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leriexoxo · 2 months ago

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Pretty Boy, Asshole

Husband! Leeknow x Reader (arranged marriage au)

Tags: Arranged marriage AU, Strangers to Lovers, Slowburn, Enemies(ish) to Lovers, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Domestic Feels. Jealousy, feelings realization, Minho is an asshole

Word count: 7.8k

Summary: You never even met Lee Minho before your wedding was arranged. Your parents’ companies had been tied together for decades, so it made perfect business sense—merge the heirs, secure the legacy. At first, you both thought it was a joke. But then came the legal documents, the moving trucks, and the cold stares from a man who’d just lost the love of his life. He hated you for it. And you? You wanted to burn the whole marriage down.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’d been on the plane for thirteen hours, and somehow, your anger had survived every single mile.

It burned low and hot in your gut, simmering as the taxi pulled up to the towering glass building in the middle of the city. The kind of place with concierge desks and private elevators and probably a robot that sorted your mail. All of it screamed money—his money, their money—not yours. You dragged your luggage through the marble lobby with a scowl stitched into your face and your earbuds shoved in deep, just to drown out the sound of your own thoughts.

The elevator opened on the thirty-fourth floor with a quiet chime. A long hallway stretched out in front of you, lined with pale wood and tasteful lighting. Minimalist. Cold. And then—

The door.

Suite 3401.

Your new “home.”

You punched in the code the assistant had emailed you—because of course there was an assistant—and stepped inside.

And there he was.

Lee Minho.

He didn’t even look at you when you entered. Just sat there on the expensive-looking couch, one ankle crossed over his knee, phone in hand, posture relaxed like he wasn’t currently ruining your life by existing.

You stood in the doorway, suitcase wheels stuck on the lip of the entrance, staring at him like a ghost. The place was massive, all glass walls and open spaces, but the air felt tight, suffocating even, with him in the middle of it.

He didn’t say anything.

You cleared your throat. “Hi.”

A beat passed. Then he looked up. Just once. Just barely.

“You’re late.”

That was it.

Not welcome or did you have a good flight or hey, sorry we’re both being held emotionally hostage by our families right now. No. Just you’re late, like you were a bad intern and he was your condescending CEO.

You stared at him. “Sorry. The whole being-forcibly-uprooted-from-my-life thing kind of threw off my schedule.”

Minho blinked, bored. “Right.”

You wheeled your suitcase past him with more force than necessary, the rubber wheels thunking hard over the lip of the living room rug. The sound echoed too loudly in the silence. You didn’t care. Let him be annoyed. You were annoyed too.

No—furious.

You’d had plans. You had a studio apartment back home, a job you didn’t hate, friends who didn’t make you want to set the room on fire just by breathing near them. You had a life. And now?

Now you had Lee Minho.

Stranger. Fiancé. Asshole.

“I’ll take the room farthest from yours,” you muttered, already dragging your luggage down the hallway.

“No one’s stopping you,” he said.

Of course he wasn’t.

The guest room—no, your room now, apparently—was spotless and cold, like no one had ever breathed inside it. You dropped your bags, sat on the edge of the pristine white bed, and buried your face in your hands.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t even sigh.

You just sat there, skin prickling, spine tense, your body still humming with the quiet, ugly disbelief that this was real. That your life was no longer your own.

All because of a deal your parents made before you were old enough to spell the word contract.

A knock on the door frame.

You didn’t look up.

“There’s food in the fridge,” Minho said. “Don’t touch the top shelf.”

Then he walked away.

And you?

You smiled.

It wasn’t a nice smile.

If he wanted to play like that?

Fine.

Let the games begin.

—

It started with the oat milk.

Well, no. Technically, it started with the marriage contract your parents signed before you were even born, but the oat milk was the spark that lit the fuse.

You opened the fridge that morning, bleary-eyed and cranky, and stared at the single, sad carton sitting on the shelf. It was empty. Not a drop left. You shook it just to be sure, even though you already knew.

That bitch drank your oat milk.

You stood there for a second, hand still gripping the fridge door, mentally running through your options.

1. Scream.

2. Cry.

3. Commit a minor act of violence.

4. Be civil.

You chose none of the above.

Instead, you slammed the door shut and poured yourself a glass of water like a goddamn adult. Then you sat at the island counter and waited.

He appeared ten minutes later, fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, T-shirt hanging loose over his frame like he hadn’t even tried.

He glanced at you, then at the empty carton now placed—strategically—in the middle of the counter between you.

Silence.

“You drank it,” you said finally.

Minho looked at the carton like it was a science project he wasn’t particularly impressed by. “You didn’t label it.”

“It was oat milk.”

“So?”

You blinked slowly. “You think I bought oat milk for you?”

He shrugged. “I thought you bought it for the apartment.”

“The apartment didn’t drink it.”

He smirked, just a little. “Well, technically, I live here, so—”

You stood up, chair scraping back. “Okay. Ground rules.”

