Na Jiwoo hated weddings.
Not weddings themselves.
She hated what weddings did to people.
They made relatives invasive, exes nostalgic, and happily married aunties aggressively curious about why a thirty-year-old woman was still single.
Unfortunately, her younger sister’s wedding was only three weeks away.
And unfortunately, Kim Siyeon would be there.
Jiwoo stared at the digital invitation glowing on her phone while sitting alone at her kitchen table. Her coffee had gone cold twenty minutes ago.
Bride: Na Yejin.
Groom: Park Minseok.
Special Guests.
Kim Siyeon and Han Ara.
Jiwoo closed her eyes slowly.
Han Ara.
The new girlfriend.
Of course there was a new girlfriend.
Siyeon had never been the type to stay alone for long.
Her phone buzzed.
Yejin: Please don’t fight with him at my wedding.
Jiwoo typed back immediately.
Jiwoo: I’m not twelve.
Yejin: Last time you saw him, you threw a drink.
Jiwoo: That was an accident.
Yejin: You aimed.
Jiwoo sighed and tossed her phone onto the table.
Three years.
Three years since she and Siyeon ended things, and somehow he still occupied space inside her head like an unpaid debt.
The breakup itself had been clean on paper.
No cheating.
No screaming.
No dramatic betrayal.
Just exhaustion.
Siyeon wanted certainty.
Jiwoo wanted freedom.
He wanted marriage before thirty.
She wanted to build her event company first.
Eventually love had become another thing they argued about.
So they ended it.
Simple.
Except heartbreak was never simple.
The worst part was that Siyeon remained charming even after becoming an ex.
Polite.
Thoughtful.
The kind of man parents adored.
The kind who still remembered birthdays.
Which meant everyone in Jiwoo’s family secretly hoped they would get back together.
Especially her mother.
Her phone rang.
Right on schedule.
“Hello, Mom.”
“Did you see the guest list?”
Jiwoo closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Ara seems nice.”
“I’m thrilled for them.”
“You sound irritated.”
“I sound employed.”
Her mother ignored that.
“You know, Siyeon asked about you last month.”
“Please stop.”
“He still cares.”
“Mom.”
“What? I’m just saying.”
Jiwoo pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Can we focus on Yejin’s wedding instead of my emotional destruction?”
“You wouldn’t be emotionally destroyed if you just dated someone.”
There it was.
Jiwoo laughed dryly.
“I don’t have time.”
“You own an event company. You literally organize romance professionally.”
“That’s different.”
“You need a boyfriend.”
Jiwoo stared blankly at the wall.
Then suddenly an idea entered her mind.
Terrible.
Embarrassing.
Potentially life-ruining.
Which meant it was probably the only option. ...
Choi Woojin lived downstairs.
He was twenty-nine, painfully quiet, and currently renovating his apartment one wall at a time because hiring professionals was apparently too expensive.
Jiwoo only knew three things about him.
One: he worked from home doing graphic design.
Two: he hated small talk.
Three: he was annoyingly attractive.
Not flashy attractive.
Dangerously calm attractive.
The kind of face people trusted automatically.
Jiwoo had lived in the building for two years and exchanged maybe twelve conversations with him total.
Most involved parking disputes.
Which made what she was about to do significantly worse.
She marched downstairs before she could lose courage.
Then knocked.
Loudly.
After several seconds the door opened.
Woojin stood there wearing gray sweatpants and paint stains.
His hair was messy.
There was dust on his cheek.
Jiwoo forgot her prepared speech instantly.
Woojin blinked.
“Did I park wrong again?”
“No.”
“Did your delivery get stolen?”
“No.”
“Is the building on fire?”
“No.”
Silence.
Woojin waited.
Jiwoo inhaled deeply.
“I need you to pretend to date me.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
Woojin stared at her like she had started speaking another language.
“I’m sorry?”
“For three weeks.”
“No.”
The rejection came instantly.
Jiwoo frowned.
“You didn’t even hear the details.”
“I heard enough.”
“My ex will be at my sister’s wedding.”
“I still don’t see how that became my problem.”
“You live downstairs. Technically we already have chemistry.”
Woojin looked horrified.
“We’ve argued about recycling.”
“That’s basically foreplay for adults.”
He blinked slowly.
Jiwoo pressed forward desperately.
“I’ll pay you.”
Woojin crossed his arms.
“How much?”
She named a number.
His expression shifted slightly.
Interesting.
“You’re serious.”
“Very.”
He hesitated.
Jiwoo noticed then how tired he looked.
Not physically.
Financially tired.
Like someone carrying too many invisible bills.
Woojin rubbed the back of his neck.
“What exactly would I need to do?”
Relief flooded her instantly.
“Attend family dinners. Pretend we’re dating. Look convincingly affectionate but not criminally affectionate.”
“That sentence raised more questions.”
“You’d come to the wedding as my boyfriend.”
Woojin stared at her for a long moment.
Then he sighed.
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“And you’re certain this won’t become emotionally complicated?”
“Absolutely.”
That was the first lie.
...
The contract happened two days later.
Because apparently both of them were insane enough to formalize fake dating legally.
Jiwoo spread papers across her kitchen table while Woojin sat opposite her looking increasingly concerned.
“You actually typed this.”
“Organization is attractive.”
“It’s eight pages.”
“I used bullet points.”
Woojin skimmed the first section.
RULE 1: No real feelings.
He looked up.
“That seems optimistic.”
Jiwoo ignored him.
“Rule 2: Public affection only when necessary.”
“What counts as necessary?”
“Family members within observing distance.”
“Disturbingly specific.”
“Rule 3: No kissing without warning.”
Woojin nearly choked on his coffee.
“Kissing?”
“In emergencies.”
“What emergency requires kissing?”
“You’ve clearly never attended a Korean wedding.”
He laughed despite himself.
It surprised both of them.
