Chapter 1. My Husband Came Back as My Kiss-Scene Partner
The husband I met again after eight months had become my kiss-scene partner.
I found out only ten minutes before I was supposed to sign the contract.
“Is the other actor still a secret?”
As I looked up at the production company building through the car window, Manager Bae Su-jin glanced at me in the rearview mirror with an awkward expression.
“All I could confirm was that Director Go Se-rim personally chose him. The production company asked everyone to keep quiet until today.”
“Do people actually sign contracts without even knowing the other actor’s name?”
“That’s why we’re having the final meeting before looking over the contract. If you don’t like him, you can just not sign today.”
Su-jin spoke as if it were nothing, but she was tapping the steering wheel with her fingers. That habit appeared whenever she was hiding something. After working together for ten years, I knew she was terrible at lying. I also knew she was quite good at leaving out important details when she wanted to avoid telling a lie.
“Do you know who it is?”
Her fingers stopped.
“Not for sure.”
Which meant she had a guess.
I didn’t ask anything else. Whoever it was wouldn’t make much difference to my decision about the project. If my partner couldn’t act, I would do the work of two people. If he had a difficult personality, I only had to put up with him during filming. For fourteen years, I had acted as though I were falling in love with dozens of men. Half of them were more memorable by the smell of their cologne than by their names, and with the other half, I remembered how many times they flubbed their lines more clearly than their faces.
Acting was acting.
It was also what I did best.
A message from CEO Moon Hye-ran appeared on my phone.
_I got them to agree to all the conditions. A project by Director Go could be a turning point for you, too. Don’t make an emotional decision because of your costar._
I read the last sentence twice.
When I held the screen out to Su-jin, who had said she didn’t know who the other actor was, she let out a long breath.
“Sounds like the CEO knew.”
“Who is it?”
“I-seo.”
“I asked who it was.”
Su-jin didn’t answer. Instead, she slowly turned the car into the underground parking entrance. Fluorescent light swept whitely across the windshield. Watching the light and darkness move across her profile, I forced the name that had risen in my mind back down.
No way.
That man had said he was booked for an overseas shoot through this winter. At least, that was what an article from two months ago had said. More importantly, Baek Tae-gyeom had no way of knowing that I was considering this project.
We hadn’t contacted each other privately for eight months.
To be exact, eight months and three days.
I had thought it had been a long time since I stopped counting that number, but my mind calculated the date without a moment’s hesitation.
When the car stopped, Su-jin took hold of the back of my hand.
“Promise me one thing before you go upstairs.”
“What?”
“Don’t decide anything in that room, no matter who it is. Whether you take the project or not, come out after the meeting and think about it.”
I looked down at her hand.
“Is it really him?”
Su-jin’s lips parted, then closed.
That was answer enough.
A sheet of paper bearing the title Lingering Heat was taped to the conference-room door.
The letters, set against a black background, were blurred with a faint red glow. Something that refused to cool even after everything had burned away. That was how Director Go Se-rim had explained the title on the first page of the series proposal she sent us.
A couple who have decided to divorce spend one month in the same house. Because they have already decided how it will end, they become honest for the first time. Because one of them is going to leave, they desire each other again. It was the story of two people who realize that love still remains beneath all the time they spent trying to hate one another.
When I first read the script, I couldn’t fall asleep until dawn.
The dialogue was too familiar.
A wife asking her husband to wait until she finished one last project, and a husband asking what he was supposed to become while he waited. Two people who turned their backs on each other first, yet still wanted the other to reach out and hold on. A couple who weren’t separating because they had stopped loving each other, but because they had destroyed each other by loving the wrong way.
Even so, I wanted to be in it.
Maybe that was why I wanted it even more.
I opened the door before Su-jin could touch the handle.
Everyone inside stood at once. The production company’s CEO, the executive producer, a writer whose face I recognized, and Director Go Se-rim, who was flipping through a script by the window.
Only one person among them remained seated.
Baek Tae-gyeom.
The sleeves of his dark-gray shirt were rolled up to his elbows. His longer hair fell slightly over his forehead, and his face looked sharper now that he had lost weight. Beside his hand on the table lay a black script and a fountain pen.
The fountain pen I had given him for his birthday three years ago.
When he saw me, he slowly placed his hand over the page he had been reading.
He didn’t look surprised.
That fact struck my heart hard once.
“Ms. Jeong, you’re here.”
Director Go approached me first. I smiled as if nothing were wrong and shook her hand.
“Hello, Director. It’s been a while.”
“You’ve gotten even more beautiful. The last time I saw you was at an awards ceremony, wasn’t it?”
“I think so.”
Even as I answered, Tae-gyeom remained at the edge of my vision.
