Chapter Text
Gihun clicked through the millionth TV channel in under five minutes, not once looking up to see what was actually on. He wasn’t watching. Not really. He just needed noise. Something loud and meaningless to drown out the kind of silence that wasn’t just quiet, but aware. The kind of silence that curled around corners and slipped under doors. The kind that made him feel like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for him to do something worth reacting to.
The TV buzzed on, a game show host screaming in Japanese, then a cooking program, then some drama he’d already seen three times. Didn’t matter. The point wasn’t to engage. It was to suffocate the sounds he could hear.
Like the faint rustle of fabric from the other side of the house. Or the electric buzz of summer mosquitoes against the window screen. Or the dry chorus of cicadas outside, always just loud enough to be irritating but never loud enough to mask the sound of Inho’s footsteps, slow, deliberate, and inevitably punctuated with a long, theatrical sigh every time he was even mildly inconvenienced.
Gihun rolled his eyes and let the remote fall onto the couch cushion beside him. Another sigh. Another shuffle. Probably the dishwasher was not being loaded the way Inho liked it. Or the hand towels not folded with military precision. Who knows. He wouldn’t say anything. He never did. He just floated around like a ghost with a clipboard, silently disapproving.
Ten years of this. Ten years of walking around a man who wasn’t mean, or cruel, or even particularly cold, justthere. Like a coat rack you occasionally bumped into.
It bugged him. Used to, anyway. Now it just sat in him like old wallpaper. Something he’d stopped noticing but would still complain about if asked. He filled the void as best he could: crocheting, baking, the piano. Quiet, harmless hobbies to keep his hands busy and his mind from spiraling.
Sometimes they worked. Today they didn’t.
Because today, the silence wasn’t just silence. It was that special kind. The kind that sat heavy in the chest, like a weighted blanket over a body already too hot. There were degrees of quiet in this house, and he’d become an expert at identifying each one.
Sometimes it was peaceful, when they were both in decent moods and passed by each other like mild acquaintances at a public library. Sometimes it was sharp, tension crackling when Inho was irritated and Gihun responded in kind by leaving a deliberate trail of coffee grounds on the counter. And then…sometimes it was this.
Nothing.
No tension. No mood. No edge. Just empty, hollow quiet that made the air feel too still. The kind of silence that felt like it was holding its breath and waiting for something to break it. Something to crash or shatter or snap.
He hated this kind of silence the most. It made him feel like a pawn in someone else’s game, stuck waiting for a move that never came.
It would drive him crazy someday. Maybe it already had.
He hadn’t thought much of it in the early years. What was the point? The situation was set, locked in. Something immovable and out of his control, so why waste energy resisting it? That had been his logic. Make the house feel like a home, fill the fridge with things Inho liked, fold the blankets on the couch just so. At the very least, if he couldn’t have freedom, he could have comfort. That was how he had placated himself in the beginning. A bit of soft domesticity in exchange for a life that didn’t feel like his.
Because the truth was, he hadn’t chosen this. Not any of it.
The marriage had been arranged years ago. Strategically. Surgically. His family had suggested it to Inho’s family with a series of business-handshake smiles, and before Gihun had time to process it, he was being fitted for a suit and told to smile through the flash of cameras and champagne. The wedding itself felt like a bureaucratic errand dressed up in flowers and vowels. The kind of thing you’re expected to be grateful for even as it guts you quietly.
He had never imagined marriage in his life. It wasn’t something he longed for or dreamed about. He had never even been interested in anyone long enough for the idea to take root, let alone bloom. And an arranged marriage? That had felt like something from a century ago. Foreign. Impersonal. A story someone else would live.
And yet, here he was. Ten years in, with a ring that felt less like jewelry and more like a brand, etched into his skin so long it had become a part of him. Something he didn’t notice until he really looked, and then couldn’t stop seeing.
He had tried to make it work in the beginning. He really had.
He suggested dates. Made reservations. Picked little cafes with good lighting and quiet corners where they could talk, or at least try to. He asked questions. Remembered Inho’s answers. Put in the effort to reach across the void and find something, anything, that might spark a connection.
But Inho had met him with the same thing every time: a polite, detached stare. An empty nod. That infuriating sigh that made it seem like spending time with Gihun was a chore he had been too gracious to decline. Like Gihun was an unwanted appointment he couldn't reschedule.
And fuck, did that grate on him.
Because it wasn’t like Inho was the only one trapped in this situation. Gihun hadn’t exactly begged to be here either but he tried. He tried to make the best of it. He showed up. Inho just acted like the victim. Like he was doing Gihun some grand favor by existing in the same space and not being completely cruel.
