The massage room smelled faintly of eucalyptus and cedarwood. Joon-ho moved silently as he prepared—fresh towels folded at the corner, small bottles of warmed oil lined neatly, the table disinfected and covered in crisp white sheets. His movements were steady, methodical. Every detail mattered: the placement of pillows, the temperature of the lamp, even the background music—low, instrumental, unobtrusive. By the time the bell above the clinic door chimed, the room was ready.
From the reception, Harin's voice rang out, bright as ever.
"Welcome!"
The door clicked shut, and footsteps entered. Joon-ho straightened his posture and listened.
"Um… hello." The voice was female, steady but reserved.
When Harin answered, her tone softened, a touch of excitement bleeding through. "You must be Yoon Hye-jin, right? We've been expecting you."
