The restaurant was warm with the thrum of evening conversation, the air scented with grilling meat, garlic, and tangy gochujang. Behind a half-partitioned booth, Yura, Harin, Min-Kyung, and Joon-ho clustered around a table already crowded with small dishes and empty glasses, coats and bags tossed carelessly onto the next chair.

Joon-ho, slipping his phone into his jacket pocket, raised his voice over the ambient noise. "That's it. No more work talk—just for tonight. I'm confiscating everyone's phones if I see any more emails."

Min-Kyung dropped her head against Harin's shoulder in relief. "Bless you, oppa. I was two emails away from throwing myself out the window."

Yura shot him a mock-glare, lips curling in a way that made it clear she was grateful for the excuse to relax. "Only you would dare tell me to clock out, Joon-ho."

"Someone has to," he replied, grinning, and poured her a drink.

Waitstaff bustled over, arms loaded with sizzling galbi, steaming bowls of spicy octopus, and the bubbling red surface of kimchi jjigae. Platters of japchae and grilled mackerel arrived with a clatter, filling every available inch of the table. Soju and beer were passed around, frosted glasses sweating under the lights.

For a while, the only conversation was the shared language of eating—sighs of pleasure, little moans, the clack of chopsticks. But as the edge of hunger dulled, talk shifted easily to the world they'd left behind for one night.

Harin, cheeks pink with soju and laughter, complained first. "Unnie, you should see the sponsor emails. They want their girls on every single poster. I counted three asking for 'face of the show' in one hour."

Yura rolled her eyes, pouring herself a careful half-glass. "Let them dream. We're not handing out headliners to the highest bidder. If it isn't the right fit, it's a no."

Min-Kyung, gnawing a rib bone, added, "Some agencies tried to bribe us. I kept the chocolate, obviously, but threw the rest away. I have standards."

They all laughed, even Yura, who seemed genuinely lighter tonight. Then Min-Kyung smirked across the table. "Enough about us. Coffee Prince—how does it feel, breaking the internet? One million followers, all in love with you. Are you ready for your fan meeting?"

Joon-ho looked faintly mortified, and Harin jumped in before he could answer. "You're trending as the hottest new thing! People are saying you should open a café in Gangnam and model your own uniforms."

Yura, sipping her beer, chimed in slyly, "Just make sure you save some of that famous charm for us, hmm?"

He ducked his head, ears tinged red, but his grin was wide. "I'm just glad none of you unfollowed me after the chaos."

Harin and Min-Kyung hooted. "Are you kidding? Unnie keeps showing us your clips—'Look, he's so composed, even with a knife to his throat.'"

Yura looked genuinely pleased, but just then her phone buzzed again, the familiar tension returning to her brow. "Excuse me," she muttered, sliding out of the booth with a sigh.

They watched her go, the air shifting with her absence. A moment later, Yura's raised voice carried in from the entryway—sharp, controlled, and unmistakably angry. It wasn't a tone any of them envied.

Harin leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial hush. "It's her husband again. He's desperate to get his new lover—a European model—on the main runway. Keeps pestering Yura to make her the face of the show."

Min-Kyung, swirling the last of her soju, snorted. "He's threatening to pull out his support for Yura's father's company. But honestly? We're good now. Her dad's business is finally self-sufficient. Yura's not backing down this time."

Joon-ho's expression darkened, his jaw set. "He's out of line. After Fashion Week, if she wants, I'll help her settle it. She's been through enough."

Min-Kyung raised her glass, eyes suddenly fierce. "To freedom. And to better men than that bastard."

Harin, already a little tipsy, added, "And to our Coffee Prince! May he slay more than just hearts this year."

Laughter spilled around the table as Yura returned, her smile a little watery, but her chin lifted in defiance. She saw their raised glasses, hesitated, then picked up her own.

"To all of us," she said quietly, "—for sticking together, no matter what."

They drank, the warmth of soju and friendship chasing out the day's bitterness. Min-Kyung slung an arm around Yura's shoulder, Harin nudged her side, and even Joon-ho—quiet and solid—rested his hand gently over hers.