Arrogant bastard, Gihun thought bitterly, pressing the heel of his palm into his eye. Hwang Inho was too cold, too controlled, too everything that got under his skin without ever being enough to explode over. Just cold enough to make Gihun feel ridiculous for trying. For caring, even a little.
And that’s what annoyed him the most.
Inho carried an aura of arrogance with him like cologne, like an afterthought. Maybe he earned it, sure. A résumé that read like a corporate wet dream, a social circle full of people who pretended they weren’t dying to be him, and a last name that got doors opened faster than they closed. Fine. Maybe he had some right to act like the earth shifted around him.
But it still pissed Gihun off.
It wasn’t like he was some stray dragged in from the street. Gihun came from money too. Not the same kind, not the shiny old generational kind, but enough to have gone to the same prep schools, walked the same marble hallways, shook hands with the same fake-smiling people. They’d even been friendly, back then. Not close, not enough to ever really knoweach other, but enough to nod in passing and hold a conversation without counting the minutes.
Now it was all about strategy. Timing. Calculation. He’d learned to listen for the soft click of Inho’s bedroom door, count the exact number of minutes he spent in the kitchen. He waited until the coast was clear, then emerged to fix his meal in silence like some middle-class ghost haunting a luxury condo. It had become muscle memory. Avoid the tension. Stay invisible. Keep the peace. Because if Inho wanted to act like Gihun was some inconvenience, some minor disruption to his perfect little life, fine. Gihun could play that game too. Better than anyone, actually.
And truthfully, there were perks.
The penthouse, for one. Bought by Inho’s family as part of the arrangement. Neutral territory. Big enough for them to pretend not to hear each other’s footsteps, clean enough to feel like no one lived there at all. It was perched in the middle of the city, all glass walls and skyline views and an espresso machine Gihun still didn’t know how to use. Close to Inho’s work, naturally. God forbid the man suffer a thirty-minute commute.
No, Inho was always nearby. Just one room away. That was the real downside. The lack of distance. There was no time to breathe. No time to exhale between one of Inho’s long, disapproving sighs and the next. Even when he left for work, it never felt like he was gone long enough. Not really. His presence lingered. In the way the soap smelled, the crisp way the remotes were stacked, the coldness that seeped into the bones of the apartment.
Sometimes Gihun wondered what it would feel like to miss him.
What it would take to make that possible.
But mostly, he just cooked in silence.
Gihun worked remotely. He had the option to go into the office, but never took it. What for? So he could sit under fluorescent lighting and pretend to like people? No, thanks. The house was quiet enough during the day, and more importantly, it was his domain. Since Inho paid the bills and kept their finances airtight, Gihun took on the domestic side of things. Cleaned. Cooked. Maintained order. He made sure the appliances stayed running, the floors stayed polished, the fridge stayed full. It wasn’t a chore, not really. It gave him something to do. Something to control.
But sometimes Inho would make comments. Small ones. Casual little darts thrown without much aim, or so it seemed. Never loud. Never cruel. Just sharp enough to draw a little blood on the way out.
“It’s good,” Inho had said once over dinner, pausing to take another bite. “Could’ve stayed in the oven a few minutes longer, though.”
And maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. But it didn’t fucking matter.
It was the tone. The smug, clinical certainty. Like he was delivering a performance review instead of eating a home-cooked meal. That was the part that grated on Gihun’s nerves like sandpaper. That was Inho. So sure of himself, so confident he was always right. About everything. Every little thing.
And Gihun could’ve said something. He could’ve snapped back, launched into a petty argument over cooking times and tone of voice. But what would that do, really? They’d end up shouting about something that wasn’t really the issue, storming off to opposite ends of the apartment like two teenage boys punished into cohabitation. Again.
No, he didn’t have the energy for that.
So instead, he just swallowed the urge to snap, smiled like it didn’t bother him, and made a mental note to burn the next roast just out of spite.
Some days, it felt like the only thing keeping their marriage intact was a mutual, unspoken agreement not to fully test each other’s breaking points.
Gihun was, reluctantly, trying to keep his sanity intact.
But damn if Inho didn’t make it a full-time job.
Click. Click. Click.
The buttons on the remote grew louder the harder Gihun jabbed at them, impatience bleeding through each press. He wasn’t really looking for anything specific. Just something that wouldn’t demand too much brainpower or knock him out cold. A middle ground. A distraction. Apparently, on this day, that was too much to ask.
