Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

The office was quiet after the laughter faded, only the distant hum of the city filtering through the glass walls. The four of them remained together, but the mood shifted as Seo Yura returned to her desk. She sat with perfect posture, smoothing a hand over her skirt, the softness she had shown moments earlier stripped away like a discarded cloak.

Her eyes lowered to the pen between her fingers, tapping once against the glass surface of her desk. Tick. Tick. The rhythm was steady, controlled.

Harin felt the change immediately. The warmth of "unnie" had vanished. This was the side of Yura that had built Lumina into an empire—the strategist, the CEO, the queen who bent rooms to her will.

"We need to talk about Mirae," Yura said at last.

Harin sat straighter, pulse jumping. "Mirae?"

"Yes." Yura's tone was sharp, clipped. "She'll say yes. I know she will. But her agency?" Her lips thinned. "They'll fight us every step of the way. She's one of their hottest properties right now, and they won't let her go easily."

Min-kyung stretched lazily on the sofa, already looking half-bored, but Harin leaned forward. She didn't want to be left out of this. Not when it mattered to Yura.

"But isn't Fashion Week—" Harin began, hesitating only a second. "It's international. A global event. Wouldn't her agency want her attached to it? Prestige like this would raise her profile far more than another round of commercials."

Yura's gaze slid to her. Not harsh, not dismissive—measured. "That would make sense to people who value the long term. But Mirae's agency doesn't."

"What do you mean?"

"They think in quarters, not years," Yura said. Her voice was cool, precise. "To them, Mirae is fruit at peak ripeness. The goal is to sell as much of it as possible before it spoils. So they book her to exhaustion. Every commercial, every photoshoot, every guest spot on a talk show. Anything that pays quickly. Because in their eyes, that's what matters."

She tapped the pen again, her gaze steady. "Prestige at an international event? That doesn't pay tomorrow's bills. It doesn't line their pockets this week. They'll always choose the quick cash grab over the long-term benefit of placing her in Fashion Week."

Harin's stomach twisted. She had suspected Mirae's schedule was brutal, but hearing it laid out so coldly made her chest ache. She pictured Mirae's bright smile, the way her innocence shone through even when she was shy—and imagined that same light dimming under the weight of endless contracts.

"But…" Harin tried, lifting her chin. "We can make it worth their while, can't we? A bigger payout. More than the commercials are offering. Lumina can afford it."

Yura shook her head immediately. "No. Commercial contracts pay obscene amounts, far more than even Lumina would justify for a single model's appearance. If we tried to match it, it would gut the budget. Money alone will never be enough."

Harin bit her lip, thinking quickly. "Then we offer exposure. Not just a slot, but the poster girl treatment. Mirae on every banner, every promotional image, her face front and center as the icon of Seoul Fashion Week."

Yura paused, considering. For the briefest moment, Harin thought she had landed on something. But then Yura exhaled softly and set her pen down.

"It might tempt them," Yura admitted. "But it won't be enough. They'll still say no. Prestige doesn't fill their pockets tomorrow. Exposure won't pay their debts today. These men see their artists as disposable assets. They squeeze every drop and move on."

The words hung heavy in the room.

Harin clenched her fists in her lap, frustrated by her own helplessness. She wanted to fix it, to find the magic solution. She wanted Yura to look at her the way she looked at Joon-ho—steady, trusting.

"There has to be something," Harin insisted. "Some way to make them bend."

Yura leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing slightly. "Your determination is good. But determination alone won't move men like them. They only bow to numbers—or to pressure they cannot ignore."

Harin blinked. "Pressure?"

"From Mirae herself," Yura said simply.

That silenced Harin for a moment.

Yura continued, "Mirae wants this. I know she does. If she pushes—if she tells them directly that she intends to walk Lumina's runway, that she wants to stand beside Joon-ho—they'll be forced to listen. Not because they care about her, but because losing her loyalty entirely would be worse than granting one appearance."

Slow understanding spread through Harin. "So it's not us convincing them. It's Mirae convincing them, with us backing her."

"Exactly."

Yura's lips curved faintly, and Harin felt a strange spark of pride at having kept up with her line of thought.

"Then we need to let Mirae know what's at stake," Harin said, more firmly now. "And help her fight from her side."

"Good," Yura replied. She picked up her pen again, making quick notes. "Tomorrow, I'll arrange the first call with her agency. Tonight, we'll prepare every angle. Poster campaigns, exclusive press deals, co-sponsorships. An arsenal of offers. When we go in, they'll see how much they stand to lose by refusing us."

"Yes, unnie," Harin said, determination straightening her spine.

Yura gave her one last look—cool, approving—before focusing again on her notes.

Across the room, Min-kyung stretched like a cat, rolling her eyes. "God, you two are boring when you get into work mode." She flopped back against the sofa dramatically. "Fine, you plan your little war. I'll just sit here and wither away."

Harin shot her a glare, but Yura didn't even acknowledge her. Her pen scratched across the paper, the skyline glittered beyond the windows, and the office pulsed with the quiet energy of battle plans being drawn.

And for Harin, sitting at that desk across from the formidable Seo Yura, something shifted.

She had always been the little sister in Yura's shadow—the one protected, teased, and indulged. But as she sat across from the woman now, offering ideas that Yura actually weighed, something shifted deep inside her.

For the first time, she felt a flicker of something new: the thrill of strategy, of shaping decisions that mattered. Not just following, not just watching—working, as Yura did.

The thought stirred her chest with heat she couldn't name. Maybe she wasn't meant to remain the protected sister forever. Maybe, one day, she could sit at the table not as Yura's ward, but as her peer.

