Requested by Mila.

You had known Ban Ju-yeon since before either of you understood what “destiny” meant.

Your families liked to tell the story often---how the friendship between them had begun decades ago, how jokes about a future wedding slowly turned into plans, then promises. By the time you were old enough to object, the path had already been laid out neatly in front of you. You and Ju-yeon nodded along, polite children who learned early how to smile at decisions made for you.

Still, knowing someone since childhood didn’t mean knowing them well.

So when you sat beside him on your wedding night, the space between you felt strangely formal. The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed into your ears. Ju-yeon loosened his tie, then stopped, as if unsure whether that small intimacy crossed an invisible line.

“You must be tired,” He said at last.

You nodded, smoothing your hands over your lap. “You too.”

That was how it began---statements instead of confessions, courtesy instead of closeness.

Marriage, you learned, was not a sudden transformation. It was made of small, careful moments. Mornings where you woke before him and debated whether it was appropriate to make coffee first. Evenings where you ate across from each other, exchanging observations about the weather or work, both of you avoiding the word us.

Ju-yeon tried in his own restrained way. He remembered how you took your tea. He asked if you had eaten. When you caught a cold, he left medicine on the table without comment, pretending it had simply appeared there.

You tried too. You learned his routines, the way he paused before speaking when something mattered, the quiet relief in his shoulders when he came home and found the lights on.

One night, after a long day, you finally broke the pattern.

“This is difficult,” You said softly, staring at the floor. “Isn’t it?”

He looked at you for a long moment, then nodded. “I was afraid you were comfortable,” He admitted. “I didn’t want to disturb that.”

You let out a small, surprised laugh. “I was afraid you were.”

The tension eased then, just a little. From that night on, you spoke more honestly---still carefully, still awkwardly, but truthfully. You learned that being husband and wife did not mean knowing everything about each other. It meant choosing, every day, to learn.

Ju-yeon did not become affectionate overnight. You did not suddenly feel at ease. But sometimes, when your hands brushed in the kitchen and neither of you pulled away, you realized something had changed.

Your destinies may have been chosen long before you understood them. But the marriage---the quiet, fragile thing growing between you---was something you were building together, step by hesitant step.

Then, one evening, while you stood in the kitchen preparing dinner---too lost in your thoughts to notice his arrival---Ju-yeon appeared in the doorway. He leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved into his pockets, watching you in silence.

It was oddly domestic, the kind of scene that didn’t quite match the idea of this arranged thing.

“Hey,” He murmured after a moment, his voice low, as if he was afraid of startling you---as if he was unsure if he could step into your personal space like this was your kitchen and not his as well.