Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

When Mirae woke again, the sun was already high.

This time, there was no cock inside her—just warmth. Soft sheets. A sore ache between her legs that made her smile like a drunk girl remembering the best kind of mistake.

A knock at the bedroom door.

"Mirae," Joon-ho's voice called through, warm and steady. "The shower's ready for you."

She stretched slowly, groaning softly, the soreness delicious. Every muscle reminded her of how thoroughly she'd been fucked. Her thighs were still damp. Her neck had a faint hickey. Her pussy was… a pulsing mess.

She loved it.

Inside the bathroom, steam rolled out from the open glass shower. The water was already at the perfect temperature. A fresh towel, clean robe, and even a new toothbrush were neatly arranged by the sink.

She laughed under her breath.

"Did he just prepare a fucking hotel suite-level aftercare setup?"

Her heart fluttered.

By the time she stepped out, her body felt light, sore in all the best places, and cleaner than she had in weeks. Her headache was gone. Her shoulders were loose. Her eyes were bright.

And there it was—folded on the bed: one of Joon-ho's T-shirts. Oversized. Soft. Smelled like him.

She put it on. No panties. No bra. Just bare thighs under loose cotton and unfastened buttons that gave teasing glimpses of her collarbones and cleavage.

She padded out barefoot, towel-dried hair messy and fresh.

In the kitchen, Joon-ho was plating a simple breakfast—steamed eggs, rice, and kimchi, with a warm miso soup simmering on the side. He looked up as she walked in and did a double take.

The shirt barely covered her ass.

He smiled.

"Hope you're hungry."

"I am," she said, eyes twinkling. "For breakfast, too."

He raised a brow but didn't comment.

She sat across from him at the small table, legs curled up under her, shirt tugged lower out of instinct—but it only made her look more like she belonged there. Not as a client.

As something closer.

She took the first bite and closed her eyes.

"…This is so good," she sighed.

"It's just eggs and soup."

"It's the best eggs and soup I've had in a year." She looked at him. "Maybe longer."

He tilted his head. "Because of the sex?"

She laughed.

"No. Because of you. I feel… relaxed. Clear. Even this breakfast tastes different. Like my body's breathing again."

He poured her tea, then leaned across the table to press a gentle kiss to her lips.

She sighed into it.

They lingered—kissing soft and slow, morning breath and all. No rush. Just heat and comfort. When he pulled back, her eyes fluttered open, dazed.

She reached for her phone lazily.

The screen lit up.

17 missed calls. 24 unread messages.

From her manager. Her agency. One from her older sister.

Her eyes froze.

Then she locked the screen and dropped the phone face-down on the table.

"Not today," she whispered.

She turned back to Joon-ho.

"…Can I come again?"

He smiled.

"You don't even need to ask."

"No reservations?"

"None," he said. "My door's open for you. Always."

Her smile was quiet… but it reached her soul.