The Grand Hyatt suite was silent when Joon-ho pushed the door open. The heavy click of the lock echoed faintly before the hush of the room swallowed it whole. No voices, no movement, only the distant hum of the air conditioning and the faint whisper of the sea outside the windows.

He let his bag slide from his shoulder to the floor by the sofa. The fabric slumped against the leather with a muted thud, breaking the stillness. For a moment, he simply stood there, taking in the emptiness.

It was a sharp contrast to the hospital, where every corridor pulsed with tension and hurried footsteps, every patient's sigh seemed to carry weight. Here, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Mirae wasn't here—he guessed she was still caught up with the TV crew, locked in discussions about salvaging a show that seemed to unravel further each day. He half-expected her laughter or her humming to fill the corners of the suite. Without it, the space felt almost hollow.

The shower came next, a ritual more than a necessity. He stepped into the marble-tiled bathroom, twisted the handle, and let the hot spray wash over him. Steam rose quickly, blurring the reflection in the mirror, curling around his shoulders like a cloak.

His hands, pressed against the wall, ached faintly—the dull reminder of hours spent coaxing stubborn muscles back to life in Mr. Choi's legs. It was not pain so much as memory: the way his fingers had found old scar tissue, the way the man's face had gradually eased under his touch. Joon-ho closed his eyes briefly, letting the water strike his back.

He didn't think of it as exhaustion. This was simply his work, his rhythm. But he allowed himself the indulgence of standing there longer than usual, listening to the hiss of water drown out every other thought.

When he finally emerged, toweling his hair, he had slipped into boxers and dark trousers, leaving his shirt draped carelessly over the armchair. The cool air of the suite brushed across his bare chest, raising gooseflesh.

For all its luxury—the wide windows, the polished wood, the king-sized bed—the room still felt incomplete. He couldn't decide if it was because of the emptiness or because Mirae wasn't there.

He sat on the edge of the bed and unlocked his phone. A flurry of notifications blinked across the screen, and one particular KakaoTalk group caught his eye.

[Lumina & Co.](Harin, Yura, Mirae, Ji-hye, Min-kyung, and himself)

He scrolled back through the cascade of messages.

Harin:Unnieeee this is actual torture 😭😭😭 I swear Yura has chained me to the desk. If I collapse from overwork, someone sue her for me.

Yura:Stop exaggerating. You're helping with Fashion Week prep. Do your job properly, then return to your office.

Harin:But unnieeee 🥺 can I take a short break? Like just one day? Just one?

Yura:No.

The reply was so blunt it made Joon-ho huff a quiet laugh. Harin answered with a barrage of crying emojis until the conversation shifted.

Min-kyung:(image attachment: a neatly folded white shirt paired with a shimmering evening dress laid out on a mannequin)When are you coming back for fitting, Joon-ho-ssi? I'd like to finalize this before next week.

Joon-ho tilted his head slightly. The pairing was elegant but understated—the kind of coordination that would flatter Mirae without shouting her name. He knew better than to mention that aloud, not when negotiations with her agency weren't settled yet.

Harin:🤤🤤🤤

Yura:Good.

Ji-hye:🙈

Her peek emoji sat between the lines like a mischievous grin, a quiet tease that made the corners of his mouth twitch.

He typed slowly, thumbs steady on the screen.

Joon-ho:I'll return within a week.

The group quieted briefly after that, the stream of chatter tapering into idle gifs and stickers. He locked his phone and set it aside.

The suite's small coffee machine hummed as he pressed the button, filling the room with the earthy aroma of dark roast. He leaned against the counter, cradling the cup between both palms. The ceramic was warm against his fingers, grounding.

He lifted it to his lips, the first sip washing away the residual dryness of the hospital air. The bitterness lingered on his tongue, sharp but soothing.

And then—

The door handle clicked.

Joon-ho lowered the cup slightly, listening. The door swung open, the sound of light voices spilling in.

The sound of the door unlocking cut through the stillness of the suite. Joon-ho had just sat back on the sofa with his coffee, the faint steam rising against the wide Jeju sky beyond the glass wall.

Mirae's voice floated in first, a hushed murmur tinged with strain. "Unnie, they just don't listen. We told them about the comments, about the backlash—"

Seo Hye-jin, her manager, followed close behind. Unlike Mirae's soft tone, hers carried sharp edges. "Higher-ups never listen. They see numbers, not people. To them, you're a shield, a shiny face they can shove to the front and pray the fire moves away from Do-jin."

The two stepped into the living area mid-conversation, their momentum halting at once.

Because Joon-ho was there.

Half-dressed, his hair still damp from the shower, boxer waistband peeking above his pants. No shirt. Just the lean, toned lines of his torso catching the suite's golden light.

For a moment, silence stretched. Mirae froze like she'd been caught sneaking candy, eyes darting anywhere but his body.