He stood.
“I don’t need to introduce the two of you, do I?”
The production company’s CEO smiled as if trying to ease the atmosphere.
“You’re such famous acquaintances.”
A few people laughed softly at that.
The Jeong I-seo and Baek Tae-gyeom the public knew did not get along. Ever since they had appeared briefly in the same project, their acting styles had clashed. They had rated each other coldly in interviews and never even exchanged greetings at awards ceremonies. Articles called us destined rivals.
It wasn’t wrong.
We had been the most tenacious opponents in each other’s lives.
What they didn’t know was that I had loved that man for six years and that, two years ago, we had written our names side by side on a marriage registration.
My husband walked around the table toward me.
The closer he came, the more my memories came alive on their own. The warmth of him burying his face in the nape of my neck while he was still half-asleep. The habit of lightly biting the inside of his lip whenever he read a script. The arms that used to lift me up when I returned from a late shoot. His back, which had remained motionless in front of the entryway for a long time on the day he last left our home.
I had thought eight months was long enough to forget.
Apparently, my body disagreed.
When he stopped one step away, I knew even the exact moment he would inhale. When Tae-gyeom was angry, he swallowed a short breath first. When he was hurt, he exhaled very slowly. Now he was doing neither. His breathing was even—the way it became when he was trying not to reveal his emotions.
He extended his right hand.
“It’s been a while, Ms. Jeong.”
The moment I heard his voice, eight months collapsed as if they had meant nothing.
I knew the countless ways he used to say my name. In front of other people, he called me “Ms. Jeong.” When we were alone, “I-seo.” After we fought, “Jeong I-seo.” When we made love, his lips touched me before he said anything at all.
“Ms. Jeong” was a first.
I held out my hand, too.
“It has been. It’s been a while, Mr. Baek.”
Our palms met.
Nothing happened. No lightning struck. No one read our secret in our faces. It was a proper greeting, a suitably firm handshake, neither too long nor too short.
And yet I knew that hand too well.
The firmness of his knuckles. The faint callus beneath his thumb. The way he carefully eased his strength whenever he touched me.
And the faint mark left where his ring should have been.
On his left ring finger.
There was no ring, but a thin line remained on his skin. A trace left only on someone who had worn one for a long time. Until the day he left home eight months ago, Tae-gyeom had never taken off his wedding ring. In public, he tucked it into his pocket or wore it on a necklace. When he returned home, he put it back on his finger.
I had no idea where it was now.
He let go first.
My fingers curled just slightly, as if trying to hold on to what I had lost. I immediately lowered my hand and straightened the hem of my jacket.
“Seeing you two being this polite is somehow scarier.”
Director Go’s joke sent laughter through the conference room.
Tae-gyeom lifted the corners of his mouth by the slightest amount. He wore a smiling expression, but his eyes never left me.
Looking into those eyes, I knew.
He had known.
He had known I was coming here today.
“This is a project we prepared with the two of you in mind from the very beginning.”
Once everyone had taken their seats, Director Go spoke.
I was seated across from Tae-gyeom. I couldn’t tell whether they had arranged it deliberately or whether it was a coincidence. His long legs were visible beneath the table. Whenever we sat in the same space, we used to sit close enough that our knees touched out of habit. Now a table stood between us.
“Lingering Heat is the story of a couple who believe their love has ended. But it wouldn’t be interesting if the actors looked friendly, too. Jeong I-seo and Baek Tae-gyeom. Just putting those names together makes people wonder what’s going to happen.”
The production company’s CEO immediately picked up the thread.
“Their rivalry has already been etched into the public’s mind. Just seeing them on the same screen again will generate plenty of buzz. And this time, they’re playing a married couple. The reaction will be enormous.”
“I don’t choose actors for publicity.”
Director Go cut in calmly.
“I chose them because they both know how to look like they’re hiding love.”
No one spoke for a moment.
Director Go opened the script.
“What matters in this drama isn’t a scene where someone cries out loud. It’s the eyes that only look after the other person has turned away, the hand that can hold out divorce papers but can’t put a pen in the other person’s hand. Their bodies still love each other, but their mouths say it’s over. That contradiction. I believe the two of you can do it.”
I lowered my eyes to the script so I wouldn’t look across the table.
The characters’ relationship was written on the first page.
Married six years. A couple on the verge of separation. One last month.
Beneath those printed words, our own time seemed to overlap.
“When did you approach Mr. Baek?”
The executive producer answered my question.
“About a month ago. Right after his overseas schedule was adjusted.”
A month.
I had received the script three weeks ago. Tae-gyeom had known he was being considered for the male lead, yet he hadn’t said a word. We had agreed not to contact each other, so of course he hadn’t. That was what I told myself rationally, but a hot pressure tightened somewhere in my chest.
