Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

The first fingers of dawn brushed across the Jeju skyline, pale orange spilling into the Grand Hyatt suite through a gap in the curtains. Floor-to-ceiling glass offered a quiet view of the waking city, the harbor lights flickering faint against the brightening horizon. The suite itself was still hushed, cloaked in the lingering warmth of the night before.

The bed was a sprawl of white sheets and soft pillows. Mirae lay half-curled beneath them, bare skin hidden under the down blanket, her hair fanned out across the pillow in dark tangles. Her breathing was deep but uneven, the kind of rest that comes only after exhaustion has broken and the body has finally surrendered. The faintest blush still colored her cheeks, though her forehead no longer burned with the headache that had plagued her the day before.

From the bathroom came the muffled sound of running water shutting off, then soft footsteps. Joon-ho emerged, hair damp, a towel looped around his neck. Steam still clung faintly to his skin, and the white of his undershirt stretched across his shoulders as he buttoned a clean shirt over it. His movements were practiced, unhurried, as though careful not to disturb the fragile calm that had settled over the room.

He glanced toward the bed. The sight of her—Mirae in disarray, her face slack with sleep, her hand clutching loosely at the sheet—softened something in him. He lingered there for a moment, towel in hand, before slipping his arms into his jacket.

But as he adjusted the collar, Mirae stirred. Her lashes fluttered, lips parting on a soft sound that was neither word nor sigh. She shifted against the pillows, blinking blearily at the light.

"Mm…" Her voice was husky with sleep. "Oppa…?"

Joon-ho froze for half a heartbeat, then smiled faintly, stepping closer. "Did I wake you?" His tone was low, gentle, carrying the kind of apology that only came when he knew he'd been too careful already. "It's still early. Just past six."

Mirae rubbed at her eyes, then pushed herself up slightly, the blanket sliding to reveal the smooth slope of her bare shoulder. She clutched it quickly around herself, though the movement was slow, unhurried. Her gaze followed him as he fastened the last button of his shirt.

"You're going out?" she asked, her voice still thick with sleep. "This early?"

Joon-ho tugged the towel from his neck, folding it neatly onto the chair by the window. He nodded. "I'm heading to the hospital. I want to check on Mr. Choi before the day gets too busy."

At that, Mirae's drowsiness seemed to fade, her brow tightening. "Hospital… You mean Mr. Choi? The guest who got hurt during filming last week because of Do-jin?"

"Mm." He adjusted his cuffs, then reached for his watch on the nightstand. "He's still at Jeju Hospital. I want to take a look myself—see if I can help speed up his recovery."

Mirae shifted higher on the pillows, propping herself with one arm. The sheet slipped a little further down her chest, but she didn't seem to notice. Her concern was written across her face, sharper now that her headache had eased.

"Oppa, don't push yourself," she murmured, eyes narrowing. "This isn't on you. It was Do-jin's fault to begin with. That man is reckless—always chasing attention without thinking. The production team should be dealing with this, not you."

Joon-ho only smiled, the expression calm, unreadable. He fastened his watch with a click and turned to face her. "Maybe. But if I can help, I should."

Her lips parted, a protest caught there, but she hesitated. She knew his tone—steady, impossible to sway once his mind was made up.

"It'll probably tank the show's ratings anyway," she muttered instead, softer, almost to herself. "Netizens are already sharpening their knives."

He crossed the room to her, the faint scent of soap and aftershave clinging to him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he leaned close enough that the blanket rustled with his weight. One hand lifted to brush a strand of hair from her cheek.

"We'll see," he said quietly.

For a moment she only looked at him, her eyes wide and still hazy with sleep. Then, almost instinctively, she leaned into his touch. The warmth of his palm against her skin eased the last of her frown.

He bent and pressed his lips to her temple, lingering there longer than necessary. Mirae closed her eyes, breathing in deeply as though to hold onto the moment.