He groaned dramatically at the TV. At the blur of colors and passing actors, none of whom lingered on screen long enough to make an impression.
But what was somehow worse, what made him want to chew glass, was the sound coming from Inho’s study just a room away.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Relentless, surgical typing.
Each keystroke was viciously precise, almost like it was trying to one-up the remote in a petty contest of domestic dominance.
Click.
Click-clack.
Click.
Click-clack.
Gihun shot a glance at the closed office door, then rolled his eyes. Of course. Classic Inho.
He’d learned to recognize the signs of Inho’s passive aggression within the first few months of marriage. Maybe weeks. When Gihun left a coffee ring on the counter, Inho wouldn’t say anything. No direct confrontation. That wasn’t his style. Instead, he’d sigh like a disappointed monk and clean it up in a way that made a damn performance out of it, grabbing the rag, wringing it with unnecessary force, wiping the stain with all the quiet judgment of a man betrayed.
Or when Gihun left droplets of water on the bathroom floor after a shower, Inho wouldn’t mention it. No, he’d just walk in, mutter something under his breath, low enough to pretend it wasn’t meant to be heard, loud enough that Gihun knew it absolutely was.
It was an art form, really. A specialty. Inho didn’t fight dirty; he fought politely. And that was somehow worse.
A man-child, essentially. That’s what Gihun chalked it up to. And if Inho wanted to play juvenile games, silent treatments and performative sighs then fine. Gihun would double down. If they couldn’t be adults about sharing a space, then he’d lean into the chaos. Messy sheets. Outside clothes on the bed. Leaving the closet in disarray just enough to be irritating.
At one point, it escalated past the passive. Inho hadn’t yelled. He never did. He hadn’t raised his voice or laid a finger on Gihun. But the fury rolled off him like heat off pavement. Controlled, clinical, quietly venomous. And Gihun… well, he gave it right back.
Eventually, he packed up his things and moved into the guest bedroom. A place where he could finally fucking breathewithout a man who micromanaged his sock drawer hovering around like some cold ghost with a superiority complex.
That was when the unspoken rules began. They stayed out of each other’s way. Blissfully so. Inho had his en-suite bathroom in the master bedroom. Gihun made it a point never to step foot in there. In return, he claimed the rest of the house like a scavenger with a map.
He watched. He listened. He memorized Inho’s rhythm in the communal spaces . The library, the kitchen, the living room. Noted the times he entered, the times he left. For months, Gihun studied him like it was an art form. And finally, after a year of meticulous observation and triple-checking the gaps in their schedules, Gihun started living in the home like it was his.
Making breakfast without worrying about Inho barging in. Reading in the sun-drenched corner of the library without bracing for cold glances.
It was glorious. A breath of fresh air. One that didn’t come laced with cologne and condescension.
Did he hate his husband? No. Or maybe the answer was still under review.
He knew the man got under his skin more than anyone ever had. Knew he was a passive-aggressive control freak with a stick lodged firmly somewhere unspeakable. Knew he had the emotional range of a brick and the comedic timing of a funeral.
But did all that equate to hate? Probably not.
What he did hate was the situation. The way marriage had peeled back his autonomy layer by layer. Before all this, life was simple. He could go where he wanted, do what he wanted, exist without having to answer to anyone. Float in and out of his space like it was air.
Now? Now he yelled out “I’m heading out,” every time he left, and even though it wasn’t required, it felt like a leash around his throat. And when he stayed out all night, which happened more often than it should, he still texted Inho. Always the same unsaved number, memorized digits and all. Just a simple location drop. A timestamp. A note that he was still alive.
Inho always replied with an “Ok.” Or a goddamn thumbs up.
He didn’t know which was worse. The apathy or the emoji. But both made his skin itch.
It had always been like this.
From the very beginning, Gihun knew they were incompatible. Their first date already felt like the tragic prologue to a doomed marriage. The kind you only saw in films, so painfully stiff and lifeless he used to think there’s no way people actually live like that. Turns out they do. Turns out he was one of them.
Now, he was stuck for life with a man who didn’t even like him. Who barely tolerated his presence.
They met at one of those painfully expensive restaurants. The kind that serves you half a tomato with a drizzle of olive oil and has the audacity to call it artisanal before charging five hundred won for it. Gihun hated places like that, even after coming into money. But Inho fit into it too well. Like he was born in the folds of a pressed linen napkin.
Gihun rolled his eyes, mentally of course, and tried to stay neutral. No assumptions. No snide remarks. He wanted to at least try and show up with a decent attitude.
