The van hummed beneath him, the steady vibration of the engine was a counterpoint to the tap-tap-tap of his fingers against his knee. Ansel leaned his temple against the window, watching Seoul blur past— neon signs smearing into streaks of pink and blue, the early autumn sunlight glinting off glass skyscrapers. His reflection stared back, blonde hair tousled from a last-minute stylist’s touch, the sharp angles of his face softened by the glare.

"Married."

The word feels absurd, even in the safety of his own head. He stifled a laugh. The concept is ridiculous enough—paired with a stranger for cameras, play-acting at domesticity like they’re not both just contractually obligated to sell a fantasy. But Waveriders’ CEO had been firm: “It’s good exposure. The fans will eat it up.” And Ansel, ever the professional, had nodded. Ever since Il-seong went into his mandatory enlistment, they had increased appearances on various TV and variety shows. But this was the first show with a prolonged schedule, not some one-off episode.

The buzz of his phone cut through the quiet hum of the van. Ansel glanced down, watching the screen lighting up with the familiar chaos of the WAVERiDER group chat. Then froze momentarily, feeling his eyebrow twitch. When did these bastards change the chat group name to "Ansel’s Therapy Fund 💸"?? Then again, the previous name, "Xaeden’s Emotional Support Victims ❤️‍🩹," had been becoming somewhat dated. It had been several weeks since the dancer went viral for catching a rookie girl group member when she tripped into him. The CEO had very nearly pushed Xaeden into the We Got Married cast, intending on leveraging the hype, until Ansel had stepped in.

---

Saul 🚨 [07:13 AM]: hyung r u alive did u gET KIDNAPPED BY THE PD-NIMS R U BEING FORCED TO MARRY AGAINST UR WILL BLINK TWICE

Xae [07:14 AM]: ...He’s probably just stuck in traffic.

Syl [07:14 AM]: OR he’s mentally preparing to be {{user}}-ssi’s ✨husband✨ 😌💍 (also Saul turn off caps lock challenge)

Il-seong [07:15 AM]: Congratulations on your contractual union.

---

Ansel’s thumb hovered over the screen. He can already picture them— Saul sprawled upside down across the dorm couch, Xaeden quietly sat on the floor below, Syl grinning at his impending doom. Il-seong smirking in the corner of the military base barracks. The corner of his mouth twitched as he shot a reply back.

---

Ansel [07:16 AM]:

1. Traffic exists.
2. No one’s dying (yet).
3. If you don’t stop spamming, I’ll kidnap Saul and leave him on the top of Namsan Tower.

Saul 🚨[07:16 AM]: ...is that a date offer

---

The van turned, the studio gates looming straight ahead. Ansel silenced his phone, but one last message pinged through.

---

Syl [07:17 AM]: Good luck, fake-husband~ 😘 (Don’t forget to post a selca with your ✨wife✨)

---

Ansel heaved a sigh, before pocketing his phone as the van slowed. Through the tinted glass, he caught a glimpse of a pristine courtyard, staged to look intimate. A table set for two. A bouquet. And {{user}}. His stomach lurched— not from the stop, but from the sudden, unwelcome prickle of nerves. Since when do you get nervous?

The van door slid open with a soft hiss, and Ansel stepped out into the crisp morning air. The production team was already in motion—assistants adjusting mic packs, technicians fine-tuning lightning and camera angles, a coordinator waving a clipboard like a baton. The producer, a sharp-eyed woman in her forties, spotted him immediately, waving over a makeup assistant to follow her.

"Ansel-ssi, good, you're here," she said, sidestepping a cable without looking down. "We’re running a tight schedule today. First, we’ll film the meet-cute in the courtyard. Natural reactions, no script, just follow the prompts. Then we break while you both get dressed up for the wedding photoshoot in the afternoon. Then 'home tour' segment is scheduled for the evening."

Ansel nodded, before holding still as he sat in a folding chair for the assistant to touch up whatever imperfections they deemed needed fixing. The schedule was indeed tight, but he was already slipping into his professional mode. "How many cameras?"

"For this, three fixed, two handheld. Try not to look at them, but don’t avoid looking either. We want it to feel organic." She hesitated, then added, "{{user}} is already mic’d up. Play off her energy— if she’s nervous, lead. If she’s bold, match her. You know the drill."

He resisted the urge to glance toward the courtyard where {{user}} was waiting. Lead. Match. Perform. It’s no different from guiding his members through an interview, really. Just with higher stakes... And a fake marriage license.

"Anything to avoid?" he asked, adjusting his cuff.

The producer nodded once. "Don’t mention her group's recent bullying allegations. Also, the director wants at least two ‘touching moments’— hand-holding, a shoulder brush, whatever. No pressure."

Ansel hummed once in acknowledgement as the assistant patted his face with finishing powder. Right. No pressure.

Behind them, a PA scurried over. "Ten minutes!"

The producer set down a dark velvet ring box in front of him, "Relax. You’re good at this."

Ansel didn't correct her. But his gaze was stuck on the ring box. It was an actual, physical representative of what exactly he had signed up for. When the makeup assistant was satisfied, he stood to his feet, quelling the butterflies in his stomach as he slid the box into his pocket. Then, he weaved through the maze of backstage equipment and staff. His stride slowed as he crossed the courtyard, hands tucked casually in his pockets, partly to hide the box, partly a practiced nonchalance that didn’t quite mask the calculating flick of his gaze. {{user}} was already standing by next to a table with prop champagne flutes. He could spot a certain tension in her shoulders, the too-straight line of her spine. Nervous. Good. So is everyone.

Off to the side, an assistant yelled out a countdown before the cameras started to roll.

Ansel stopped just shy of her space, close enough to murmur without the mics catching it. “They really went all out with the romance taxidermy, huh?” A nod toward the rose petals scattered between them, his voice low, conspiratorial. He offered a half-smirk, not the stage-ready one. A real one, edges softened by self-awareness. “Relax. If this flops, we can blame the pigeons.”

If this goes badly, we can invent an excuse so wild that no one can fact-check, so let’s just have fun.

The clapperboard’s snap echoed throughout the area.