Chapter 126: Chapter 126: Under the Orchard Sun
The orchard still clung to dawn when they arrived. Dew beaded on mandarin leaves, glittering under the soft orange glow of floodlights strung across the café set. Crew members shuffled between the café tent and the outdoor tables, adjusting cameras, polishing glasses, wiping down counters. Their voices were hushed, brisk, purposeful. Everyone knew the stakes.
The scandal hadn’t died down. It had merely shifted its weight.
From beyond the low orchard fence came the faint murmur of voices. At first it was just background noise, like wind through leaves. Then the words sharpened, rising and falling with rhythmic chants:
"No violence on TV!""Boycott until Do-jin is gone!"
A small cluster of protestors had gathered at the entrance path. They held placards that caught the rising sun, their letters bold and angry. Some of them were young fans, faces half-covered with masks. Others looked older, parents perhaps, here to stand against what they saw as a failure of responsibility.
Inside the café set, the tension rippled. Camera operators exchanged uneasy glances. A stylist whispered something under her breath, pressing her lips tight. Even the steady thrum of the espresso machine warming up seemed sharper than usual, each hiss and click punctuated by the sound of chanting.
PD Kang Jin-ho stood near the café’s entrance, hands clasped behind his back, jaw tight. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his tie askew — he had clearly been there long before dawn, overseeing every preparation. His gaze swept over the orchard, landing briefly on the protestors.
The head of security approached. "PD-nim, should we disperse them?"
Kang shook his head immediately, his voice clipped but calm. "No. Don’t push them away. We won’t inflame this further." He paused, eyes narrowing as one of the signs bobbed into view: "Protect Guests, Not Celebrities." His lips pressed thinner. "Just make sure they don’t disturb the locals or paying visitors. This is still an orchard café, not just a set."
The head of security hesitated, then nodded and walked off to relay the order.
Kang turned to his assistant director, who hovered nearby with a clipboard. "Call the local police. Tell them to send a small unit. We’re not forcing the protestors out, but I want presence. If something happens, I want backup ready."
"Yes, PD-nim." The AD hurried off, already dialing.
Kang drew a long breath through his nose, as though to steady himself. He’d been burned once already, humiliated when the last shoot had collapsed into chaos. This time he was cautious, pragmatic. He would not be caught unprepared again.
Inside the makeup trailer, the mood was different. Still tense, but not frantic.
Mirae sat at the counter, hair pinned back as a stylist worked quickly on her light base makeup. Her eyes kept flicking toward the frosted window, where faint shadows of crew and passing staff shifted. She could hear the chants too, muffled but insistent.
Across from her, Seul-gi leaned back in her chair, scrolling her phone with her usual unbothered smirk. But even she had her earbuds out, head tilted toward the sounds outside. Ji-hwan sat quietly to the side, posture composed, hands resting on his knees.
The door cracked open, and the assistant director stepped in, clipboard still clutched tightly in hand. He spoke briskly, but his tone was laced with a caution that drew every ear in the room.
"Update: we’re live in ten minutes. Guests have already been checked in — families, couples, and a group of girls for the counter seats."
Seul-gi lowered her phone. "And the people outside?"
"Security is handling it. Police will be here soon for backup."
Mirae glanced toward the door, her stomach tightening. She wanted to ask if the protestors had signs with her name on them, but bit her tongue. She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.
Instead, Joon-ho spoke. He had been standing quietly near the wall, hands in his pockets, watching the exchange with steady eyes. His voice was low but clear. "What about Mr. Choi? And his granddaughter?"
The AD blinked, surprised by the question, then flipped through his notes. "They confirmed they’ll arrive around lunch time."
The weight in the room shifted instantly. Seul-gi let out a sharp breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. "At least he’s willing to come back. That says a lot."
Ji-hwan nodded, his expression softening with relief. "If he’s here, we can close this season properly." He turned slightly toward Joon-ho, his gaze steady. "Thank you for helping him. Without that, we wouldn’t even be here today."
The words weren’t loud, but they carried. The stylists paused, brushes still in hand, listening. Mirae’s heart stirred at the sincerity in Ji-hwan’s tone.
Joon-ho didn’t deflect, didn’t brush it off with false modesty. He only said, "The damage was done. But at least now he can walk without pain."
Mirae’s chest tightened, her eyes lingering on him. Pride swelled there — pride and something warmer, deeper. She had seen him in so many roles now: healer, protector, quiet anchor. And here, in a world that wasn’t his, he still carried that same gravity.
The AD cleared his throat, glancing at the watch strapped to his wrist. "Five minutes to live."
The stylists hurried to finish. Seul-gi straightened her blouse. Ji-hwan smoothed his jacket. Mirae adjusted her mic pack with trembling fingers, her nerves mounting.
They all looked at one another — four faces reflecting different shades of tension and determination.
This wasn’t just another episode. It was a test. A reckoning.
Could the café survive the scandal? Could the show redeem itself?
The chants outside swelled faintly, then faded again under the orchard breeze.
Inside, the cast exchanged glances — not of fear, but of resolve.
Five minutes to go.
The red light above the main camera blinked on.
The café’s doors opened with a soft chime, and sunlight spilled across the polished counter. For the first time that day, the orchard wasn’t just a backdrop — it was alive, glowing with promise.
Mirae straightened her apron, exchanged a glance with Seul-gi, and moved toward the entrance with a smile that felt equal parts practiced and genuine. Behind them, Ji-hwan adjusted the last napkins on the counter, calm as ever.
The first guests stepped in.
A family of four: mother, father, and two children who clutched each other’s hands tightly, eyes wide at the sight of the cameras. The parents looked a little self-conscious, but the children were already tugging toward the window seats.
