Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

The boutique lights glowed warm against polished glass, soft shadows dancing across racks of fabric. Joon-ho sat quietly in the lounge corner, the faint trace of perfume and fabric dye hanging in the air. His tea had long since cooled.

Min-kyung was across the room, draped in her chair like a cat with nowhere better to be, when the door burst open and two staff members slipped in nervously, arms full of garments.

"Director Min," one said, bowing. "The alterations team requests your guidance. The cuts for Look Seven and Look Twelve don't fall cleanly."

Min-kyung arched a brow, sighing in mock irritation. "Honestly, must I fix everything myself?" She stood, straightening her skirt, but the sharpness in her eyes belied her tone. This was her battlefield, and she thrived in it.

She glanced at Joon-ho, lips curling. "Stay here, daddy. Don't break anything expensive. I'll be back."

Before he could reply, she swept out with her assistants, the door clicking softly shut behind them.

Silence settled over the boutique.

Joon-ho leaned back, gaze on the ceiling for a moment before pulling out his phone. The screen glowed faintly in the dim light.

No messages from Harin.

He wasn't surprised. If anything, he could picture her right now—hunched over Yura's desk, brows furrowed, scribbling notes as Yura dictated strategy. When Harin got serious, she forgot everything else, even the clock.

He smiled faintly at the thought, then swiped his thumb across the screen, opening KakaoTalk.

His chat list scrolled down to a familiar name: Mirae.

Their conversation thread stretched back months—brief exchanges, teasing emojis, warm encouragements. Mostly texts. Quick, light, easy. He had never actually called her before.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

For a moment, he debated. It wasn't the right time, maybe. She might be filming. She might be busy.

Then he pressed it.

The dial tone rang once. Twice. Three times.

On the fourth, the line clicked.

"...Joon-ho?" Her voice was breathless, slightly higher than usual. A touch of surprise, wrapped in warmth. "You're calling me?"

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Yes."

On her end, background noise rushed in—voices calling out orders, equipment clattering, the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. Mirae laughed softly, muffling the receiver with her hand before returning.

"Sorry—it's chaos here. We're shooting in Jeju, an orange orchard. It's for a variety show. We're pretending to open a café." She laughed again, the sound light. "I smell like citrus already."

"I can hear the crew," Joon-ho said, calm as ever. "Are you busy?"

"Always," she teased, but her voice trembled faintly. The fact that he was calling—not texting—seemed to rattle her more than the cameras around her.

"I'll keep it short." He shifted slightly, his voice firm but even. "Madam Seo wants you and me as the main models for Korean Fashion Week."

There was a beat of silence. Then Mirae's sharp inhale.

"Fashion Week?" Her tone was almost reverent. "The Fashion Week? Lumina's runway?"

"Yes."

Her voice tumbled out in a rush, half-gasp, half-laugh. "I—I know about it, of course. Everyone in the industry does. It's… it's huge. International. And with you…" She broke off, breath catching. "You mean I would be standing beside you? On the runway?"

"Yes."

The background noise faded for a moment, or maybe it was just Mirae's stillness on the other end. He could almost see her—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hand pressed to her chest.

"I want it," she whispered at last. "God, I want it so badly. To be with you, to walk that stage…" Her voice cracked with excitement. Then softened with worry. "But…"

Joon-ho waited.

"My agency." The words fell heavy. "They won't like it. They've already booked me for commercials during that week. Multiple contracts. I don't even know if they'll listen if I ask."

Her tone faltered further. "I'll have to talk to my manager. Try to convince her first, before it even reaches the CEO. Otherwise, they'll just shut me down."

"I see." Joon-ho's tone didn't change, steady as stone. "How long are you in Jeju?"

"Three nights, at most." Her voice wavered again. "Then back to Seoul. We're filming here through the week."

"Send me your hotel location," he said simply. "I'll see what I can do."

There was silence for a heartbeat. He could almost feel her breath catch.

"...Okay." Her voice was small, but filled with trust. "I'll send it."

From behind her came a shout—someone calling her name, urgency in their tone. Mirae flinched.

"They need me." She lingered a second longer, unwilling. "Thank you for calling, Joon-ho. Really. This… this means more than you know."

The line clicked dead a moment later.

Joon-ho lowered the phone slowly, her voice still lingering in his ear. Outside, the boutique was quiet, shadows stretching long across the polished floor.

His decision was already made.

