Hands, Not Money
Chapter 9 – Hands, Not Money
The first thing Yuna did after she accepted his rules–after she forced herself to say okay in that hospital hallway–was not forgiveness.
It was control.
Not the cruel kind.
The kind people cling to when life has just shown them how easily it can take everything.
The next morning, she came down the stairs with her hair tied up tight, her face bare, and her voice flat.
She slid a notebook across the counter.
“New schedule,” she said.
Joonseo looked at the notebook.
The pages were filled with neat handwriting.
A list.
Hours.
Tasks.
A strict division of responsibility that made the café look like a small company.
Joonseo glanced up.
Yuna avoided his eyes.
“I’m not letting you… do whatever you want,” she said.
Joonseo nodded.
“Okay,” he replied.
Yuna’s brows knit, as if she expected resistance.
He didn’t give it.
She cleared her throat.
“You work these hours,” she said, tapping the page. “You do these things. You don’t touch my finances. You don’t call anyone behind my back. You don’t–”
She paused, jaw tight.
“You don’t become the owner.”
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“I won’t,” he said.
Yuna stared at him.
Then she nodded once.
Sharp.
Like she was stamping a contract.
“Good,” she muttered.
Joonseo glanced at the schedule.
It was brutal.
Yuna had given him the late shifts and the heavy chores, leaving herself only the morning prep and her mother’s care.
It was her way of balancing the scales.
Let him suffer the work.
Let him earn the help.
Joonseo didn’t mind.
If anything, the structure made it easier to breathe.
Because structure meant he could stay without forcing himself into her life.
Because structure meant his presence was permitted.
Not a favor.
Not a rescue.
A role.
A job.
Hands.
Not money.
They didn’t talk much that week.
Not about the hospital.
Not about his identity.
Not about what had cracked between them.
Yuna moved around him like she was careful not to touch something that might break.
Joonseo followed her pace.
He didn’t push.
He didn’t ask.
He kept his hands busy.
He cleaned until the café smelled like soap instead of stress.
He fixed the wobbling chair leg with a piece of folded cardboard at first–then properly, with a small tool kit he claimed he “already had.”
He tightened screws.
He replaced the old leaking faucet washer.
He scrubbed the sticky residue off the menu board.
He reorganized the storage cabinet so supplies were visible instead of buried like shame.
Yuna watched him sometimes.
Not with gratitude.
With suspicion.
Like she was waiting for the moment he would announce a renovation crew.
Or slip a fat envelope into the register.
Or make everything too easy.
But Joonseo kept it small.
Quiet.
Human.
He learned to make her favorite drink–a simple latte with less foam, more milk.
He learned to restock without reminding her.
He learned to stop asking if she’d eaten and instead place food within reach like it wasn’t an argument.
A rice ball wrapped in seaweed.
A peeled orange.
A cup of warm barley tea.
Yuna would pretend not to notice.
Then eat anyway.
One night, she fell asleep at the corner table.
It happened without warning.
She had been sitting there with her head propped up on her hand, staring at the day’s receipts like they were enemies.
Her eyes blinked slower.
Her head dipped.
And then–
she was gone.
Not dead.
Just… asleep.
The kind of sleep that happens when you’ve been running on adrenaline for too long.
Her breathing became soft.
Her hand still held a pen.
Joonseo froze.
A part of him wanted to call her name.
To tell her she should go upstairs.
To insist.
But something in her posture made him stop.
She didn’t look peaceful.
She looked like she had collapsed.
Joonseo moved quietly.
He dimmed the café lights.
He locked the front door.
He picked up his jacket from the hook near the back.
Then he approached her slowly, like she might startle.
He draped the jacket over her shoulders.
Her body flinched slightly in sleep.
Then relaxed.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
He crouched beside her.
Close enough to see the faint dark circles under her eyes.
Close enough to see the small cut on her finger from a paper edge.
Close enough to smell the coffee on her skin.
He didn’t touch her.
He only whispered, barely audible:
“You can rest.”
The words were not for her.
They were for him.
Because he needed to believe she could.
When she woke, she looked angry.
Not at him.
At herself.
She jerked upright, the jacket slipping off her shoulders.
Her hair was messy.
Her eyes widened as she looked around.
“What time is it?” she demanded.
Joonseo stood behind the counter.
“Late,” he said.
Yuna’s face tightened.
“I fell asleep,” she muttered, disgusted.
“Yes,” he said.
She grabbed the jacket and shoved it toward him.
“You didn’t have to,” she said.
Joonseo took it calmly.
“I know,” he replied.
Yuna glared.
“Stop being like that,” she snapped.
“Like what?”
“Like… nice,” she said, voice shaking. “It makes me feel–”
She stopped.
Joonseo watched her.
He waited.
Yuna swallowed.
“…It makes me feel like I’m taking,” she finished, quieter.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“You’re not taking,” he said softly. “You’re… letting.”
Yuna stared.
Then she scoffed and looked away.
“Whatever,” she muttered.
But her voice wasn’t as sharp.
And she didn’t throw the jacket on the floor.
She folded it and placed it neatly on the chair.
A small sign.
A small acceptance.
The café started changing in tiny ways.
Not because Joonseo poured money into it.
Because Joonseo poured time.
He made a new handwritten sign for the menu board, clearer and cleaner.
He moved the tables slightly to create a more welcoming path.
