Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 238: Closure and Preparation

Courtrooms always felt too bright, too cold, a theater for pain with nowhere to hide. Ji-hye sat on the hard bench, hands laced in her lap, trying to keep her breathing even as the sentence was read. Her ex-boyfriend, thinner now, cuffed and in the bland suit he’d been issued by the city, stared straight ahead—jaw clenched, no apology, no plea for mercy. Only the click of cameras, the murmur of reporters in the hall, and the dry monotone of the judge reading out years and conditions. The words washed over her: "guilty," "sentenced," "conspiracy," "five years with no parole." Her body felt both heavy and insubstantial, like a deep-sea diver forgetting which way was up.

Joon-ho’s hand slid into hers. Warm, strong. She squeezed it hard, needing the proof that this was real—that it was finally over.

Outside, the flashes and shouting voices hit her like a storm. Reporters thrust microphones forward, hoping for a tear, a breakdown, anything that would feed the hunger for spectacle. Joon-ho’s presence parted the crowd, his calm shielding her. She kept her head high, didn’t speak, walked right past them into the waiting car. It wasn’t triumph. It wasn’t even relief—not really. Just a breath, a weight loosening, a Chapter closing. She didn’t look back.

---

Yura was humming under her breath, her hands moving gently across the curve of her belly as the OB/GYN pressed the ultrasound wand into her skin. The monitor flickered, lines and shadows morphing into the unmistakable curve of a child—her child, their child—seven months and kicking strong. The doctor’s voice was warm, a practiced comfort. "Everything looks perfect. The placenta’s high, no signs of stress. You can travel, but you must promise—rest, light walks, nothing too exciting. And absolutely no lifting heavy suitcases."

Yura laughed, her voice softer, breathier than before. "I have a very protective entourage, doctor."

The doctor smiled, glancing at Joon-ho, who sat beside the exam bed, his hand entwined with Yura’s. "She’ll be well cared for, I think. Enjoy Barcelona. The sun is good for mothers."

After, Yura paused in the hospital hallway, hands on her belly. "It still feels strange," she murmured, "to be allowed to look forward instead of worrying."

Joon-ho kissed her knuckles. "You’re going to be the most beautiful mother in Spain."

She flushed, her smile dazzling, as another tiny kick pressed against his palm.

---

The gymnasium smelled of polish and sweat and echoing shouts. Ji-hye moved like a machine through drills—sprints, jumps, dives that left her knees stinging and her lungs raw. The national team was a crucible: no patience for drama, no room for mistakes. But Ji-hye fit right in. There was steel in her eyes now, something forged by survival. Her teammates respected her—most, at least. Coaches who’d once raised eyebrows at her "outside distractions" now trusted her to drive the team forward.

Between drills, she’d glance at the sidelines, catching Joon-ho watching with his clipboard, half coach, half therapist, always attentive. He kept notes on the smallest things: the stiffness in her right shoulder, the way she favored her left foot when tired. Other players drifted to him now, asking about recovery, or just talking through nerves. Even the most skeptical assistant coach had started calling him "Doctor Kim" with respect.

"You’re getting a fan club," Ji-hye teased one evening as they cooled down, sweat dripping from her brow.

Joon-ho shrugged. "They just want someone to tell them it’s okay to be scared."

She studied him, then nudged his side. "You do that for me every day."

He looked away, a smile ghosting his lips. "Only because you let me."

---

Harin was a hurricane, all phone calls and furious note-taking. She bullied Barcelona hotels into giving Yura the biggest suite—"No, I want a real king bed, not two twins pushed together, and yes, I need blackout curtains and a birthing ball. This is for a pregnant Korean celebrity, not a bachelor party!" She argued over airport transfers, private security, even the exact flavor of water in the minibar.

"You’d think she was giving birth to royalty," Mirae joked, flopped across Harin’s couch in the LUNE office, watching Harin pace.

"She is," Harin retorted, barely glancing up. "And if the clinic isn’t up to snuff, we’re moving to another hotel."

Mirae propped her chin in her hand, phone flashing with SNS alerts. "Just remember to leave me a room. I might be popping in for a photoshoot if Spain ever gets its paperwork together."

"You’ll be in the penthouse next door, darling," Harin shot back, then barked at someone in Spanish, rattling off a demand for another car and a case of unscented lotion. "The Coffee Prince’s women travel first class, or not at all."

Mirae burst out laughing. "God, you really are the momager from hell."

"Someone has to keep you safe," Harin said, finally looking up with a small, tired smile. "Now go pack. And nothing see-through, please."

Mirae winked. "No promises."

---

Packing always took longer than it should. Yura’s suitcase was a puzzle—soft dresses, oversized sweaters, a mess of prenatal vitamins, art supplies she swore she’d use, and a folder of her latest scripts, just in case inspiration struck. Ji-hye packed with ruthless efficiency—jerseys, sneakers, a rabbit’s foot charm from her grandmother, and a single, battered notebook filled with scribbled plays.

Joon-ho double-checked everything. "Passport? Meds? Harin’s emergency contact list?"

Yura patted her belly. "I have the most important thing right here."

Ji-hye grinned, zipping her bag. "And I have you two watching over me. What could go wrong?"

They all knew the answer—anything. But for once, none of them said it.

---

Mirae’s schedule was chaos, as always. She texted Joon-ho from a dressing room in Apgujeong, wedged between racks of pastel linen and slinky crop tops.

Mirae: "If I get heatstroke in Spain modeling ’summer chic,’ I’m blaming you."

