Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

The morning air was already heavy with tension, though the orchard glowed in golden light. Crew members were whispering into earpieces, cameras shifting on their mounts, while the chant of the protesters outside beat against the set like waves against a breakwater. Signs bobbed over the heads of the small crowd clustered near the gate—No Violence on TV! Boycott Until Do-jin Is Gone! A few hotheaded youths still threw words sharper than their placards, voices straining to be heard over the hum of the broadcast equipment inside.

The sound changed when the black sedan rolled slowly up the narrow road and stopped near the entrance. Even before the door opened, the energy outside shifted. Protesters craned their necks, security stiffened, and PD Kang Jin-ho's eyes sharpened. He didn't even need to speak—the moment the rear door clicked open, his hand slashed the air in a silent command to his camera team: Get this. All of it.

Mr. Choi emerged slowly but surely, stepping into the daylight in a crisp jacket and polished shoes. His granddaughter was at his side, slim frame supporting him out of habit, but the man needed no help. He walked without a cane, without the crutch the internet had sworn he depended on. His steps were steady, confident. Gasps rippled through the protesters; one girl dropped her sign completely. A cameraman swiveled hard to capture the moment, the lenses drinking in the sight of a man who had supposedly been crippled, striding with ease.

Joon-ho had already noticed. He pushed through the threshold of the café and walked out with calm purpose. He didn't hurry; he didn't play to the crowd. He simply went forward as though this meeting were the most natural thing in the world. When he reached Mr. Choi, the two men clasped hands firmly. The handshake was long enough for every camera to find them, for the protesters to see the grip was genuine.

"I've seen the noise online," Mr. Choi said, his voice low but strong enough for the microphones nearby to catch. A small smile touched his lips. "Let's put it to rest here."

Joon-ho gave a single nod. No words were needed, not yet.

Mr. Choi turned then, lifting his other hand to wave at the production crew. His granddaughter, more composed than she had been the week before, looked up at him with quiet pride, though she didn't release his arm. The assistant director darted forward, nerves taut, and Mr. Choi leaned down slightly to ask for a microphone or megaphone. Within seconds, the AD was sprinting back to the equipment tent while a sound tech hurried forward with a clip-on mic. The girl at Mr. Choi's side adjusted the collar of his jacket for him, protective, careful, before stepping back.

When he spoke, his voice carried not just through the amplifiers but through the crowd itself.

"I appreciate your concern. Your voices matter. You speak of no violence, and I agree with you." His eyes, clear and sharp, swept over the protestors holding their signs. "But justice cannot be born out of more violence. You came here to protest and nearly injured crew, cast, and innocent families who only wished to visit the café. That is not justice."

A hush followed, uncertain but palpable. Even the few who had been jeering shifted uncomfortably, as though caught misbehaving by a stern grandfather.

Mr. Choi placed a hand on Joon-ho's shoulder, steady. "Thanks to this man's care, I was discharged early. I am walking better today than I was before the incident. These arms, these legs, they move freely because of his treatment. Do not believe the videos you've seen. They are false, edited. Do not be so quick to let a stranger on the internet decide what your eyes refuse to see."

He lifted his chin slightly, the sun catching the silver in his hair. "Do not believe everything online. Look with your own eyes. Judge with your own hearts."

From the café doorway, PD Kang thrust his hand again, two fingers stabbing toward the camera team. Close-ups zoomed in on the image: Mr. Choi standing tall, Joon-ho at his side. It was more than a statement; it was a symbol. For the live stream and every clip that would be cut from it, it would be the picture people remembered.

The protesters wavered. A boy at the front lowered his placard halfway, eyes flickering between the megaphone and Joon-ho's composed stance. A woman muttered something and folded her sign against her chest. Another shook his head, stubborn, but the chant that had fueled them only minutes before had stuttered into silence. Murmurs spread instead, uncertain and low.

Inside the café, Mirae stood frozen by the window, her hand pressed against her chest. She had feared this day, feared that no matter how much truth they offered the world, the storm outside would drown it out. But here, now, she watched a man once thought broken walk beside the man she loved, and the relief in her chest was almost too much to hold.

Her lips parted softly, and when Joon-ho glanced back just for a second, their eyes met through the glass. She didn't need to speak; he could see it in her—the gratitude, the pride, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, the tide had begun to turn.