Minho raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. You grabbed a notepad from the drawer—because of course this penthouse had notepads—and started writing with aggressive, stabbing motions.

1. Do not eat my food.

2. Do not drink my things.

3. Do not speak to me unless necessary.

4. Do not assume anything is “for the apartment.” It’s not.

5. This is not a home. This is a hostage situation.

You slid the paper across the counter.

Minho didn’t even blink. “You done?”

“Rule six: Don’t be a smug little prick.”

He laughed. Laughed.

Low, amused, like you were a puppy nipping at his ankles. “That’s not very professional, fiancée.”

“Neither is stealing milk.”

He folded the paper neatly, tucked it under his phone, and leaned against the counter. “Alright. My turn.”

Your jaw tensed. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Too bad. I’m negotiating.”

He grabbed the pen and flipped the paper over.

1. Don’t slam doors.

2. Don’t use the speaker in the bathroom—I don’t want to hear your playlist at 7 a.m.

3. Don’t cry where I can hear it.

4. Don’t touch my closet.

5. Don’t mess with my routine.

You stared at the list, then at him. “You think I’m crying?”

He shrugged. “Heard something last night.”

“I was unpacking.”

“Right.” Another smirk.

You hated him. You hated him.

But not in the way you could do anything about. Not in a way that fixed anything. He wasn’t cruel, not exactly. Just… cold. Detached. As if he’d already made up his mind that you weren’t worth the effort of pretending.

And honestly?

You weren’t sure he was wrong.

“You’re a dick,” you muttered, turning away.

“You’re in my house,” he shot back.

Your house. The words rang in your ears long after you’d slammed your bedroom door behind you.

Not our house.

Not even the house.

Just his.

And that, somehow, pissed you off more than anything else.

—

You’d decided to make pasta.

It was a petty decision. Loud, messy, sauce-splattered pasta. Not some dainty meal for two. This was war food. Battle carbs. And you made sure to cook it at the worst possible time—right after Minho’s usual post-gym shower, when he liked the kitchen empty and the air quiet.

Too bad.

He walked in right as you started blending the tomato sauce. The noise ripped through the apartment like a chainsaw in a library.

Minho stopped in the doorway.

You didn’t turn around.

“Seriously?”

“Can’t hear you,” you said, raising your voice over the blender. “Domestic goddess things.”

He waited. You could feel it—the weight of his stare, the way his presence filled the room even when he didn’t move.

When you finally switched the blender off, the silence felt personal.

“You used my garlic,” he said flatly.

You turned. “Is garlic suddenly yours now?”

“It’s from my stash.”

“Oh my God, what is this, culinary class wars?”

He moved to the fridge, ignoring you completely, and opened it like he didn’t want to breathe the same air as you. But you saw it—the tightness in his jaw, the twitch of annoyance in his eyebrow. He hated this. Hated you, probably. And that should’ve stung, but—

Honestly?

You hated him too.

He grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and finally looked at you. Really looked this time. The kind of stare that peeled skin. “How long do you plan on sulking?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“This whole act. Slamming things. Writing rules like we’re in middle school. Throwing tantrums over oat milk. How long do I have to deal with this?”

The rage came hot and immediate, crawling up your throat like fire.

“I didn’t ask to be here,” you snapped.

He leaned against the counter, cool and clean and somehow infuriatingly calm. “Neither did I.”

“No, but you’re acting like I ruined your life. I didn’t do this, Minho. Our parents did. Go be mad at them, not me.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Something raw and real and unguarded. But it was gone before you could read it, buried under that same sharp indifference he wore like armor.

“I had someone,” he said quietly.

You froze.

“I was going to propose,” he added. “Two weeks before I got the call. I had the ring. We had an apartment lined up. She thought I was joking when I told her. She laughed. And then she cried.”

You said nothing. The room felt suddenly smaller.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said, voice low now. “Just like you didn’t. But don’t act like we’re the same.”

And with that, he left.

Not stormed out. Just left, like he always did—quietly, cleanly, like emotion was something he refused to be caught feeling.

You stood there, spoon still in your hand, staring at the door he’d walked through.

And for the first time since you’d arrived, the anger didn’t feel quite so simple anymore.

—

It was past midnight when you came out of your room.

Not because you were hungry. Not even because you needed anything. You just couldn’t sleep. The walls felt too white, too quiet, and the sheets felt like someone else’s skin.

So you padded out barefoot, hair a mess, wrapped in the hoodie you’d “accidentally” stolen from Minho’s side of the laundry basket. (Sue you. It was warm. And it smelled better than your room.)

You didn’t expect to see him.

But there he was—on the couch, passed out, phone still in his hand and a drama paused mid-episode on the screen. A glass of water sat half-full on the coffee table. One sock was halfway off his foot. His hair was a mess. A real, actual mess—not the kind he curated to look effortless. And his mouth was slightly open.

He looked… normal.

