Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

The hum of Gimpo Airport was its own kind of music—rolling luggage wheels clattering on tile, boarding announcements echoing overhead, the murmur of conversations blending into a restless chorus. Joon-ho had grown used to noise, but today, with his ticket to Jeju in hand and his boarding pass tucked neatly into his jacket pocket, it felt sharper, more alive.

He'd already checked in, his single carry-on bag slung over his shoulder. With hours before boarding, his stomach tugged him toward coffee, and he found himself in line at Velvet Drip, one of Korea's premium coffee chains. The queue was short, but the eyes weren't.

Joon-ho had dressed well without overthinking—dark slacks fitted at the waist, a clean white button-down, and a tailored jacket. Effortless but sharp, a look that whispered more than it shouted. His posture did the rest, straight-backed, calm, self-assured. And it drew attention.

He could hear it before he saw it.

"Is he an actor?" one girl whispered behind him.

"No, no—he looks like a model. Look at his jawline."

"I swear, if he's on some Netflix drama I'm going to scream. Should I ask for a photo?"

The shuffle of a phone camera being lifted caught his ear. He didn't bother turning. He wasn't new to being mistaken for someone famous. In truth, it amused him, though he kept his expression neutral.

The barista called his order, sliding the cup across the counter with practiced cheer. "One Velvet Latte."

"Thank you." Joon-ho's voice was smooth, low, and the barista blinked twice before nodding too quickly.

Cup in hand, he left the counter and cut through the curious glances, settling near his gate where the late morning light spilled across the floor-to-ceiling windows. The planes lined up outside gleamed under the autumn sun, tails painted in neat rows of color.

He sipped the latte, smooth and faintly nutty, then pulled out his phone. The screen lit up with SNS headlines, his feed already cluttered with chatter.

#JejuCaféDays was trending again, though not for the reasons the production team would have wanted.

The variety show—partially live-streamed, filmed at an orange orchard where celebrities ran a rustic café—had seemed like a sure hit. The concept was wholesome, nostalgic, exactly the kind of feel-good TV audiences craved. But now, article after article scrolled past his thumb, and each one carried the same sour taste.

"Han Do-jin Involved in On-Set Violence: Elderly Guest Injured"

"Ratings for Jeju Café Days Plummet Amid Cast Scandal"

"Live Broadcast Limits Damage Control as Assault Caught in Real Time"

Joon-ho's jaw tightened slightly. He tapped one article and skimmed. The details matched what Mirae had hinted to him before: during a shoot, Do-jin—hot-headed, mid-thirties, and with a "bad boy" brand image—had lost his temper. He'd punched a male guest, a man in his mid-fifties, sending him sprawling. The guest's leg had been strained badly in the fall. Rehab was underway at a Jeju hospital.

Because the show's concept relied on minimal editing, much of it had gone out live before the production could cut the feed. Clips had spread within minutes, SNS ablaze with criticism. Boycotts, angry threads, even talk of cancellation.

Joon-ho leaned back in his chair, letting the headlines slide by. It wasn't hard to imagine Mirae in the middle of it—trying to smile on camera, trying to keep her balance while everything burned around her. She'd never complained to him, but he could read between her careful lines.

A burst of laughter pulled his focus. A group of university students had taken the seats a few rows down, voices carrying easily.

"Do you think they'll still shoot this weekend?" one boy asked, tossing his baseball cap onto his knee.

"PD-nim said they have to. My cousin's friend is on staff. They can't cancel without losing millions."

"Millions wasted anyway if no one watches," a girl shot back, crossing her arms. "Netizens already said they're done. That jerk Do-jin ruined it."

Another girl leaned forward eagerly. "But what if we go? The café is still open to visitors, right? We could meet Mirae! Or Seul-gi unnie! Even Ji-hwan oppa—he's so polite."

Her friend snorted. "Or you could get punched by Do-jin and end up in the hospital."

Laughter rippled. Joon-ho sipped his coffee again, silent. They weren't wrong. The scandal had already grown teeth.

His phone buzzed. KakaoTalk.

Harin.

Harin: Oppa, are you already at the gate?

He thumbed back a quick reply.

Joon-ho: Yeah. Waiting for boarding.

The response came almost instantly, her typing bubble bouncing.

Harin: Good. Don't forget—we're expecting souvenirs from Jeju. Something generous. For me, Yura unnie, Min-kyung unnie… oh, and Ji-hye too.

He exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Joon-ho: I'll remember. Don't get greedy.

Harin: Greedy?? It's called thoughtful. Bring us something nice, or I'll tell Mirae to keep you for herself. 😘

A sticker followed, a cartoon girl stomping her foot with exaggerated cuteness.

He shook his head, sliding the phone back onto the armrest beside him. She knew exactly how to needle him and soften it all at once.

The boarding announcement crackled overhead, first in Korean, then in English: "Passengers for Jeju flight KE451, please proceed to boarding."

Joon-ho drained the last of his latte, stood, and adjusted the strap of his bag. The chatter of the students rose behind him—plans to rent a car, to sneak photos, to maybe catch a glimpse of the cast.

He didn't look back.

As he moved toward the gate, his thoughts weren't on the curious stares or the whispers of strangers. They were already with Mirae—her voice on the phone, bright but edged with hesitation, and the way it had softened when she admitted she wanted to stand beside him on the runway.

Whatever storm was waiting on Jeju, he was already walking into it.

The conference room at the small hotel near Jeju's Seogwipo coast felt like a battlefield. Not because anyone was shouting, but because the silence after the shouting was louder. The air was tight, the crew's exhaustion heavy, coffee cups stacked in the corner like spent shells.