“Did you know that Ms. Jeong was being considered for the other role?”
I looked at Tae-gyeom as I asked.
Everyone’s attention turned to him at once.
Tae-gyeom set down his pen.
“I was told it was a strong possibility.”
“And you still agreed to do it?”
“Was there a reason I shouldn’t?”
It was a sharp exchange for a room full of people. The production company’s CEO looked even more pleased. This tension was exactly what he wanted.
“You two are already great.”
Only Director Go didn’t smile. She looked back and forth between Tae-gyeom and me, then closed the script.
“If you’re uncomfortable, say so now. Once filming starts, I can’t allow the project to be shaken by the two actors’ personal feelings.”
Personal feelings.
I straightened my back.
“They won’t affect the project.”
Tae-gyeom answered immediately.
“Same here.”
We had spoken in such similar tones that Su-jin pressed her fingers between her brows.
The meeting moved on to the contract terms. The filming schedule, promotional obligations, advance coordination of intimate scenes, and the principle that no exposure or contact a performer hadn’t agreed to would be changed on set. I checked each clause one by one. The project had been well prepared. The director was trustworthy, and the script was too good to pass up.
The only problem was the man across from me.
No. Maybe the problem was me.
Each time I turned a page, Tae-gyeom’s gaze touched me and disappeared. He knew that when I was nervous, I pressed the side of my index finger with my right thumb. I knew that when he was holding back an answer, he touched the inside of his molar with the tip of his tongue. Even without looking at each other, we knew when the other swallowed a breath and when they started to speak, then gave up.
The person I had to pretend was the most unfamiliar in the world was the person who read me fastest.
“And now, the promotional strategy.”
Two photos appeared side by side on the screen.
Tae-gyeom and me standing far apart at an awards ceremony. Subtitles from old interviews. Headlines about our feud rumors. Finally, a line in red appeared.
_The reunion of two actors viewers thought they would never see in the same project again._
“We plan to announce the joint casting as soon as the contracts are finalized.”
The production company’s CEO spoke with unconcealed excitement.
“We’ll also emphasize that today was the first time either of you learned the other had been cast. Two actors known as enemies playing a couple on the verge of collapse. There’s no stronger story than that.”
Enemies.
A married couple.
With those two words placed side by side, I felt like laughing. If the world learned we were married, which would surprise them more? That we had loved each other, or that our love was already coming to an end?
“The announcement timing needs to be adjusted.”
Su-jin spoke up.
“Ms. Jeong hasn’t made her final decision yet.”
“Of course. But she’ll need to decide today if we’re going to proceed as scheduled.”
Every eye turned toward me.
I looked at the first page of the contract.
Cast member: Jeong I-seo.
Beneath it, the name of the male lead was printed.
Baek Tae-gyeom.
They were the same two names I had seen side by side on our marriage registration. Back then, I had stared down at the paper for a long time before laughing. It was a marriage we couldn’t show the world, but seeing our names joined on a single sheet of paper had reassured me in a strange way.
This time, roles, contract terms, and the interests of dozens of people lay between our names.
“Let’s take a short break.”
Director Go studied my face.
I stood.
“I’m going to get some air.”
The emergency stairwell beside the conference room was cool.
The moment the door closed, the breath I had been holding in burst out. My fingertips were cold against the railing. I didn’t know whether I wanted to run away or go back and sign the contract.
Filming a project with Tae-gyeom meant seeing him every day. I would have to act as though I loved him, hold his hand, kiss him, and film scenes of us lying in the same bed. I would have to repeat, inside a script, the marriage we had decided to end.
I took my phone out of my bag.
I was about to call CEO Moon Hye-ran, but I stopped. She wouldn’t tell me not to do it, or tell me to do it. Instead, she would explain what benefited Jeong I-seo as an actress. As always, she would shape my choice with precise, rational words.
This time, I didn’t want anyone else to make the decision for me.
The door opened behind me.
I knew who it was before I heard his footsteps.
Tae-gyeom stopped about two steps away from me. If this had been before, he would have draped his jacket over my shoulders first. He would have nagged me about how cold the stairwell was and tucked my chilled hands into his pockets.
Now he did nothing.
“You didn’t have to come out.”
At my words, he leaned against the railing.
“I didn’t follow you.”
“How long are you going to keep talking like that?”
“You started it, Jeong I-seo.”
The honorific that broke down at the end stabbed deep into my chest.
I slowly turned to face him.
“You knew, didn’t you?”
“That you’d been offered the role.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Were we still the kind of people who told each other things like that?”
I couldn’t argue.
