The bedroom lights were dimmed, soft enough to blur the hard lines of tension on Ji-hye's face, but not so dim that Joon-ho couldn't see what he needed to. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and sandalwood from the massage oil he had brought, familiar scents that somehow deepened the intimacy of the room.
Ji-hye lay face down on the bed, her toned back exposed, her athletic shorts riding low on her hips. Her top had been discarded entirely. Harin sat on the nearby lounge chair, legs crossed, phone forgotten in her lap. Her eyes didn't leave the bed.
Joon-ho's palms pressed down on Ji-hye's lower back. Firm, deliberate strokes. He started slow, working around the injured area again, loosening the surrounding tension. Ji-hye let out a shaky breath. The ache was still there, but less sharp than before.
Then he shifted position—his thumbs worked their way up the spine, kneading each knot of stress like they were keys to unlocking a tightly coiled spring. Ji-hye's breath grew uneven.
"Mmh…" The sound left her before she could catch it.
Her thighs tensed involuntarily. There was a strange sensation blooming inside her—heat that started from where his hands touched her and pulsed downward between her legs.
"Relax," Joon-ho murmured, his voice low and calm. "You're too tense. Let it go."
"I—I'm trying," she muttered, pressing her forehead to the mattress.
But trying wasn't working. His hands had moved to her hips now, working the tendons and glutes with practiced confidence. Every pass of his fingers seemed to sink deeper—not just into her muscles, but into something else. Something more primal.
Her breath hitched. Her nipples, already sensitized from the earlier massage, were now stiff and dragging lightly against the sheet. She wasn't wearing a bra—she hadn't wanted anything tight on her chest after a long week of painful training—and now, every tiny movement rubbed her sensitive peaks just enough to drive her insane.
Harin's gaze sharpened from her seat. She could see the subtle shift in Ji-hye's body: the way her back arched ever so slightly, how her hips twitched, the flush crawling across her skin like rising steam. Harin didn't say a word, but a small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
Joon-ho leaned over Ji-hye, his hands now gliding up the inside of her thighs. He pushed her legs apart just enough to angle his strokes better—clinical, professional, but it still made her gasp.
"You're soaking with tension," he said, but there was a layer beneath his voice—just a hint of knowing.
Ji-hye's response was a ragged moan muffled into the sheets.
Harin finally spoke, her voice dry and laced with amusement. "Told you, Ji-hye. He's not your average masseur."
Ji-hye turned her face slightly toward Harin, eyes glassy, mouth slightly open. "This… this isn't normal."
"No," Harin agreed softly. "It's not. But if you want to be healed—really healed—you're going to have to stop pretending your body isn't begging for him."
Ji-hye's thighs squeezed together, too late to hide the damp spot now growing on her shorts.
Joon-ho's hands never paused, but his tone was as steady as ever. "You okay to continue?"
Ji-hye let out a breath like she'd just finished a lap in the pool. "Yeah," she whispered. "Keep going."
The tension in her voice had shifted entirely—from the ache of an injury to something else entirely.
And Harin sat back, content. The girl was already halfway gone.