No expensive cologne. No pressed shirts or glinting watches. Just a guy in sweatpants, legs tangled up in the blanket he probably tried to pull over himself and failed halfway through.

You stood there, blinking.

This man—this insufferable, rude, arrogant, milk-stealing demon—looked like a person when he slept.

That was the most annoying thing of all.

You grabbed the remote off the floor, turned the volume down on whatever he’d been watching (some crime doc with bad voiceovers), and went to walk away.

But something stopped you.

Maybe it was the frown between his brows, the kind you only got when something hurt. Not pain-pain. More like… emotional bruises. Things he didn’t talk about. Things that lived under his tongue.

Maybe it was the way his hand was curled slightly around his phone, thumb pressing against a message thread he hadn’t opened yet.

You inched closer.

The screen lit up just enough for you to see the name.

“Hannie.”

You froze.

She’d messaged him.

The girl. Her.

The one he’d told you about.

Your chest felt strange. Not jealousy. Not pity. Just… tightness. The kind that came from remembering this was real. That all this wasn’t a drama. That someone really lost someone else. That somewhere out there was a girl waiting on a message that’d never come.

You sighed, then gently reached down to fix the blanket over his chest. Not out of kindness. Not really.

Just because it was cold.

And because even if he hated you—and you definitely hated him—he was still a human being.

You turned back toward your room, hoodie sleeves too long over your hands, and whispered into the dark:

“You look like a person when you sleep.”

He didn’t hear you. Probably.

—

Minho knew something was off the second he opened his eyes.

Not just because his neck was stiff or the TV was still on. It was the blanket.

It had been over him. Neatly. Tucked up under his chin like someone had stopped, looked at him, and—

He sat up slowly, glancing around the dim living room. Nothing. No sign of you. Just the faint smell of tomato sauce lingering from the pasta war the night before and a hoodie hanging crooked off the back of the couch.

His hoodie.

Fucking hell.

You’d touched his blanket. His clothes. You’d touched him, probably. And he’d slept through it like an idiot.

He hated that he didn’t hate it.

By the time you finally emerged from your room the next morning, half-wet hair twisted into a bun and sleep still crusting your eyes, Minho was already standing in the kitchen—freshly showered, coffee in hand, and unreadable behind his black tee and tired stare.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t look at you.

But the air was different.

He cleared his throat. “You’re up late.”

“I’m always up late.”

Right. Of course. You two weren’t going to talk about it. The blanket. The hoodie. The fact that, for once, neither of you had gone to bed vibrating with rage.

So you sipped your own coffee and stayed on opposite ends of the kitchen. Separate islands. Cold continents. Two strangers with matching rings they didn’t ask for.

Then your phone buzzed.

You didn’t answer it at first, but the second buzz turned into a full-blown call. You picked it up, eyes narrowing as you glanced at the screen.

“Oh, fuck me.”

Minho arched a brow. “Don’t offer things you don’t mean.”

You glared. “It’s my mother.”

He took a slow sip of coffee. “You’ve said enough.”

You answered on speaker, too tired to pretend today. “Hi, mom.”

“Sweetheart!” her voice was shrill and sugary. “I hope you’re both dressed—we’re expecting you at lunch!”

You blinked. “Lunch?”

“Yes, darling, we’ve arranged a little brunch at the family villa. Just a few friends. And, well… a few investors. It’ll be casual, of course. Just something to show how beautifully our children are adjusting to married life.”

Minho choked on his coffee.

“Married life?” you mouthed at him.

“Lovely,” you lied into the phone. “Can’t wait.”

—

You barely had time to fight over what to wear. Minho had shown up to the front door in a gray button-down and slacks like he was filming an ad for luxury timepieces. Meanwhile, you stood barefoot, mascara wand in hand, in a half-wrapped dress with a look of absolute murder on your face.

“Don’t even start,” you growled.

He smirked. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

“…You look nice.”

You blinked. Looked down. Then up. “You trying to seduce me into not stabbing you in front of your mother?”

“I wouldn’t need to try.”

You threw your brush at his face.

The car ride was quiet.

But not cold.

Tense, yes—but not the same kind of tension as before. Something new. Something that buzzed low in your spine. Like your bodies were talking even when your mouths weren’t.

He kept glancing at your legs. You pretended not to notice.

You picked imaginary lint off your skirt. He pretended not to watch.

The world outside flew by in soft gray blurs, and still—you felt that shift.

The one from last night.

The one you weren’t supposed to think about.

⸻

The villa was a lie.

It looked like a Tuscan postcard and smelled like money. Overgrown vines curled around white stone arches, and the sunlight streamed through polished windows like someone had bottled golden hour.

You hated it immediately.

Minho hated it more.

You could tell because he didn’t hold your hand until someone was looking.

But when he did?

Oh.

That bastard sold it.

He slid his fingers through yours like it was natural. Tugged you closer by the waist when cameras popped out. Whispered things into your ear that made you laugh, even when he was threatening to strangle you under his breath.

“Smile,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re making me look like a villain.”

