Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

Friday. Late afternoon.

The clinic was silent.

No messages. No bookings. No moaning Mirae on the table. No chaos. Just quiet.

Joon-ho looked out the window, arms folded, sunlight slanting through the blinds. Outside, the streets were slow—like the whole neighborhood was taking a breath.

He checked the time, stretched, and muttered, "Screw it."

Closed early.

He threw on a black linen shirt, sleeves rolled, clean slacks, simple watch. Locked the front. Slipped into the soft pulse of city evening—Seoul shifting into weekend mode.

A short walk took him to the nearest convenience store.

Iced coffee. Some gum. And—

"Joon-ho?"

He turned.

And blinked.

Standing near the canned coffee section, holding a tiny carton of banana milk, was Kang Harin.

Campus flower.

Back in university, every guy with a pulse had tried something—notes in her locker, free lunches, birthday flowers. She never dated. Never flirted.

But she always smiled at him.

Now?

She looked… softer. Office-worn. Business skirt. Light blouse. Hair tied up loosely. Same eyes. A little tired. Still beautiful.

"Harin?"

She laughed. "I thought that was you."

Joon-ho smiled. "You've aged."

She smacked his arm. "And you haven't changed at all."

They stepped outside together, drinks in hand.

"How've you been?" he asked.

"Working in marketing. Long hours. Boring boss. You?"

"I opened a clinic."

"Physical therapy?"

"Something like that."

Her brows lifted. "You always had those strong hands…"

He raised a brow.

She blushed. "I meant when you gave me that neck massage during exam week."

"I remember."

She tilted her head. "Want to catch up properly? There's a chicken-and-soju bar around the corner…"

Later, at the bar

The table was small. The chicken crisp. The soju smooth.

Two empty bottles in.

Harin was leaning forward now, voice lower, her laughter more breathy. Her blouse slightly undone—whether from heat or alcohol, Joon-ho wasn't sure.

"I thought you were dating that poetry girl back in uni," she said, sipping.

"Lasted a month. She wanted me to write poems after sex."

She laughed, loud and full. "That sounds awful."

"You?"

"No one serious," she said, eyes distant. "A few flings. Some regret. You know how it goes."

Joon-ho refilled her glass. "You always had guys wrapped around your finger."

"Maybe," she said, voice softer now. "But none of them ever touched me like you did that one time."

He paused.

"What do you mean?"

"That massage. My neck. You pressed somewhere and I saw stars. I literally walked funny after and blamed my shoes."

Joon-ho smiled. "You never asked for another."

"I wanted to," she said. "But I was scared you'd know how much I wanted you."

Silence stretched.

The noise of the bar faded into a warm background hum.

"I think…" she said slowly, "I still want to know what that feels like."

Then—her head lolled slightly.

"…Whoa," she whispered, blinking slowly. "Think I had more than I thought…"

He frowned. "Are you okay?"

"I'm—" she stood, swayed. "Oop—nope. Dizzy. Legs feel… wobbly."

"Your place's too far to walk," he said, catching her gently. "And I'm not letting you cab alone."

She looked up at him, lids heavy. "Then where…?"

He smiled. "My clinic's just around the corner."

At Joon-ho's place — his clinic, his home

He helped her in, one arm around her waist. She kicked off her heels halfway through the entry. The lobby dim. The hallway quiet. This time of day, the place felt more like a home than a business.

"Wait—" she muttered, looking around. "You… live here?"

"I sleep in the back," he said, steadying her. "Converted office into a private room. Separate from the client space."

She smirked. "That's efficient."

He brought her to the rear quarters—modest but warm. A wide futon bed. Bookshelf. A desk. Soft lighting.

She sat on the bed, exhaling like her bones gave up the fight.

He grabbed her water and a blanket.

As he turned to leave—

"…Joon-ho?"

He paused.

"…Can you stay here with me? Just tonight?"

His brow lifted slightly.

"I mean—" she corrected, cheeks flushed. "Just lie down. Sleep next to me. I don't want to be alone. Not like this. Not tonight."

He studied her.

She looked… vulnerable.

Not like the campus queen.

Just a woman with tired eyes, swaying slightly, and a half-unbuttoned blouse slipping off her shoulder.

He nodded.

"Alright. Scoot over."

She did.

He lay beside her. Fully clothed. No pressure. Just warmth.

After a few minutes, she whispered—

"…Thank you."

Her hand found his.

"I always wondered… what this would've felt like back then."

He didn't answer.

He just kissed her knuckles once.

And let her fall asleep holding him.