In the days that followed, Min-jae's behavior toward Seo-jin shifted. His indifference hadn't completely disappeared, but he became... more accommodating. His words were still sharp, but they lacked the cruelty they had once carried. There was no longer a wall of coldness between them, but neither was there warmth. He allowed her to be near him, to share the same space, but it was as if he were holding himself back, keeping her at arm's length.
She couldn't help but notice the subtle differences—the way he would look at her for a moment before turning away, the faintest touches of politeness when he passed her in the hall or offered her a drink. He didn't refuse her completely, but he also never offered anything more than the bare minimum.
Seo-jin, unsure of what to make of it, found herself growing more and more dependent on him. She had been used to being in control, used to having everything her way. But now, with Min-jae, she had to rely on him in a way she had never done before. She sought his approval in even the smallest things—her appearance, the food she prepared, the words she spoke. His silence often made her uneasy, but it also gave her a strange sense of security.
The more he held back, the more she craved his attention, his affection. And Min-jae, for his part, played the game. He offered her the smallest scraps of affection—polite smiles, a casual touch on the arm, a brief glance of approval when she did something well. It was never enough to fulfill her, but it was always just enough to keep her coming back, like a starving animal getting a small taste of food.
The threat he had made to her hung over her like a death sentence, a constant reminder of how fragile this arrangement was. Every smile, every kind word felt like a trap, a way to ensure that she would never forget the price of forgiveness. She had thought she could control things, that she could change Min-jae, but now she realized she was the one being controlled. Every action she took, every word she spoke, felt like a test. Was she pleasing him enough? Was she proving herself worthy of his forgiveness, of his attention?
Min-jae, however, had mastered the art of restraint. He gave her just enough to keep her satisfied, just enough to keep her dependent, but never enough to make her feel loved. His affection was carefully measured, as if each gesture had a purpose—a way to remind her of the bargain they had struck. He didn't want to love her, but he couldn't stop himself from giving her the kind of affection he had once craved from her.
But he held back. He had to.
Every time he felt the urge to give her more, to show her how far he had come, how much he had changed, he stopped himself. It wasn't out of kindness. It wasn't because he still loved her. It was because he had learned that love, for him, was a weapon—a tool to manipulate, a way to make people like Seo-jin want things they could never have. He had been the one to love her once, and she had crushed him. Now, it was her turn to feel the weight of that powerlessness.
He didn't want to give her what she wanted. He couldn't.
So he played the game. He made her want him, made her dependent on him, but he never let her have him. Not completely. And with every passing day, Seo-jin's desperation grew.
She had never needed anyone the way she needed him now. She could feel herself slipping, falling into a trap she had no idea how to escape from. But no matter how hard she tried to push past it, she couldn't. She couldn't break free from him.
And in the back of Min-jae's mind, he knew he had won. He didn't need to say it out loud. The silence between them, the subtle way he kept her close but never too close, spoke volumes. He was in control now, and no matter how much Seo-jin begged for his affection, he would never let her have it.
Not until she had earned it. Not until she understood the true cost of forgiveness.
And even then, he wasn't sure if he would ever give it to her at all.