“Gee, wonder why,” you said through your fake grin.

But God, he looked so good when he did it. Like a real husband. Like someone who knew your perfume by name.

And worst of all?

You looked good next to him.

There was a photo taken at one point—someone’s assistant caught it. You didn’t even realize. But it got passed around between the wives and board members, passed around with murmurs like:

“Look at how in love they are.”

“She fits him perfectly.”

“They’ll have beautiful children.”

And you saw it, later. On someone’s phone. A candid of you mid-laugh and Minho mid-glance—eyes soft, mouth twitching, hand grazing your waist like it belonged there.

You looked like the picture of a happy marriage.

And for a second, you hated how good it felt to pretend.

—

The real first shift started with dinner.

Just some leftover rice, a pan-fried egg, and the remains of whatever frozen veggies you’d tossed into a pot earlier. You didn’t cook it for him. You just made too much.

But then Minho walked into the kitchen, towel still on his shoulders, hair wet from a shower, and blinked at the plate you’d pushed aside like you weren’t saving it.

“I’m not eating your food,” he said.

You shrugged. “Didn’t ask you to.”

“…But that egg looks good.”

You didn’t answer. Just sat down at the counter and kept chewing.

He stood there awkwardly. Then grabbed a fork. And sat down next to you like it wasn’t a crime.

The silence wasn’t heavy. Not even thick. Just… quiet.

Like both of you had run out of excuses to hate each other loudly.

Then came the next slip.

The couch.

It was late. You were scrolling through nonsense on your phone, half-dozing to a playlist you wouldn’t admit was full of sad lo-fi love songs. You didn’t even notice him sit next to you until his shoulder brushed yours.

You didn’t flinch.

That was the worst part.

You just let it happen.

You told yourself it was fine. The couch was huge. You were tired. It wasn’t a thing. He wasn’t even talking. Neither of you were.

And then, you woke up.

Warm. Comfortable. Safe.

Your cheek was against his chest. His arm was around your shoulder. Your legs were tucked under a blanket you definitely didn’t pull over yourself.

You froze.

He was still asleep. Breathing steady. Mouth parted again, hair fluffing against the pillow like a halo he didn’t deserve.

You moved slowly. Too slowly.

And he blinked awake the second you shifted.

His voice was low. Sleep-rough. “Don’t freak out.”

You already were.

“I didn’t mean to stay,” you whispered.

“I didn’t mean to let you.”

You stared at each other in the dim glow of the TV.

Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

Then his phone buzzed.

And the bubble burst.

He looked down at the screen. His jaw locked. The softness vanished.

You saw it. You felt it.

Because you recognized the name.

Hannie.

Three words.

“Can we talk?”

Minho didn’t say a thing. Just stood up, grabbed his phone, and walked away.

He didn’t even look back.

—

You didn’t sleep.

You didn’t eat the next day either.

Minho wasn’t in the apartment when you woke up. No note. No text. Not even a plate of passive-aggressive toast crumbs to let you know he’d been there.

The silence was suffocating.

The warmth from last night? Gone.

Your hand kept drifting to your phone, but you had nothing to say. What could you even say? Sorry for sleeping on your chest and pretending you weren’t still in love with someone else?

You sat in the kitchen for hours.

He came home after sundown. Quiet. Unbothered.

You hated him for that.

But what broke you—what really split you in half—was the fact that he looked at you, said nothing, and headed straight to the shower.

Like you weren’t even worth a fight.

—

The front door slammed.

You didn’t even realize you were waiting for it until the sound made you flinch. Made your fingers clench around the glass in your hand.

Minho had come home.

Past midnight. Again.

Third night in a row.

And this time, he didn’t pretend to be quiet. He stomped around the kitchen without a care. Tossed his keys too hard on the counter. Opened the fridge, stared, closed it again. Then turned to find you standing there at the edge of the hallway, arms crossed, eyes tired.

You said nothing.

He said less.

And that was it. That was the moment something snapped.

“Don’t you wanna go back out?” you said, voice sharp. “Or was three nights with your ex enough?”

Minho froze.

Slowly, he turned to face you, and his expression made your skin crawl.

Cold.

Hard.

But this time, mean.

“You spying on me now?” he asked.

“You left your phone on the counter the first night. You think I wouldn’t see her name?”

He scoffed, like you were the one being ridiculous. “It’s none of your business.”

You stepped forward. “Really? That’s funny. Because you made it my business the second you decided to disappear without a word while I stayed here, alone, pretending everything was normal!”

“I never asked you to pretend.”

“No, you just let me.”

Minho’s jaw ticked. His hands were fists. “So what? You want a gold star? For playing house for three days like you actually give a shit?”

Your chest seized. “I did give a shit.”

Silence.

You said it. You couldn’t take it back.

He stared at you. Unblinking. Breathing heavy.

And then he laughed. Soft. Cold. Mocking.

“Oh, that’s rich,” he muttered. “You act like the victim, but let’s not forget—this is your parents’ idea. You’re just as much a part of this mess as I am.”

