Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 231: Burn Off Some Snack Weight

The LUNE gym glowed under the morning lights—mirrors polished to a shine, every machine spotless, air still rich with last night’s lavender spray and the ghost of a hundred playlists. Today, for the first time in weeks, it was reserved just for Ji-hye. A small gift from the girls, an act of rebellion and sanctuary. No trainers, no gawkers, no one snapping photos for SNS. Just the slow, deliberate reclaiming of her own body.

Ji-hye pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the door before she stepped inside. She’d almost forgotten how good it felt to own a space, to know she could grunt and sweat and curse out loud without anyone whispering behind her back. She didn’t have to look over her shoulder—she knew who’d be with her. Joon-ho padded in right behind her, gym bag slung over one broad shoulder, tank top clinging to his chest in a way that should have been illegal. He grinned as he caught her staring, then locked the door.

"Only us," he said, voice low, giving her a look that made heat pool low in her belly. "You ready?"

Ji-hye nodded, stretching her arms up, arching her back until she popped every vertebra. "I’m going to make you work for it today, trainer."

He laughed, stepping close, hands settling on her hips as he guided her through the first warm-up. She started slow: treadmill, headphones in, world narrowed to breath and rhythm. Joon-ho watched her from the bench, towel over his neck, eyes roaming shamelessly over her body as she ran, sweat glistening along her neck and down the tight line of her thighs.

When she slowed to a jog, he hopped up, quick as a cat, adjusting the incline, challenging her to push harder. "Come on, ace," he teased. "You’re not going to let your man outpace you, are you?"

She flashed him a look and bumped up the speed until her calves burned, heart thundering, every step slamming out a defiance she hadn’t felt in weeks. Joon-ho moved behind her, hands at her waist, steadying her, sometimes letting his fingers dip a little too low, grazing the band of her leggings, reminding her—always—that there was pleasure mixed with the pain.

By the time she stepped off, she was breathless, cheeks hot, but grinning. "You’re a menace."

He kissed her sweat-damp hair. "And you love it. Hit the bench next?"

They rotated through sets: chest presses, then squats, then lunges, always with Joon-ho close enough to spot, his hands lingering in ways that felt more possessive than professional. When she lifted, he hovered behind, palms flat on her ribs, sometimes "accidentally" brushing her breasts. When she squatted, he crouched low, hands splayed on her hips, murmuring about "proper form" as his thumbs traced the curves of her ass.

Ji-hye’s heart pounded for reasons that had nothing to do with cardio. At first, she tried to stay serious—counting reps, biting back a smile when his fingers grazed a nipple through her sports bra—but it didn’t take long for the tension to spark. She arched into his hands, leaned back, let herself tease him right back, sweat rolling down her chest in ways she knew he couldn’t ignore.

In between sets, they paused to drink water. Ji-hye propped herself on the bench, towel draped over her shoulders. She glanced up at the wall-mounted TV, which was tuned to a live broadcast of her club’s second playoff match. She forced herself to watch.

It was ugly. The team looked lost without her—set after set slipping through their fingers. Even her club rivals were fumbling, tripping over each other’s positions, forced into mistakes. At one point, the backup outside hitter tried to force a spike, twisted her knee, and went down hard. The commentators’ voices were brutal, dissecting every failure, every missing piece. The camera panned to the bench, where Ji-hye’s empty seat looked more damning than any rumor.

She let out a long, bitter sigh, dropping her head. Joon-ho was at her side instantly, pressing a cold water bottle to her lips. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The quiet squeeze of his hand on her thigh was enough.

Ji-hye finished her drink, shaking off the ache, and got up. "Let’s do something that doesn’t remind me I’m benched."

She grabbed the medicine ball, tossing it to him. They started partner drills—catch, twist, squat, pass—falling into a rhythm that made her forget the world outside. He kept pushing her, making her laugh, making her curse. Sometimes he let his hands slip too far south, gripping her ass, making her gasp. Sometimes she "accidentally" bumped her hips back, making him grunt.

They moved to planks and bridges, Joon-ho straddling her hips to "add resistance," smirking down at her as she struggled not to break. She flexed her abs, arching up, sweat dripping down her jaw. He ran his fingers over her belly, tracing the lines of muscle, dipping under the band of her shorts for just a second, just enough to make her blush.

He leaned down, lips at her ear. "You’re so fucking sexy when you sweat for me."

She let her head fall back, laughter spilling out. "You just like the view."

Before he could answer, the door burst open. Mirae tumbled in, gym bag swinging, hair pulled into a high ponytail, sports bra peeking from under her tank. She skidded to a stop, grinning. "Am I interrupting something filthy, or just foreplay?"

Ji-hye snorted, rolling to her side. "Get your ass over here and work out before you get fat."

Mirae clutched her chest. "Excuse you! I’m getting curves, not fat. But I do need to burn off some snack weight. And," she added, eyes locking on Joon-ho’s abs, "the view up here is way better than the gym at my place."

Joon-ho gave her a wicked grin, flexing on purpose. "You’re not allowed to drool on the mats."

Mirae made an exaggerated face, "How come Ji-hye gets to drool over you and I don’t? Seems unfair."

He reached over, flicking her side, then pinched her ass just hard enough to make her yelp. "You want a punishment for drooling, or you want to work out?"

