The city pressed close around Lumina's glass towers, its neon veins alive with Friday night promise. Seoul at this hour was a living thing—traffic coiling through intersections, street vendors packing up beneath blinking streetlights, taxis and night buses shouldering their way down the avenues. Joon-ho stepped into it, briefcase in one hand, phone in the other, his mind still humming with legalese and the slow-burn adrenaline of looming conflict.

As he left the brightness of Lumina's lobby behind, his thumb flicked through messages—Harin's name glowing at the top of his favorites. He called her, holding the phone to his ear as he cut through the crowd toward the main road.

It took a moment for her to pick up. When she did, the noise in the background was a mess of overlapping voices, clinking glasses, and the unmistakable clatter of someone shuffling paper.

"Oppa, can you hear me? Sorry, it's chaos here!" Harin's voice, usually bright and teasing, was brisk, professional, a touch sharper than he was used to.

He smiled to himself, picturing her in her work armor—suit jacket off, hair up, pen wedged behind her ear as she juggled staff and venue reps. "I can hear you fine. You want me to swing by, bring you coffee? Dinner? Anything?"

A snort of laughter. "If you bring coffee now, you'll end up working security at the afterparty. Seriously—this venue manager thinks he's planning the Olympics, not a fashion show. I'm holding the line."

Joon-ho's voice gentled. "I could wait outside, drive you home after."

Harin's tone softened. "You'd be here all night, I swear. Go home first. Eat, sleep. I'll text when I'm done, but don't wait up. Love you."

"Love you, too," he said, letting those words warm his chest as he turned the corner into a busier street. As the call ended, he heard her barking an order at someone—her voice going from honey to steel in a heartbeat. He grinned. At home, Harin was laughter, late-night TV, tangled sheets. Out here, she was a force of nature. He admired both versions, loved her for the duality.

By now, his stomach was a hollow ache—a reminder that the only thing he'd eaten since breakfast was an emergency protein bar during Park's legal rundown. His feet led him to ShackBurger, the neon sign promising grease and comfort. Inside, the place was busy: students hunched over laptops, a group of salarymen already half-drunk, a couple flirting over fries.

He slid into line, ordering out of habit for two—double ShackBurger, cheese fries, vanilla shake for her, cold beer for him. It felt right, now, to plan for someone else. He glanced around, enjoying the anonymity for a rare second. But as he waited for his number to be called, a group of college girls at the next table started whispering, then giggling, then finally one braved a nervous approach.

"Excuse me—are you… Coffee Prince? From Café Days?" Her cheeks were flushed, her friends nudging her forward.

He tried not to look as tired as he felt. "That's me, I suppose."

Her eyes widened. "Can we…? Just one photo? My sister will die, she's your biggest fan—she watched every Jeju livestream."

He chuckled, obliging as the group gathered around, the girl's phone held high. "One, two—say mandarin oranges!" Laughter as the photo snapped.

Afterward, they thanked him in a chorus, disappearing in a flurry of giggles and social media posts. He hoped, absently, that he wouldn't end up as a meme again. Inside, he felt a faint, strange pride—this version of fame was new and awkward, but less empty than the celebrity he'd once envied in others.

When his order was ready, the young woman at the counter gave him a knowing smile. "We saw you on TV. Your café looked amazing—my mom made me watch every episode."

He ducked his head, accepting the food with both hands. "Thank you. Hope she didn't get bored."

"She wants you to open a branch here in Gangnam," the cashier grinned. "Just saying."

He promised to consider it and slipped out, grateful for the cool air and the way the city swallowed him back up.

In his car, the world felt quieter. He put the takeout bag on the passenger seat, drove through familiar neighborhoods. The city blurred past, full of places that once defined him: the drab university campus where he'd pulled endless all-nighters; the tiny, faded gym where he'd first learned to stretch and heal bodies, long before he learned to heal hearts; the dark, narrow alleys that had once felt like escape routes when he was young, broke, and lonely.

He parked outside his apartment building, sitting in the idling car for a long moment. On the radio, an old ballad played—a voice from his parents' generation, bittersweet and soft. His reflection in the windshield looked older, calmer, the lines at the corners of his mouth deeper from laughing, maybe, or worrying too much.

He thought about everything that had changed in the past year. Yura's steely, secretive strength; Harin's stormy brilliance; Mirae's vulnerability and determination; Ji-hye and Min-Kyung's own brands of loyalty and wit. He had gone from a man untethered—floating from job to job, clinic to clinic—to someone who people counted on. Someone who mattered. He wasn't sure he deserved all of it, but he felt the shape of gratitude in his bones.

And now there was this new fight—starting an agency, building something not just for himself or Mirae, but for anyone who needed a shield, or a place to grow. It was daunting. But it was also, in some small way, what he'd always wanted: a way to matter, to belong, to leave the world less broken than he'd found it.

He gathered up the food, locking the car behind him, and made his way into the building. The night doorman greeted him with a nod, more familiar now than he used to be.