That hit.

Hard.

But you weren’t done.

You stepped closer. Eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare act like I had a choice in any of this. I left my life behind. My friends. My career. My freedom. For what? So I could be treated like a stranger in my own house?”

“It’s not your house.”

Those four words.

Like knives.

You didn’t even realize you’d thrown the glass cup until it shattered against the floor two feet from his head.

And still—he didn’t flinch.

He smirked.

“That’s more like it,” he said. “There’s the brat my parents warned me about.”

You stepped forward. Your voice dropped.

“You’re such a coward, Minho.”

The smile fell.

“You’d rather run to the past than even try to make this work. You don’t want a wife? Fine. You don’t want to play pretend anymore? Neither do I. But don’t fucking punish me because your little fairytale ended and now you’re stuck with someone who didn’t beg to be here.”

His mouth parted. But he said nothing.

Coward.

He turned.

Started walking away.

And something in you broke.

“You’re so goddamn cold,” you said. “Do you even feel anything anymore, or are you just playing numb until she takes you back?”

He stopped.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t speak.

Just walked into his room.

And slammed the door.

—

You left that night.

No text. No calls. No dramatic slamming of doors.

Just your phone on the kitchen table, screen facedown like a corpse.

You packed a bag with nothing but essentials—some cash, a few clothes, your favorite perfume. The soft hoodie you slept in when you actually felt safe here. Just a few things to remind you that you were still you.

Then you got in the car and drove off.

Minho never saw you leave.

The hotel was three towns away. Coastal. Quiet.

The concierge didn’t ask questions. Just smiled when you booked the penthouse suite for a week and asked if you wanted a bottle of wine sent up. You said yes. Then requested a second.

The view was stunning.

The ocean glittered like it didn’t know how to be cruel. The room was wrapped in clean linens and silence. There was a rooftop pool. A bar with men who looked like they’d never heard the name Hannie in their lives.

It was freedom.

For three days, you existed like you were never married. Never shoved into a life you didn’t want. You slept with the balcony door open. Drank rosé for breakfast. Let strangers flirt with you in the elevator. Let a bartender ask for your number and smiled when you didn’t give it.

You lived.

And for the first time since this all started—you didn’t cry.

—

Minho, on the other hand?

He unraveled.

The first morning, he found your phone and rolled his eyes. Thought you’d storm back in eventually, full of righteous rage and a tantrum he could ignore.

You didn’t.

By evening, he’d checked every room in the apartment.

By midnight, he’d texted you twelve times even if your phone was turned off on the kitchen counter, he hoped you had your ipad or something with you.

By the next day, he was on the phone with your mother.

“I don’t know where she is.”

“Well, maybe if you treated her like a human being, she wouldn’t feel the need to vanish!”

Then came his father.

“If you screw this up, Lee Minho, so help me God—”

“Dad, she ran off—what do you want me to do?!”

“Get her back. Or don’t expect a damn cent when I die.”

That one stuck. So he stopped sleeping.

Started calling your friends. Your old number. Even checked your socials, which you hadn’t posted on in weeks. He scoured local hotels under fake names. Drove around aimlessly, gripping the wheel like it might help him understand where the hell this all went wrong.

He missed the scent of your hair in the hallway.

The hum of your voice talking to yourself in the kitchen.

The sound of the apartment feeling like someone lived in it.

And he hated himself for noticing.

But what gutted him? Was the dinner plate in the fridge.

The one you left by accident.

The rice and egg and veggies he didn’t eat.

Still there.

Still waiting.

Like you.

—

The door clicked open at 2:17 p.m. on a Wednesday.

No announcement. No warning.

Just the soft creak of hinges as you strolled in like you owned the place—like you didn’t leave it barren and echoing for four days straight.

Minho was in the kitchen.

He froze mid-step, glass in hand, mind blank.

Then he saw you.

Hair soft and glowing. Sunglasses perched on your head. One of those stupid seafoam shopping bags swinging from your fingers. A small, content smile on your lips like you didn’t just drop a goddamn nuke on his life and disappear off the grid.

You didn’t even glance at him.

Just breezed past like summer wind. Like perfume. Like a woman who hadn’t spent a single second wondering how he felt.

Like you hadn’t missed him at all.

He followed you. His jaw tightened. Voice low.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

You stopped. But didn’t turn.

“I went out,” you said, breezy. “Needed some air.”

“For four days?”

You finally looked at him and smiled.

“Oh, you noticed?”

That was it. That was the match.

Minho slammed the glass down—hard. Sharp enough to crack.

“You think this is funny?” he snapped, storming after you as you made your way to the bedroom. “You think disappearing without a word is some kind of fucking joke?”

“I think disappearing was the smartest thing I’ve done since saying I do.”

You tossed your bags onto the bed.

His eyes were on you—scorching. Dark. Possessive. And furious.

“Do you know what I’ve been through looking for you?”