The boutique had emptied again. Min-kyung's laughter and sharp instructions echoed faintly through a back hall where her assistants clustered, working on the alterations she demanded.

In the lounge, silence reclaimed the space.

Then his phone vibrated. A new message from Mirae.

He opened it—her shooting schedule neatly listed, her hotel pinned on a map. A small smiley face tagged at the end, as though she was embarrassed to seem too eager.

Joon-ho locked the screen and set the device on the low table before him. The tea that one of Min-kyung's staff had left earlier was lukewarm now. As if sensing his pause, another staffer appeared, bowing lightly, and replaced it with a fresh cup before vanishing again.

"Please enjoy, sir," she whispered on her way out.

He lifted the porcelain gently, breathing in the faint floral notes. Then, with his free hand, he unlocked his phone again and began to search.

Mirae's agency.

A flood of results filled the screen—industry gossip, entertainment reports, hushed comments from anonymous staff. He sifted through them quietly, sipping his tea between scrolls.

The picture that emerged was ugly.

A CEO infamous for greed, always photographed in custom suits and grinning too wide. Rumors of bribes, of forced contracts, of idols collapsing mid-schedule from exhaustion. Former trainees whispering that the agency ground its artists down to husks, swapping them out when they lost shine.

Money first. Artists second. If at all.

The more he read, the heavier the air felt. Mirae's voice replayed in his mind—bright, breathless excitement curdling into unease as she admitted she might not be allowed to say yes.

He set the phone face down.

The tea was warm in his hands, steam rising faintly. He stared past it, through the boutique's wide windows, at the skyline across the road. Lumina's tower stood tall, lights glowing in Yura's office high above. Somewhere inside, she and Harin were still bent over paperwork, drafting proposals with fierce concentration.

His chest tightened with memory.

He hadn't always been like this—composed, steady, sitting in designer boutiques while powerful women trusted him with their secrets and their futures.

Not long ago, he had been nothing.

He remembered the hollow days vividly: waking with no drive, dragging himself through empty routines. His body worked, but his spirit was gone. He was a man unraveling, one thread at a time.

And then Yura had pulled him in.

At first, it had been transactional—her seeking release in his hands, his body, his presence, when her marriage cracked and business pressure crushed her. She hadn't offered him salvation. She had simply used him, raw and unapologetic, the way a drowning woman clutches driftwood.

But somewhere between those nights of tangled sheets and exhausted sighs, something shifted.

She pushed him. Guided him. Sharpened him.

Not just in bed, but in the craft he carried. She corrected his touch, urged him to learn more, connected him with clients who needed healing as much as pleasure. Slowly, under her influence, his massage became more than service—it became art.

Pain relief, therapy, intimacy, release. He learned to read the body the way others read books. He melted scars, soothed injuries, drew sighs that blurred the line between medicine and desire.

They had called it the Golden Touch.

Yura's circle of associates whispered his name in private dinners, praised the way he could undo knots no doctor could touch, and—though they said it with smirks—how easily he could undo the knots in a woman's mind, too.

Through Yura, he had built reputation. Through Yura, he had clawed his way out of ruin.

And now?

He had Harin—bright, stubborn, her cheeks glowing with determination as she scribbled notes by Yura's side.He had Ji-hye—quiet, loyal, her gentleness steadying him on nights the weight grew heavy.He had Mirae—soft-voiced, shining, eager to stand with him even when her agency caged her wings.And he had Yura herself—steel on the outside, fragile beneath, bearing burdens no one else could see.

His lips pressed into a thin line.

Fashion Week. Divorce. Family feuds waiting in the dark. All storms, all threatening to swallow her whole.

But this time, she wouldn't weather them alone.

He raised the cup, drank slowly, letting the warmth spread through his chest like resolve.

For too long, he had been the one carried. Saved. Shaped.

Now, it was his turn to stand. To hold her steady, to fight at her side, to shield her when her walls cracked.

He set the tea down gently, gaze fixed once more on Lumina's tower across the street. The lights burned like a beacon, a reminder of the woman inside—Seo Yura, queen of steel, whose tired heart he had seen and touched.

This time, he would not fail her.

The phone on the table vibrated softly, Mirae's pinned location glowing faintly on the lock screen. A quiet reminder of another fight ahead—one he would not shy from.

The city hummed beyond the glass, oblivious to the vow settling in his chest.

Joon-ho sat still, tea cooling at his side, but inside, something unshakable locked into place.

The broken man he had been was gone.

The man who remained would not let Seo Yura fall.