The PD, Kang Jin-ho, rubbed his temples and looked around at his team. His face was drawn, voice rough from days without proper rest. "Alright. Let's recap."

Everyone's eyes avoided his, but they were listening.

"The guest Mr. Choi—the one Do-jin struck—" Jin-ho paused, as though the words themselves were bitter, "—he's stable. No fractures, but his leg is strained badly from the fall. He's in hospital rehab now. Doctors say two to three weeks of recovery, minimum. His family is furious."

The assistant PD scribbled notes, jaw tight. One of the sound crew muttered under his breath, "Furious is an understatement."

Jin-ho ignored it and pressed on. "Do-jin is at the hotel under supervision. He's not allowed to go out in public until further notice."

A lighting tech scoffed. "Should've been on the first flight back to Seoul."

"That's not my call," Jin-ho said flatly. "The higher-ups want him kept quiet but still technically attached to the show until they decide what to do."

That earned groans.

Mirae sat near the end of the table, hands folded on her lap. Her usually bright face was pale, lips pressed together. Next to her, Seul-gi—another female cast member, known for her sharp wit on talk shows—shifted uncomfortably, clearly restraining herself. Across from them, Ji-hwan, the polite and steady male cast member, sat with his manager whispering in his ear.

Finally, Mirae spoke. "And the broadcast?" Her voice was calm, but there was steel beneath.

Jin-ho let out a long breath. "The network decided. We keep shooting. Higher-ups said we can't afford to lose momentum. They'll 'manage' the public image."

That lit the fuse.

"You can't be serious," Seul-gi snapped, leaning forward. "Do you know what SNS looks like right now? Every top comment says to boycott. They're calling the show a circus."

Ji-hwan's manager nodded. "Continuing under these circumstances—it's reckless. It's not just about ratings. My client's image is at stake. If the public perception worsens, he could lose endorsements."

Mirae's brows furrowed. She hadn't spoken again, but her knuckles whitened on the table.

Jin-ho lifted a hand, trying to rein them in. "I understand your frustration, but my hands are tied. The sponsors—"

"Which sponsors?" Seul-gi cut in, sharp.

"The main one. Do-jin's backer," Jin-ho admitted. His lips curled bitterly. "Apparently his… 'supporter' poured more money in to cover this up. That's why the higher-ups won't cut him. They told me to keep the ship moving."

For a moment, silence reigned. Then one of the crew slammed his notebook shut. "Unbelievable."

Another muttered, "Blood money."

Mirae finally spoke again, her voice low but clear. "So we pretend nothing happened? We serve coffee, smile for the cameras, while an old man sits in the hospital because of our co-star?"

Her words cut sharper than Seul-gi's had.

Jin-ho winced. "I don't like it either. But if you walk, the penalty fees are steep. Contracts were ironclad. The higher-ups won't budge. They said the 'incident' will blow over if we give it time."

Ji-hwan sighed heavily, exchanging a look with his manager. "If we stop now, they'll ruin us legally. If we keep going, they'll ruin us publicly."

"It's a trap either way," Seul-gi muttered.

The room sank into a heavy pause. Crew members stared at their notes or their cold coffee. A few rubbed their faces in their hands. The unspoken question hung in the air: How do we film without becoming the villains?

Mirae broke the silence again. Her tone was steady, though her eyes were dark with worry. "What about the next shoot? The café is scheduled to reopen for filming in three days."

The assistant PD checked the calendar. "Saturday morning. We're supposed to run a live café day. Public guests. Regular café service."

Someone swore softly. "What if protesters show up? What if people come just to heckle? Or to confront Do-jin?"

"Do-jin won't be there," Jin-ho said quickly. "He's benched until further notice. We'll frame the shoot around the rest of you. But yes… guests could still come and cause trouble. SNS chatter already has people talking about visiting the orchard."

Seul-gi shook her head, frustrated. "This is insane. We'll be sitting ducks."

Mirae's chest rose and fell, her composure straining. "And if we refuse?"

"Breach of contract," Jin-ho repeated wearily. "The penalties would crush your agencies."

Ji-hwan's manager murmured something to him, and Ji-hwan's lips pressed thin. He didn't like it, but he wasn't going to risk his career.

Mirae and Seul-gi exchanged a look. Both women knew the stakes, but also the cost to their own images. If they stayed, they'd be tainted by association. If they left, they'd be branded as difficult talents who couldn't honor contracts.

The crew dispersed slowly after that, muttering among themselves. Jin-ho sat slumped, staring at his notes.

Mirae rose with Seul-gi, walking out into the corridor. The hotel was quiet, carpeted halls muffling their steps. Outside, Jeju's night air carried the faint scent of salt and tangerines.

As they parted ways, Seul-gi touched Mirae's arm. "Be careful. You're the public's sweetheart. They'll scrutinize you most."

Mirae nodded, smiling faintly but without warmth. "You too."

When she stepped into her van, her manager waiting with the door open, her phone buzzed.

KakaoTalk.

Joon-ho: Just landed in Jeju. Heading to the hotel.

Her heart leapt in a way she didn't expect. The tightness in her chest loosened, replaced by a rush of warmth. Her thumbs flew over the screen, shaky with relief.

Mirae: Really? Already? Send me your hotel location.

Joon-ho: Same hotel as you. I booked the suite—more private. I'll see you soon.

She blinked at the reply, then bit her lip, a smile tugging despite the day's weight. The suite. Of course he would. The storm swirling around the show hadn't vanished, but knowing he'd be under the same roof—just one floor away, waiting in a place untouched by the chaos—felt like a lifeline.

For the first time all day, her lips curved into a genuine smile. Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't have to face this alone.