You raised a brow. “Did you try your ex’s place?”

Minho exploded.

“Don’t fucking bring Hannie into this!”

“Why not?” you shot back. “Thought she’d already in our house.”

“She never came here. She only wanted closure—”

“Closure? You couldn’t send a goddamn text, but she gets closure?”

“You ran off!”

“BECAUSE I’M SICK OF THIS, MINHO!”

Silence.

Breathing. Heavy. Yours trembling, his uneven.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

“I didn’t sign up for love,” you said, quieter. “But I also didn’t sign up to be humiliated. To be ignored. To be left behind like a mistake.”

Minho looked at you, really looked.

And for the first time in days, his voice dropped to something that almost sounded like regret.

“You were never a mistake.”

You scoffed.

“Funny. You’ve been treating me like one since the day we met.”

Another silence.

And then—

“I looked for you,” he said. “I fucking panicked. I called everyone. I barely slept.”

You stared at him.

And something in your voice cracked, finally.

“Why?” you whispered. “Because your little doll went missing? Or because your inheritance did?”

That hit home.

Minho stepped forward.

Eyes sharp. Wild.

“I looked for you,” he growled, “because the silence was louder than the fights.”

You didn’t blink.

“I left because I needed space.”

He stared at you. Unmoving.

“And now?”

You met his gaze and said nothing.

—

You didn’t say anything else that night.

You’d stood in the middle of that bedroom—his fists clenched, your expression empty—and said absolutely nothing. Not “I forgive you.” Not “I understand.” Just… nothing.

And for Lee Minho, that silence was worse than screaming.

The next morning, he cooked breakfast.

Not well. Not gracefully. But enough that the scent of burnt toast and eggs greeted you when you walked into the kitchen at ten a.m., still in the hoodie you’d brought back from your coastal escape.

You blinked.

He stood at the counter. Jaw tight. Hair messy. A single plate waiting at your spot.

You stared at it.

He didn’t look at you.

“I didn’t poison it,” he muttered.

You sat. Ate half of it. Didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t ask why you only took one bite of the toast.

Later that day, a package arrived.

Shopping. Another one.

You’d clearly picked up the habit while you were gone.

He watched you slice the tape with a box cutter and pull out the sexiest red dress he’d ever seen.

You looked at it like it was an old friend. Then walked off humming.

Minho sat on the couch for three full minutes staring at the now-empty box like it personally offended him.

Then he googled the brand.

It cost more than his last pair of sneakers.

You hadn’t even flinched when the bill hit your card.

That night, you wore the dress.

Not for him. Of course not.

You didn’t even tell him you were going out. Just strutted through the apartment like a model on her way to kill a man with her bare hands. Hair done. Lip gloss gleaming. Legs out. Eyes sharper than any knife he owned.

Minho nearly choked on his water.

You grabbed your purse.

He stood.

“Where are you going?”

You didn’t stop walking. “Out.”

“With who?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He gritted his teeth.

“You’re married.”

You glanced over your shoulder.

“So are you.”

The door clicked behind you.

And Minho?

He stood there, fists clenched, heart thudding, and for the first time in his life—

he felt like he was chasing something he’d already lost.

—

You didn’t go far.

A lounge downtown. Some live music. Some harmless flirting.

You didn’t give anyone your number, didn’t accept the free drinks—but you smiled. You laughed. You felt something. Even if it wasn’t joy.

It was freedom.

And when you came home past midnight, heels in your hand and a lazy smirk on your lips, Minho was waiting.

Still dressed. Still awake. Eyes dark.

“What, did he not take you home?”

You blinked, unbothered. “Did you want him to?”

Minho moved so fast you barely saw it coming—slamming his glass down on the table, shattering it instantly.

The sound echoed through the apartment like a gunshot.

You didn’t flinch.

“You want to be angry, Minho?” you said coldly. “Then be angry. But stop pretending you have any right to be.”

His voice dropped. Low. Dangerous.

“You think I don’t care?”

You scoffed.

“I think you care about the idea of me. You care about your control.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re my wife.”

You took a breath.

“And I was yours. Until you treated me like furniture. Until you let your ex back into our home. Until I left, and you didn’t even call—”

“I DID.”

You paused.

That… stopped you.

“I did,” he repeated, quieter. “I called. I looked. I… I panicked. Okay? I couldn’t sleep.”

You stared at him.

“You called because you were worried?”

“No,” he bit out. “I called because I thought I lost you and I didn’t even know when you became something I didn’t want to lose.”

…

Silence.

The air was thick with heat, fury, confusion.

His chest heaved. Your lashes fluttered.

And then—

“Too bad,” you whispered. “You already did.”

You turned.

Walked down the hall.

Closed the door to the bedroom behind you.

Left him with nothing but guilt.

And the sound of his own breathing.

Minho stood in the hallway like he was losing it.

Because he was.

He’d asked. Nicely. Calmly. Even with that aching thing in his chest that he refused to name.