For a moment, it didn't matter who was famous, who was trending, who was fighting private wars outside the circle of light. They were just friends—battle-weary but together—finding their own solace in a crowded restaurant, letting laughter fill all the empty spaces.

When the meal finally wound down, Joon-ho insisted on paying, brushing off Yura's protests. "Consider it thanks for letting me crash your fashion circus."

Harin shot him a sly look. "Oppa, if you ever get tired of saving women and making headlines, you'd make a killer manager."

Joon-ho winked. "Let's see how tonight goes first."

Yura just smiled, finally looking at ease, and in the soft glow of the restaurant, surrounded by people who understood, the burdens of work, scandal, and old wounds felt—if only for an evening—manageable, maybe even light.

Joon-ho's apartment, just past midnight. The city skyline twinkled beyond the window, a shimmering sea of possibility, but inside, everything was warm and small—just friends, laughter, and the hush that followed a night well spent.

In the hallway, Harin and Min-Kyung clung to each other, swaying with the gentle, boozy exhaustion of a dinner that had lasted hours. They giggled as they tried to toe off their shoes.

"Unnie—hold my arm—" Harin mumbled, nearly tripping on the rug.

"I am holding you!" Min-Kyung slurred, but steadied her friend, both bursting into laughter again.

Joon-ho smiled, shaking his head affectionately as he handed them each a tall glass of water. "You two need this more than soju."

"Thank you, oppa," Harin said, grinning up at him with glazed eyes.

"Good night, Coffee Prince!" Min-Kyung whispered as they vanished into the guest room, the door closing on another round of giggles and low, happy murmurs.

The apartment was hushed except for the distant city noises slipping in through the windows. After making sure Harin and Min-Kyung were settled in the guest room—already half-asleep and mumbling to each other—Joon-ho returned to the living room.

Yura sat on the sofa, the light from her phone illuminating her face, thumb flying over the screen. She sighed, locked it, and tossed it onto the coffee table with a soft groan.

Joon-ho sat beside her, not crowding, just close enough that she felt his presence. She gave a tired smile. "Sorry, Joon-ho. Fashion week is a monster. I don't even know how many problems I just agreed to fix."

He offered a wry grin. "I know you can handle it, Yura. But… you don't have to do it alone, you know."

She looked at him, searching his face, the soft lamplight catching the tired lines at the corners of her eyes. "Let me try a little longer. I promise, once this week is over, I'll talk about everything. For now, you need to look after Mirae and that contract mess. She needs you more."

As her phone buzzed again, Joon-ho reached for it, silencing it with a deliberate click and setting it facedown on the table. Yura blinked, almost startled.

"Let it wait for once," he said gently.

She gave a small, almost bashful laugh. "You really are trouble, Joon-ho."

He drew her closer, arms sliding around her, his hands finding her waist. "You look tired, Yura. Let me help you forget everything for a bit."

She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair, his palm warm at her nape. She let out a long breath, tension unspooling in his embrace.

They stayed that way for a while, wordless, sharing warmth. But slowly, her hand crept up to his chest, fingers tracing circles through his shirt. He turned, meeting her eyes, and the look that passed between them was gentle but hungry.

Joon-ho kissed her—soft at first, then deeper, his hands cupping her face. Yura responded in kind, pressing closer, arms winding around his neck. They kissed again and again, sometimes laughing, sometimes falling silent, their bodies pressing together with growing urgency.

He ran his hands along her back, feeling her relax, and she buried her face in his shoulder, breathing in his scent.

They didn't say much—didn't need to. Their kisses spoke for them, slow and then faster, the mood shifting from comfort to a smoldering, barely restrained need. Yura tugged him tighter, murmuring his name, while his hands drifted along her waist, her thighs, each touch a promise.

They broke apart just enough to catch their breath, cheeks flushed. "Joon-ho," she whispered, her voice low, "let's just stay like this a little longer."

He nodded, brushing his lips across her forehead. "I'm not going anywhere, Yura."

Their laughter, soft words, and the quiet beat of hearts filled the living room—holding back the world outside, not rushing, just building anticipation for what would come next.

And as the city lights flickered against the window, they stayed close.

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