The restaurant sat just off a main street near Jeju's harbor, its red lanterns glowing warmly against the midday sun. Even before they stepped inside, the aroma of sesame oil, fried garlic, and simmering broth drifted out to meet them. Dong-wook pushed open the glass door with the confidence of someone who had been here many times before.

"This branch is always packed," he said over his shoulder, leading the way toward a small corner table. "But Chef Lee knows how to take care of regulars. Trust me, hyung, it's worth the wait."

Joon-ho glanced around as they entered. The space hummed with life—families speaking over bowls of jjajangmyeon, a group of office workers sharing plates of tangsuyuk, tourists taking photos of their dishes before tasting them. The atmosphere was lively, but not chaotic; polished wood tables and neatly arranged bottles along the bar gave the place a refined edge.

"You always drag people to noodle shops," Joon-ho teased, arching a brow at his junior. "Do you ever eat anything else?"

Dong-wook patted his stomach with mock seriousness. "Hyung, jjajangmyeon is life. Everything else is just side dishes."

Soo-jin, walking just behind, shook her head with a smile. "Some things never change. Even back in university, he'd sneak out after class for midnight jjajangmyeon. I lost count of how many times he dragged me along."

The three of them settled into their table, the waitress appearing quickly with menus. Dong-wook waved it away. "We'll take menbosha, tangsuyuk, jjajangmyeon, dongpo pork, and jjamppong. The usual."

"You've memorized it down to the last dish," Soo-jin muttered, half amused, half exasperated.

"That's why you're here," Dong-wook shot back, grinning. "To balance me out when I get predictable."

She rolled her eyes but let the banter slide, leaning back in her seat. The lighting overhead gave the table a warm glow, making the steam rising from other dishes look almost theatrical.

Their conversation soon drifted toward work.

"Most of what we handle in Jeju is with elderly patients," Dong-wook explained once the waitress left. "Joint pain, circulation issues, slow recoveries. Nothing like the chaos we saw in Seoul. Here, you need more patience than quick hands."

Soo-jin nodded in agreement. "That's exactly why Min-seok doesn't fit here. He just sticks to the textbook, barely looks at the patient. No adjustment, no listening. People aren't machines. You can't treat them like one-size-fits-all cases."

She paused, her eyes flicking toward Joon-ho. "And he clearly has a problem with you. Did something happen before today?"

Joon-ho didn't answer right away. Instead, he folded his hands on the table, expression calm but thoughtful.

Before he could respond, their food arrived. Platters filled the table—golden-brown menbosha cut neatly into squares, glistening tangsuyuk with a side of sweet-sour sauce, bowls of jjajangmyeon and jjamppong steaming under the lantern light, and rich dongpo pork shining with lacquered sauce. The fragrance of garlic, soy, and spice enveloped them all.

"This place never disappoints," Dong-wook said, his voice reverent as he picked up his chopsticks.

They dug in, passing dishes back and forth, laughter bubbling up between bites. Only after the first few moments of eating did Joon-ho finally speak.

"At the national volleyball training camp," he began, his tone even, "I saw him neglect his work. An athlete got injured—seriously enough that immediate care was needed. He was slacking off, nowhere to be found, so I had to step in and treat her myself."

He paused, the memory still clear in his mind. "Coach Min didn't take long to see the difference. Min-seok was kicked out soon after. I suppose he's carried that resentment ever since."

Soo-jin set down her chopsticks, frowning. "So that's it… no wonder he looked like he was about to explode the moment he saw you. He must've been holding that grudge all this time."

Dong-wook sighed. "That man is a liability. Let's just hope he doesn't drag anyone else down with him."

"I doubt he'll stay quiet after today," Soo-jin muttered, stirring her noodles. "He looked ready to cause a scene."

The conversation turned lighter as the meal went on, the warmth of the food softening the earlier edge.

"So, oppa," Soo-jin asked between bites of tangsuyuk, "what are you doing these days besides showing up at hospitals and shocking everyone?"

Joon-ho leaned back slightly, sipping his tea. "I've opened my own clinic. Small, but steady. And starting soon, I'll be joining the national volleyball team's medical staff for the Olympics."

