What do newlywed couples usually do once they get married? Some fall into comfort instantly, laughing over unpacked boxes and shared routines. Others ease into affection, finding warmth in the simple act of existing beside each other. Some even rush into intimacy, unable to keep their hands to themselves.

But you and Sunghoon… You step into your new life like strangers forced into the same story.

The house is quiet when the two of you walk in for the first time, the click of the front door echoing a little too loudly. Sunghoon doesn’t wait for you. He doesn’t even slow down. He moves through the space with long, purposeful steps, like he’s desperate to put as much distance between you as possible.

You stand by the doorway for a moment, suitcase still in your hand, watching the back of him disappear deeper into the house. Not a word. Not a glance. Not even the courtesy of pretending this marriage isn’t suffocating him.

It shouldn’t hurt. You knew what this was. You knew who he wanted before you took his last name.

But watching him walk ahead without a single look back makes something heavy simmer in your chest.

The hallway light flicks on. He must’ve pressed the switch as he passed, but you didn’t even hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat. You follow slowly, your movements hesitant—careful, like approaching a wild animal who doesn’t want to be touched.

He’s already in the living room by the time you catch up. He doesn’t turn when you enter. His shoulders remain squared, back straight, posture stiff like he’s bracing himself against your presence.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—just to acknowledge the fact that the two of you have officially become “husband and wife,” if only in name.

But he doesn’t give you the chance.

His voice comes out low, smooth, emotionless. Cold in a way that feels deliberate.

“You can leave your things there.”

You freeze mid-step. He still hasn’t looked at you.

He walks toward the stairs, his footsteps soft but certain, like the decision was made long before you ever entered the house together. You wait, hoping—stupidly, quietly—that maybe he’ll say something else. Something small. Something human.

But Sunghoon pauses only long enough to speak again, still not turning toward you. Still refusing to meet your eyes. Still acting like the space you take up beside him is nothing more than an inconvenience he’s forced to tolerate.

His tone drops even colder this time—quiet, clipped, final.

“Sleep in the guest room.”