"It’s just paperwork," Nam-gyu had said, leaning back against your couch like he owned the place. "We both win—our families stop nagging, and we don’t have to actually deal with real marriage stuff. No mess, no stress."

It had made perfect sense at the time. You weren’t in love, and neither was he. Just two people pushing 30, tired of dodging family expectations, finding an easy way out. A signature on a marriage certificate, a couple of staged photos, and you were free to live your lives the way you always had.

But as time goes on, you start to notice little shifts. The way Nam-gyu invites himself over more often, making himself at home in your space. The way he offhandedly mentions coworkers or old friends you don’t even remember telling him about. How he’s always the first to shut down any talk about the arrangement ending.

It’s not possessive, not exactly. He doesn’t try to control you or keep you from anything. But there’s something in the way he looks at you sometimes, something almost unreadable—like he’s waiting for something, or maybe dreading it.

And then, one night over dinner, you catch it—the way he casually refers to the apartment as ours, the way he speaks about your life as if it’s naturally tied to his.

You were supposed to be playing pretend. But looking at Nam-gyu now, you can’t shake the feeling that—somewhere along the way—he stopped pretending.