Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 220: Rooftop Revels

The rooftop sparkled above Seoul, city lights blurring with a thousand strands of fairy bulbs. Every pillar wore a garland, heat lamps kept the winter chill at bay, and the air was heavy with the scent of cinnamon, mulled wine, and whatever magic Ha-eun and her staff had brewed for Christmas night. The rooftop bar—usually reserved for Ha-eun’s best clients—was now their private kingdom: tables heavy with platters, laughter bouncing off glass, no other guests, no outside world.

Ha-eun, resplendent in red velvet and a string of diamonds, played the perfect hostess. She greeted each arrival with a hug and a ribald joke, pressing flutes of champagne into gloved hands. Yura arrived arm-in-arm with Joon-ho, the first chill of pregnancy softening her every motion, cheeks glowing. Mirae and Harin showed up together, arms full of gifts, hair dusted with stray flakes of rooftop snow. Ji-hye bounced in close behind, cheeks red from the wind, Soo-jin bringing up the rear in her favorite leather jacket and a cocky grin. Su-bin arrived last, all shadows and elegance, a silent nod her only greeting, but her eyes softening at the sight of the group.

Ha-eun called them to the center for a toast before the chaos began. "To family," she declared, her glass raised high, "and to the kind of trouble you can only get into with people you trust to save your ass later!"

They laughed, glasses clinked, champagne fizzed. Someone set off a party popper—confetti rained down. Music pulsed from hidden speakers, and for a moment, the rooftop belonged to them alone.

The table was a map of their histories. There was Yura’s imported non-alcoholic sparkling cider, Ha-eun’s dangerous punch (spiked until the fruit slices nearly floated), trays of potluck from Mirae and Harin (half-eaten, all delicious), an unholy mountain of cookies (Ji-hye’s "burned but edible" batch hidden under a napkin), and a cheesecake that Soo-jin insisted was "store-bought, but I’ll lie if anyone asks."

The gift exchange came next. Secret Santa had been decided by a chaotic group chat poll, but the results were more inside jokes than surprises: Ji-hye shrieked with laughter when Harin handed her a tiny gold medal on a chain ("Coach Min’s watching, you slacker!"), Mirae gave Joon-ho a playlist titled "For When You Need To Remember How Loved You Are," which made him go red and stammer thanks.

Yura, sly, presented Ha-eun with a silk scarf, whispering, "Something soft for someone so sharp." In return, Ha-eun handed Yura a gold-embossed box—inside, a tiny pair of designer baby shoes. The room melted at the sight, even Su-bin’s eyes suspiciously bright.

The drinks began to flow. Mirae challenged Harin to a shot-for-shot contest with Ha-eun’s infamous punch; both girls ended up halfway under the table, giggling, flushed, loudly insisting that "I’m not even tipsy!" Soo-jin called out the score, Su-bin keeping tally with sly comments from the sidelines. When Mirae finally lost and sprawled back against the cushions, Harin cackled, waving her half-empty glass in victory.

Karaoke was inevitable. Yura, usually shy, led with a sweet, off-key version of a holiday ballad, hand on her belly, the others harmonizing in from the sidelines. The mic was thrust at Joon-ho, who groaned, "Absolutely not," until the entire rooftop chanted his name. He relented with mock suffering, and, to everyone’s delight, belted out a decades-old ballad—off-pitch, shameless, and weirdly charming. Mirae howled, Harin filmed every second, Ji-hye draped herself over his shoulders as backup dancer, Yura and Soo-jin waved their phones in the air like lighters.

The night spun onward, the city’s pulse a heartbeat below them. At some point, Su-bin drifted to the edge, where Ha-eun joined her, the two sharing a smoke and a secretive laugh.

"You look happy," Ha-eun murmured, eyes on her guests. "I suppose even a wolf pack can find its home."

Su-bin smirked. "Happiness isn’t permanent. But for now? It’s good."

Back at the main table, the rivalry had begun. Mirae, cheeks pink and eyes shining, had curled herself into Joon-ho’s lap, nuzzling his neck. Harin was not about to be outdone; she slid in close, throwing her arm around his shoulders, shooting Mirae a wicked look.

"Don’t get too comfortable," Harin teased, feeding Joon-ho a bite of cheesecake. "You’ll spoil him. He’s already impossible."

Mirae retorted, "That’s just because you don’t know how to keep his attention."

Ji-hye, not to be left out, tugged Joon-ho’s hand until he stood, dragging him away for a clumsy, giggling dance near the bar. "You’re not theirs all night, oppa," she whispered, the words part plea, part dare.

Joon-ho grinned, letting her lead for a moment, then spinning her into a dip that left her breathless and shrieking with laughter. Mirae and Harin were right there, stealing him back for a trio dance, the three of them weaving in and out under the lights, the lines between rivalry and affection melting with every chorus.

Yura, sitting back with Ha-eun and Su-bin, watched the chaos unfold. She raised her glass. "Above such childishness," she declared, though the fondness in her voice betrayed her. Still, she caught Joon-ho’s eye and beckoned him over, pulling him close for a quiet moment. "Thank you," she whispered. "For everything." They shared a soft, secret kiss under the guise of mistletoe, unnoticed by the rest.

Soo-jin, free from work and boyfriend drama, let herself get pulled into the swirl. She danced with Ji-hye, trading stories of terrible exes, and, after a second glass of punch, joined Mirae and Harin for a round of slurred carols and threats to "kidnap" Joon-ho for a spa day. Ha-eun, overhearing, snorted and promised to introduce Soo-jin to someone "actually worth your time" at the next industry mixer.

The party rolled on, food disappearing in waves, coats shed and slung over chairs, selfies snapped with the skyline as backdrop. Mirae and Harin’s rivalry simmered openly—each pulling Joon-ho into conversation, tugging him to the dance floor, pressing close on the couch, their flirtation turning playful and just a bit possessive. Ji-hye, emboldened by the festive mood, made her own play, tugging Joon-ho for a slow dance, slipping her hand into his, her competitive streak flaring.

No one seemed to mind. The warmth of belonging made space for everyone.

Midnight neared, the rooftop glowing brighter than any street below. Ha-eun called everyone together for a last toast. She poured generous glasses, the bubbles reflecting city stars.

"To us," she said, voice rich and fierce. "To the families we make, the loves we claim, and the battles we fight—may next year bring more joy, more victory, and only the kind of trouble worth having."

Glasses clinked, laughter tangled in the air. Mirae and Harin traded a glance, fire in their eyes—each silently vowing to be the one at Joon-ho’s side when the night was truly over. Ji-hye caught the look, raised her chin, and moved closer, determined not to be left behind.

The skyline shimmered, the rooftop alive with song, rivalry, hope. In that moment, surrounded by found family and the city’s endless lights, anything seemed possible—every heartbreak forgiven, every joy magnified, every future open.

It was Christmas, and for a night, the world belonged to them.