Jiwoo noticed then that Woojin’s laugh transformed him.
He usually seemed restrained.
Careful.
But when he laughed genuinely, warmth softened everything about him.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Woojin continued reading.
“Rule 5: Contract ends the day after the wedding.”
“Yes.”
“No extensions?”
“Nope.”
He nodded slowly.
“Good.”
For some reason that answer irritated her.
They signed anyway.
Jiwoo offered her hand formally.
“Congratulations on your temporary employment.”
Woojin shook it.
His hand was warm.
Steady.
Jiwoo pulled away first.
...
Their first fake date happened at a family dinner.
Jiwoo regretted everything within seven minutes.
Her mother cried immediately.
Yejin screamed.
Her aunt demanded wedding photos.
Woojin handled all of it with terrifying composure.
“Yes, we met through the apartment building.”
“No, Jiwoo isn’t difficult once you understand her communication style.”
“Yes, I think she’s beautiful.”
Jiwoo nearly inhaled soup wrong.
He said things calmly.
Casually.
Which somehow made them worse.
Across the table Yejin stared at Jiwoo with narrowed eyes.
You did not tell me he looked like that, her expression screamed.
Jiwoo ignored her.
Then Siyeon arrived.
The entire room shifted.
He entered carrying a gift box and wearing the same composed smile Jiwoo remembered too well.
Still handsome.
Still infuriating.
His gaze landed on Woojin’s hand resting lightly near Jiwoo’s chair.
Something flickered in his eyes.
“Jiwoo,” he said softly.
“Siyeon.”
Han Ara stood beside him smiling politely.
“She’s told me so much about you.”
Jiwoo smiled professionally.
“All lies, hopefully.”
The tension thickened instantly.
Woojin spoke before silence could become awkward.
“I’m Woojin.”
Siyeon shook his hand.
The politeness between them felt almost violent.
Dinner became a battlefield disguised as family conversation.
Siyeon remembered Jiwoo’s favorite side dishes.
Woojin noticed when her water glass emptied.
Siyeon asked about her business.
Woojin answered questions about meeting her parents.
Neither man acted possessive.
Which somehow made the competition worse.
Jiwoo wanted to disappear.
At one point Woojin rested his hand lightly against the back of her chair.
The touch was subtle.
Barely there.
Yet her heartbeat betrayed her immediately.
Siyeon noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Siyeon had always been good at reading her.
That used to comfort her.
Now it terrified her.
...
After dinner Woojin walked her home in silence.
The night air was cold.
Jiwoo shoved her hands into her coat pockets.
“Well,” she said finally. “Nobody died.”
“Your aunt asked when we’re having children.”
“She asks delivery drivers that too.”
Woojin laughed quietly.
Then his expression shifted.
“Your ex still loves you.”
Jiwoo stopped walking.
“What?”
“It’s obvious.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“He watched you the entire night.”
Jiwoo looked away.
“You’re imagining things.”
Woojin studied her carefully.
“You still love him too?”
The question landed harder than expected.
Jiwoo forced a shrug.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
She exhaled slowly.
“I don’t know.”
For some reason Woojin seemed disappointed.
He stepped back slightly.
Professional distance.
Fake relationship distance.
Jiwoo hated that she noticed.
...
The next week became a blur of rehearsals.
Not wedding rehearsals.
Relationship rehearsals.
Jiwoo insisted authenticity required preparation.
Woojin argued normal couples probably did not conduct interviews about favorite foods and childhood fears.
Jiwoo disagreed.
“Your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“Favorite food?”
“Kimchi jjigae.”
“Biggest fear?”
Woojin looked up from the couch.
“That escalated.”
“I need emotional consistency.”
“You need therapy.”
Jiwoo ignored him.
“What’s your biggest fear?”
He hesitated.
Then answered quietly.
“Being unnecessary.”
The honesty caught her off guard.
Woojin immediately looked uncomfortable after saying it.
Jiwoo softened.
“That’s specific.”
“My father lost his job when I was young.”
His voice remained calm.
Too calm.
“He spent years feeling useless afterward.”
Jiwoo listened carefully.
“I think I inherited the fear.”
Something inside her chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because suddenly Woojin stopped being the quiet neighbor.
He became human.
Messy.
Vulnerable.
Dangerously real.
...
They spent more time together than either expected.
Partly for appearances.
Partly because the arrangement became strangely easy.
Woojin accompanied her on grocery runs.
Jiwoo brought him dinner during late-night renovation work.
They learned each other accidentally.
Woojin hated mushrooms.
Jiwoo talked in her sleep during naps.
Woojin became quiet when upset instead of angry.
Jiwoo pretended confidence whenever insecure.
One rainy evening the power went out in the building.
Jiwoo found herself sitting on Woojin’s floor eating instant noodles by candlelight.
“This feels illegal somehow,” she murmured.
“What part?”
“The emotional atmosphere.”
Woojin smirked.
“You create emotional atmosphere everywhere.”
“That’s true.”
Thunder shook the windows.
Jiwoo glanced toward him.
“Why did you really agree to this?”
Woojin looked down at his noodles.
“The renovation permit fees.”
“That’s the practical reason.”
“And the other reason?”
He met her eyes.
“You looked desperate.”
Jiwoo laughed.
“That’s insulting.”
“You were standing outside my apartment at ten p.m. offering contractual romance.”
“Fair point.”
Silence settled comfortably.
Too comfortably.
Woojin watched candlelight flicker across her face.
Jiwoo noticed.
The air changed.
Subtle.
Fragile.
Then her phone buzzed.
Siyeon.
The moment shattered instantly.
Woojin looked away first.
Jiwoo hated the disappointment she felt.
...
Siyeon started appearing more often after that.
Coffee near her office.
Messages about wedding schedules.
Casual conversations stretching too long.
Jiwoo recognized the pattern immediately.
He was trying.
