The clinic was quieter than usual—a rare lull in LUNE's building, the afternoon sun cutting sharp lines through frosted glass. In the private therapy suite, a hush lingered, broken only by the soft hum of an air purifier and the trickle of water from the wall fountain. Joon-ho finished arranging the warm towels, checking the position of the face cradle, then opened the door for his next client.
She entered without a word, confident, every inch the jet-setting fashion executive. Tall, mid-thirties, her hair swept into a tight twist, skin like cream and gold. Even now, dressed down for therapy, she wore that aura of money and control. They greeted each other with a hug that was just a little too familiar.
"It's been too long," she murmured, slipping out of her silk robe, bare beneath. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten me."
He grinned, polite but warm. "You're impossible to forget. Especially with how much you text me when you're sore."
