## **Lee Yoon-seo**

“Alright.” I crossed my arms, staring him down across the table like we were in the middle of a corporate merger — which, technically, we were. Sort of.

“Let’s get the terms straight,” I said. “If we’re doing this, we need more than vague hand-holding instructions. We need boundaries. Expectations. Rules.”

Ji Hoon-min leaned back in his chair, annoyingly relaxed. “Rules... for fake dating?”

“For fake marriage,” I corrected. “Big difference.”

His lips twitched. “Naturally.”

---

I pulled out a notebook and clicked my pen. “Rule Number One — No sleepovers.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Obvious.”

“Unless absolutely necessary for public appearances.”

“Define ‘necessary.’”

“Media caught us outside after midnight? Yes. You pass out drunk in my living room? No.”

“Noted.”

---

“Rule Number Two — No skinship outside of public events.”

“Skinship?” he echoed, clearly entertained.

“You know. Hand-holding. Hugging. Kissing. That stuff.” I waved a hand like it was no big deal — even though my stomach flipped just saying the words.

“So... if the paparazzi’s around, we can act like a couple?”

“Exactly.”

His smirk was unfair. “How convenient.”

---

“Rule Three — No... no getting jealous.”

“Jealous?” His brows shot up. “Why would I get jealous?”

“You won’t. Exactly.” I scribbled it down. “Neither of us will.”

“Even if, say... someone flirts with you?” he asked, far too casually.

“Even then.” I set my jaw. “We’re actors, not real lovers.”

His eyes glinted. “Mm. Actors.”

---

I flipped the page. “Rule Four — Emotional boundaries. No confusing real feelings with pretend.”

A long pause.

“Right,” he finally said, tapping his finger against the table. “No... confusing things.”

Why did that suddenly sound less convincing?

---

“Rule Five — Maintain separate living spaces.”

“Agreed.”

“Rule Six — We split expenses related to the act. Clothes. Events. Dinners.”

“You really are thorough,” he murmured.

“Someone has to be.”

---

“And the most important rule...” I clicked my pen shut, meeting his eyes. “We end this clean. No drama. One year. Contract expires. We walk away.”

His smile faded slightly. “...Right.”

Silence. A thick, weird silence. Not quite awkward. Not quite comfortable either.

---

“Anything you’d like to add?” I asked, clearing my throat.

He steepled his fingers, considering. “One thing.”

“What?”

“We should practice.”

“Practice... what?”

“The act.” His gaze was steady. “You know. Looking natural.”

I blinked. “You mean... now?”

“Why not?”

---

Before I could protest, he stood, walked around the table, and extended his hand.

“Come on,” he said, voice lower. “Stand up.”

“Why—”

“Practice,” he repeated, with a glint that was way too smug.

Reluctantly — absolutely not because of the way his voice sent a weird shiver down my spine — I stood.

---

“Okay,” I mumbled. “What now?”

He stepped forward, closed the gap between us. Close. Too close. His cologne hit me first — crisp, clean, expensive.

“Smile like you’re madly in love,” he said, dead serious.

“I... I don’t—”

“Like this.”

He reached out — thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. “Loosen your mouth. Relax your eyes. Tilt your head slightly.”

My breath caught. “Are you... seriously coaching me on smiling?”

“Mm-hmm.” His hand dropped, but he didn’t move back. “Your turn.”

“For what?”

“Correct my smile.”

“You don’t smile.”

“Exactly.” He smirked. “That’s your problem now.”

---

I huffed, reaching up instinctively — fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. He froze. So did I.

“Relax this,” I muttered, tapping the corner of his lips. “Stop looking like you’re about to file a lawsuit.”

His breath hitched. Just barely.

My fingers lingered half a second too long.

Abort. Abort mission.

---

I stepped back, clearing my throat like I hadn’t just accidentally touched the sharpest jawline in Seoul.

“Okay. Practice session over,” I announced. “We’re... clearly naturals.”

“Mm.” His lips curved — softer now. “Sure.”

---

He pulled out a pen — the expensive kind that probably costs more than my rent — and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the contract. Then slid it toward me.

“Your turn,” he murmured.

For a moment, my fingers hovered.

And then — I signed.

The ink barely dried before Hoon-min stood, extended his hand. “Welcome to our marriage... Mrs. Ji.”

The air shifted. *Mrs. Ji.* It wasn’t real. But for a second... it felt almost too real.

---

**→ Cutaway — Third Person | Hoon-jae & Ah-rin POV**

Hoon-jae threw himself onto the couch dramatically. “Tell me WHY my brother suddenly knows how to flirt.”

Ah-rin scrolled through her phone, sipping coffee. “Because love is the only virus that hacks even the most firewalled man alive.”

“...That was both poetic and nerdy.”

“I try.”

---

**→ Back to Yoon-seo (First Person)**

“I’ll schedule the photoshoot,” Hoon-min said, slipping the contract into his briefcase. “Make it official. To the world, at least.”

“Right,” I nodded. “To the world.”

But as I watched him walk away, my stomach twisted. This was pretend. All pretend.

So why did it already feel like something was shifting?