## **Lee Yoon-seo**
If anyone tells you that fake marriage sounds easy — they’ve never tried figuring out how to split closet space with Ji Hoon-min.
“This isn’t going to work,” I said flatly, staring at the single empty shelf he’d generously offered me.
“That’s a perfectly reasonable amount of space,” he replied, crossing his arms. “I barely use it.”
“Exactly. Because the rest of your wardrobe lives in *that*.” I pointed at his walk-in closet — a shrine to tailored suits, expensive watches, and exactly three pairs of the same designer shoes in different shades of black.
---
Moving into Hoon-min’s penthouse had seemed like the logical next step after our very public debut. Logical. Not... survivable.
“Also.” I flung open a cabinet. “Explain why your kitchen has six wine glasses but not a single frying pan.”
“I order takeout.”
“Obviously.”
---
By the time evening hit, we were knee-deep in what I could only describe as the most awkward version of domesticity known to mankind.
Hoon-min sat on the couch, sleeves rolled, typing furiously on his laptop. I sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by my boxes, aggressively labeling drawers.
“Do you really need a drawer just for... hairbands?” he asked, glancing over.
“Do you really need an entire drawer for cufflinks that all look the same?” I shot back.
“They don’t look the same.”
“They absolutely do.”
---
Somewhere between unpacking and passive-aggressive labeling, my phone buzzed.
> 📨 **Kang Min-jun:** “Hey. Just checking — how’s married life treating you, Mrs. Ji?” 😉
I bit back a grin. Typing:
> **“Chaotic. Send help. Or pizza.”**
His reply was instant:
> 📨 **“Both incoming.”**
---
“Who’s that?” came Hoon-min’s voice — sharp. Too sharp for someone supposedly focused on spreadsheets.
I blinked. “Huh?”
“Your smile,” he said, setting his laptop aside. “It looked... suspicious.”
“Suspicious?” I blinked. “It’s called texting, not espionage.”
“Who?”
“Min-jun.”
A pause. His jaw tensed. *Ah.* There it was — *possessive Hoon-min, activated.*
---
“I see.” His tone was cool, but his hands curled slightly on his knees. “Friendly.”
“Friendly, yes.” I stood, stretching. “Unlike someone here, Min-jun knows how to cook. And text like a normal human.”
Hoon-min’s eyes narrowed. “I can cook.”
“You absolutely cannot.”
“Fine. I can *order* better than him.”
“Wow. Impressive skillset, Mr. CEO.”
---
Suddenly — his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my wrist. “You don’t need him to send food. Tell him not to.”
I blinked. “Possessive much?”
His grip loosened, but his gaze didn’t. “It wouldn’t look right. A married woman... receiving late-night pizza from another man.”
My heart did a dangerous little somersault. “Oh, *now* we care about appearances.”
---
Just as I was about to sass him further — the doorbell rang.
“Oh look. Rescue has arrived.” I smirked, slipping free and heading for the door.
Sure enough — Min-jun stood there, holding two pizza boxes like a knight with a carb-based sword.
“Mrs. Ji,” he greeted, smiling. “Emergency carbs delivered as requested.”
“And heroically appreciated,” I replied, reaching for the boxes.
---
Before I could grab them — a shadow loomed behind me.
Hoon-min.
“Evening,” he said, smile tight. Corporate. Weaponized. “Nice of you to drop by, Min-jun-ssi.”
“Couldn’t let Yoon-seo starve,” Min-jun replied smoothly. “You’re... feeding her well, I assume?”
The tension between them? Palpable. Like two lions in a very expensive living room.
---
“Oh, we’re... well-fed,” I deadpanned. “On sarcasm and stress.”
“Sounds balanced,” Min-jun chuckled, handing me the boxes anyway. “Anyway, you’ve got my number if you ever... need anything.”
That was absolutely not just about pizza.
“I’m sure *she won’t*,” Hoon-min cut in, stepping slightly — just slightly — between us. Subtle. Territorial. Impossible to ignore.
---
“See you around,” Min-jun added, throwing me one last grin before walking off, all charming and annoyingly perfect.
As I shut the door, I turned — only to find Hoon-min glaring daggers at the floor like it personally offended him.
---
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” I teased, biting into a slice.
“Not jealous,” he muttered, sinking onto the couch. “Just... protective of the contract.”
“Uh-huh.”
---
We ate in silence for a moment. Well. Not silence. There was the occasional dramatic sigh from Mr. Definitely-Not-Jealous.
Then — his voice, quieter. “...Don’t text him so much.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“It... confuses the narrative,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “For the public.”
“Oh sure. For the *public.*” I grinned. “Not because it bugs you.”
His ears flushed. *Caught.*
---
And just like that — as the night stretched on, with pizza boxes on the floor, me wrapped in *his* hoodie because mine was “in a box somewhere,” and him sulking but also lowkey tucking a blanket around my shoulders...
I realized something dangerous.
This was supposed to be fake.
So why did it already feel a little like home?
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