“Dinner with me. Just us.”

You hadn’t even looked up from your phone.

“No thanks.”

Just that. No explanation. No hesitation.

And that might’ve been fine—should’ve been fine—if you hadn’t left the house an hour later in a goddamn silk top, with your lips glossed and your earrings dangling, smiling at your phone like you were excited.

Excited for someone else.

Minho snapped.

He didn’t think. Just grabbed his coat, keys in hand, following the subtle perfume trail you left like it was instinct.

He wasn’t even trying to be sneaky.

He wanted to see.

He needed to see.

And when he found you—sitting at a trendy restaurant downtown, laughing across a table at a guy in a slim black button-up who wasn’t him—he felt something inside him break.

Minho stood outside like a ghost.

Watching.

Your smile looked different here.

Your laugh was real.

Your hand brushed the guy’s wrist when you reached for your wine glass and he laughed too—and Minho? He was already crossing the street.

You saw him before he reached your table.

That same thunderstorm scowl, the same black shirt he wore when he was ready to fight fate itself. You blinked, caught mid-sip, and your date raised an eyebrow.

“Friend of yours?”

“Unfortunately,” you muttered.

But it was too late.

Minho was there.

Next to your table.

Looking between you and the man across from you like he was barely holding himself together.

“Hi,” you said flatly.

He ignored you.

To your date: “She’s married.”

The guy blinked. “She said she was separated.”

“She’s not.” Minho’s voice dropped low. “She’s mine.”

Your jaw dropped. “What the fuck—Minho, you can’t just—”

But he didn’t listen. Didn’t care.

He grabbed your wrist. Not hard, not rough—just firm.

Like he was anchoring himself to you before he drowned.

And then he leaned in—and kissed you.

In front of everyone.

In front of him.

Not a soft kiss. Not a question.

A statement.

Minho kissed you like he was starving. Like he hated you. Like he loved you. Like you were air, and he’d been suffocating.

You pushed him back.

Staring. Shaking.

“What the fuck was that?”

He exhaled hard. “I ended it.”

You blinked.

“My ex. I ended it. For good. She never came to the house. She never stayed. I didn’t want her. I just didn’t know how to let go of something that already left me.”

You stared at him.

“That wasn’t fair to you. None of this was. But if you think I’m gonna sit back and watch you fall for someone else, you’re insane.”

The guy at the table stood awkwardly. “I should probably—”

Minho looked at him once and he quietly slipped out of the table and headed towards the exit.

You bit your lip, eyes blazing.

“You don’t get to be jealous.”

“I am, though.”

“You don’t get to kiss me.”

“I did.”

“And you don’t get to—”

He kissed you again.

This time, slower. Fuller. Like the world was ending and your mouth was his salvation.

When he pulled away, breathless, voice shaking:

“I get to love you. If you’ll let me.”

And for the first time, you didn’t have an answer.

—

The silence in the car was loud.

Unbearably loud.

You stared out the passenger window, heart still racing, brain trying to make sense of anything. You were vaguely aware that Minho had parked a few minutes ago, engine off, but neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

You were still dazed.

Still feeling his lips.

Still tasting him.

You brought your fingers up, brushing against your lower lip in disbelief.

Because what the fuck just happened.

Lee Minho—Mr. Iceman. Mr. I-hate-you-and-this-marriage. Mr. This-isn’t-what-I-wanted—had kissed you. Twice.

In public.

In front of your date.

And worse… You let him.

No. Worse than that— You wanted more.

Minho, on the other hand, sat in the driver’s seat, watching you like he was trying to solve a math problem. Like he couldn’t figure out if he’d just destroyed something or unlocked it. His jaw was tight, his hands still gripping the steering wheel.

Inside his head?

Chaos.

Why did he kiss you?

Why did it feel that good?

And why the fuck did he want to do it again?

He exhaled harshly through his nose, eyes flicking to you. Still staring out the window. Still lost in your thoughts. Still tracing your mouth like it betrayed you.

Something snapped.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, and before you even realized what was happening—

He leaned across the console.

Grabbed the back of your neck.

And kissed you. Again.

But this time, it wasn’t to prove a point.

It wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t performative.

This time, it was heat.

It was raw and hungry and messy.

His lips crushed against yours, mouth parting without hesitation, and your gasp disappeared between his teeth. His hand stayed at your nape, thumb brushing your jaw as he kissed you like he needed it. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered.

You froze for a second—confused, overwhelmed—

Then you kissed him back.

This time with fire.

Your hands gripped the collar of his coat, yanking him closer across the gearshift. His tongue slid against yours and you moaned before you could stop yourself—and that only made him growl low, deep in his throat, and tilt your head so he could kiss you deeper.

He pulled back just enough to speak, voice ragged.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

You were breathless. “Then why’d you?”

His eyes searched yours. “Because you’re my wife.”

“That didn’t mean anything to you before.”

“It does now.”

That stunned silence settled again—but this time, it pulsed with electricity.

