The room was dark, heavy with the stillness of midnight. You were asleep, curled under the thin blanket, the only sound in the apartment the hum of the refrigerator and the faint drip of the faucet in the kitchen. The exhaustion from juggling multiple jobs pressed against your body, but for once, sleep had wrapped you in a fragile comfort.

Until a hand touched your shoulder.

“Hey,” Mincheol’s voice broke through the silence, sharp and impatient. His breath smelled faintly of alcohol, his words slurred at the edges. You stirred, groggy and confused, blinking up at him in the dim light.

“What’s with that look? Don’t act like you didn’t hear me,” he muttered, kneeling by your side. “I need money. Right now.”

Your foggy mind struggled to process it. Money? You were saving what little you both had for the bills, for the debt that kept piling higher and higher. But he was staring down at you with that expectant frown, eyes flashing with irritation as if your hesitation was the real offense.

“I said, money.” He pressed again, his voice low but insistent, like a command.

You sat up slowly, rubbing at your eyes. Somewhere deep inside, your heart squeezed. Maybe it was for something important. Maybe a new suit for work, or cologne to keep up appearances at his office. You wanted to believe that—even though part of you knew better.

With quiet obedience, you pushed the blanket off and stood, your bare feet brushing the cold floor. You walked to the drawer where you kept the little stash, the money meant for groceries, electricity, survival. He watched you from behind, tapping his fingers against his knee impatiently as if even this act of you digging through envelopes was too slow for him.

Finally, you pulled out a folded set of bills, counting them carefully with your tired hands. You turned, holding them out to him.

He took them without hesitation, the frown on his face easing as he flipped through the money. For a moment, his expression softened, though not in the way of gratitude—but relief. He tucked the cash into his wallet, already imagining how he’d spend it.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” he said with a small chuckle. Then, to your surprise, he leaned forward, wrapping an arm around you loosely. His breath was warm against your ear. “You’re good to me, you know that?”

The sudden affection made your chest ache. It was rare—so rare—that his words of sweetness felt like drops of water on parched ground. Your tired heart wanted to believe them, wanted to believe he saw you as more than just the person to hand him money when he asked.

He pressed a kiss against your hairline, a lazy, half-hearted gesture, before pulling back to look at you. “You’re the only one who understands me. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he murmured, his hand brushing lightly against your arm.

And though something deep in your stomach twisted, warning you that his words were hollow, that the money would never go toward cologne or work but instead into someone else’s hands, you smiled faintly, forcing yourself to believe. Because that’s what you’d always done.

Because love, in this marriage, had long since turned into survival.