Not aggressively.
Not disrespectfully.
But undeniably.
One evening he cornered her outside the wedding venue after rehearsal.
“You seem happy,” he said.
Jiwoo crossed her arms.
“That sounds accusatory.”
“It isn’t.”
“Yes, it is.”
Siyeon sighed softly.
“Does he treat you well?”
The question irritated her immediately.
“Why do you care?”
“Because I still know you.”
Jiwoo laughed bitterly.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Siyeon stepped closer.
“You think I stopped loving you because we broke up?”
Her breath caught.
Damn him.
Damn him for being honest now.
“When did you start dating him?” he asked quietly.
Jiwoo froze.
The hesitation lasted half a second.
But Siyeon noticed.
Of course he did.
Understanding flickered across his expression.
“Jiwoo.”
“It’s real.”
“You just paused.”
“People pause.”
“Not when they’re in love.”
That sentence followed her home like a bruise.
...
Woojin found her sitting outside the apartment building at midnight.
“You’re going to catch pneumonia.”
Jiwoo stared ahead.
“Do you ever think maybe pretending long enough changes people?”
Woojin sat beside her carefully.
“What happened?”
“Siyeon thinks we’re fake.”
Woojin went still.
“Are we?”
The question landed between them heavily.
Jiwoo looked at him.
Really looked.
Messy dark hair.
Tired eyes.
Gentle hands.
A man who remembered how she liked her coffee without ever being told twice.
A man who noticed when she skipped meals.
A man who listened.
Dangerous.
So dangerous.
“We’re contractual,” she answered finally.
Woojin nodded once.
Professional distance returned again.
This time it hurt.
...
The wedding rehearsal dinner happened three days later.
Jiwoo wore navy blue.
Woojin wore black.
Together they looked devastatingly believable.
Everyone noticed.
Especially Siyeon.
The evening passed in laughter and champagne and carefully performed intimacy.
Woojin leaned close when speaking.
Jiwoo touched his arm naturally.
At some point performance stopped feeling like performance.
That frightened her more than anything.
On the balcony outside the restaurant, Woojin loosened his tie and exhaled.
“You survive family events surprisingly well.”
“I’m dissociating internally.”
Jiwoo laughed.
The city lights reflected in the river below.
Cold wind lifted her hair.
Woojin watched her quietly.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“That’s never true.”
He hesitated.
Then spoke softly.
“You look happier lately.”
Jiwoo’s chest tightened.
“You too.”
Silence stretched.
Not awkward.
Dangerous.
Woojin stepped closer slowly.
Jiwoo stopped breathing.
This is how mistakes happen, she thought.
Beautiful quiet mistakes.
Then the balcony door slid open.
Yoona—Yejin’s best friend—walked out carrying wine.
She stopped immediately.
“Oh.”
Jiwoo jumped backward like a criminal.
Yoona narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
“You two are either deeply in love or hiding a body.”
Woojin answered calmly.
“Can’t it be both?”
Yoona burst out laughing.
Jiwoo hated how charming he could be accidentally.
...
That night Jiwoo reread the contract alone.
RULE 1: No real feelings.
The sentence mocked her.
Because feelings had arrived quietly.
Without permission.
Without dramatic realization.
They existed now in small moments.
In the way Woojin automatically walked on the traffic side of sidewalks.
In the way he remembered details nobody else noticed.
In the way silence around him felt peaceful instead of empty.
Jiwoo stared at the paper for a long time.
Then folded it carefully.
As if preserving evidence.
...
Everything broke two days before the wedding.
Siyeon arrived at her office unannounced.
Jiwoo nearly dropped her laptop.
“You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending.”
She stiffened immediately.
“I’m busy.”
“Jiwoo.”
“No.”
Siyeon closed the office door behind him.
“He doesn’t know you.”
Anger flashed instantly.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“He called ahead every time you met.”
Jiwoo froze.
“What?”
“I overheard him talking to Yejin.”
Siyeon stepped closer.
“He asked about your favorite flowers. Your coffee order. Your allergies.”
Jiwoo’s heart stumbled.
“He prepared.”
“Because he cares,” she snapped.
“Or because he’s performing.”
The words landed exactly where her insecurities lived.
Siyeon saw it immediately.
“That’s what scares you, isn’t it?” he asked quietly.
Jiwoo looked away.
Because yes.
Yes, it terrified her.
What if Woojin only seemed perfect because he studied her like homework?
What if none of it was real?
Siyeon softened.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me anymore.”
Her eyes burned suddenly.
“Then why are you here?”
He answered honestly.
“Because watching someone else hold your hand feels unbearable.”
That should have changed everything.
Once upon a time Jiwoo would have run back to him instantly.
But now confusion filled her instead.
Because all she could think about was Woojin.
...
The fight happened that night.
Jiwoo confronted Woojin outside the building.
“Did you research me?”
Woojin blinked.
“What?”
“Before family dinners.”
“Yes.”
The calm answer only irritated her more.
“How much?”
“A reasonable amount.”
“Woojin.”
“I asked Yejin questions.”
Jiwoo laughed sharply.
“So everything was preparation.”
Understanding crossed his face slowly.
“That’s what this is about.”
“You memorized me.”
“You asked me to pretend convincingly.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
Jiwoo opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because the truth sounded pathetic.
She was hurt because she wanted his kindness to be instinctive.
Not rehearsed.
Woojin studied her carefully.
Then quietly asked:
“Would it matter if it became instinct eventually?”
The question shattered her composure.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Say things like that.”
His expression tightened.
“You think I’m playing with you?”
“I think this was supposed to stay simple.”
“It stopped being simple weeks ago.”
Jiwoo stepped backward.
Fear rose instantly.
Not fear of him.
Fear of wanting him.
Fear of being wanted back.
“I can’t do this tonight,” she whispered.
Then she left him standing there alone.
...