But immediately, it was clear: this wasn’t a date. It was an interview.
Inho didn’t ask questions, he conducted them. One after another, delivered in that clipped, sterile voice that made Gihun feel like he’d already failed. He might as well have had a clipboard and a single overhead bulb dangling between them.
And that expression. Stone cold. Calculated. Completely unbothered.
It should’ve scared him off. It didn’t. Gihun smiled at him anyway, tight and daring, the kind that said fuck you without moving his lips. He gripped his utensils a little too tightly, sliced into his meal a little too aggressively. He would’ve stabbed that overpriced entrée straight through the table if Inho kept up his one-sided interrogation a second longer.
The questions. What are your long-term goals? How do you manage your finances? What do you do in the face of conflict?
Stupid, corporate-ass questions. Like he was applying for a fucking job, not sitting across from the man he was supposed to marry. And not once did Inho introduce himself properly. Didn’t even bother asking a single question that made Gihun feel like a human being. Just ran through his checklist with that same disinterested expression, like he was reviewing a résumé he already planned to reject.
Still, Gihun answered them. Begrudgingly. Not because he was scared or intimidated, but because, deep down, he hoped the night might’ve been something else. A mutual understanding, maybe. Two people thrown into a shitty situation trying to find common ground.
But no. It wasn’t that kind of night.
Not once did Inho ask him his favorite movie. Not once did he laugh. And definitely not once did he seem like he actually wanted to be there.
And Gihun had tried. God, he tried. Tossed out a few jokes. Leaned in like he gave a damn. Tried to fake a little chemistry, flash a few smiles, something to break the ice. But every effort was met with a tight nod, a dry “I see”, and then back to the fucking questions.
By the end of it, he had already made up his mind. Inho wasn’t a partner. He was a problem to avoid. A wall to navigate around for the sake of sanity. Because whatever this was, it sure as hell didn’t feel like a marriage. It felt like onboarding for a job he never applied to.
And now, ten years later, nothing had changed.
Their marriage still felt like that dinner date. Two people sitting across from each other, polite distance between them, tolerating and enduring. Not love. It was never love. It would never be love.
They moved through life like business partners. Separate schedules. Separate tasks. Separate bedrooms. Even the silence between them felt assigned, like it had a place on some invisible checklist.
And that’s what gnawed at him the most. No matter how warm he tried to keep the house, with fresh meals, small baked goods, windows open to let the light in, the distance stayed. If anything, it grew.
He never expected romance. Never believed in the dizzying, fall-on-your-sword kind of love. But still, was it really too much to ask to be liked?
To have someone linger at the dinner table for a few extra minutes. To sit and watch a movie, even if neither of them spoke. To wash dishes side by side, one rinsing, one drying.
Apparently, that was too much. A line too far. A closeness Inho would never cross.
And Gihun? He wouldn’t ask. That wasn’t him. Not anymore.
It was silly, really, to still be having these thoughts after all these years. But they crept in, every now and then.
Usually when his eyes lingered on his husband a little too long, and the realization would hit him again: he knew almost nothing about the man.
Nothing that mattered.
He knew the essentials. His doctor’s name, his birthday, emergency contacts, the list of illnesses he’d had growing up. All the things you’d need if something went wrong.
But not the things you’d want to know if something was right.
He didn’t know Inho’s favorite song, what made him laugh, what he was like as a child. Didn’t know what scared him, or if anything even did.
Suddenly, the door to Inho’s study swung open with a sharp creak, and Gihun’s fingers froze mid-click on the remote. The room shifted instantly. It was like the air thickened between them, saturated with a kind of quiet pressure. The kind that made you instinctively hold your breath until the other person left the room.
He didn’t move. Just sat there, eyes fixed ahead, but every part of him was aware. Of the footsteps, of the silence, of the way their closeness unsettled the balance of the space.
Then he glanced at the clock.
Inho was two hours early.
That alone was strange enough to set something prickling along Gihun’s spine. Inho didn’t veer off schedule. He neverveered off schedule. His days were mapped down to the minute, precise, mechanical, obsessively consistent. So this meant something was off.
He cast a sideways glance, subtle and quick.
Inho looked wrecked. Not just tired, but worn down to the bone. His sleeves were shoved up to his forearms, the tie he always kept perfectly in place was missing entirely, and the crisp collar of his shirt drooped in wrinkled defeat. His posture, usually straight and guarded, sagged in places Gihun didn’t recognize.
Something was bothering him.
And under normal circumstances, Gihun would have ignored it. Let him sulk or decompress behind another closed door.
But this wasn’t normal.