The orchard café breathed easier the moment Mr. Choi finished his statement. Outside, the protesters' chants faltered and fell quiet, some signs lowered, others set aside altogether. Inside, relief rippled through the space. Guests who had been nervously whispering moments ago began to murmur approval, and then, almost shyly, a few clapped. The sound spread until the entire café was filled with soft applause — not raucous, not staged, but genuine.

The crew behind the cameras exhaled like a single body. PD Kang leaned back in his chair at the monitoring station, muttering, "We've got it. That's the moment we needed."

And at the center of it all, Joon-ho placed a guiding hand on Mr. Choi's back and ushered him and his granddaughter inside. His movements were steady, deliberate — hospitality without pomp. The counter seats were waiting, positioned in clear view of both guests and cameras, a calculated choice. If this was to be proof, it had to be seen.

"Here will be comfortable," Joon-ho said, pulling out a chair for the older man. The granddaughter slid onto the stool beside him, her shoulders a little less tense now that the eyes of both crew and strangers were not on her alone.

Mr. Choi adjusted himself with ease and smiled. "I could smell that shrimp before I even entered. If it tastes half as good as it smelled, I'll be satisfied. I'll have the gambas."

His granddaughter, still shy but braver than last week, looked up at Joon-ho with a small smile. "I'll try the pork sandwich, please."

"And two hot cappuccinos," Mr. Choi added.

"Coming right up," Joon-ho said with a nod. He slipped behind the counter and rolled his sleeves up, exposing forearms already dusted with flour and heat from earlier work.

The space shifted with him. Conversations dulled as eyes turned toward the kitchen line. Garlic and chili hit the sizzling oil in the cast-iron pan, the fragrance rolling out in warm waves. A couple of the younger guests leaned forward on their elbows, hypnotized by the sound alone. Bread was sliced cleanly, each piece arranged with neat precision. Cabbage slaw was layered with practiced ease, pork seared golden before being tucked between warm bread. Every movement was efficient yet deliberate, a rhythm that calmed as much as it impressed.

Seul-gi, watching from the corner, whispered to Ji-hwan, "Tell me this isn't better television than anything we rehearsed last season."

Ji-hwan smiled faintly. "It's real. That's why it works."

The plates were placed down in front of Mr. Choi and his granddaughter with a quiet flourish. The cast-iron pan of gambas still crackled faintly, steam curling upward. The sandwich rested on a wooden board, thick slices stacked with bright vegetables and tender pork. Two cappuccinos followed, their crema decorated with careful latte art.

Mr. Choi wasted no time, picking up a shrimp with the provided fork. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then nodded once, decisively. "Simple, clean. The shrimp tastes of the sea, not of oil." He pointed at the pan with the fork. "That's rare. Most drown seafood in butter and garlic. You let the ingredient speak."

His granddaughter was slower, nibbling at the sandwich until her cheeks puffed with food. She glanced at her grandfather, grinned around her bite, and ducked her head shyly when he chuckled. "Share a piece with me," he told her warmly.

She hesitated only a moment before cutting off a section and sliding it onto his plate. He took a bite and hummed approvingly. "The slaw cuts the pork nicely. Crunch and spice both. Excellent."

Across the room, the cameras captured every detail. Guests leaned toward one another to whisper, pointing not only at the food but at the interaction — the man who was supposedly a victim, smiling and eating heartily at the counter beside the doctor who had been accused of hurting him.

Halfway through the meal, Joon-ho leaned in slightly, wiping his hands on a towel. "Would you like to try the shrimp with pasta? It transforms into a fuller dish. Something different."

Mr. Choi laughed, shaking his head at the suggestion, though his eyes sparkled. "You're spoiling us. But yes, let's see this transformation."

The granddaughter clapped her hands softly, delighted. "I've never seen pasta cooked like that before."

Joon-ho collected the pan, carefully lifting the shrimp onto a small plate before returning the cast iron to the stove. A little olive oil, more garlic, and dried chili flakes hit the heat with a hiss. Then spaghetti slid into the pan, tossed with practiced flicks of his wrist until the strands gleamed with sheen. The smell spread instantly, filling the café with the unmistakable scent of aglio e olio — garlic, oil, and chili layered over the sweetness of the shrimp that had come before.