"I missed mornings like this," she whispered, the words so soft they might have been mistaken for a dream.

Joon-ho's thumb brushed over the back of her hand where it clutched the blanket. "Rest a little longer," he murmured. "I'll be back before you know it."

Mirae hesitated, then turned her face up to his, catching his mouth with hers in a fleeting kiss—gentle, unhurried, but threaded with something unspoken. When he pulled away, her eyes followed him until he rose and crossed the suite.

The door closed behind him with a muted click.

For a long moment, Mirae sat there in the rumpled sheets, the silence pressing around her. Then she reached for his pillow, still faintly warm, and drew it close, burying her face in the lingering scent of him. Outside, Jeju was stirring awake, the city noise faint beneath the hum of the air-conditioning. But inside, she let her eyes slip shut again, caught between comfort and unease, holding onto the fragile calm Joon-ho had left behind.

The taxi hummed along Jeju's morning roads, the city still shaking off sleep. Low sunlight slanted through the window, painting Joon-ho's profile in gold and shadow as he leaned back against the seat. His phone buzzed softly in his palm — a reply from Dong-wook.

Hyung, I already spoke with Director Kim Tae-hwan. He's open to you stepping in. Says it'll look good, less media heat for them. But… there's a problem. I'll explain when you get here.

Joon-ho exhaled through his nose, thumb resting on the screen. The driver, an older man with gray streaks in his hair, glanced at him once in the rearview before returning his eyes to the road.

Outside, Jeju's streets rolled past — neat cafés with their shutters still half-drawn, the outline of Hallasan faint against the pale horizon, and bursts of orange groves that seemed to glow even under the thin light. Everything looked so clean, so still. Yet in his chest, a knot of expectation wound tighter with every passing block.

The message wasn't unexpected. Problems always came. But the tone in Dong-wook's words — clipped, uneasy — carried weight. Whatever waited at the hospital, it wouldn't be simple.

He rested his elbow against the window, gaze fixed outward as the taxi turned off the main road and into the district where Jeju Hospital loomed. The building rose pale and modern against the sky, glass catching the morning light. Even from a distance, the East Wing stood out — newly renovated, with its steel-and-glass façade gleaming like a promise of progress.

Yet Joon-ho had learned long ago: new walls didn't always mean clean foundations.

The taxi slowed, pulling beneath the covered drop-off. Joon-ho paid quickly, sliding out with a brief nod of thanks. The morning air was sharp, carrying the faint salt of the nearby sea.

Inside, the lobby opened wide, all polished floors and bright signage. The receptionist at the front desk greeted him with professional warmth.

"Good morning, sir. May I help you?"

"I'm here to see a patient — Mr. Choi, East Wing," Joon-ho said, voice even.

The receptionist checked her monitor, fingers tapping swiftly. "Yes, he's in Room 513, East Wing, fifth floor. The physiotherapy team is already reviewing his case. Please follow the signs down this corridor, and take the central elevators."

"Thank you."

Her polite bow followed him as he moved toward the corridor. The East Wing bore the crisp scent of fresh paint and new machinery, but beneath it lingered something else — the faint hum of tension, the unspoken weight of hospital politics.

And then he saw him.

Dong-wook stood at the corner of the hall, arms crossed loosely, phone in one hand. His gaze lifted the moment Joon-ho approached, and relief softened his features.

"Hyung," Dong-wook said, pocketing the phone. "You came fast."

"What's the situation?" Joon-ho asked without preamble.

They began walking side by side, the low echo of their footsteps on tile filling the space.

Dong-wook ran a hand through his hair, his expression caught between frustration and resignation. "I spoke with Director Kim Tae-hwan yesterday. He actually welcomed the idea of you helping. Said it'd be good PR — better story than the headlines about an injured guest and a show in trouble. He wants the focus shifted, away from hospital responsibility."

Joon-ho nodded once, unsurprised. "Damage control. It makes sense."