"Welcome!" Mirae’s voice was warm, her bow graceful. "Please, right this way. We’ve saved you the best seats by the window — you’ll have a view of the orchard."
Seul-gi, ever the sharp one, crouched briefly to the children’s level. "Do you like sweet bread?" she asked. Both kids nodded enthusiastically, their shyness melting instantly.
The family followed them, the camera catching the natural ease of the exchange.
Next came a young couple — maybe in their twenties, their fingers loosely entwined. The girl wore a floral dress, the boy a hoodie and cap, but their laughter gave them away as a pair in the first blush of love.
"This is perfect," the girl whispered, glancing at the café’s cozy interior.
Seul-gi guided them toward a table in the center. "The lighting’s best here. You’ll look good in your selfies," she teased. They laughed, already pulling out their phones to snap the table setting.
Finally, a trio of girls arrived, giggling before they’d even stepped inside. They looked about Mirae’s age, stylishly dressed, phones out the moment they crossed the threshold.
"Counter seats, please!" one chirped.
Mirae led them with a polite smile, though she felt their curious eyes flick toward Joon-ho in the kitchen. Even before they sat down, one whispered, "Is that him? The guy from RAZA?"
Their laughter filled the space, the sound high and giddy, like schoolgirls at recess.
The cast slid into their practiced rhythm.
Ji-hwan noticed the parents struggling with a baby chair and moved in quietly. "Allow me," he said, unfolding it with ease and setting it beside the mother’s seat. His gestures were smooth, steady, the kind of help that felt natural rather than staged.
Mirae and Seul-gi took the family’s order: bread tasting, sandwiches, and two lattes. The children chimed in with "jam!" and Mirae chuckled, assuring them the orchard’s jams were delicious.
At the young couple’s table, the order was simple: one sandwich to share, a latte, and a V60 hand-drip coffee. The girl looked delighted at the idea of hand-poured coffee, already imagining the photo.
The trio of girls leaned across the counter, deliberately playful. "We’ll take the gambas," one said, lips quirking, "and the bread tasting... and a sandwich too. We’ll order drinks later." Their eyes lingered not on Mirae or Seul-gi but on the kitchen, where Joon-ho stood.
Behind the counter, Joon-ho had already begun.
He warmed loaves of bread in the wood-fire oven, the heat gilding their crusts a golden brown. The scent spread quickly, rich and comforting, making the children by the window perk up on their chairs.
Next, he prepared the pork ham, cabbage slaw, and onions — each slice deliberate, his hands steady as though he had done this all his life.
Oil hissed in a pan, garlic and chili releasing their sharp perfume. The sizzle was loud enough to draw every eye in the café. Even the crew behind the cameras straightened, nostrils flaring.
By the time the shrimp hit the pan, curling pink in the heat, the entire café was watching.
Plates left the kitchen in a steady stream.
For the family: warm bread cut into bite-sized pieces, accompanied by tiny jars of local jams — mandarin marmalade, hallabong preserve, plum. Mirae set the platter down with a flourish, and the children immediately reached for slices, laughing as jam smeared across their fingers.
Their parents tried the sandwiches next, layers of Jeju black pork and spiced slaw pressed between crusty bread. "Delicious," the father murmured, his voice caught on camera, natural and unforced.
The couple in the middle leaned in, sharing their sandwich bite for bite. The girl sipped the latte and hummed, tapping her boyfriend’s arm to make him try. When the V60 arrived later, poured with slow, elegant precision by Joon-ho himself, she nearly squealed with delight. "It’s like a café date... but on TV," she whispered, making her boyfriend laugh.
At the counter, the trio of girls were less subtle.
One leaned her chin on her palm, watching Joon-ho with sparkling eyes. "Oppa, are you an actor? You look like one."
Joon-ho didn’t glance up from slicing bread, his tone even. "No. Just helping for today."
The second giggled. "Then you should have a fan page."
Joon-ho lifted a brow faintly, as though the idea barely registered. "I don’t. And I don’t plan to be in the industry."
The third girl laughed loud enough for the crew’s mics to catch. "Too late. You’re already famous. Everyone’s talking about you on SNS after that RAZA photo with Mirae."
He said nothing more, only focused on the coffee before him. He poured hot water in slow spirals, each motion deliberate, the aroma rising as steam. The three girls swooned in unison, snapping pictures.
"Look at that," one whispered, phone camera clicking. "He makes coffee like he’s in a CF."
Mirae approached just then to collect the tray. She caught the girls’ cheeky grins, their not-so-quiet giggles. Her cheeks warmed, but she held her head high.
Joon-ho passed her the tray smoothly. "Eat while it’s warm," he told the girls without looking up. "I’ll take your drink order after."
The girls pouted playfully, but their eyes followed Mirae as she walked away with the coffee. She felt the flutter in her chest — flustered, yes, but also proud. She knew exactly how they saw him. And part of her couldn’t blame them.
The café came alive.
Children laughed over sticky fingers. The couple whispered over their coffee cups. The trio of girls squealed softly every time Joon-ho walked by.
From the back, the kitchen staff shooed away other crew members trying to sneak slices of bread. "Yah! These are for filming!" one scolded, while another camera operator sheepishly hid a half-eaten piece behind his back.
The cast laughed at the chaos, the sound genuine. Even Seul-gi’s teasing was lighter, her sharp wit mellowed by the aroma of food and the hum of satisfied guests.
For a moment, it felt like the scandal outside didn’t exist.
But faintly, just beneath the orchard’s chatter, the protestors’ voices still echoed.
"No violence on TV!""Boycott until Do-jin is gone!"
The cameras didn’t catch it. The guests barely noticed. But the cast, the crew, and especially PD Kang Jin-ho knew: the storm hadn’t passed. It was only waiting.