Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

The elevator chimed softly as it reached the first floor of Joon-ho's clinic.

Harin stepped out, the automatic glass doors sliding open in front of her, letting in the early afternoon sun.

Her legs were still weak.

Under her sleek office skirt, she wore nothing. No bra. No panties. Just one of Joon-ho's oversized black dress shirts tucked halfway into her pencil skirt and the faintest sheen of dried cum between her thighs.

God.

She paused before walking to the sidewalk, glancing over her shoulder.

Joon-ho leaned in the doorway—still shirtless, towel around his neck, arms folded as he watched her leave with a crooked smirk.

"Text me when you get home," he said.

"I will."

"Still sore?"

"…Everywhere," she whispered, biting her lip.

He stepped forward, kissed her one last time—soft, lazy, slow. His hand cupped the back of her head, and her lips parted helplessly against his.

It wasn't a kiss.It was a claim.

She melted into it.

Then broke away with a shaky breath, cheeks flushed. "You're dangerous."

"You started it."

She walked away before her legs gave out, flagged a taxi at the corner, and sank into the backseat with a sigh.

In the Taxi

The city blurred by.

Harin stared out the window, fingers resting lightly on her lips.

Her thighs were still sticky.Her chest still marked.And inside her—deep, slow, warm—was the thick ache of being filled by him.

Again.

And again.

And again.

She closed her eyes and smiled to herself.

This wasn't just sex.This was hers.Her choice. Her obsession. Her man.

They hadn't said the word "couple," not directly, but everything about this morning—from the kiss to the bank account reveal to that damn breakfast—felt like something real. She could still taste him in her throat and feel his heartbeat when he held her close.

She didn't need a label.

He was hers.And fuck, she wanted more.

Arriving Home

The taxi pulled up in front of her apartment.

She climbed out, adjusted her bag, tugged her skirt down slightly—still feeling the ghost of his fingers on her thighs—and made her way inside.

The door clicked shut behind her.

"Unnie?"

She froze.

Her little sister Minji leaned against the hallway wall, arms folded.

University student.Early 20s.Sharp-eyed.Too smart for her own damn good.

"What time is it?" Minji asked with a smile. "Because I know you didn't get home last night."

"I—work," Harin stammered. "Overtime. Emergency strategy review."

Minji's brow rose. She padded closer. "You stayed out all night. Didn't call. Didn't text. And now you're home in your office outfit at 2 PM on a Saturday?"

"Client call this morning."

Minji stepped in close. Too close.

She sniffed.

"You smell nice."

Harin blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Like citrus and sandalwood. Not sweat. Not Seoul Subway." Her voice dropped. "That's not your perfume, is it?"

Harin tried to back away.

Minji's eyes narrowed—and then widened.

"…Are those hickeys?"

"What—no—"

"EOMMA!!" Minji screamed, voice echoing down the hall.

Family Interrogation

Their mom, Mrs. Kang—48, sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, and dangerously curious—stormed down the stairs in seconds.

"What is it—Minji, why are you yelling—"

"Unnie got laid last night!"

Harin froze.

Mrs. Kang blinked. "What?"

"She just came home. Wearing her office skirt. No panties. Smells like sex and sin. And I saw the hickeys."

Harin opened her mouth—nothing came out.

Mrs. Kang put her hands on her hips. "Harin. Is this true?"

Harin sighed. "Can we not do this in the hallway?"

Ten minutes later, she was seated at the kitchen table, wearing a hoodie thrown over her ruined shirt while Minji poured coffee and grinned like she'd just won the lottery.

"So?" Minji leaned in. "Spill. Who is he? How big is it? Did you scream? Did you cry?"

Mrs. Kang elbowed her. "Let her breathe first, Jesus."

Harin covered her face with her hands. "You two are unbearable."

Minji smirked. "So? Was it a one-time thing? Or are you in love?"

"…Both."

Their mom raised her brows.

Harin peeked through her fingers. "It's… someone I knew from college. We reconnected. He's a massage therapist. He owns a private clinic."

"Clinic?" Minji raised a brow. "Like a sex dungeon?"

"No! It's professional. Mostly."

"Mostly?" Mrs. Kang echoed.

Harin gave them both a look. "Look. He's… incredible. Kind. Respectful. Filthy as hell. And he makes me feel like—like I matter."

Minji let out a dreamy sigh. "God. I want that."

Mrs. Kang crossed her arms, nodding. "Well. As long as he's not some broke loser."

"He's not."

"Does he treat you well?"

"Very."

"…Can he cook?"

Harin smiled. "Better than me."

Minji grinned. "Is his dick huge?"

"MINJI!"

"What? I'm gathering intel!"

Harin burst out laughing, cheeks flushed.

"He's… more than enough."

Mrs. Kang sipped her coffee. "Alright. As long as you're safe. And getting laid regularly."

Minji held up a hand. "Respect."

They clinked coffee mugs.

Harin leaned back, a soft smile on her face. She hadn't felt this seen—this free—in years.

Her mother. Her sister. Her man.

Maybe this was the start of something real.