Joon-ho: "Drink water. Wear sunscreen."

Mirae: "Send me tapas and shirtless selfies. For morale."

Joon-ho: "You first."

She sent back a photo of her sticking out her tongue, draped in designer silk.

Mirae: "Take care of Yura. And yourself. I’ll see you in Barcelona. Try not to get arrested."

Joon-ho: "No promises."

---

The VIP terminal at Incheon Airport buzzed with discreet excitement. Porters ferried suitcases, agents whispered into earpieces, and a dozen LUNE staffers coordinated like military officers. Yura sat on a plush armchair, a flowing cream dress hugging her belly, Harin fussing with her hair.

"You look radiant," Harin pronounced, stepping back with critical eyes. "Like a goddess."

Yura blushed, brushing a hand over her bump. "I feel like a beach ball."

"You’re the chicest beach ball I’ve ever seen," Mirae called, snapping selfies with a group of fans by the window. "Hashtag #AirportStyle."

Ji-hye appeared in her national team tracksuit, hair in a tight ponytail, earbuds hanging around her neck. She looked tired, wired, and totally unbreakable. "They’ve got us all lined up by the bus," she said, rolling her shoulders. "Coach says we’re not allowed to eat anything except the team lunchboxes until Barcelona."

Mirae wrinkled her nose. "Those things are poison."

Ji-hye shrugged. "I can eat poison for gold."

Joon-ho, standing by the window, checked his watch and surveyed his little tribe—Ji-hye, always fighting; Yura, always nurturing; Mirae, always dazzling; Harin, always in control. For a moment, he let the sight settle in, pride and worry in equal measure.

Harin turned to him, all business. "We’ll land in the early morning. Yura gets driven straight to the hotel, you’ll have a car on standby for emergencies. I’ve got three numbers for Barcelona’s best OBs, just in case." She softened, squeezing his shoulder. "It’s going to be fine, Joon-ho. Let them pamper you for once."

He smiled, but his mind ran ahead—possible emergencies, sleepless nights, new city, new dangers.

Mirae slid in next to him, lowering her phone. "Hey, broody. It’s not all up to you, you know. Let the rest of us help."

He relaxed a little. "I know. Thanks."

A quiet voice drew his attention. Ji-hye, fidgeting with the strap on her duffel. "Can we talk? Alone?"

They slipped out to the glass wall overlooking the tarmac, away from the bustle. Ji-hye stared at the waiting buses, her jaw tight.

"I wish you were coming with the team," she said, voice low. "Not just as a consultant, but really with me."

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I’ll be there. Just on a different plane."

She looked at him, eyes shining with all the things she didn’t say. "Promise?"

"Always." He pressed his forehead to hers, both of them breathing each other in.

Behind them, the final boarding call echoed.

They walked back, arms brushing. Mirae caught Ji-hye in a hug, whispering something that made her snort. Harin gathered everyone for a last headcount, double-checking passports and boarding passes.

Then, one by one, the goodbyes began.

Mirae threw her arms around Yura, careful of her belly. "Take selfies every hour. I want bump updates."

Yura hugged her back, eyes glistening. "Don’t set anything on fire, please." 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

Harin, usually unflappable, dabbed at her eyes. "Anyone makes you cry, Yura, I sue. I don’t care if it’s a Spanish waiter."

Yura laughed, holding Harin’s hand tight. "I’ll be fine. I have everyone I need."

Ji-hye hugged Yura next, fierce. "I’ll bring back a medal for you and the baby."

Yura beamed. "We’ll be waiting."

Joon-ho was last. He pulled Ji-hye in, holding her close. She shook against him—just a little, just enough that he knew she was scared. "Go win," he murmured into her hair.

"You better be there at the finish line," she replied, voice thick.

"I will. Always."

They parted slowly, reluctant. Ji-hye shouldered her duffel, following her team to the bus. Through the window, she caught his eye, pressed her palm to the glass. He mirrored her, mouthing: "See you in Spain."

She grinned, wiping her eyes as the bus pulled away.

Yura clung to his side as they walked to the jet. The private plane gleamed under the afternoon sun, staff ushering them inside with bows and gentle smiles. Harin stayed on the tarmac until the door closed, waving wildly. Mirae sent one last snap—her lips puckered in a kiss, captioned "Don’t forget me, hero."

Inside, the cabin was a haven—soft light, wide leather seats, Yura stretching out with a pillow and sigh. Joon-ho sat beside her, watching the airport recede through the window.

"Excited?" he asked.

She nodded, fingers resting on his wrist. "Nervous. But mostly excited. Are you?"

He thought of Seoul—of old wounds closing, new ones barely scabbed, of friends left behind and dreams still waiting. "Yeah. I think I am."

The engines roared, the runway slipping away. Yura laid her head on his shoulder, her other hand curled protectively over her belly. Above the clouds, the sky blazed gold and blue.

A few rows back, a stewardess murmured in Spanish about arrival times and meals. Yura yawned, already drifting, her faith in him complete.

Joon-ho watched the world shrink below—city, rivers, highways, all the lives they’d led collapsing into distance. His phone buzzed:

Ji-hye: "Coach is already making us stretch. Don’t let Yura eat all the churros before I get there."

He grinned, texting back:

"Only if you win gold."

As the plane angled west toward Barcelona, he closed his eyes, letting the future rush up to meet him. A new country, a new chance, a family growing in ways he never expected. There was fear in the unknown, but more hope than anything.

And waiting ahead—heat, light, laughter, medals, and the promise of every tomorrow.