In the elevator, Joon-ho caught his reflection again—hair a bit messy, eyes tired, but posture straight, carrying not just dinner, but the quiet resolve that had carried him this far.

He didn't know what tomorrow would bring—EON's next move, Mirae's future, Yura's war with her husband, the strain of Fashion Week. But for tonight, there was the taste of burgers and beer, the warmth of home, and the certainty that no matter how messy the world got, he had people to fight for—and people waiting for him when the fighting was done.

And for the first time in a long while, that was enough.

Joon-ho's apartment was an island of quiet after the neon sprawl of the city. He let himself in, locked the door behind him, and put the takeout on the kitchen counter. The familiar routine was grounding—shoes off, blazer on the hook, shirt replaced by a faded tee and soft pants. His muscles ached, but it was the kind of tired that felt earned.

He set the burgers and fries in the oven to keep them warm, then splashed water on his face, studying his reflection in the bathroom mirror. It was strange how his life had changed—how the city outside, once a blur of loneliness and uncertainty, now pulsed with a sense of purpose. Each night, each quiet homecoming, reminded him how far he'd come—not just as a doctor, but as a man surrounded by women he loved, women he was now ready to fight for.

The city glowed beyond his window, streaks of red and white headlights threading the darkness, neon bouncing off rain-damp glass. He watched, lost in his thoughts, until the apartment door clicked and Harin stepped inside.

She looked exhausted, her hair half-tamed in a messy ponytail, but her eyes sparkled as soon as she caught the scent of burgers. "You got ShackBurger?" she laughed, dropping her heavy bag and kicking off her heels with a sigh of relief.

Joon-ho grinned, turning to meet her as she made a beeline for the kitchen. Before he could plate the food, she slipped behind him, arms wrapping around his waist. "You're a lifesaver, oppa. If that meeting went five minutes longer, I'd have eaten my own notebook."

He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, teasing, "How many venue managers did you terrify tonight?"

She smirked, unrepentant. "Only the ones who tried to move our lights without asking. Someone has to keep them in line. You know, if I wasn't tough, your new agency would fall apart on day one."

He handed her a warm burger, and they settled at the table, laughter ricocheting between bites. Over fries and milkshakes, they traded stories—her rant about clueless sound techs, his encounter with starstruck college girls in line, his awkwardness at being called "Coffee Prince."

"Did you sign an autograph?" Harin grinned, mouth full of fries.

He rolled his eyes. "Just took a selfie. I'd rather be home with you, eating junk food, than at any fan meet."

She flashed a genuine, grateful smile. "Don't ever change, Joon-ho."

Dinner wound down; the city hummed beyond the glass, safe and distant. After clearing the table, Harin flopped onto the sofa, stretching out, legs in his lap. She groaned, letting her head tip back, the fatigue and stress finally ebbing away.

"It's funny," she said after a moment, voice softer, more vulnerable. "I always thought coming home to someone, sharing burgers, was so… ordinary. Like, this was what you did after you gave up on your dreams. But now—honestly? I'd trade the runway for this in a second."

Joon-ho squeezed her ankle gently. "We'll always have chaos. But you—this—makes the rest of it worth it. I mean it, Harin."

She looked at him, all her defenses down. "Are you really going to do it? Make an agency for Mirae?"

He nodded, serious now. "It's the only way to keep her safe from EON, at least for now. I want to build something better. But I can't do it alone."

Harin grinned, her confidence returning. "You'll run half of it?"

He shook his head. "Not half. You're running the whole thing, CEO Kang. I need you in charge—keep me honest, keep me sane, and make sure I never turn into some greedy, clueless CEO."

Her eyes widened, a flush blooming on her cheeks. "Me? CEO? Oppa, you're not joking?"

He kissed her—slow and firm. "You're the only one I trust with this."

Harin was silent for a moment, then her voice grew sly. "If I'm CEO, I want an advance. Two years' salary. Paid up front." Her hands slid under his shirt, playful but demanding.

He laughed, the sound rolling out of him, warm and easy. "That's extortion, Kang Harin."

She bit her lip, feigning innocence. "Call it a signing bonus. I want all your promises up front."

He set her burger wrapper aside, pulled her up and into his lap, kissing her deep and long. "Fine. You can have all of me."

Their kisses grew hungrier, hands tangling in hair and shirt, breathless laughter mingling with heat. Joon-ho stood, lifting her easily, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, giggling as he carried her down the hall. He nudged open the door to the massage room—a space meant for peace and healing, now thick with anticipation.

They undressed slowly, savoring the play of fingertips on skin, the thrill of new beginnings and old trust. As Joon-ho poured oil into his palms and warmed it, Harin stretched out on the table, skin glowing, eyes dark with promise.

He bent over her, whispering, "Let's make your first night as CEO unforgettable."

The city's glow slipped in around them, golden and endless, as they prepared to write a new chapter together—body and soul, partnership and passion, every touch a contract, every kiss a promise of what was still to come.

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