Until Cold Do Us Apart

You don’t remember much about the ceremony, and you’re pretty sure that’s a trauma response.

Your mother had cried, though you still weren’t sure if it was joy or guilt. Your father, tight-lipped and straight-backed in his suit, shook hands with Jiheon’s manager like this was some brokered truce between warring companies. It was quiet, as if everyone was walking on eggshells because someone might snap.

The bride didn’t wear white. She wore black slacks, a blazer, and a look on her face that could’ve made the sun rethink shining that day. Jiheon didn’t even look at you as she signed the marriage registration. No, her gaze focused just over your shoulder, as if she was mentally somewhere far, far away.

Honestly, you wouldn’t have minded being there with her, if only to escape the suffocating weight of what had just happened.

An arranged marriage. In this day and age.

You weren’t royalty, or chaebol heirs, or reality show contestants. You were just… the unlucky child of a powerful real estate family, and Jiheon, the idol of a company that was barely having its first step in entertainment. Business ties. Contractual benefits. Media coverage. Whatever the real reason was, it clearly wasn’t love. Hell, it wasn’t even like.

It reminded you of the first (and the only) meeting before the arrangement was final. At a company dinner, where she sat three seats away and didn’t even acknowledge your existence beyond a polite nod when her manager introduced you.

Her fans would’ve called her elegant. Reserved. Maybe even cool.

You, on the other hand, saw the exact moment she looked at you and realized she was going to be tethered to you legally for the foreseeable future. Her eye smile barely twitched. But her eyes — those adorable yet sharp, unreadable eyes — darkened like the grey storm clouds right before thunder hits.

After that dinner, your parents tried to convince you. They brought up her reputation: how she was smart, how she always carried herself well, and how this alliance would benefit both sides. You tried to push back. She was a member of fromis_9, for god’s sake. She was active, popular. You were some half-baked heir who hadn’t even figured out what you wanted to do with your life yet. What would she gain from marrying you, outside of a bullet point on a corporate merger document?

“Jiheon agreed,” they said.

You still winced how that sentence stung more than it should have. Not “she wanted to.” Not “she likes you.” Just “she agreed.”

Like she was tolerating this. Like she was tolerating you.

Anyway, back in the present, she walks ahead of you as you step out of the city registry office. Her pace is fast and exact, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement, not once glancing back to check if you were keeping up. The car is waiting at the curb. You slide into the backseat beside her, trying not to let the awkwardness crush your lungs. Her gaze is glued to her phone, thumb scrolling, probably messages from her group chat. Probably better people to be around than you.

“Should I, um… move my stuff into the guest room when we get back?” you ask, voice embarrassingly unsure.

Jiheon exhales. “Do what you want.”

You nod. Stare out the window. Try not to drown in the silence.

The apartment is new. Way too new.

White walls, untouched counters, and everything smelling like plastic wrap and a showroom catalogue. You’d picked the unit together during one of those “family obligation” weekends, though she didn’t say more than three full sentences the whole time. Still, she gave a small nod when you suggested this one, since it’s slightly bigger than necessary, with two bedrooms and a view of the Han River.

You don’t know why she agreed. Maybe because it lets her avoid being near you more than necessary.

As you step inside, she kicks off her heels and heads straight to the larger bedroom without a word. The door shuts behind her before you can say anything. You could only sigh and roll your suitcase into the guest room. Damn, it still smells like fresh paint.

You flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, trying to figure out where to begin when your partner (well, wife-on-paper) is the kind of person who barely tolerates being in the same airspace.

You thought marriage wasn’t supposed to feel like a contract between strangers. But maybe that’s what you two are. Strangers, now wearing rings you didn’t pick, in a home that doesn’t feel like yours. You think about the way she avoided your eyes the entire time you said your vows. It feels like facing a chilling death.

So you made yourself a quiet promise, lying on the unfamiliar mattress with the ceiling fan humming above you. A vow you didn’t say out loud: If this marriage was inevitable, then at the very least, you weren’t going to make her feel like she was trapped.

But for now?

You settle in the guest bed, alone. And the house remains just as silent as the ceremony.

You started small.

Fresh towels on the rack before her shower. Her side of the fridge stocked with her favourite drinks—those weird fizzy kombuchas you noticed she drinks all the time. Slippers left by the front door facing outwards, so she wouldn’t have to turn them around when she came home exhausted.

She noticed. Of course she did. You could tell by the way her eyes lingered for half a second longer on the table when you left out her coffee just the way she liked it (your history was just repeats of her live). Black, no sugar, no comments.

But that didn’t mean she liked it.

One morning, you were plating up toast and eggs (nothing fancy, but warm and ready) when you felt her eyes on your back.

“You don’t have to do all this,” Her voice sounds more exhausted than angry.

You turned around, spatula in hand. She stood a few feet away, arms crossed over her hoodie, hair still damp from the shower.

“It’s just breakfast,” you offered with a small shrug. “You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday’s schedule.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Um…You left your lunch in the fridge.”

She scoffed, brushing a hand through her hair. “I didn’t ask you to keep tabs on me.”

“I’m not,” you said, gently. “I just… noticed.”

“Then stop noticing.”

That one hurts…quite a lot. You looked down, pressing your thumb into the edge of the counter just to ground yourself.

“I’m not…I’m not trying to pity you, Jiheon,” you said, carefully, like every word might be landmines. “This is your home too. I’m just… trying to make sure you feel that.”

She stared at you for a beat too long, and you weren’t sure if she was about to throw her mug at you or leave again. “I don’t need your comfort,” she said finally. “Or your kindness. Especially not if it’s because you feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you,” you replied, softly. “But I do feel responsible for making sure you don’t feel alone here.”

“You don’t get it.”

“Of course I don’t. Help me understand.”

Her shoulders dropped just slightly, like she wanted to argue, wanted to fight, but was just too tired. She turned around instead, muttering under her breath as she walked away.

“I never asked for any of this…”

Still, you didn’t stop, and she didn’t even try to hide her disdain.

You heard it in the frustrated sigh she let out when she opened the fridge and saw the labelled containers: ‘Dinner (spicy, for Jiheon)’.You caught her rolling her eyes when you left two umbrellas by the door during the rainy week. Once, during a particularly long day, you’d seen her struggling to adjust the strap of her bag before heading out. You reached forward, gently fixing it for her without a word.

She jerked away like your touch burned. “Don’t.”