The words seemed to hang in the air. Soo-jin's eyes widened. "The Olympics? Already? Oppa, that's incredible."

Dong-wook let out a low whistle, half-joking, half-serious. "Hyung, I need to learn your tricks. If I made that kind of money, I'd open my own clinic tomorrow. Instead, I'm stuck pulling double shifts for overtime pay."

Soo-jin shot him a look. "Not everything's about money, you glutton."

Dong-wook grinned sheepishly. "Easy for you to say. You don't eat like me."

But Soo-jin's expression softened quickly. She turned back to Joon-ho, her voice quieter, more reflective. "Still… it's hard for me to imagine advancing like that so quickly. It feels like I'm stuck while others move ahead."

Joon-ho's eyes lingered on her for a moment. His voice, when he spoke, was calm but carrying weight. "Everyone's road is different. Don't measure yourself by someone else's pace. What matters is that you keep learning, even if it feels slow. That's what lasts."

For a beat, silence hung around their table, punctuated only by the clink of chopsticks against bowls. Then Soo-jin smiled faintly, her mood easing. "You always did know how to sound like a teacher, oppa."

Dong-wook snorted. "More like a monk. Next thing you know, he'll tell us to shave our heads and meditate."

The three of them laughed together, the heaviness melting into warmth once again.

As they continued eating, the plates emptied quickly, conversation slipping easily between work stories, memories of university, and light-hearted teasing. Menbosha disappeared in a flurry of chopsticks. Dong-wook practically inhaled the jjajangmyeon, black sauce clinging to his lips until Soo-jin scolded him with a napkin. Joon-ho, for all his calm demeanor, ate heartily too, though he paced himself with measured bites.

By the time the last of the dongpo pork was shared out, the tension of the hospital and the bitterness of Min-seok felt far away. In its place lingered the comfort of old bonds, the kind built on late nights of study, clumsy mistakes during training, and countless shared meals.

When the plates were finally cleared and fresh tea poured, Soo-jin leaned forward, her chin propped in her palm. "You know… it almost feels like we're back in Seoul again. The three of us at a table, food in front of us, complaining about seniors."

Dong-wook chuckled. "Except now we are the seniors."

Joon-ho gave a quiet smile. "And we're still complaining about one."

That sent them all into another round of laughter, light and genuine.

By the time they rose to leave, the restaurant had grown even busier, the clatter of dishes and chatter of other customers filling the air. Stepping back into the bright Jeju sunlight, the three paused briefly at the door.

For a moment, the warmth of the meal lingered around them, binding them together more tightly than words could.

The lunch rush had only just begun when they pushed back their chairs, the chatter of the restaurant swelling around them. Dishes clattered, waitresses wove between tables balancing trays of steaming bowls, and somewhere near the entrance, a child laughed as his mother tried to wipe sauce from his cheek.

Joon-ho reached for the bill before either of the juniors could move.

"Hyung—" Dong-wook started, fumbling for his wallet.

Joon-ho shook his head, placing the card down with calm finality. "Don't even try. It's on me."

"At least let me cover drinks!" Dong-wook tried again, voice pitched halfway between protest and pleading.

"Next time." Joon-ho's mouth curved into that small smile of his, one that ended most arguments before they began.

Soo-jin leaned back, blazer folded over her arm, watching the exchange with amusement. "He hasn't changed. Once he decides, there's no room for debate."

"Stubborn, you mean," Dong-wook muttered, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed his fondness.

The waitress returned with the receipt, bowing politely before bustling away again. Joon-ho tucked the slip into his pocket without ceremony and stood. "Come on. Let's get some air before we all fall asleep at the table."

Outside, Jeju greeted them with clear skies and the soft brightness of early afternoon. The harbor breeze carried the scent of saltwater mixed with street vendors frying snacks nearby. Cars rolled lazily through the intersection, and the wide sidewalks glimmered faintly from the morning's rain, now drying in the sunlight.

Dong-wook stretched his arms over his head with a groan. "I should head back. Afternoon shift starts in twenty."

"Already?" Soo-jin asked, brows lifting.

"That's hospital life," he replied with a shrug. "Patients don't wait for anyone. Besides, if I'm late, my supervisor will have my head."

