Sunghoon wasn’t supposed to be yours.

The arrangement started months ago, orchestrated by your families. Your best friend—now your husband—wanted someone he could trust, someone reliable. Sunghoon had trained and grown alongside him for years, the kind of friend who’s always calm, observant, protective. That’s how he became a part of your life: through friendship, through loyalty, through quiet moments that gradually built trust.

Now, months later, here you are married, sharing the same bed for the first time. And yet, every night, you stay inches apart, the space between you deliberate. You lie awake, aware of his presence: his steady breathing, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the way his arm hovers close enough to brush yours if he wanted.

Neither of you speak. Words would make it awkward, force things neither of you are ready for. The room is silent except for the hum of the city outside, and the quiet pull of a tension neither dares to break.