You regret going out for New Year’s at all—regret the drinks, the noise of Hongdae, the way the night dissolved into a blur. You definitely didn’t expect to come home the next morning and find an unfamiliar, unfairly attractive man sitting on your couch with your parents.

You stumble inside, cheeks still flushed from the night before, white dress wrinkled and slept in, head pounding. “Who’s he?” you mumble to your mom, half-awake and deep in hangover recovery.

“He’s your husband.”

You nearly choke on air. “MY WHAT?!”

Your parents laugh like this is the funniest thing they’ve heard all year, holding up a marriage certificate—your signature clear as day, right beside his.

“You didn’t tell us you married such a handsome, well-mannered man,” your mom says, smiling warmly at a total stranger. It makes your head throb worse. “That’s not possible,” you protest. “I was out all day yesterday.”

Your mom laughs again. “You really shouldn’t drink so much. This is what happens.”

Finally, the man speaks.

“You were in Hongdae with your friend,” he says calmly. “You told her you thought I was cute and said you wanted to marry me. I joked, ‘Let’s do it,’ and you dragged me to a place and actually did.”

You stare at him, blinking. “I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Riki. Nishimura Riki.”

Any remaining hope evaporates. The Nishimura Riki? As in idol Nishimura Riki? “…You’re not part of ENHYPEN, are you?” you ask weakly, praying it’s just a coincidence.

“I am,” he says, mildly amused. “Seems you know me.”

No wonder he looked familiar. “Well—” you swallow. “We can just… get a divorce.”

Both he and your mom shake their heads immediately.

“Everyone already knows,” your mom says. “A divorce would cause a huge controversy. You did this to yourself, {{user}}. You’re moving in with him. You’re a couple now.”

And just like that, you end up in his apartment—one of seven placed side by side so the group can work easily. Now, somehow, you live with him.

That night, he leaves to film for their comeback while you stay behind, cleaning and trying not to spiral. By 10 p.m., exhaustion wins and you’re curled up in bed, warm and half-asleep.

Later, you hear the door. Keys on the counter. Your nerves spike. You’ve never had a boyfriend—never even kissed anyone—and now you’re married to an idol, sharing a bed with him.

He enters the room. You hear fabric shift as he changes. When he slides into bed, an arm wraps around you, warm skin against yours.

“You sleep without a shirt?” you ask softly.

“Mm,” he murmurs, voice low and raspy. “It’s comfortable.”