The wedding morning arrived gray and cold.
Jiwoo barely slept.
Her chest hurt from unresolved feelings and emotional cowardice.
Yejin cornered her during makeup.
“You fought with him.”
Jiwoo glared.
“How do you always know?”
“You look emotionally constipated.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you in love with him?”
Jiwoo stared at herself in the mirror.
The answer existed now.
Clear.
Terrifying.
“Yes.”
Yejin softened instantly.
“Oh no.”
“Exactly.”
“Does he know?”
“No.”
“Do you?”
Jiwoo frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you panic whenever someone loves you correctly.”
That felt unnecessarily accurate.
Before Jiwoo could defend herself, the dressing room door opened.
Woojin entered wearing a black suit.
Everything inside her stopped.
He looked unfair.
Calm.
Elegant.
Heartbreaking.
Woojin met her eyes.
Neither spoke.
Yejin sighed dramatically.
“I’m leaving before this becomes a melodrama.”
She escaped immediately.
Silence remained.
Woojin stepped closer.
“We should talk.”
Jiwoo nodded slowly.
But before either could continue, wedding staff dragged them away.
The ceremony began.
...
The wedding was beautiful.
Painfully beautiful.
White flowers.
String lights.
Soft music floating through winter air.
Jiwoo spent most of it pretending her emotional stability still existed.
Woojin remained beside her the entire time.
Steady.
Warm.
Careful not to push.
Which somehow made loving him worse.
During the reception Siyeon approached one final time.
“I won’t bother you anymore,” he said quietly.
Jiwoo looked surprised.
He smiled sadly.
“You stopped looking at me.”
Her chest tightened.
“Siyeon—”
“No. It’s okay.”
For the first time since their breakup, he looked genuinely honest.
“I kept thinking we ended because timing failed us.”
Jiwoo swallowed hard.
“But that’s not true anymore, is it?”
She glanced instinctively across the ballroom.
Toward Woojin.
Siyeon followed her gaze.
Then laughed softly.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The face you used to make when you loved me.”
Jiwoo’s eyes burned unexpectedly.
Not because she still loved Siyeon.
But because she once had.
And endings still deserved mourning.
Siyeon touched her shoulder gently.
“Go be happy,” he whispered.
Then he walked away.
...
Later, during the first dance, guests dragged Jiwoo and Woojin onto the floor.
The ballroom lights dimmed.
Music softened.
Woojin rested one hand carefully against her waist.
Jiwoo’s heartbeat became catastrophic instantly.
“You look nervous,” he murmured.
“I’m considering death.”
“That bad?”
“Much worse.”
Woojin smiled faintly.
They moved slowly among other couples.
Warm lights reflected in his eyes.
Jiwoo realized suddenly that she did not want the contract to end.
Which meant it already had.
The song faded.
Neither moved apart immediately.
Woojin looked down at her quietly.
“Jiwoo.”
The way he said her name nearly destroyed her.
Then midnight arrived.
Her phone buzzed automatically.
12:00 AM.
Contract expired.
Neither mentioned it.
...
They drove home in silence.
Heavy.
Uncertain.
At the apartment parking garage Woojin turned off the engine.
Neither moved.
Jiwoo stared ahead.
“The contract’s done,” she said softly.
“Yes.”
More silence.
Then Woojin asked carefully:
“Do you want it to be?”
Jiwoo’s breath caught.
This was the moment.
The terrifying irreversible moment.
She looked at him slowly.
“No.”
Woojin closed his eyes briefly.
Relief crossed his face so fast it almost hurt to see.
Jiwoo laughed shakily.
“You know what’s embarrassing?”
“What?”
“I can organize five hundred-person weddings without stress.”
“But?”
“But telling one man I like him feels life-threatening.”
Woojin smiled softly.
“Good thing I already know.”
Jiwoo stared.
“You know?”
“You argued with me because you were scared my feelings weren’t real.”
She covered her face instantly.
“Oh my God.”
“That was a clue.”
“I’m moving countries.”
Woojin laughed quietly.
Then his expression softened again.
“Jiwoo.”
She looked up.
And suddenly his hand touched her face carefully.
Not performance.
Not rehearsal.
Real.
“So we should probably discuss Rule 1,” he murmured.
Jiwoo’s heart nearly stopped.
“The no feelings rule?”
“Yes.”
“We failed spectacularly.”
“Completely.”
She smiled despite herself.
Then Woojin kissed her.
Slow.
Gentle.
Certain.
Everything Jiwoo feared and wanted at once.
No audience.
No pretending.
No contract.
Just him.
When they finally pulled apart, Jiwoo laughed breathlessly.
“Well.”
“Well,” Woojin agreed.
“We’re terrible employees.”
“Extremely.”
She rested her forehead against his shoulder.
Warmth spread through her slowly.
Not dramatic.
Not explosive.
Safe.
The kind of love that arrived quietly and stayed.
...
The next morning Woojin knocked on her apartment door carrying coffee and a single sheet of paper.
Jiwoo opened the door wearing pajamas and confusion.
“What’s this?”
“A revised contract.”
She laughed immediately.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Woojin handed her the page.
The paper contained only one line.
No expiration date.
No performance required.
No rules except honesty.
Jiwoo read it twice.
Then looked up slowly.
Woojin suddenly seemed nervous for the first time since she met him.
“I thought maybe we could try something less fake.”
Her chest hurt.
In the best way.
Jiwoo grabbed a pen from beside the door.
Then added another sentence beneath his.
Stay even when things get difficult.
Woojin read it quietly.
Then smiled.
“I can do that.”
Jiwoo folded the paper carefully.
Not as evidence this time.
As a beginning.
Then she kissed him again while morning sunlight spilled through the hallway windows.
And somewhere downstairs, forgotten beside old renovation receipts and utility bills, the original contract remained buried inside a folder.
Rule 1 — No real feelings.
