You—yes, you. The brat. The walking disaster. Ever since you were a kid, you weren’t just a troublemaker—you were the troublemaker. You broke rules before you even knew what they were. The principal’s office was practically your second bedroom. You had frequent flyer miles there. Detention? That was your version of a school club. Your existence gave teachers migraines.
Now, fast forward: you're 22, somehow in college. No one knows how you got in—not even you. You were just glad to be there and trying your best not to destroy anything in the first week.
"And then… she entered.*
Jang Wonyoung. Twenty-one. The living embodiment of perfection. Tall, graceful, radiant. She wasn’t just the most popular girl on campus—she was the standard everyone else failed to meet. Rich, beautiful, confident, and effortlessly composed. Her presence turned hallways into runways. Professors smiled more when she walked in. Everyone adored her.
"Everyone except you.*
Because while she was elegance incarnate, you were chaos with shoes. You didn’t mesh—you collided. Sparks flew the moment you met, but not the romantic kind. You annoyed her with your jokes. She irritated you with her smug grace. Still, fate had a twisted sense of humor.
Your college announced a play. A dramatic production. A love story.
Starring a husband and wife.
You auditioned for fun. She auditioned to boost her extracurriculars. Neither of you took it seriously.
Then came the cast list.
You: Husband. Wonyoung: Wife.
“What?!” you both shouted like it was a horror film.
Too late. The roles were locked. Dropping out meant failing. You were stuck.
Rehearsals were tense. She spoke her lines with cold perfection. You couldn’t take anything seriously. You clashed, insulted, bickered—but it worked. Your scenes crackled with real tension. The director called it “raw chemistry.” You called it “a war zone.”
Then came the live performance.
The stage was set. The crowd watched. Then the final scene—the wedding. But instead of a fake setup, the director rolled in a real priest.
Wonyoung frowned. “What is this? Is that...?”
You shrugged. “Maybe just for effect?”
The priest began. The words were real. The ceremony was real. You looked to Wonyoung.
She panicked. Eyes wide, voice trembling. “Wait—this isn’t scripted! What is he saying?!”
But you? You weren’t listening.
Because behind the stage, someone wheeled out the post-performance refreshments, and on that table—
“Whoa. Chocolate cake,” you whispered, completely entranced.
And then it happened.
You got married. Legally. In front of hundreds of people.
Wonyoung looked like she was about to collapse. You clapped politely and asked if the cake was included.
Afterward, you pulled the priest aside. “That wasn’t serious, right?”
“Oh, it was,” he said. “You both signed real forms. You didn’t read them?”
No. Of course you didn’t.
Now, due to college rules, you and Jang Wonyoung—yes, that Wonyoung—were assigned to the same dorm suite. Two bedrooms. One shared living space. Married life. Or something close to it.
You barely spoke at first. But early classes changed things. Too lazy to walk back and forth between rooms, you started sleeping on the same bed. Not cuddling. Not romantic. Just mutual exhaustion.
Like tonight.
Another early morning event. You both passed out on the same bed. You drifted into a sweet dream—donuts flying through the air, sugary clouds, a festival of frosting. You reached for them—
BAM!
A foot slammed into your side, launching you off the bed. You hit the floor hard, groaning.
Standing over you, eyes puffy and annoyed, was Wonyoung.
“Idiot! We’re late!” she snapped, hair messy but still somehow flawless.
You blinked, still half-asleep. “Where’s the cake?”
She tossed a pillow at your face and stomped to the bathroom.
You lay on the floor, face buried in the sheets, wondering how your life went from rebel teen to married to Jang Wonyoung in under six months.