He fixed the door hinge so the bell didn’t sound like a dying animal.
He found a used bookshelf online–cheap–and asked Yuna if he could buy it.
Yuna’s eyes narrowed.
“How much?” she demanded.
“Not much,” he said.
Yuna stared.
“Not much means what?”
Joonseo exhaled.
He showed her the listing.
It was genuinely cheap.
Yuna stared longer.
Then she nodded.
“…Fine,” she said reluctantly. “But you assemble it.”
Joonseo’s mouth twitched.
“Yes, boss.”
Yuna shot him a look.
“Don’t call me that,” she muttered.
But her lips almost smiled.
Almost.
One afternoon, a young woman wandered in.
She wore a mask and a beanie pulled low.
She looked around nervously.
Yuna stiffened.
Joonseo recognized her before she even spoke.
Hana.
She stepped closer to the counter.
Yuna’s eyes widened.
“Hana?”
Hana’s eyes crinkled in a smile above her mask.
“Unnie,” she whispered.
Yuna’s face softened despite herself.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
Hana shrugged.
“I missed you.”
The sentence was simple.
But it made Yuna’s eyes shimmer.
Hana glanced at Joonseo.
Her gaze lingered, curious.
Joonseo lowered his eyes politely.
Yuna cleared her throat.
“This is… Joonseo,” she said.
Hana’s eyes flickered.
She nodded.
“Nice to meet you,” Hana said.
Joonseo bowed slightly.
“Nice to meet you too.”
Hana looked at the café.
“It’s warm here,” she murmured.
Yuna’s smile was small.
“It’s barely surviving,” she replied.
Hana stepped closer.
“I can help,” she whispered.
Yuna flinched.
“No,” she said quickly.
Hana sighed.
“Unnie,” she said gently. “I didn’t say money.”
Yuna blinked.
Hana gestured to the empty tables.
“I can come here sometimes,” she said. “Bring friends. Post a photo. Not like… a pity post. Just… normal.”
Yuna hesitated.
She looked at Joonseo briefly–like checking the rules.
Joonseo didn’t interfere.
Yuna swallowed.
“…Maybe,” she said.
Hana smiled.
Yuna looked down.
Her voice softened.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
Hana reached out and squeezed her hand.
Yuna didn’t pull away.
Joonseo watched from behind the counter.
His chest tightened.
Not jealousy.
Relief.
Because Hana was proof that Yuna wasn’t completely alone.
Because Hana was someone who knew her past and still stayed.
That mattered.
Hana glanced at Joonseo again.
This time, her gaze held a question.
But she didn’t ask.
Instead, she ordered a latte and sat at the corner table.
The café had a customer.
A real one.
Yuna made the drink herself.
Her hands were steady.
Her shoulders looked lighter.
For an hour, Second Verse felt like a real café.
Not a sinking ship.
After Hana left, Yuna cleaned the counter.
Same spot.
Same motion.
But now it wasn’t panic.
It was habit.
Routine.
A way of keeping things in place.
Joonseo washed dishes quietly.
Then, without looking at him, Yuna spoke.
“You know… she’s the only one who still checks on me,” she said.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“That’s good,” he said.
Yuna hummed.
“Sometimes I hate it,” she admitted.
Joonseo paused.
“Why?”
Yuna’s voice was quiet.
“Because it reminds me I’m not… invisible,” she murmured. “And I don’t know what to do with that anymore.”
Joonseo swallowed.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “Just… exist.”
Yuna laughed softly.
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” he admitted.
Yuna’s hand paused over the counter.
Then she said, quieter:
“Do you ever regret it?”
Joonseo blinked.
“Regret what?”
Yuna finally looked at him.
Her eyes were tired.
But there was something softer now.
Something curious.
“Being rich,” she said.
The words made his chest tighten.
Joonseo didn’t answer immediately.
Because there were many truths.
Yes, he regretted the loneliness.
Yes, he regretted the way people saw him.
Yes, he regretted how money turned everything into suspicion.
But the deepest regret was different.
He regretted that wealth made it so hard to be loved without conditions.
He regretted that he had to hide to feel human.
He swallowed.
“I regret… the way it changes people,” he said quietly.
Yuna’s gaze flickered.
“Does it change you?” she asked.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
He thought of his lies.
His secrecy.
The way he had held back truth like it was currency.
“Yes,” he admitted.
Yuna stared.
Then she looked away.
“…At least you’re honest now,” she murmured.
Joonseo’s chest warmed.
A small sentence.
A small step.
Not forgiveness.
Not trust.
But a crack in the wall.
That night, after closing, Yuna went upstairs to her mother.
Joonseo stayed behind to finish cleaning.
He wiped the counter.
Same spot.
Same motion.
Then he stopped.
He leaned on the counter and breathed.
The café was still struggling.
Bills still existed.
Minseok still hovered like a shadow.
Yuna still didn’t fully trust him.
But the café felt… warmer.
Not because of money.
Because of hands.
Because of routines.
Because of someone showing up every day.
Joonseo turned off the lights.
Locked the door.
Stepped into the night.
As he walked home, he realized something that made his chest tighten with both hope and fear.
He was no longer only staying for the idea of an idol.
He was staying for the woman who fell asleep at a table and let him cover her with a jacket.
He was staying for the woman who didn’t want strings but needed warmth.
And that kind of staying–
quiet, daily, human–
was the most dangerous love of all.