Both signatures crossed it out.
She hated what weddings did to people.
They made relatives invasive, exes nostalgic, and happily married aunties aggressively curious about why a thirty-year-old woman was still single.
Unfortunately, her younger sister’s wedding was only three weeks away.
And unfortunately, Kim Siyeon would be there.
Jiwoo stared at the digital invitation glowing on her phone while sitting alone at her kitchen table. Her coffee had gone cold twenty minutes ago.
Bride: Na Yejin.
Groom: Park Minseok.
Special Guests.
Kim Siyeon and Han Ara.
Jiwoo closed her eyes slowly.
Han Ara.
The new girlfriend.
Of course there was a new girlfriend.
Siyeon had never been the type to stay alone for long.
Her phone buzzed.
Yejin: Please don’t fight with him at my wedding.
Jiwoo typed back immediately.
Jiwoo: I’m not twelve.
Yejin: Last time you saw him, you threw a drink.
Jiwoo: That was an accident.
Yejin: You aimed.
Jiwoo sighed and tossed her phone onto the table.
Three years.
Three years since she and Siyeon ended things, and somehow he still occupied space inside her head like an unpaid debt.
The breakup itself had been clean on paper.
No cheating.
No screaming.
No dramatic betrayal.
Just exhaustion.
Siyeon wanted certainty.
Jiwoo wanted freedom.
He wanted marriage before thirty.
She wanted to build her event company first.
Eventually love had become another thing they argued about.
So they ended it.
Simple.
Except heartbreak was never simple.
The worst part was that Siyeon remained charming even after becoming an ex.
Polite.
Thoughtful.
The kind of man parents adored.
The kind who still remembered birthdays.
Which meant everyone in Jiwoo’s family secretly hoped they would get back together.
Especially her mother.
Her phone rang.
Right on schedule.
“Hello, Mom.”
“Did you see the guest list?”
Jiwoo closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Ara seems nice.”
“I’m thrilled for them.”
“You sound irritated.”
“I sound employed.”
Her mother ignored that.
“You know, Siyeon asked about you last month.”
“Please stop.”
“He still cares.”
“Mom.”
“What? I’m just saying.”
Jiwoo pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Can we focus on Yejin’s wedding instead of my emotional destruction?”
“You wouldn’t be emotionally destroyed if you just dated someone.”
There it was.
Jiwoo laughed dryly.
“I don’t have time.”
“You own an event company. You literally organize romance professionally.”
“That’s different.”
“You need a boyfriend.”
Jiwoo stared blankly at the wall.
Then suddenly an idea entered her mind.
Terrible.
Embarrassing.
Potentially life-ruining.
Which meant it was probably the only option. ...
Choi Woojin lived downstairs.
He was twenty-nine, painfully quiet, and currently renovating his apartment one wall at a time because hiring professionals was apparently too expensive.
Jiwoo only knew three things about him.
One: he worked from home doing graphic design.
Two: he hated small talk.
Three: he was annoyingly attractive.
Not flashy attractive.
Dangerously calm attractive.
The kind of face people trusted automatically.
Jiwoo had lived in the building for two years and exchanged maybe twelve conversations with him total.
Most involved parking disputes.
Which made what she was about to do significantly worse.
She marched downstairs before she could lose courage.
Then knocked.
Loudly.
After several seconds the door opened.
Woojin stood there wearing gray sweatpants and paint stains.
His hair was messy.
There was dust on his cheek.
Jiwoo forgot her prepared speech instantly.
Woojin blinked.
“Did I park wrong again?”
“No.”
“Did your delivery get stolen?”
“No.”
“Is the building on fire?”
“No.”
Silence.
Woojin waited.
Jiwoo inhaled deeply.
“I need you to pretend to date me.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
Woojin stared at her like she had started speaking another language.
“I’m sorry?”
“For three weeks.”
“No.”
The rejection came instantly.
Jiwoo frowned.
“You didn’t even hear the details.”
“I heard enough.”
“My ex will be at my sister’s wedding.”
“I still don’t see how that became my problem.”
“You live downstairs. Technically we already have chemistry.”
Woojin looked horrified.
“We’ve argued about recycling.”
“That’s basically foreplay for adults.”
He blinked slowly.
Jiwoo pressed forward desperately.
“I’ll pay you.”
Woojin crossed his arms.
“How much?”
She named a number.
His expression shifted slightly.
Interesting.
“You’re serious.”
“Very.”
He hesitated.
Jiwoo noticed then how tired he looked.
Not physically.
Financially tired.
Like someone carrying too many invisible bills.
Woojin rubbed the back of his neck.
“What exactly would I need to do?”
Relief flooded her instantly.
“Attend family dinners. Pretend we’re dating. Look convincingly affectionate but not criminally affectionate.”
“That sentence raised more questions.”
“You’d come to the wedding as my boyfriend.”
Woojin stared at her for a long moment.
Then he sighed.
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“And you’re certain this won’t become emotionally complicated?”
“Absolutely.”
That was the first lie.
...
The contract happened two days later.
Because apparently both of them were insane enough to formalize fake dating legally.
Jiwoo spread papers across her kitchen table while Woojin sat opposite her looking increasingly concerned.
“You actually typed this.”
“Organization is attractive.”
“It’s eight pages.”
“I used bullet points.”
Woojin skimmed the first section.
RULE 1: No real feelings.
He looked up.
“That seems optimistic.”
Jiwoo ignored him.
“Rule 2: Public affection only when necessary.”
“What counts as necessary?”
“Family members within observing distance.”
“Disturbingly specific.”
“Rule 3: No kissing without warning.”
Woojin nearly choked on his coffee.
“Kissing?”
“In emergencies.”
“What emergency requires kissing?”
“You’ve clearly never attended a Korean wedding.”
He laughed despite himself.
It surprised both of them.
Jiwoo noticed then that Woojin’s laugh transformed him.
