Soo-jin arrived twenty minutes before opening, nerves jangling with every step. The clinic was tucked behind a row of sycamores, its sign simple and discreet—a place you'd only know if someone trusted you enough to give the address. For a moment she hesitated outside, double-checking the door code Joon-ho had sent her the night before. Her hands shook, but the door clicked open easily, spilling a gentle warmth and the faintest scent of lavender into the cold morning.

Inside, the clinic was quieter than she'd expected: soft music playing, plants thriving in every corner, the faint hum of the city muffled by thick walls and careful design. At the reception desk, a tidy stack of files and fresh tea were already waiting. It was efficient, welcoming, and somehow intimate—nothing like the sterile, sprawling hospital wards she'd left behind in Jeju.

She didn't have long to stand awkwardly. Harin swept in, perfectly composed in a simple suit with her hair pulled back, tablet in one hand and coffee in the other. She stopped, surveying Soo-jin up and down, and then broke into a quick, dimpled grin.

"You're early. Good sign, but careful—Joon-ho might try to make you his favorite." Harin's tone was warm, teasing, the edge of her beauty softened by genuine friendliness.

Soo-jin let herself smile back. "I'd have to work hard. I heard he's impossible to impress."

"Oh, he's easy," Harin winked, leading her behind the reception desk. "You just have to organize his chaos, keep his hands off the fancy oils, and never, ever let him nap during business hours."

She gave Soo-jin a brisk but thorough tour: reception software, appointment log, where to store clients' valuables, which drawers had towels, the exact order for prepping the therapy rooms. She explained each massage oil, the labeling system—classic for muscle work, lavender for relaxation, peppermint for headaches, a hidden stash of arnica for "serious clients." There was even a "VIP kit" in the locked cabinet for idols and celebrities who came in through the back door.

Harin caught Soo-jin eyeing the system with a mix of awe and anxiety. "Don't sweat it. Everyone makes mistakes their first week. I once put hot stone oil on a client's face. He smelled like menthol for a week."

Soo-jin giggled, feeling some of the pressure slip away. "Was he angry?"

"Too blissed out to care. But still—label everything. And don't be afraid to ask. This place is about trust, not perfection."

They talked as they set up for the first day, the rhythm easy. Harin let slip little campus stories—how she'd been called "the ice queen" but was actually just terrified of screwing up in front of her peers. Soo-jin confessed she'd always assumed Harin was unapproachable, and Harin laughed so hard she nearly dropped the tablet.

"Everyone thought that," Harin said, shaking her head. "Meanwhile I was dying for a real friend who didn't care about my Instagram."

They were still swapping stories when Joon-ho arrived, balancing three coffees and a box of pastries. "No mutiny, I hope?" he teased, holding out drinks.

Soo-jin took hers, grinning shyly. "No, but I learned a lot. Did you know Harin nearly suffocated a client with menthol?"

Harin pointed her coffee at him. "She's a quick study, oppa. But don't let her near the client records without a warning. I think she's already color-coding your regulars."

"Perfect," he said, dropping into the reception chair and savoring his coffee. "If anyone can keep this place running, it's you two. Harin's got the brains and the claws. Soo-jin, you've got the patience of a saint. Together, you might be able to get me to work on time."

Soo-jin shook her head, laughing. "No promises. Some things never change."

They shared a companionable silence, the three of them caught in a rare, golden peace.

Harin soon finished her coffee, checked her phone, and stood. "Contractor's waiting for me downstairs. I have to go bully someone into finishing the 8th-floor office before Yura starts nesting." She gave Soo-jin a quick, reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "You're going to do fine. Just watch out for the clients who tip too well—they're the real trouble."

After Harin left, Soo-jin glanced at Joon-ho. "Is it always like this? Everyone feels…connected. Like family, not coworkers."

He nodded, a subtle pride in his voice. "That's the idea. Everyone here chose this—none of us were pushed into it."

Soo-jin's surprise at seeing Harin in this world lingered. "Still wild. The campus belle running a massage clinic."

Joon-ho only smirked. "People change. Don't be so surprised—just keep up. And thank you for being here."

They moved on to the day's business. Joon-ho forwarded her the booking calendar: a modest list, but already showing loyal regulars—corporate execs, dancers, a few celebrities whose names made Soo-jin's eyes widen. She arranged the appointments neatly, color-coding by service, making notes on preferences and restrictions.

