establishing a steady rhythm now. Up and down, up and down, slow and sensual.

"Can't help it. My wife is hot as fuck."

"Flatterer."

"Truth-teller." She laughs, and you feel it around your cock, her inner walls squeezing you briefly. Your hands find her thighs, stroking the smooth skin there, marveling at the lean muscle beneath. Dancer's legs. Idol's legs. Your wife's legs. "I could watch you like this forever," you tell her. "Just riding me. Taking your pleasure. Using me however you want."

"Mmm, I like that." She plants her hands more firmly on your chest, changing her angle slightly. The next time she sinks down, you both moan at the new sensation. "You, at my mercy. Lying there while I fuck myself on your cock."

"Dirty mouth."

She bites her lower lip, then smiles. "You love it, pretty boy."

She picks up the pace just slightly, still nowhere near fast, but there's more purpose to her movements now. Each roll of her hips grinds her clit against your pubic bone, and you can see the way her breath catches every time, the way her lips part on a silent gasp. She's chasing her pleasure, using your body exactly like you told her to.

Your hands slide up from her thighs to her hips, not guiding, just holding. Feeling the way her muscles work as she moves. She's so strong, so graceful, every movement controlled and deliberate. Years of choreography have given her an awareness of her body that translates beautifully to this context, each rise and fall perfectly timed, perfectly executed.

"Yeah… just like that…"

She's talking to herself more than to you now, lost in the sensation, her head tipping back to expose the long column of her throat. You want to put your mouth there, want to suck marks into her skin, but you also don't want to disrupt her rhythm. So you just watch, memorizing every detail. The way her throat moves when she swallows. The sheen of sweat on her collarbones. The bounce of her breasts with each movement.

"Touch me," she demands without looking down. "My tits. Touch them." Your hands slide up her body immediately, cupping her breasts in your palms. They're small enough that you can cover them completely, the hard points of her nipples pressing into your skin. You squeeze gently, then harder when she moans her approval. "Fuck! Yes, like that."

You roll her nipples between your fingers, pinching and tugging the way you know she likes. Her rhythm stutters for a moment, her hips jerking, and you feel her pussy clench around you in response. She's so wet, so hot, her arousal coating your cock and dripping down to your balls.

"You're so wet for me," you murmur, pinching her nipples again. "Can hear how much you want it."

"Always— ahhh— always want you, babe—"

She's riding you faster now, her body finding a rhythm that works for both of you. Not frantic, not desperate, just steady and deep and perfect. Her hands have moved from your chest to your shoulders, using the leverage to lift herself higher on each stroke before slamming back down.

"That's it," you encourage, your hands dropping back to her hips to help guide her movements. "Ride me just like that. Take what you need."

Her dimples flash again as she smiles down at you, and even after two years, you can't help but fall in love with her all over again. This woman. This impossible, beautiful, talented woman who started as a reluctant stranger and became the love of your life. She's riding your cock and smiling at you with those dimples and you've never been happier than you are right now.

"I love you," you tell her, and you don't mean it to sound so intense, so raw, but it comes out that way anyway.

Her rhythm doesn't falter, but her expression softens. "I love you too." She leans down, changing the angle again, and presses a kiss to your lips. It's messy and uncoordinated, hard to maintain while she's still moving, but you don't care. "So much. Can't believe I almost missed this."

"You didn't miss it. We're here."

"We're here." She straightens up again, her hands finding your chest once more, and grinds down hard. "And I'm going to ride you until I can't remember my own name."

"Please do.”

She keeps moving, but the rhythm shifts. She's bouncing on you properly now, using her powerful thighs to lift herself almost completely off your cock before dropping back down. Her tits bounce with each impact, hypnotic, and her face is twisted in pleasure, those dimples long gone, replaced by parted lips and fluttering eyelashes. She's not smiling anymore. She's too far gone for that.

"That's it," you groan, your hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. "Use me. Take what you need."

She plants her hands on your chest for leverage and really starts to ride. Fast and hard and desperate, her ass slapping against your thighs with every downstroke, her pussy gripping you like a vice. You can feel every ridge of her inner walls, every flutter and clench, and the pressure is building at the base of your spine, that familiar coiling tension that means you're not going to last much longer.

"Yujin, fuck…you feel so good."

She's using you. Really, truly using you, chasing her pleasure with single-minded focus. Her body is working above you, her hips snapping in a rhythm that's driving you both toward the edge. Sweat is dripping down her chest, between her breasts, and you want to lick it off but you can't move, can't do anything but lie there and let her take what she wants. "So close," she gasps, her movements becoming erratic. "So fucking close— need you—"

"What do you need? Tell me."

"Need you to cum." Her eyes lock onto yours. "Need you to fill me up. Please— please cum inside me."

"Yeah?" Your hips are thrusting up to meet hers now, unable to stay still. "Want me to fill this pretty pussy?"

"Yes, yes— want your cum so bad, babe."

