TCE 12

Chapter 12

The first time Yoonjae ever really noticed Joo Ae-jung—whose existence he had never properly registered before—was in the spring, less than a month after returning to school.

When he woke up after dozing off through the end of a lecture, his eyes drifted toward her, seated in the row below in the tiered classroom.

“Stop… stop…”

Ae-jung was muttering something under her breath as she bit her nails.

Her long hair partly covered it, but the raw redness at her fingertips, chewed too far, was still plainly visible. She hadn’t even bothered to close her book after class ended, too focused on gnawing until she drew blood. When the sharp sting finally exceeded her threshold, she pulled her hand out of her mouth.

“Ah!”

Thud.

At the same moment she dropped her hand, a handkerchief fell onto her desk.

Startled by the handkerchief that seemed to come from nowhere, she quickly turned—and saw Yoonjae, packing his bag, standing there.

He looked at her blankly, then said curtly,

“Throw it away.”

And without another word, he walked out of the lecture hall.

That was the one clear memory Yoonjae retained of Joo Ae-jung.

And when they met again later, the faint scars on her wrist were unmistakable—too telling to ignore.

That was why, when they made their contract, the very first condition he laid down was this:

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

Never get hurt.

His hand held hers firmly, his gaze unblinking, as he delivered those words. Under the dazzlingly clear sky, his expression was the scariest thing imaginable, and for a moment we could only stare up at him blankly.

Thump, thump.

Was it because seeing him outside on such a bright day felt so unfamiliar?

Or was it the angle of this unintended scene? Whatever the reason, her heart pounded irregularly, and Ae-jung bit her lip.

What the… Did I just get flustered?

Distracted by her racing heart and the blinking of her eyes, she forgot to pull her hand away.

It felt hot. Not the sting of a burn—just the heat where he held her.

At the very least, it meant the burn wasn’t severe. Slowly, she parted her lips.

“Yes.”

Like a child obediently following orders.

Only then did his sharp gaze lower, and he turned her hand over as if inspecting a pancake on a frying pan.

The back of her hand was red, but it didn’t look like it would scar.

“…”

But in flipping it, he also revealed the faint marks along her wrist. They weren’t dark, almost invisible unless seen up close—but they were there.

“Did you do this yourself?”

His brows drew together sharply.

“If you don’t want to do something, just say so. I didn’t bring you here so you could self-harm.”

The absurd question jolted her mind back to clarity.

“Are you crazy? Why would I ever do that? I hate getting hurt. Even if I died today, I’d never deliberately injure myself.”

She yanked her hand back and blew on the sore spot. His eyes flickered with puzzlement, but she didn’t notice.

“You’re saying you don’t?”

“Of course not! I can’t stand pain.”

“…”

“What if it leaves a burn mark?”

Yoonjae’s thoughts didn’t matter to her in the slightest. After watching her for a moment, he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“You’ll be fine. Go to the infirmary.”

“If I’m fine, why would I go? You go when you’re not fine. Honestly, what a weird guy…”

“Excuse me.”

A small voice interrupted them. Both turned to look. The speaker—someone she didn’t recognize—seemed to shrink under their gaze but cautiously continued.

“Um… are you two…?”

The unfinished question, heavy with implication, made them realize the situation they were in.

…Crap.

Dozens of sharp, burning stares.

For someone who could work for hours at a food truck without anyone noticing, this sudden spotlight was overwhelming.

Not that Go Woo-ri was the type to be cowed by stares, but the situation was undeniably awkward.

Everyone’s eyes screamed the same question: Who’s the woman casually talking with Vice President Ha Yoonjae?

Especially when, across the room, she spotted a pale-faced group watching like they’d seen a ghost.

What do I even say?

She hadn’t planned for this kind of dramatic scene. Being the center of attention wasn’t comfortable at all.

Tsk.

She shook her sore hand in the air, eyes darting nervously, before giving a halting reply.