Mirae stuck out her tongue. "Both?"

Ji-hye rolled her eyes, smacking Mirae’s hip. "Get in line, princess. And keep your hands off my man."

Mirae laughed, but there was nothing mean in it—just relief, just friendship. The three of them fell into a pattern—Mirae copying Ji-hye’s moves, Joon-ho showing off, the two girls giggling when he adjusted their stances, fingers lingering too long on butts and thighs. It got playful, then silly: assisted squats with Joon-ho’s hands pressed under their asses, partner stretches with Mirae’s boobs in Ji-hye’s face, mock wrestling matches on the mats that devolved into tickle fights, breathless and tangled.

At one point, Joon-ho pinned both of them under his weight, grinning. "You two are trouble." 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

Ji-hye bit his shoulder, Mirae pinched his side, and the three of them rolled apart, laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe.

When they finally sprawled out on the mats, sweat-soaked and flushed, Mirae flopped her arm across Ji-hye’s stomach, panting. "We should hire you as a trainer, Joon-ho. I think my abs just woke up from the dead."

Ji-hye twisted, running a hand down Mirae’s side, deliberately cupping her boob through her sports bra. "You’ll have to get in line for that, too."

Mirae just grinned, tugging Ji-hye into a quick, sticky hug. "You look good, Ji. You look... like yourself again."

Ji-hye blinked, startled by the kindness. She squeezed Mirae’s hand. "Thanks. I feel it. A little bit."

Joon-ho sat behind them, massaging Ji-hye’s shoulders, then Mirae’s, hands strong and knowing. He squeezed too hard on purpose, making them both squeal, and laughed.

"You’re both going to be sore tomorrow. You know that, right?"

"Worth it," they chorused.

Eventually, they cooled down, wiping off with towels, chugging water, checking the TV again. The match was over. The club had lost by a landslide. The postgame panel was already speculating on what had gone wrong, cameras lingering on empty benches, on frustrated coaches, on the gap where Ji-hye should have been.

She looked away, heart aching, but she let Joon-ho pull her close, let Mirae distract her with talk of movies and food and the latest gossip about their fans.

They headed upstairs together, sweat still drying on their skin. By the time they reached the apartment, the others were already gathering—Yura fussing over dinner, Harin scrolling through emails, Su-bin setting the table, Soo-jin giggling in the kitchen.

Mirae made a beeline for the fridge, snatching up a bottle of cold tea, gulping it down in three swallows. "I think I burned off three meals. Harin, what are we eating?"

"Something with actual nutrients," Harin replied, raising an eyebrow. "Ji-hye, Mirae—shower before you sit."

Ji-hye made a face, but obeyed, dragging Mirae with her. In the bathroom, the two girls stripped off, towels wrapped around them, scrubbing sweat from their skin, teasing each other, stealing puffs of scented mist. Ji-hye caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—her skin flushed, eyes bright, mouth smiling. She barely recognized herself, but in the best way.

They emerged to applause—Mirae playing it up, blowing kisses, Ji-hye shaking her damp hair like a wet dog. Dinner was spread across the table: grilled fish, rice, banchan, platters of fruit, and Yura’s half-burnt cake from earlier.

Everyone squeezed in, passing plates, laughing, eating like they hadn’t in weeks. Mirae bragged about her squats, Harin threatened to make her run laps for dessert, Su-bin told a filthy joke that made even Joon-ho blush, Soo-jin nearly choked on her rice.

When things finally calmed, Harin cleared her throat, glancing at Ji-hye. "The club directors have been calling me nonstop since that match. I think they’re finally realizing what a disaster it is without you. They’re asking for help, and—" she looked at Ji-hye with a glint of pride—"they want you back on the roster."

Mirae cheered, Yura threw her arms around Ji-hye, Su-bin high-fived her, even Soo-jin squealed.

But Harin wasn’t done. "There’s more. Lawyer Park filed a police complaint today—formal, with evidence. They’re tracking your ex and all his little SNS stooges. With a little luck, they’ll shut down those rumors for good."

Ji-hye stared at her friends, overwhelmed. The warmth, the noise, the certainty that she was not alone.

They toasted—water, tea, soju, whatever they had—clinking glasses, shouting, "To Ji-hye!" and "To justice!" and "To winning next time!"

Later, when the plates were empty and the wine was gone, Ji-hye curled up next to Joon-ho on the sofa. He pulled her into his lap, arms around her waist, his lips pressed to her temple.

"You’re stronger than all of them put together," he murmured.

She closed her eyes, letting herself believe it. Across the room, Mirae was massaging her own thighs, groaning about tomorrow’s muscle pain. Harin was back on her phone, no doubt working some new angle. Yura was half-asleep, humming lullabies to her baby. The apartment was full of life, love, and the simple, unbreakable safety of being part of something fierce.

The TV hummed in the background, showing sports highlights, commentators talking about redemption, comeback stories, the mystery of a missing star. Ji-hye let herself smile, for real this time, knowing her story wasn’t over—not even close.

She looked at Joon-ho, his eyes warm, his hand firm in hers under the table. With him, with these girls, she was never just one scandal, never just one failure. She was a fighter. She was family.

Tomorrow, she’d face the world again. Tonight, she was safe, wanted, and strong—exactly as she was.