The scratch of Yura's pen filled the office. Harin leaned over the table with her, combing through notes, tossing ideas back and forth. To anyone else, it would have looked like a student clinging to a teacher, but the intensity in Harin's eyes was something else entirely. She was taking this seriously.

Min-kyung, sprawled on the sofa, gave it all of five minutes before she sighed dramatically. "God, I can't take this. You two sound like you're writing a policy paper, not planning fashion week."

Neither Yura nor Harin looked up.

Min-kyung pushed herself up, brushing down her skirt. "Fine. You play generals. I have actual work to do." She slid her arm through Joon-ho's before he could even move. "Come on. You're coming with me."

Yura's head lifted at last, her gaze sharpening. "Min-kyung."

"What?" Min-kyung blinked innocently.

"Do your job properly. This show isn't a game."

Min-kyung's lips curved. "Relax, unnie. I'll handle it." She tugged Joon-ho toward the door, giving Harin a cheeky wink on the way out.

Harin barely spared her a glance, too busy scribbling notes beside Yura. "Joon-ho, I'll go back to the apartment with Yura unnie later tonight," she called.

Joon-ho inclined his head. "Call me when you're finished."

The elevator ride down with Min-kyung was quiet, her arm hooked possessively around his. Outside, the night air was warm, the boulevard lit with neon. Her boutique sat across the road, tall glass windows glowing with soft light.

The moment they stepped in, a chorus of greetings rang out. "Director Min!" Staff bowed quickly, the floor alive with movement as they straightened racks and hurried to fetch tablets.

Min-kyung's entire aura changed. Gone was the languid, spoiled act. In its place was the designer, the woman who could command a room with a glance.

"Bring me the Fashion Week line," she ordered briskly. "Every piece. I want them lined up for inspection. Check seams, hems, and embellishments. If a thread is out of place, fix it before fitting day. Go."

The staff scrambled, wheeling out racks, unzipping garment bags. Dresses gleamed under the lights—silks, chiffons, linens in shades of ocean blue, pale coral, and sun-kissed ivory.

Joon-ho settled into the lounge corner, a cup of tea placed in his hands. He watched as Min-kyung moved through the racks, hands skimming fabrics, eyes narrowing critically. She was merciless in her inspection, snapping orders with precision.

"Too heavy. Adjust the lining. This cut is dated—raise the hem by two fingers. The beading here is sloppy, redo it."

Her staff bowed and scurried to obey.

For nearly an hour she worked, tireless, until finally she clapped her hands once. "Enough. You know what to do. Get busy."

"Yes, Director Min!"

The room cleared quickly, racks wheeled away, doors shutting softly behind the last assistant. Silence fell.

Instead of returning to her usual playful self, Min-kyung sank gracefully into the seat across from Joon-ho. She poured herself tea, her expression unreadable.

"Strange, isn't it?" she murmured, eyes on the steaming cup. "One moment we're in Yura's office, talking about Mirae's agency like it's a battlefield. The next, I'm here cutting dresses to pieces. Two different worlds, but they all pull at her."

Joon-ho didn't answer, letting her talk.

Min-kyung raised her gaze, sharp now. "Do you know what she's planning? About her marriage, that useless husband, the elders breathing down her neck?"

Joon-ho met her eyes calmly. "I know. And I'll support her through it."

Her brows arched. "Just like that?"

"Yes."

A small, humorless laugh slipped from Min-kyung's lips. "You say it so easily." She leaned back, her tea untouched. "But you don't understand how deep it runs. Yura looks unshakable on the outside, but inside? She's exhausted. Fragile. I've seen it. She hides it well, even from me, but I know."

Her voice softened, almost breaking. "She's been carrying her family's name, her company, her reputation—alone—for years. Always fighting. Always bleeding for it."

Joon-ho's gaze didn't waver. "That's why I'll support her. Because she carried me when I had nothing. Now it's my turn."

Silence.

Min-kyung stared at him, lips pressed tight. At length, she exhaled slowly and set down her cup.

"You look better now," she said quietly. "When Yura and I first found you, you were dead inside. A man beaten down, eyes hollow, like you'd already given up. I wondered if you'd ever stand again."

Her eyes lingered on his face, searching. "Now… you're different. Stronger. But I still doubt if you're strong enough to carry her. To stand against what's coming."

Joon-ho inclined his head. "I'll prove it."

Min-kyung let out a low hum, unconvinced. "The other girls around you—Harin, Mirae, whoever comes next—they're young. Naïve. They'll follow wherever you lead. But Yura…" Her jaw tightened. "She's my friend. My sister. She's precious to me. If you let her fall, I'll never forgive you."

His answer was steady, unwavering. "I won't let her fall."

For the first time, Min-kyung faltered. The weight in his voice was like stone—unyielding, immovable.

She looked away, sipping her tea at last. A faint smile tugged at her lips, though it didn't reach her eyes. "We'll see. Don't think my eyes won't stay on you, Joon-ho. I'll be watching every step."

Silence stretched between them, heavy but not hostile. Outside, the city lights glittered against the boutique's glass walls.

Finally, Min-kyung set down her cup with a quiet clink. "But for tonight, no more heavy talk. Fashion Week is coming, and we'll need all the strength we can get."

A flicker of her usual mischief returned, softening the weight in the air. "Drink your tea before it gets cold. I won't have my male model sulking with a bitter tongue."

Joon-ho lifted his cup without a word, the steam curling between them like a fragile truce.

And Min-kyung, for all her bravado, sat a little straighter, comforted not by his words but by the steadiness behind them.