The sprawling house Jaemin and Sooah purchased together a week before their wedding was elegant yet understated, a balance between luxury and practicality. It was far from the grandiose displays of wealth they had both grown up around—a deliberate choice Jaemin had made when selecting the property.
Sooah explored the house on their first evening there, admiring its minimalist design and the way the warm lighting softened the clean, modern lines. She couldn't deny that the place felt… comfortable, almost like a haven. The house was eerily quiet, but the efficiency of the invisible staff ensured that everything ran perfectly without any intrusion.
Jaemin, however, didn't seem particularly attached to the space. To him, it was just another location to function in, another environment where he could maintain his routines and focus on his work. His priorities were clear.
That first night, Sooah found herself waiting in the shared living area, wondering if Jaemin would say something, make some kind of gesture, or even suggest they spend time together. But Jaemin was as calm and measured as ever, his focus on finishing up some emails before quietly excusing himself.
"I'll be in my room," he said, his voice even and polite.
Her heart sank a little as she watched him disappear up the stairs. It wasn't disappointment exactly—she had told herself repeatedly that this new Jaemin wouldn't trouble her like the old one had. He wouldn't cling, beg, or demand her attention. And yet, there was a hollow feeling she couldn't shake.
She remembered the way he used to be—the parties, the drinking, the carefree attitude. The Jaemin she had once left behind seemed worlds apart from the composed, distant man she had married herself into. That boy who had been desperate for her love, who had clung to her despite her indifference, was gone.
Over the next few days, as they settled into the house, Sooah began to notice just how much Jaemin had changed.
Every morning, she woke to find the house already buzzing with quiet activity. Jaemin was always up before dawn, his routine as unyielding as clockwork. She would catch glimpses of him as he returned from the gym, his hair damp from a post-workout shower, dressed immaculately for the day ahead. Breakfast was always prepared, his coffee cup already emptied and washed by the time she entered the kitchen.
"Did you even sleep?" Sooah asked him one morning, watching as he reviewed documents on his tablet while sipping his second coffee of the day.
"Enough," he replied curtly, not looking up.
She frowned. She had noticed that his sleeping hours were almost nonexistent—he would retire to his room late and was always up before she stirred. He didn't seem tired, though. If anything, he radiated a quiet intensity that was unsettling in its steadiness.
What struck her most was how Jaemin navigated their relationship now. He was polite and attentive but not overbearing. He didn't fawn over her, didn't try to engage her in unnecessary conversation, and certainly didn't demand her attention like he used to. At first, she found it refreshing—it was a far cry from the suffocating dependency that had driven her away years ago. But as the days passed, she began to feel the absence of that boyish eagerness.
He didn't hover. He didn't chase. He didn't even ask to share a bed with her.
One evening, Sooah decided to confront him—gently.
"Jaemin," she began, standing in the doorway of his home office. He was seated at his desk, typing something with a look of intense focus.
He glanced up, his expression neutral. "Yes?"
She hesitated, suddenly unsure of what she wanted to say. "I… I just wanted to check if everything is okay."
He tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"I don't know," she said, shrugging. "You've been so… distant."
Jaemin leaned back in his chair, regarding her thoughtfully. "I'm not distant, Sooah. I'm giving you space."
His words were like a knife to her chest, not because they were cruel but because they were true. He was giving her space—exactly what she had once begged him for. But now, she couldn't help but feel that he was standing so far back that he was barely within reach.
"You don't even ask to sleep in the same room," she blurted out, her cheeks flushing.
He raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "I didn't think you'd want me to."
Her heart ached at the memory his words conjured—the countless nights he had begged her to stay, to let him hold her, only for her to push him away. She had rejected him so many times, and now he wasn't even giving her the chance to refuse.
"I wouldn't… mind," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jaemin studied her for a moment before turning back to his laptop. "Noted," he said simply, his tone giving nothing away.
That night, Jaemin didn't come to her room. He retreated to his own as always, closing the door softly behind him. Sooah lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling and feeling the weight of the distance between them.
She realized then that Jaemin had taken everything she had once criticized him for and eradicated it from his life. The drinking, the partying, the clinging—all of it was gone. He had become the man she once wished he could be.
But in doing so, he had built walls so high that even she couldn't see over them.
As the days passed, she noticed the subtle signs of affection in his actions—the way he always ensured her favorite tea was stocked in the kitchen, the way he adjusted the thermostat in the evenings so she wouldn't feel cold, the way he quietly supported her decisions without question. It wasn't the overwhelming, all-consuming love he had once showered her with. It was quiet. Reserved. Controlled.
It wasn't the love of a boy desperate to please.
It was the love of a man who had endured hell and refused to lose himself again.
And as Sooah watched him from across the dining table one evening, she couldn't help but wonder: Was this new Jaemin better? Or had she broken the one man who had ever truly loved her?