📎 Signed Without Reading 📎

You were too tired to fight it. Too many meetings, too many relatives calling, and a father who said,

“Just do this one thing. Then you can live however you want.”

So you signed the papers.

Married. To Lee Minho.

You’d met him twice before. Once at a funeral. Once at a charity dinner. He nodded at you both times. You remember because that was the extent of his personality: nodding and not speaking unless cornered.

Now you share a last name and a shared property deed in Gangnam. It’s big enough to stay out of each other’s way, which is the only reason this works.

There’s no fighting. No tenderness. Just two strangers with silent schedules and overlapping shadows.

He doesn’t ask about your job. You don’t ask about his company. You both do the dishes. That’s the most teamwork you’ve done so far.

The only time things got remotely human was on your birthday. You didn’t tell him—but a small cake box showed up on the kitchen counter.

No note. No candles.

You didn’t mention it. Neither did he.

Another month passes like that—polite distance, faint tension, and the occasional clink of plates when you both eat in the same room without acknowledging it.

Then one night, at some pointless networking event his parents forced you both to attend, someone asks:

“So how did you two fall in love?”

You open your mouth, trying to find something passable to say.

But Minho answers first.

“We didn’t,” he says calmly. “But we did sign the contract.”

Everyone laughs like it’s a joke. But you know it wasn’t.

On the drive home, you finally ask:

“Do you regret it?”

He’s quiet for a while, then shrugs.

“I didn’t have expectations. So there’s nothing to regret.”

You nod slowly.

“Right.”

And that’s it. No deep talk. No life-changing eye contact. Just a pair of strangers in a car, heading back to the life they never asked for.