You sat back slowly, lips swollen, heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

“What changed?”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then, quietly, “You left.”

You blinked.

“I woke up and you weren’t there. Left your phone. No note. Nothing. And the house was just… quiet.”

You waited.

“And I didn’t realize how much I hated the quiet.”

Your throat tightened.

Minho leaned his head back against the headrest, staring up at the roof.

“I told myself I didn’t want this. That it wasn’t supposed to be you. But then it was, and I just—” he paused, eyes squeezing shut. “I don’t know how to do this. I’ve been angry for so long, I forgot how to feel anything else.”

Your voice was soft. “So what now?”

He turned his head slowly. Looked at you like he hadn’t stopped thinking about your mouth since the first kiss.

“What do you want?”

You swallowed hard. The air between you was thick with unspoken things. With need. With possibility.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it.

Because the truth was—

You didn’t know.

You just knew one thing:

Minho was finally looking at you.

And you didn’t want him to stop.

—

The morning light spilled across the room in soft gold.

You blinked awake slowly, disoriented at first. Sheets tangled around your legs, the faint scent of clean linen and cologne still lingering in the air. It was quiet. Peaceful. Too peaceful.

Until it hit you.

Last night.

The car.

The kiss.

Both kisses.

His mouth on yours like he couldn’t breathe without it.

Your fingers instinctively touched your lips again, brushing over them like you could still feel the imprint of him there. And you could. It was annoying how vivid it all was—the way he grabbed your neck, the groan that slipped from his throat, the way he said you’re my wife like that meant something now.

You sat up too fast, the motion tangling your thoughts even more.

There was no note. No coffee waiting. No sound in the hallway. If you hadn’t known better, you’d think last night was a dream. A delusion you conjured up from all the tension snapping in your spine since this marriage started.

You padded out of the bedroom barefoot, oversized tee hitting just below your thighs. You didn’t expect to see him. You were just headed to the bathroom, like a normal person, to brush your damn teeth and try to reassemble your scrambled dignity.

You reached for the door.

Swung it open.

And there he was.

Minho.

In the bathroom.

Shirtless. Toothbrush in mouth.

Eyes going wide like a deer caught in fuckery.

You froze. So did he.

Toothpaste foam halfway down his lip. Water still running. The mirror fogged from his recent shower and his hair slightly damp, sticking to his forehead in soft, tousled strands that were so unfairly hot you actually wanted to scream.

It was like time stuttered for a second.

Your eyes met, and neither of you said a word.

Not about the kiss. Not about last night. Not about how this exact bathroom was where you’d once screamed at each other just weeks ago—and now you were both standing in it like strangers with secrets on your skin.

He stepped aside slowly, giving you space to reach the sink. “Didn’t know you were up,” he said finally, voice rough with sleep and awkwardness.

You cleared your throat. “Didn’t know you were either.”

A pause.

He spit.

You grabbed your own toothbrush, avoiding his reflection in the mirror.

You could feel his eyes on you though. Like heat.

“So…” he started, voice quieter now. “About last night—”

“Nope,” you said quickly, mouth full of mint. “No talking until after brushing.”

It was a lame excuse.

But you were panicking.

He didn’t argue.

The next two minutes were filled with brushing. Swishing. Spitting. Rinsing. You were trying to play it cool, but your heart was going insane because his arm had just brushed yours and oh god, was that a shiver?

He reached for a towel to dry his face. His fingers passed yours again.

“About last night,” he said again, this time firmer. “I don’t regret it.”

You froze mid-rinse.

He glanced at you, towel hanging around his neck.

“But I get it if you do.”

Your gaze finally met his in the mirror.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you don’t?”

You were quiet for a second.

“I don’t know what I feel.”

His jaw twitched. “Fair.”

You wiped your mouth and turned toward him, crossing your arms over your chest. “But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to pretend we’re suddenly okay now.”

“I wasn’t going to pretend,” he said evenly. “I just—meant it. That’s all.”

A pause.

“And if I kissed you again,” he added, “I’d still mean it.”

Your stomach flipped. “You’re not going to kiss me again.”

“I’m not?”

You looked up at him, heart hammering, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re my husband, Minho. Not my boyfriend. This isn’t dating. This isn’t normal. You don’t get to just kiss me like we didn’t hate each other last week.”

His eyes darkened. “I didn’t hate you.”

You blinked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He stepped closer. Not close enough to touch—but close enough that you could smell the clean spice of his skin. The kind of proximity that made your breath catch.

“I hated the situation,” he said quietly. “Not you.”

And for the first time… you actually believed him.

You stared up at him, blood rushing in your ears.

And then, before either of you could speak again—his phone rang in the hallway. The sound broke whatever spell was swirling around you. Minho stepped back, exhaling hard through his nose.

“I’ll get that,” he muttered.

And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving you in the bathroom.

Staring at your reflection.

And still tasting his kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: part two is linked at the top of the fic, for my new readers 😏 WELCOME

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