She's bouncing faster, harder, her pussy making the filthiest sounds as she rides you. Slick and wet and desperate, her arousal coating your cock and dripping down to pool at the base. You can feel yourself getting closer with every stroke, that pressure building and building until it's almost unbearable.

"Gonna cum so deep inside you," you promise. "Gonna fill you up until it's dripping out."

"Please please please!" She's chanting now, beyond coherent thought. "Cum in me, I need it! need to feel you, please—"

"Beg for it."

"I'm begging, fuck, I'm begging you to cum inside me—" Her words are interrupted by a moan. "I'm such a cumslut for you, need your load. Please please please fill me up!"

That word on her lips - cumslut - spoken in that desperate, wrecked tone, is what breaks you.

Your hands clamp down on her hips, holding her still as your cock pulses inside her. The first spurt of cum shoots deep into her pussy, hot and thick, and you groan loud. Your hips jerk uncontrollably, pumping more and more cum into her, filling her up just like she begged you to.

"Oh god, I can feel it!" Her eyes go wide, her whole body shuddering. "I can feel you cumming, I— Fuck!”

The sensation of your release inside her triggers her own. She shatters with a scream, her pussy clamping down on you so hard it almost hurts. Her whole body goes rigid above you, every muscle locking up, and then she's convulsing, trembling, her inner walls milking your cock in rhythmic pulses that draw out every last drop of your cum. You can feel her fluttering around you, can feel the way her orgasm ripples through her body, and it's the most incredible sensation in the world.

She's trembling uncontrollably, her thighs shaking on either side of your hips, her hands gripping your chest. Her pussy keeps squeezing you, milking you, even as the aftershocks roll through her body. You're both panting, both wrecked, sweat-slick skin pressed together where her body meets yours.

"Fuck," she breathes, and then she collapses.

Her full weight lands on your chest, her face buried in your neck, her body still twitching with little tremors. Your cock is softening inside her but neither of you moves to separate. You can feel your cum inside her, warm and thick, and a small trickle of it leaking out around your shaft to drip down your balls.

"Holy shit," you manage.

"Mmmph." She doesn't lift her head. "Can't move. Dead. You killed me."

"What a way to go." She laughs weakly against your throat, and then she's lifting her head, just enough to find your mouth. The kiss is sloppy, uncoordinated, more breath than technique, but it's perfect. You can taste the salt of sweat on her lips, can feel her smile against your mouth.

"I love you," she murmurs between kisses.

"I love you too."

She lays her head back down on your chest, her body going boneless on top of you. Your softening cock slips out of her and you both wince slightly at the sensation. More cum drips out of her, you can feel it on your thighs; it's filthy, perfect and exactly what you both needed.

—

You've never been this nervous in your entire life. And that's saying something, because you've had some pretty nerve-wracking moments. The first dinner with Yujin, when she laid out the terms of your fake marriage. The wedding ceremony, saying vows you didn't know yet if you'd ever mean. The day the news broke and you watched her career teeter on the edge of destruction. The first time she said she loved you and you thought you might actually pass out.

But this. This is different.

You're sitting on the couch, and your leg won't stop bouncing. You've been sitting here for approximately three minutes, which feels like three hours, while Yujin is in the bathroom.

You run your hands through your hair for the fifteenth time. Stand up. Sit back down. Pick up your phone, put it back down without looking at it. Consider pacing but decide that's too dramatic. Resume bouncing your leg.

The bathroom door opens.

You're on your feet before you even realize you've moved. "So what?! What does it say? What—"

Yujin walks toward you. She's holding the test in her hand, the little plastic stick that's about to change everything. She stops in front of you, looks down at it, then looks up at you.

And holds it out.

Two lines. Clear as day. Unmistakable. Positive.

"I'm pregnant," she says softly.

You don't collapse so much as your legs simply stop working. One moment you're standing, the next you're sitting on the couch. Your vision goes slightly fuzzy around the edges. There's a ringing in your ears. "Hey. Hey, look at me." Yujin is kneeling in front of you now, her hands on your knees, her face swimming into focus. "Take a deep breath. Come on, in and out. There you go."

You breathe. In and out. In and out. The ringing fades slightly.

"Stay here. I'm getting you water." She disappears briefly and returns with a glass, pressing it into your shaking hands. You drink automatically, not really tasting it, your brain still trying to process the information it's been given. "It's okay,” she reassures you. "Everything's going to be alright. This is a magical moment, you know? One of the most important moments in a man's life. Finding out you're going to be a father. It's overwhelming. It's okay to feel overwhelmed."

She's rubbing your knee gently, looking up at you with those warm eyes, and something in the back of your malfunctioning brain finally clicks into place. "Wait a minute." You set the water glass down, blinking at her. "Wait. Hold on. You're the one who's pregnant."

"Yeah, that's generally how it works."

"So why am I the one having a breakdown while you comfort me?" I should be— here, sit down."