Hye-jin, on the other hand, smirked like a cat spotting spilled milk. "Ahh… no wonder Mirae keeps sighing whenever you're away. With that body in front of her every day? I'd lose focus too."

"Unnie!" Mirae squeaked, voice barely louder than a whisper. Her cheeks bloomed scarlet as she flapped her hands, then grabbed the hem of her cardigan like she could hide behind it. "Don't—say—things like that—"

Joon-ho rose casually, unbothered, the corner of his mouth lifting. Instead of answering, he crossed the room. Mirae shrank back instinctively, pulse visible at her neck, but she didn't retreat when he leaned down.

A light kiss on her cheek. Soft. Deliberate.

Her blush deepened, her breath catching so audibly that Hye-jin groaned, throwing her hands in the air. "Yah! At least wait until I'm not in the room. I don't need to watch my artist melt into a puddle."

Joon-ho chuckled, straightening. "But her reactions are cute. Why would I waste that?"

Mirae covered her face with both hands. "Oppa…" The word came out muffled, trembling between mortification and secret delight.

Satisfied with her fluster, he slipped into the bedroom, leaving the door half-open. Inside, he tugged a crisp shirt from the wardrobe. The quiet gave him a moment to breathe — to notice the faint perfume Mirae always carried into the room, the way her presence shifted the sterile luxury of the suite into something warmer.

From the living area, voices carried.

"He's too calm about this," Hye-jin muttered. "If my boyfriend kissed me in front of others like that, I'd throw a pillow at him."

"That's because you'd throw a pillow at anyone, unnie," Mirae replied softly, still embarrassed but with a shy laugh slipping through.

"Still," Hye-jin went on, "you're lucky, Mirae. Half the idols out there are dating men who can barely text back, and here you are with someone who looks like that and can apparently heal injuries with his hands."

"Unnie!" Mirae's protest this time came with a cushion thump, making Joon-ho smile as he buttoned his shirt.

By the time he emerged, they had settled on the sofa. Mirae sat small, legs folded neatly, hands in her lap. Hye-jin sprawled more comfortably, scrolling her phone with one hand and sipping hotel water with the other.

Joon-ho crossed the room and sat beside Mirae, close but not crowding her. She peeked up at him once, quick as a sparrow, then lowered her gaze again.

"How was your meeting with the crew?" he asked, his tone mild but attentive.

Hye-jin snapped her phone shut with more force than necessary. "Terrible. Exactly what I expected, but terrible. The network execs are desperate. They want filming to continue, no matter how messy things get. They're losing sponsorship money because of Do-jin, and their solution? Push Mirae harder. Make her the centerpiece. Like she's some kind of bandage to slap over a wound."

Mirae pressed her lips together. "They said it would help the show survive. That everyone needs to show unity…"

"Unity my ass." Hye-jin's voice sharpened. "What they mean is they want to use your popularity to distract the public. Do-jin's sponsors are pulling out one by one. The agency is scrambling, signing whatever side deals they can. And who gets shoved into the spotlight? You."

Her words rang heavy in the quiet suite. Mirae's hands twisted in her cardigan hem, knuckles pale.

Joon-ho's gaze softened. "And you? Do you want to keep filming?"

For a long moment, she didn't answer. Then, softly: "I don't know. Part of me wants to help, for the sake of everyone else. But… it feels wrong. Like I'm covering for something ugly."

Hye-jin exhaled sharply, leaning back. "Exactly. I've been saying this for years. The agency has been rotting from the inside. Overbooking, overworking, treating their artists like they're disposable. Mirae, you know your schedule — three shoots in one day, back-to-back CFs, and now this show. They won't stop squeezing until you break."

The words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered.

Joon-ho rested his forearm on his knee, thoughtful. "It's not sustainable. A body pushed past its limits will rebel eventually. That's true for athletes, and it's true for artists too."

Mirae looked at him then, her eyes wide and searching. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight.

"See?" Hye-jin gestured at him. "Even the healer says it. And you trust him more than anyone, don't you?"

The color returned to Mirae's cheeks, though this time it wasn't embarrassment alone. She ducked her head, whispering, "Of course I do."

The suite fell quieter after that. Outside the tall windows, Jeju's midday light softened, painting the sky in pale blues and whites.

Mirae's gaze lingered on her hands before she finally lifted her face. Her voice was gentler now, carrying both hesitation and curiosity.

"Oppa… how was it at the hospital today? With Mr. Choi? Did you… were you able to help him?"

The question landed softly, but its weight was undeniable.

In her eyes, it wasn't just curiosity about a patient. It was a plea for reassurance — that in a world full of pressure, exploitation, and fear, someone could still make a difference. That the man sitting beside her wasn't only hers in private but also someone who healed, who gave back, who mattered.

And for Joon-ho, her words tied the personal and professional into one thread, binding his day of careful treatment to the quiet heart beating beside him now.

The coffee on the table had gone cold, forgotten. What lingered instead was Mirae's gaze, her question, and the fragile hope behind it.

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