He usually seemed restrained.
Careful.
But when he laughed genuinely, warmth softened everything about him.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Woojin continued reading.
“Rule 5: Contract ends the day after the wedding.”
“Yes.”
“No extensions?”
“Nope.”
He nodded slowly.
“Good.”
For some reason that answer irritated her.
They signed anyway.
Jiwoo offered her hand formally.
“Congratulations on your temporary employment.”
Woojin shook it.
His hand was warm.
Steady.
Jiwoo pulled away first.
...
Their first fake date happened at a family dinner.
Jiwoo regretted everything within seven minutes.
Her mother cried immediately.
Yejin screamed.
Her aunt demanded wedding photos.
Woojin handled all of it with terrifying composure.
“Yes, we met through the apartment building.”
“No, Jiwoo isn’t difficult once you understand her communication style.”
“Yes, I think she’s beautiful.”
Jiwoo nearly inhaled soup wrong.
He said things calmly.
Casually.
Which somehow made them worse.
Across the table Yejin stared at Jiwoo with narrowed eyes.
You did not tell me he looked like that, her expression screamed.
Jiwoo ignored her.
Then Siyeon arrived.
The entire room shifted.
He entered carrying a gift box and wearing the same composed smile Jiwoo remembered too well.
Still handsome.
Still infuriating.
His gaze landed on Woojin’s hand resting lightly near Jiwoo’s chair.
Something flickered in his eyes.
“Jiwoo,” he said softly.
“Siyeon.”
Han Ara stood beside him smiling politely.
“She’s told me so much about you.”
Jiwoo smiled professionally.
“All lies, hopefully.”
The tension thickened instantly.
Woojin spoke before silence could become awkward.
“I’m Woojin.”
Siyeon shook his hand.
The politeness between them felt almost violent.
Dinner became a battlefield disguised as family conversation.
Siyeon remembered Jiwoo’s favorite side dishes.
Woojin noticed when her water glass emptied.
Siyeon asked about her business.
Woojin answered questions about meeting her parents.
Neither man acted possessive.
Which somehow made the competition worse.
Jiwoo wanted to disappear.
At one point Woojin rested his hand lightly against the back of her chair.
The touch was subtle.
Barely there.
Yet her heartbeat betrayed her immediately.
Siyeon noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Siyeon had always been good at reading her.
That used to comfort her.
Now it terrified her.
...
After dinner Woojin walked her home in silence.
The night air was cold.
Jiwoo shoved her hands into her coat pockets.
“Well,” she said finally. “Nobody died.”
“Your aunt asked when we’re having children.”
“She asks delivery drivers that too.”
Woojin laughed quietly.
Then his expression shifted.
“Your ex still loves you.”
Jiwoo stopped walking.
“What?”
“It’s obvious.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“He watched you the entire night.”
Jiwoo looked away.
“You’re imagining things.”
Woojin studied her carefully.
“You still love him too?”
The question landed harder than expected.
Jiwoo forced a shrug.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
She exhaled slowly.
“I don’t know.”
For some reason Woojin seemed disappointed.
He stepped back slightly.
Professional distance.
Fake relationship distance.
Jiwoo hated that she noticed.
...
The next week became a blur of rehearsals.
Not wedding rehearsals.
Relationship rehearsals.
Jiwoo insisted authenticity required preparation.
Woojin argued normal couples probably did not conduct interviews about favorite foods and childhood fears.
Jiwoo disagreed.
“Your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“Favorite food?”
“Kimchi jjigae.”
“Biggest fear?”
Woojin looked up from the couch.
“That escalated.”
“I need emotional consistency.”
“You need therapy.”
Jiwoo ignored him.
“What’s your biggest fear?”
He hesitated.
Then answered quietly.
“Being unnecessary.”
The honesty caught her off guard.
Woojin immediately looked uncomfortable after saying it.
Jiwoo softened.
“That’s specific.”
“My father lost his job when I was young.”
His voice remained calm.
Too calm.
“He spent years feeling useless afterward.”
Jiwoo listened carefully.
“I think I inherited the fear.”
Something inside her chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because suddenly Woojin stopped being the quiet neighbor.
He became human.
Messy.
Vulnerable.
Dangerously real.
...
They spent more time together than either expected.
Partly for appearances.
Partly because the arrangement became strangely easy.
Woojin accompanied her on grocery runs.
Jiwoo brought him dinner during late-night renovation work.
They learned each other accidentally.
Woojin hated mushrooms.
Jiwoo talked in her sleep during naps.
Woojin became quiet when upset instead of angry.
Jiwoo pretended confidence whenever insecure.
One rainy evening the power went out in the building.
Jiwoo found herself sitting on Woojin’s floor eating instant noodles by candlelight.
“This feels illegal somehow,” she murmured.
“What part?”
“The emotional atmosphere.”
Woojin smirked.
“You create emotional atmosphere everywhere.”
“That’s true.”
Thunder shook the windows.
Jiwoo glanced toward him.
“Why did you really agree to this?”
Woojin looked down at his noodles.
“The renovation permit fees.”
“That’s the practical reason.”
“And the other reason?”
He met her eyes.
“You looked desperate.”
Jiwoo laughed.
“That’s insulting.”
“You were standing outside my apartment at ten p.m. offering contractual romance.”
“Fair point.”
Silence settled comfortably.
Too comfortably.
Woojin watched candlelight flicker across her face.
Jiwoo noticed.
The air changed.
Subtle.
Fragile.
Then her phone buzzed.
Siyeon.
The moment shattered instantly.
Woojin looked away first.
Jiwoo hated the disappointment she felt.
...
Siyeon started appearing more often after that.
Coffee near her office.
Messages about wedding schedules.
Casual conversations stretching too long.
Jiwoo recognized the pattern immediately.
He was trying.
Not aggressively.
Not disrespectfully.