Joon-ho watched her work, quietly impressed. "You pick this up fast."

Soo-jin smiled, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I like things orderly. It's…comforting, after hospitals."

He told her the story behind some of the regulars—how privacy mattered, how most clients came here not just for relief, but for trust. "We see the stuff they won't show anyone else. Pain, stress, fear, sometimes just a need for touch that's not transactional."

She nodded, thoughtful. "I think I get it."

The day slipped by quickly, each hour marked by the gentle rhythm of tasks and small encounters that stitched the clinic's quiet world together.

Joon-ho was in constant, fluid motion: checking each treatment room for stray towels or a forgotten hair tie, adjusting the heat lamps so they warmed without glare. Once, he ducked out to answer a call in the hallway—his voice low, professional, then unexpectedly tender as he offered a regular client a reschedule after a family emergency. When a delivery van double-parked outside, Joon-ho rolled up his sleeves and helped the driver haul in a mountain of fresh linens, trading jokes and bowing in thanks.

Meanwhile, Soo-jin settled behind the front desk, her nerves slowly replaced by focused determination. She double-checked the appointment book, organizing the stack of intake forms and color-coding the schedule—just as Harin had shown her—until even the busiest hours looked manageable at a glance. For each arriving client, she greeted them by name, confirmed their preferences, and led them discreetly to the waiting area, offering slippers and a reassuring smile.

There were small hiccups—a package labeled "Urgent" was dropped at the wrong door and retrieved with apologies, a last-minute booking needed to be squeezed between two longer appointments, and a delivery of luxury face masks almost ended up in the wrong storage bin. But each challenge left Soo-jin a little steadier, her hands more sure.

At mid-morning, a middle-aged woman arrived, flustered and apologetic, explaining she'd mixed up her days. Soo-jin guided her to a seat anyway, brewed her a cup of delicate green tea, and chatted softly about the weather, defusing her embarrassment. When the client left, cheeks pink with gratitude, Soo-jin felt the flush of genuine pride.

She prepped towels for the afternoon session, arranged oils just so, and made a habit of peeking into the therapy rooms to make sure the lighting and music were set to soothe. At one point, she caught Joon-ho in a rare moment of stillness, gazing through the window at the city below, and realized how much care he poured into even these mundane details.

By the time noon rolled around, the rush had faded, replaced by the gentle lull that always followed the busiest stretch. Soo-jin found herself moving through each task with increasing confidence—a steady hand on the front desk, a practiced voice answering phone inquiries, and a quiet certainty that she belonged here. The clinic no longer felt daunting or strange, but like a place she could grow roots, one small kindness at a time.

That afternoon, as the last client left, Joon-ho poked his head into reception. "That's it. You survived your first day. Go home, rest. You'll need it."

Soo-jin packed up her things, but paused at the door. "Thanks for trusting me, oppa. I'm bringing Mom to the hospital this weekend. She's been tired lately—just want to be careful."

He gave her a soft, real smile. "You're a good daughter. If you need anything, call. And take as many days as you need if something comes up."

She ducked her head. "Thanks. I'll see you Monday."

After Soo-jin left, the quiet settled in. Joon-ho moved through the clinic, straightening, checking supplies, a deep contentment in his chest. It was good, this slow growth—a team coming together, the business finding its rhythm, old friends taking new roles.

He was lost in thought, cleaning a table in one of the treatment rooms, when the doorbell rang.

He glanced at the clock—after hours. Maybe a delivery? He wiped his hands, made his way to the entrance.

Ji-hye was there, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair damp from a quick shower, cheeks flushed from the cold and the sprint from the subway. She didn't wait for a greeting—just slipped inside, grinning, her energy crackling in the calm.

"Surprise," she said, voice low and a little wild. "Thought I'd check if my spot's still open."

He took her in—a flash of the woman he knew: the athlete, the brat, the lover who always arrived on her own terms.

He leaned against the door, arms folded. "Only if you promise not to break anything this time."

She stepped close, fingers tracing the hem of his shirt. "No promises, Daddy."

He laughed, warmth spiking in his veins, closing the door behind them.

As the night crept in, the clinic's hush held the secret—of new beginnings, old bonds, and all the trouble that came with loving the right people in exactly the wrong ways.

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