"Right. And if you can help Mr. Choi recover faster, the director's all in. But…" Dong-wook's sigh was sharp. "The problem is the new physio. He won't allow it. Says he won't let some outsider meddle with his patient."

Joon-ho's brows lifted slightly. "He's that firm?"

"Stubborn as stone. Keeps repeating, I'm the professional, I don't need interference. He's afraid of losing face more than anything."

They reached the nurse's station. A few staff members moved quietly behind the counter, the scent of antiseptic thick in the air. Joon-ho's tone was calm, not offended.

"He's not wrong to be protective," he said. "That's part of the job. Still…" His gaze flicked to the counter. "Let me see the records first."

One of the nurses, recognizing Dong-wook, quickly pulled Mr. Choi's chart. Joon-ho flipped it open, his eyes scanning the notes — blood pressure steady, vitals strong, but there it was: an old injury to the legs, years back. Complications from overstrain. And at fifty-five, recovery would not be as forgiving.

Joon-ho's finger tapped lightly against a line in the chart. "Healthy overall. Strong heart, lungs. His body will recover if handled right. But push him wrong — force the strain — and the pain could linger for months. He'll stiffen. Maybe permanent damage."

He closed the file and looked at Dong-wook. "What's your read?"

Dong-wook rubbed the back of his neck. "He'll heal, sure. But slow. And honestly? Not cleanly. The physio will follow textbook steps — safe, but generic. That's not enough for someone like Mr. Choi. He needs adjustment, fine-tuning. The kind you've done before."

Joon-ho's gaze sharpened for a moment, then softened. "Then we need to convince him."

As they moved down the corridor toward Room 513, a ripple of noise reached them — raised voices, sharp words bouncing against sterile walls.

"No outsiders," a man barked, tone harsh with authority. "I don't care what the director says. This is medical care, not a circus for TV ratings. You can't just parade in whoever you like!"

Beside him, another voice tried to soothe. "Please, Mr. Kang, calm down. This isn't helping—"

Dong-wook stopped mid-step, frowning. His eyes narrowed as recognition flickered. "…I know that voice."

They rounded the corner. Ahead, Soo-jin stood near the door to Room 513, hands raised in an attempt to calm the man blocking her. Her brows were drawn, mouth tight with frustration.

The man in question was broad-shouldered, his white coat worn like armor. His face was set, jaw tight, as though every word were meant to strike down opposition.

Kang Min-seok.

The name made a muscle flicker in Joon-ho's cheek, the memory still raw. Barely a month ago—the national volleyball team camp. Ji-hye had leaned on Joon-ho's therapy, her recovery steady in his hands. Then another player went down, and Min-seok's negligence left the court in chaos. Joon-ho had taken over, restoring what Min-seok could not. The fallout had been swift—Min-seok dismissed in disgrace.

The memory sharpened as Min-seok's voice cut the air again. "This is my patient. My responsibility. I won't have amateurs interfering."

Soo-jin's eyes flicked past Min-seok, and then widened. Relief bloomed across her face, almost spilling into a smile.

"Oppa!" she called, stepping forward. The tension in her shoulders eased as though his arrival alone shifted the balance of the room.

Min-seok froze, his rant stuttering mid-sentence. Slowly, he turned, his gaze locking onto Joon-ho.

For a heartbeat, disbelief registered — his mouth slackened, his stance faltered. And then bitterness surged in to cover it, hardening every line of his expression.

"…You?" Min-seok's voice dropped, thick with a mix of shock and hostility.

The corridor went still. Nurses glanced between the men, uncertain. Soo-jin hovered, caught between relief and unease. Dong-wook tensed at Joon-ho's side, waiting.

Joon-ho stood calm, unreadable, but his silence pressed heavier than any reply. The air itself seemed to draw taut, the weight of old failure and unfinished reckoning filling the sterile hallway.

And in that breathless moment, everyone knew — this was no longer just about Mr. Choi's recovery.