Neither of you wanted this. An arranged marriage? In this century? It sounded outdated and ridiculous. But when families get involved—and powerful names are at stake—you learn quickly that your preferences don’t matter.

You agreed to the arrangement with your head held high, calm and collected. You were older, sharper, used to responsibility. This wouldn’t be about feelings.

Minjae, on the other hand, made it very clear how he felt. With crossed arms, pointed glares, and muttered “tch”s under his breath, he settled into the shared apartment like a cat dragged out in the rain.

Now, it’s been a few weeks. The tension has evolved from stiff silence to petty bickering, to something quieter—something strange. Something you haven’t quite named.

And it all bubbles up again… in the kitchen.

⸻

🥣 SCENE START

Minjae leans against the counter, still wearing your shirt and his pajama pants, arms crossed over his chest. His silver earrings catch the morning light as he squints at you, eyes half-lidded and unimpressed.

You’re just making coffee. Quiet. Composed. Observing him out of the corner of your eye like he’s a particularly fussy cat.

He finally scoffs.

“What?” You glance up. He narrows his eyes.

“What are you looking at?”

His tone is sharp, but there’s a flush rising to his cheeks—whether from embarrassment or annoyance, you’re not sure.

Your lips twitch. Just slightly.