They walked together until the next crosswalk, the signal light blinking red. When it turned green, Dong-wook gave a short wave.

"Thanks for lunch, hyung. We'll do it again soon. Don't let Soo-jin talk your ear off on the way back."

"Yah!" she swatted at him, but he was already jogging across the street, waving back over his shoulder.

Joon-ho and Soo-jin lingered on the curb for a moment, watching him vanish into the stream of white coats heading toward the hospital in the distance. Then they turned down a quieter street, pace unhurried, the hum of traffic fading behind them.

For a while, they walked in companionable silence. The sunlight dappled through plane trees lining the road, casting shifting patterns over their path. A pair of elderly women passed, their grocery bags swinging heavily, chatting about the price of mandarins at the market.

Soo-jin broke the quiet suddenly, her voice softer than usual. "Oppa… do you need an assistant for your clinic?"

Joon-ho slowed slightly, turning his head to study her. "Why do you ask?"

Her blazer slipped in her grasp as she adjusted it against her side. "Work here is steady, but…" She hesitated, eyes fixed on the pavement ahead. "Repetitive. Most of the patients have the same issues. Joint stiffness, circulation, age-related pain. It's important, of course, but… I don't feel like I'm growing."

She glanced up at him, expression earnest. "If I could go with you to the Olympics, I think I could really improve. Meet different kinds of people. Learn more than what Jeju can offer."

The words hung between them, carried lightly by the breeze.

Joon-ho walked a few more steps before answering, his voice thoughtful. "If you're serious about it, yes. You could join me as my assistant. But think it through carefully. It won't be easy. The expectations will be higher than anything you've faced so far."

Soo-jin blinked, clearly not expecting such a direct answer. "You'd really take me with you?"

Joon-ho's gaze remained forward, calm. "I already have an assistant, but I suspect she'll move into a bigger role soon. When that happens, I'll need someone dependable beside me. Someone who can handle the pressure."

Her lips parted, surprise flickering into something almost shy. "Dependable…" She exhaled a small laugh, shaking her head. "You always make it sound like more responsibility than I thought I was asking for."

"Because it is," Joon-ho said simply.

For a moment, they both fell silent again. The only sounds were the rhythm of their steps and the distant cry of gulls overhead.

"I'll think about it," Soo-jin said at last. Her voice was lighter, but a faint crease formed at her brow.

Joon-ho caught it in his peripheral vision — the flicker of something unspoken. He didn't press, but the weight of it lingered between them.

Inside, Soo-jin was tangled in doubts she couldn't voice. About her career, yes — the nagging feeling that she was falling behind while others surged forward. But also about Seoul, where her boyfriend remained, growing more distant each month. She had no proof of his betrayal, only a tightening knot in her chest whenever she saw how quickly he dodged her calls.

She wanted to speak it aloud, but the words wouldn't come. Not here, not now.

And Joon-ho, with his quiet attentiveness, seemed to sense that boundary. He let it be, his silence a kind of respect.

They reached a broad cross-section where the road split in three directions. A bus wheezed past, brakes hissing as it pulled to the stop on the corner.

Soo-jin slowed, lifting a hand toward the narrow street to the left. "My place is this way."

Joon-ho nodded. "Get some rest. You've earned it."

Her lips curved into a faint smile. "You too, oppa. Even you need to rest sometimes."

He gave a soft huff that was almost a laugh. "No promises."

With a small wave, she turned down her street, her figure slipping gradually into the shade of low-roofed houses.

Joon-ho continued straight, the road back to the hotel stretching ahead. The afternoon sun was warm on his back, the air salt-tinged but gentle. Around him, the city pulsed with ordinary life — children chasing a ball near the park, a shopkeeper sweeping the front of his store, tourists lingering at a café terrace with cameras hanging from their necks.

It was almost enough to make him forget the tension of the morning. Almost.

But in the quiet edges of his thoughts, he could still feel the weight of Min-seok's glare, the bitterness that had followed him even out of the hospital walls.

The laughter of lunch lingered like sunlight on his skin, but beneath it, a shadow stirred — one that promised this peace would not last forever.

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