But undeniably.
One evening he cornered her outside the wedding venue after rehearsal.
“You seem happy,” he said.
Jiwoo crossed her arms.
“That sounds accusatory.”
“It isn’t.”
“Yes, it is.”
Siyeon sighed softly.
“Does he treat you well?”
The question irritated her immediately.
“Why do you care?”
“Because I still know you.”
Jiwoo laughed bitterly.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Siyeon stepped closer.
“You think I stopped loving you because we broke up?”
Her breath caught.
Damn him.
Damn him for being honest now.
“When did you start dating him?” he asked quietly.
Jiwoo froze.
The hesitation lasted half a second.
But Siyeon noticed.
Of course he did.
Understanding flickered across his expression.
“Jiwoo.”
“It’s real.”
“You just paused.”
“People pause.”
“Not when they’re in love.”
That sentence followed her home like a bruise.
...
Woojin found her sitting outside the apartment building at midnight.
“You’re going to catch pneumonia.”
Jiwoo stared ahead.
“Do you ever think maybe pretending long enough changes people?”
Woojin sat beside her carefully.
“What happened?”
“Siyeon thinks we’re fake.”
Woojin went still.
“Are we?”
The question landed between them heavily.
Jiwoo looked at him.
Really looked.
Messy dark hair.
Tired eyes.
Gentle hands.
A man who remembered how she liked her coffee without ever being told twice.
A man who noticed when she skipped meals.
A man who listened.
Dangerous.
So dangerous.
“We’re contractual,” she answered finally.
Woojin nodded once.
Professional distance returned again.
This time it hurt.
...
The wedding rehearsal dinner happened three days later.
Jiwoo wore navy blue.
Woojin wore black.
Together they looked devastatingly believable.
Everyone noticed.
Especially Siyeon.
The evening passed in laughter and champagne and carefully performed intimacy.
Woojin leaned close when speaking.
Jiwoo touched his arm naturally.
At some point performance stopped feeling like performance.
That frightened her more than anything.
On the balcony outside the restaurant, Woojin loosened his tie and exhaled.
“You survive family events surprisingly well.”
“I’m dissociating internally.”
Jiwoo laughed.
The city lights reflected in the river below.
Cold wind lifted her hair.
Woojin watched her quietly.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“That’s never true.”
He hesitated.
Then spoke softly.
“You look happier lately.”
Jiwoo’s chest tightened.
“You too.”
Silence stretched.
Not awkward.
Dangerous.
Woojin stepped closer slowly.
Jiwoo stopped breathing.
This is how mistakes happen, she thought.
Beautiful quiet mistakes.
Then the balcony door slid open.
Yoona—Yejin’s best friend—walked out carrying wine.
She stopped immediately.
“Oh.”
Jiwoo jumped backward like a criminal.
Yoona narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
“You two are either deeply in love or hiding a body.”
Woojin answered calmly.
“Can’t it be both?”
Yoona burst out laughing.
Jiwoo hated how charming he could be accidentally.
...
That night Jiwoo reread the contract alone.
RULE 1: No real feelings.
The sentence mocked her.
Because feelings had arrived quietly.
Without permission.
Without dramatic realization.
They existed now in small moments.
In the way Woojin automatically walked on the traffic side of sidewalks.
In the way he remembered details nobody else noticed.
In the way silence around him felt peaceful instead of empty.
Jiwoo stared at the paper for a long time.
Then folded it carefully.
As if preserving evidence.
...
Everything broke two days before the wedding.
Siyeon arrived at her office unannounced.
Jiwoo nearly dropped her laptop.
“You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending.”
She stiffened immediately.
“I’m busy.”
“Jiwoo.”
“No.”
Siyeon closed the office door behind him.
“He doesn’t know you.”
Anger flashed instantly.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“He called ahead every time you met.”
Jiwoo froze.
“What?”
“I overheard him talking to Yejin.”
Siyeon stepped closer.
“He asked about your favorite flowers. Your coffee order. Your allergies.”
Jiwoo’s heart stumbled.
“He prepared.”
“Because he cares,” she snapped.
“Or because he’s performing.”
The words landed exactly where her insecurities lived.
Siyeon saw it immediately.
“That’s what scares you, isn’t it?” he asked quietly.
Jiwoo looked away.
Because yes.
Yes, it terrified her.
What if Woojin only seemed perfect because he studied her like homework?
What if none of it was real?
Siyeon softened.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me anymore.”
Her eyes burned suddenly.
“Then why are you here?”
He answered honestly.
“Because watching someone else hold your hand feels unbearable.”
That should have changed everything.
Once upon a time Jiwoo would have run back to him instantly.
But now confusion filled her instead.
Because all she could think about was Woojin.
...
The fight happened that night.
Jiwoo confronted Woojin outside the building.
“Did you research me?”
Woojin blinked.
“What?”
“Before family dinners.”
“Yes.”
The calm answer only irritated her more.
“How much?”
“A reasonable amount.”
“Woojin.”
“I asked Yejin questions.”
Jiwoo laughed sharply.
“So everything was preparation.”
Understanding crossed his face slowly.
“That’s what this is about.”
“You memorized me.”
“You asked me to pretend convincingly.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
Jiwoo opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because the truth sounded pathetic.
She was hurt because she wanted his kindness to be instinctive.
Not rehearsed.
Woojin studied her carefully.
Then quietly asked:
“Would it matter if it became instinct eventually?”
The question shattered her composure.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Say things like that.”
His expression tightened.
“You think I’m playing with you?”
“I think this was supposed to stay simple.”
“It stopped being simple weeks ago.”
Jiwoo stepped backward.
Fear rose instantly.
Not fear of him.
Fear of wanting him.
Fear of being wanted back.
“I can’t do this tonight,” she whispered.
Then she left him standing there alone.
...
The wedding morning arrived gray and cold.