“We’re… um, companions of sorts. We came here together with a shared purpose, but it’s not exactly… a special relationship…”

Her vague, roundabout explanation stumbled toward nowhere, until Yoonjae’s voice cut cleanly through:

“She is.”

His words, incomprehensible at first, landed with blunt clarity.

“My wife.”

Clatter.

Somewhere, a dish dropped.

The woman they had dismissed, ignored, and sent on coffee errands—turns out she was the wife of the event’s key figure.

What followed was predictable:

Chaos. Disorder.

Dodging the swarm of people suddenly desperate to make amends, they used her injured hand as an excuse to retreat to the infirmary. Once the nurse left, she collapsed onto the table with a groan.

“Ughhh.”

Her hand dangled weakly over the edge. Exhaustion pressed down heavier than ever. Watching her, Yoonjae spoke.

“This isn’t what you wanted?”

Still slumped over, she tilted her head to glance at him.

“What do you mean?”

“You knew I’d be here. You must’ve expected at least this much commotion.”

Parsing his unfriendly words gave her a headache.

So what he’s asking is… Did I stage all this just to be the center of attention?

The thought made her laugh bitterly. Slowly, she propped herself up, resting her chin on one arm, and retorted with a surprisingly arrogant tone.

“You really don’t know Joo Ae-jung, do you? Look at me—timid, spineless, pretending to be tough. Does that look like someone who’d come here plotting a scene?”

“What?”

“The reason she—no, I—chose this place wasn’t to stir things up. It was to hide, to stay quiet, to do something mindless without having to think. Maybe also to avoid becoming a burden to you.”

She couldn’t be certain, but from what she’d seen, Joo Ae-jung wasn’t the type to flaunt herself for attention.

Shrugging, she added,

“Pretty sure that’s her nature.”

Yoonjae tilted his head skeptically, genuinely puzzled.

“What’s with that tone?”

“Get used to it. I’ll talk like this sometimes. Fixing it every time is too tiring.”

Her brazen words left him speechless.

But he couldn’t deny—her defense of Ae-jung actually made sense. It was unlikely Ae-jung’s decision to work at the food truck had hidden motives.

“And about what you said earlier.”

Now sitting up straight, she looked at him again.

Her unusually bright eyes startled him, though he was getting used to it.

“When you told me not to get hurt.”

For a split second, his eyes wavered.

“Were you… worried?”

That question had been tugging at her since the moment he’d said it.

I told you. Don’t get hurt.

The words carried a weight she couldn’t name, brushing against her emotions.

It almost felt like she’d stolen something not meant for her—maybe because no one had ever told her such a thing before.

Or maybe because the relationship between Joo Ae-jung and Yoonjae wasn’t what she thought. Either way, he had been an unexpectedly good husband.

“As long as we’re married, don’t even think about self-harm or anything stupid. I don’t want unnecessary suspicion.”

His reasoning was neat, leaving no room for misunderstanding. Cold enough to sweep away any fragment of sentiment she might’ve felt.

“Ah, so that’s the reason.”

She realized the sweet words she thought she’d heard were just stone wrapped in candy. Yet strangely, relief still washed over her.

Without knowing why, she waved her bandaged hand.

“If you can’t play the role of husband properly, at least pretend.”

As she spoke, her eyes lingered on the faint scar on her wrist—not Woo-ri’s, but Ae-jung’s.

What did those marks, signs of wanting to let go, really mean?

One year… that must be the length of this marriage.

And what did Joo Ae-jung gain from this time-limited contract?

For the first time, she seriously considered the real owner of this body, whom she’d been too preoccupied to think about until now.

I need to learn more about Joo Ae-jung.

With that thought about the steps ahead, she stood up.

“Going back to the booth?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“No.”

Returning would only make everyone uncomfortable. Going back would be pure self-punishment.

She tapped the <Stop Child Abuse> banner hanging in the infirmary. In this strange, unsettling place, only one thing remained clear.

I’m still young. I’m still me.

She smiled softly, her eyes clearer than before.

“I’ve been comforted enough.”