Eight months ago, we had agreed to meet again when filming ended. Once our emotions had settled, we would deal with what was necessary for an uncontested divorce. Until then, we wouldn’t contact each other. We would notify each other through our managers only if something painful or dangerous happened.
I was the one who had made that promise first.
“Doesn’t it bother you that I’m your costar?”
Tae-gyeom’s eyes slowly darkened.
“Do I look like it doesn’t?”
His emotions showed for the first time. It wasn’t anger or resentment. It was closer to exhaustion that had been suppressed for too long.
“Then you should have turned it down.”
“Why should I turn it down?”
“Baek Tae-gyeom.”
“The script was good, the director was trustworthy, and it was a role I wanted. That’s why you came here, too.”
He stepped down one stair, but he didn’t come any closer.
“Do I have to avoid it because we’re married? Or because we’re going to separate?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“No one’s here.”
“Still.”
When I glanced around, Tae-gyeom gave a short laugh. There was no warmth in it.
“You haven’t changed.”
“What?”
“You still get scared first, even when there’s no one around.”
His words hit exactly where they needed to.
“You haven’t changed either. You never think about why I do things. You just call me a coward first.”
“I spent six years thinking about why you do things.”
“So you decided for me instead?”
The air abruptly went still.
His gaze hardened.
The papers that had divided us. The agreement he had made without consulting me. The man who left home, saying he was protecting my name and career instead of me.
Tae-gyeom didn’t make excuses. It was the same argument we had fought over dozens of times eight months ago. If we started again here, we would forget the contract and the project and only dig into the same wounds.
“I didn’t come here to talk about that today.”
I looked away first.
“I know.”
“I don’t want to give up the project because of you.”
“I never told you to give it up.”
“What if I do it?”
“Then I will, too.”
He didn’t hesitate.
My heart hurt strangely. I wanted to ask whether it was because he wanted to do it with me or because he didn’t want to give up the project. But I didn’t know whether I had the right to hear that answer anymore.
Tae-gyeom’s gaze fell to my left hand.
The hand without a ring.
I looked at his left hand, too.
“You took it off.”
I regretted the words the moment they escaped.
Tae-gyeom didn’t look down at his hand.
“I never wore it where people could see it.”
“The mark is still there.”
“So is yours.”
I instinctively clenched my hand. I hadn’t been able to wear it for long because of filming and advertisements, and after our separation, I had put it away in my jewelry box altogether. Even so, the trace was visible under bright lights. It was faint enough that no one would notice, but Tae-gyeom must have seen it the moment he walked through the door.
“You’d be better off not knowing.”
His voice was low.
“I never took mine off.”
I looked between his hand and his face.
“Then where is it?”
His hand rose toward the buttons of his shirt, then stopped. The outline of a thin chain was briefly visible beneath the fabric.
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
He was wearing the ring on a chain close to his heart.
Su-jin called for me from beyond the door.
“I-seo, they’re starting the meeting again.”
I turned away from Tae-gyeom. As I climbed the stairs, I hoped he wouldn’t follow me, while at the same time wishing I wouldn’t be left behind.
The moment I reached for the door, I heard his voice.
“Just look at the project.”
I didn’t turn around.
“I will.”
“Don’t do it because of me, and don’t give it up because of me.”
I hated those words. It felt as though he was saying them because he knew I was still shaken by him. But what I hated even more was that he was right.
I opened the door.
After I returned to the conference room, no one asked any personal questions.
The lawyer explained the revised clauses, and Su-jin went over the scope of the promotional schedule again. I quickly flipped through the script from the first page to the last. The more I read, the more I wanted it. Before fear, my instincts as an actress came alive. How to make this scene sad without crying, how calmly to deliver that line to make it more cruel. The character’s face and walk took shape in my mind.
I didn’t want to see another actor play this project.
It wasn’t because of Tae-gyeom.
At least, that was the choice I wanted to make.
“Ms. Jeong.”
The production company’s CEO addressed me cautiously.
“If you need more time to decide, we’ll delay the announcement.”
The unsigned contract lay in front of me.
Across from me, Tae-gyeom had already opened to the final page. He uncapped his fountain pen. The familiar soft scrape reached my ears.
I looked at him.
“Are you going to sign first?”
“That’s what I intend to do.”
“The other actor might turn it down.”
“That’s Ms. Jeong’s choice.”
The nib touched the paper.
The name Baek Tae-gyeom was written without hesitation. It was the same handwriting he had used on our marriage registration. After drawing the final stroke, he set down the pen and raised his head.
Silence settled over the conference room until we couldn’t hear even each other’s breathing.
Tae-gyeom didn’t look away from me.
“I’m not running away.”
Beneath his hand, our two names were printed side by side.
“Not if you’re not the one running away either.”