Jiwoo barely slept.
Her chest hurt from unresolved feelings and emotional cowardice.
Yejin cornered her during makeup.
“You fought with him.”
Jiwoo glared.
“How do you always know?”
“You look emotionally constipated.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you in love with him?”
Jiwoo stared at herself in the mirror.
The answer existed now.
Clear.
Terrifying.
“Yes.”
Yejin softened instantly.
“Oh no.”
“Exactly.”
“Does he know?”
“No.”
“Do you?”
Jiwoo frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you panic whenever someone loves you correctly.”
That felt unnecessarily accurate.
Before Jiwoo could defend herself, the dressing room door opened.
Woojin entered wearing a black suit.
Everything inside her stopped.
He looked unfair.
Calm.
Elegant.
Heartbreaking.
Woojin met her eyes.
Neither spoke.
Yejin sighed dramatically.
“I’m leaving before this becomes a melodrama.”
She escaped immediately.
Silence remained.
Woojin stepped closer.
“We should talk.”
Jiwoo nodded slowly.
But before either could continue, wedding staff dragged them away.
The ceremony began.
...
The wedding was beautiful.
Painfully beautiful.
White flowers.
String lights.
Soft music floating through winter air.
Jiwoo spent most of it pretending her emotional stability still existed.
Woojin remained beside her the entire time.
Steady.
Warm.
Careful not to push.
Which somehow made loving him worse.
During the reception Siyeon approached one final time.
“I won’t bother you anymore,” he said quietly.
Jiwoo looked surprised.
He smiled sadly.
“You stopped looking at me.”
Her chest tightened.
“Siyeon—”
“No. It’s okay.”
For the first time since their breakup, he looked genuinely honest.
“I kept thinking we ended because timing failed us.”
Jiwoo swallowed hard.
“But that’s not true anymore, is it?”
She glanced instinctively across the ballroom.
Toward Woojin.
Siyeon followed her gaze.
Then laughed softly.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The face you used to make when you loved me.”
Jiwoo’s eyes burned unexpectedly.
Not because she still loved Siyeon.
But because she once had.
And endings still deserved mourning.
Siyeon touched her shoulder gently.
“Go be happy,” he whispered.
Then he walked away.
...
Later, during the first dance, guests dragged Jiwoo and Woojin onto the floor.
The ballroom lights dimmed.
Music softened.
Woojin rested one hand carefully against her waist.
Jiwoo’s heartbeat became catastrophic instantly.
“You look nervous,” he murmured.
“I’m considering death.”
“That bad?”
“Much worse.”
Woojin smiled faintly.
They moved slowly among other couples.
Warm lights reflected in his eyes.
Jiwoo realized suddenly that she did not want the contract to end.
Which meant it already had.
The song faded.
Neither moved apart immediately.
Woojin looked down at her quietly.
“Jiwoo.”
The way he said her name nearly destroyed her.
Then midnight arrived.
Her phone buzzed automatically.
12:00 AM.
Contract expired.
Neither mentioned it.
...
They drove home in silence.
Heavy.
Uncertain.
At the apartment parking garage Woojin turned off the engine.
Neither moved.
Jiwoo stared ahead.
“The contract’s done,” she said softly.
“Yes.”
More silence.
Then Woojin asked carefully:
“Do you want it to be?”
Jiwoo’s breath caught.
This was the moment.
The terrifying irreversible moment.
She looked at him slowly.
“No.”
Woojin closed his eyes briefly.
Relief crossed his face so fast it almost hurt to see.
Jiwoo laughed shakily.
“You know what’s embarrassing?”
“What?”
“I can organize five hundred-person weddings without stress.”
“But?”
“But telling one man I like him feels life-threatening.”
Woojin smiled softly.
“Good thing I already know.”
Jiwoo stared.
“You know?”
“You argued with me because you were scared my feelings weren’t real.”
She covered her face instantly.
“Oh my God.”
“That was a clue.”
“I’m moving countries.”
Woojin laughed quietly.
Then his expression softened again.
“Jiwoo.”
She looked up.
And suddenly his hand touched her face carefully.
Not performance.
Not rehearsal.
Real.
“So we should probably discuss Rule 1,” he murmured.
Jiwoo’s heart nearly stopped.
“The no feelings rule?”
“Yes.”
“We failed spectacularly.”
“Completely.”
She smiled despite herself.
Then Woojin kissed her.
Slow.
Gentle.
Certain.
Everything Jiwoo feared and wanted at once.
No audience.
No pretending.
No contract.
Just him.
When they finally pulled apart, Jiwoo laughed breathlessly.
“Well.”
“Well,” Woojin agreed.
“We’re terrible employees.”
“Extremely.”
She rested her forehead against his shoulder.
Warmth spread through her slowly.
Not dramatic.
Not explosive.
Safe.
The kind of love that arrived quietly and stayed.
...
The next morning Woojin knocked on her apartment door carrying coffee and a single sheet of paper.
Jiwoo opened the door wearing pajamas and confusion.
“What’s this?”
“A revised contract.”
She laughed immediately.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Woojin handed her the page.
The paper contained only one line.
No expiration date.
No performance required.
No rules except honesty.
Jiwoo read it twice.
Then looked up slowly.
Woojin suddenly seemed nervous for the first time since she met him.
“I thought maybe we could try something less fake.”
Her chest hurt.
In the best way.
Jiwoo grabbed a pen from beside the door.
Then added another sentence beneath his.
Stay even when things get difficult.
Woojin read it quietly.
Then smiled.
“I can do that.”
Jiwoo folded the paper carefully.
Not as evidence this time.
As a beginning.
Then she kissed him again while morning sunlight spilled through the hallway windows.
And somewhere downstairs, forgotten beside old renovation receipts and utility bills, the original contract remained buried inside a folder.
Rule 1 — No real feelings.
Both signatures crossed it out.
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