There was something carved into Inho’s face tonight. A tiredness that looked like it had roots. The shadows beneath his eyes weren’t just the soft grays of fatigue, they were bruised and hollow, etched deep into his skin like they’d been tattooed there.
And still, the most disturbing part wasn’t how he looked.
It was that he was early.
Because if Inho was breaking his routine, it meant something had broken him first.
He could see it, something simmering just beneath the surface, faint but undeniable. The kind of unrest that clung to the air and made the space between them hum. Gihun didn’t know what to do with it. His free hand kept curling into a fist, then unfurling again in a useless rhythm. Over and over. A nervous tick he hadn’t felt in years.
Maybe Inho wanted to be alone. Maybe Gihun should ask. But fuck, he didn’t know. This wasn’t part of their agenda.
Ten years, and he was still completely unprepared for something that should’ve been simple. Natural. Something that, if they were normal, if they were anything close to normal, he could’ve walked up behind Inho and wrapped him in a deep, grounding embrace. Rested his chin on his shoulder, eased the tension from his back with touch and silence. But that wasn’t them. It never had been.
So instead, Gihun sat there, frozen. Like the air itself had thickened into something solid around him, turning his limbs to stone. He didn’t know how to reach for someone who never gave permission to be reached.
Thoughts tumbled in his head too fast to hold onto, all jumbled questions and half-finished intentions. He wanted to ask what was wrong. Or at least if he was okay. But nothing left his mouth.
And then it got harder to ignore because now, Inho had wandered into the kitchen and was leaning over the counter, back turned, head bowed. He cradled a half-full glass of whiskey in one hand, the amber liquid catching the light as he brought it to his lips.
No words. Just the soft clink of glass and the heavy sound of swallowing.
The silence between them felt louder than anything.
The TV seemed too loud now. It blared from some game show where the host’s voice grated against the already thin layer of calm in the room. Gihun could feel his nerves twitch with each shouty catchphrase and fake applause. He couldn’t do it anymore. With a sharp click of the remote, the room fell into silence.
He stood, slow and unsure, already planning his retreat. The library. His bedroom. The hallway. Anywhere but here.
He shifted his weight, rubbed his palms against his thighs, and barely managed to get out a half-muttered sentence. His voice was quiet, as if afraid to disturb something more delicate than sound.
“I’ll le—”
“Don’t.” Flat. Unemotional. Still not looking at him.
Just one word, but it hit like a blow to the chest. Gihun stilled, heart hammering against his ribs as if waiting for the rest of the sentence to follow but nothing came.
He glanced over. The whiskey glass was already gone. Emptied in one go, apparently.
He stayed frozen, gaze following Inho like he was a ghost drifting out of frame. No eye contact. No explanation. Just the sound of footsteps against the hardwood and then—
The quiet, final click of the study door shutting behind him.
Gihun stayed standing just inches from the couch, unsure whether to sit back down or retreat into his bedroom. His gaze lingered on the study door, searching for something in it. Some clue, some softness, but there was nothing to find.
He replayed the word in his head. Don’t. Not stay, not talk to me, just don’t leave. What the fuck was he supposed to do with that? It scratched at him, tore at the edges of his calm. And then….quiet again.
Before he knew it, his body was moving, each step toward the study heavier than the last. He never walked this way. Never wanted to. That room was Inho’s, and anything that was solely Inho’s was something Gihun had trained himself not to cross.
The space felt foreign, the door deceptively thin yet somehow impenetrable. He hovered there, hand raised halfway before he even knew what he meant to do. Knock? Speak? He hadn’t planned that far ahead.
Would he ask? Would Inho answer?
God, this was exhausting. Every single thing between them was like this. Overthought, overweighed, a constant debate over what should be the simplest decisions. It wasn’t just a knock. It was a choice. And Gihun was tired of always being the one making it.
He realized the typing had stopped. The occasional sighs, the soft scrape of pen against paper, gone. If he hadn’t watched Inho walk in there himself, he would’ve thought the room was empty.
He took a breath. Held it.
One.
Two.
Exhaled quietly and lowered his hand to his side. This wasn’t something he wanted to do. Not today. Not ever, really. He’d never felt the urge to ask, or to care enough to try. But today, it was bugging him. It itched at him in a way he couldn’t shake.
Still, he backed away. Step by step, he turned and walked down the hall toward his room.
Everything felt off. Unfamiliar.
For the first time in a long while, he didn’t know what this meant. Didn’t know if it signaled that things were getting worse between them or simply changing. And he didn’t know which one he feared more.