Guests glanced around, noses tilted toward the aroma. Even those already eating slowed their chewing, tempted by the fragrance that seemed to wrap around the entire café.

When Joon-ho plated the pasta, it gleamed golden, steam rising as he carried it back to the counter. He placed the shrimp on top once again, garnished lightly with parsley, and slid the plate forward.

Mr. Choi twirled the pasta carefully with his fork and lifted it to his mouth. His granddaughter followed suit, watching him before daring her own bite. Their eyes met mid-chew, and then both of them laughed quietly.

"This…" Mr. Choi said, swallowing. "This is better than restaurant cooking. More honest."

The granddaughter nodded vigorously. "It's delicious. So simple, but… so good."

The cameras captured the moment: the accused doctor, sleeves rolled up, serving food directly to the man he had supposedly harmed — and that man smiling, praising, eating with appetite.

Inside, the atmosphere had turned completely. Guests were laughing again, children squealing over their coloring sheets, cast members slipping back into their roles with renewed energy. The crew filmed with almost giddy relief, knowing this footage would change the entire story.

And through it all, Joon-ho moved quietly, steady, without self-congratulation — simply cooking, simply serving, as though that alone was enough proof.

The storm that had brewed so violently online only a day before began to fracture in real time.

Clips of the protest outside the orchard café — angry chanting, eggs flying, bottles thudding against the dirt — were now being cut against the live broadcast feed of Mr. Choi eating shrimp and pasta at the counter. The contrast was stark, undeniable.

On Twitter and forums, comments piled in like waves:

"Wait… isn't that the guy who was supposedly injured? He's literally smiling and eating.""If the supposed victim says it's fake, what are we even arguing about anymore?""Convenient timing for the cameras, sure… but damn, that food looks good."

Some still held fast to suspicion, but their tone had shifted from outrage to reluctance.

Inside the café, the guests chatted warmly, unaware that their morning had become a turning point for thousands watching online.

The unofficial fan page for Joon-ho — created only during livestream today — was now overwhelmed. Notifications streamed in endlessly.

Followers surged into the tens of thousands. Some new posts appeared within minutes:

"I'll admit it. I doubted him. I was wrong. Seeing Mr. Choi walking on his own says more than any edited video.""I didn't even know who this man was yesterday, but now I want his recipes."

The admin of the page, a fan who had been cautious throughout the storm, posted two carefully chosen screenshots:

The first: Joon-ho crouched on the café floor with kids, placing coloring sheets in front of them, their little hands gripping colored pencils with giggles.

The second: him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, tossing pasta in a cast-iron pan, steam curling around him like a halo, with Mr. Choi waiting at the counter.

The caption read simply:

"Actions speak louder than edited videos."

The response was immediate.

"Recipe pls!!""Petition for Coffee Prince's restaurant — who's with me?""He's hotter than any idol chef. Imagine him on a cooking show!"

Even outside the orchard gates, the shift was visible.

Some protesters, who only an hour ago had screamed themselves hoarse, now looked awkward, restless. A few young men bent down to collect egg shells, muttering apologies to the crew. Others slunk away toward the parking lot, phones glued to their hands as they scrolled through Mr. Choi's statement on every platform.

The once-rowdy crowd had shrunk into scattered clusters, their cause fractured.

Back inside, PD Kang stood over a monitor, eyes wide. The live viewer count had doubled, then tripled. Metrics scrolled across the screen — likes, shares, comments — numbers he hadn't seen in years.

"We might actually save this show," he whispered under his breath, a mix of disbelief and triumph.

And in the middle of it all, Mirae couldn't keep her eyes off Joon-ho.

He wasn't celebrating, wasn't basking in the glow of vindication. He was behind the counter still, wiping down the cutting board, calmly brewing another cappuccino for the next order as if this morning had been nothing more than a normal café shift.

Her heart swelled painfully at the sight.

He hadn't just cleared his name. He'd done it by being himself — steady, kind, quietly unshakable.

Food, laughter, care. That was his answer to the storm.

And Mirae realized, with a certainty that left her breathless, that no storm could ever take him from her if he continued to stand like this.