You pull her up onto the couch beside you, taking her hands in yours. "How are you feeling? Really. Tell me."

"Nervous." She laughs, a little breathless. "Really nervous. And excited. And scared. And happy." Her eyes are getting shiny. "Really, really happy. I can't even believe this is happening. Like, I keep looking at the test and expecting it to be wrong somehow. Expecting to wake up."

"It's real."

"It's real." A tear escapes, rolling down her cheek, and she laughs again, wiping it away. "God, I'm such a mess. My hormones are probably already going crazy."

"You're allowed to be a mess. You're growing a human being."

"We're growing a human being." She squeezes your hands. "This is ours. Yours and mine."

The weight of that hits you. Yours and mine. A child. A family.

"Six years," you say softly. "Last month was six years."

"I know." Her smile is watery but bright. "I can't believe it's been that long. I can't believe how much has changed."

Six years since that first awkward dinner. Six years since she told you the marriage was just on paper. Six years of slow mornings and late nights, of learning each other's rhythms, of fighting and making up and falling deeper in love with every passing day. Six years of birthdays and anniversaries and holidays, of career highs and industry scandals, of building something real from something that started as fake. "We went to Antarctica," you say, and you can't help but grin.

"We went to Antarctica." She laughs, shaking her head. "I still can't believe I let you talk me into that."

"You loved it,” you remember her.

"I was freezing the entire time."

"But you loved the penguins."

"The penguins were cute," she admits. "Everything else was miserable."

"Agree to disagree."

She laughs, recalling the absurdities of that trip, then her mind returns to the present situation. "This timing is crazy," she says, echoing your thoughts. "I just left IVE. I was supposed to be focusing on solo stuff. Acting. All these new opportunities."

"Those things will still be there. After."

"I know. It's just..." She sighs, leaning into you. "I had this whole plan. Solo debut next year, that drama offer I was considering, maybe some variety shows to keep my face out there. And now..."

"Now you have a different plan." You wrap an arm around her, pulling her close. "A better one."

"Do you really think so?"

"I think we're going to be amazing parents."

"You do?"

"I hope so, anyway." You pause, considering. "I mean, I'm going to prepare myself. I'm going to read books. There's this one called How Not to Kill Your Baby. Very popular, apparently."

Yujin pulls back to stare at you. "That cannot be the title of a book."

"I swear it is."

"No professional would use that title. That's not a real book."

"It's absolutely real. Bestseller, I swear.”

"Come on, you're making this up."

"I'm not! Okay, yes," you admit, breaking into a grin. "I made it up. But wouldn't it be cool if there was a book with that title?”

She's laughing again, burying her face in your shoulder. "You're so fucking ridiculous."

"You married me."

"I did." She lifts her head, and her eyes are shining with tears and joy. "I married you, and now I'm having your baby, and I love you so much it's actually stupid."

"I love you too." You cup her face in your hands, wiping away the tears with your thumbs. "So much. I've loved you for so long now that I can't remember what it felt like before."

She leans in and kisses you. Soft and sweet and full of promise. Full of everything you've built together and everything that's still to come. "We've been through so much," she murmurs against your lips. "Do you ever think about that? How crazy our story is?"

"All the time."

"I still remember when the marriage got revealed." She shudders slightly. "I thought my career was over. I really did. The backlash was so intense, and everyone was saying I'd betrayed the fans, and I thought... I thought I'd lost everything."

"But you didn't."

"I didn't." She smiles. "I gave them an ultimatum. Accept my marriage or lose me entirely. And they chose me."

"Of course they did. You're Ahn Yujin. You're irreplaceable."

"You're biased."

"Completely. Doesn't make it less true."

She takes your hand, interlacing your fingers, and looks down at them for a long moment. "Our story would make a great movie," she says softly.

"And we could take some creative liberties with the film’s script and give it a sense of suspense, leaning into the whole thing with our families. The wedding in the movie would be more like a ritual, kind of Eyes Wide Shut–style."

"What?" She looks up at you, horrified. "No. Not like Eyes Wide Shut. Why would you— that's not even— You know what? Forget I said anything. Forget the movie comparison. I should have known better."

"In my defense, you knew exactly who you were marrying."

"I did." She sighs, fond and exasperated in equal measure. "God help me, I did." She kisses you again, longer this time, deeper. Her hand comes up to rest on your chest, right over your heart, and you wonder if she can feel how fast it's beating. For her. For your child. For the life you're about to begin.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours. "We're going to be parents,” she whispers.

"Terrifying,” you say.

"Exciting,” she retorts.

"Both." You kiss her forehead. She settles against you, her head on your shoulder, your arms wrapped around her. Outside of this expensive penthouse, nobody knows that two people who started as reluctant strangers have somehow become a family.

"I love you," she says softly.

"I love you too. Both of you." Her hand drifts down to rest on her still-flat stomach, and yours covers it.

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