The last of the dishes had been cleared away, leaving only the faint aroma of garlic and sesame in the private dining room. The orchids at the table's center leaned gently as the server collected the empty tea pot, sliding the door shut behind him with soft finality.

For the first time all afternoon, PD Kang Jin-ho looked almost human. His usual stiffness had eased, the heavy lines of stress softened as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin and rose from his chair. He smoothed his jacket, then buttoned it with brisk efficiency, though the gesture carried less severity than it had when he entered.

"Tomorrow morning," he said, his gaze flicking from Mirae to Joon-ho. "Bring him with you. We'll start early."

The phrasing landed like a small shock. Mirae blinked, her lips parting. Bring him with you. As though it were already decided, as though Joon-ho had been folded seamlessly into her world without even a question.

"Yes, PD-nim," Hye-jin replied smoothly, standing with a polite bow.

Kang Jin-ho inclined his head and left without another word. The door closed behind him, and the hush that followed felt heavier than before, as though the absence of his presence allowed the tension to shift somewhere else entirely.

Mirae's gaze lingered on the closed door, then turned toward Joon-ho. He was still seated, posture unhurried, hands folded loosely before him. She stared for a long moment before her voice slipped out, small, uncertain.

"Oppa… do you really have to come tomorrow?"

The question cracked the silence like a pebble tossed into still water.

Hye-jin, still standing, tilted her head, eyes narrowing with interest. She didn't say anything yet, just leaned back against the wall with arms crossed, as though settling in to observe a play.

Joon-ho finally lifted his gaze to Mirae. His expression was calm, unreadable, yet there was a quiet warmth in his eyes that steadied her even as her heart raced.

"If I can help you finish the shoot smoothly," he said, his voice low, measured, "why not? And this way… we spend the day together."

Mirae's cheeks flamed. The way he said it — so simple, so matter-of-fact — painted pictures in her mind she hadn't meant to summon: the two of them standing side by side, cameras catching them together as though they were a team. The image filled her chest with a fluttering warmth that left her breathless.

Hye-jin broke the moment with a laugh, pushing off the wall. "From a professional standpoint? You'd steal the frame. With a little styling, you'll outshine half the cast."

Mirae sputtered, hands waving as if to shoo her manager's words away. "Unnie!"

But the heat blooming under her skin betrayed her. Because deep down, she knew Hye-jin was right. Even here, in his simple neutral shirt, Joon-ho drew the eye without effort. On camera, dressed properly, he would be impossible to ignore.

Joon-ho only smiled faintly, unbothered by the teasing.

Mirae pursed her lips, studying him, and then realization struck. Her face scrunched with mock sternness. "Oppa… you only brought neutral shirts and slacks. That won't do for TV."

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he found her fussing amusing. "They're comfortable."

"No excuses." Mirae's voice took on the determined firmness that once made stylists and choreographers alike wilt. "We're going shopping. Now."

Hye-jin smirked, clearly delighted at how quickly Mirae had slipped into commanding mode. "Looks like your fate's been decided, Joon-ho-ssi."

He gave a soft chuckle but didn't argue, rising smoothly from his chair. "All right. Lead the way."

They left the restaurant together, the late afternoon sunlight spilling warm gold across the polished floors of the lobby. Joon-ho drove, the hum of the engine filling the quiet as they pulled out onto Jeju's coastal road.

Mirae sat in the passenger seat, stealing glances at him. The seriousness in his profile made her fingers itch to reach for his hand, to remind herself he wasn't some fleeting vision but solid, real.

Instead, she broke the silence. "Have you ever been on a shooting set before?"

He shook his head, eyes on the road. "No. But I heard the concept is a café?"

"Yes," Mirae said, relieved at the opening. "It's a café in the middle of a mandarin orchard. That's the set. We operate it like a real place — at least on camera."

His brow lifted slightly. "You cook?"

She laughed softly, shaking her head. "Not me. Seul-gi and I mostly serve guests. Ji-hwan handles small tasks — cleaning tables, moving supplies. Do-jin… used to do the coffee making and food prep. Though honestly, the crew always helped smooth things over in the background. He never cared enough to learn properly."

The mention of Do-jin soured the air for a moment, but Joon-ho's calm steadiness diffused it.

"So that work falls to me tomorrow," he said, not as a question but as a quiet acceptance.

Mirae nodded, twisting her fingers in her lap. "It's a lot. Guests come in waves. You'd need to know the menu, the machines, the timing—"

"I'll check the menu first thing," Joon-ho interrupted gently. "Talk with PD, the crew. Learn what I need to."

The assurance was simple, but something in the way he said it — no bravado, just certainty — made her heart stutter.

She turned her face toward the window, watching the blur of orchards and coastline rush by, but her reflection in the glass betrayed the small smile tugging at her lips.

He adapted so easily. Filled gaps without complaint. Where others buckled under the weight of expectations, he carried them as if they were light as air.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, Mirae wondered if that was what frightened her most — that he could step so effortlessly into her chaotic world, that one day he might belong to it more than he belonged to her.

Still, when his hand brushed hers lightly on the console, her fingers curled instinctively around his, clinging just a little tighter than she intended.

The car carried them onward, the late sun painting the road in molten light, toward the mall where curious eyes and flashing cameras already waited for them without knowing.

The glass doors of the luxury mall parted with a hiss, spilling cool air across Mirae's cheeks as she stepped inside. The late afternoon sun was cut away, replaced by gleaming floors, polished marble, and the distant murmur of weekend shoppers. She adjusted her sunglasses and squared her shoulders, her posture shifting as naturally as a tide turning.

Gone was the girl who blushed when Joon-ho brushed her hand in the car. Here, she was Mirae the star — chin lifted, stride measured, her presence pulling every eye in the atrium. Conversations faltered, phones tilted upward. The ripples of recognition spread fast, the first whispers rising in her wake.

"Is that Mirae?"

"She's even prettier in person."

"She's supposed to be on that café show, right?"

Hye-jin walked a step behind, expression wry as she watched the shift unfold. Joon-ho, beside Mirae, noticed it most of all. A small part of him marveled at how quickly she could slip into the role the world demanded. It was like watching light refract through glass — the same Mirae he knew, yet wholly transformed, her confidence burning like a beacon.

To him, it was almost surreal. Just hours ago, she had been pink-cheeked, hiding behind her hands when teased. Now, the shy edges were gone, replaced by a poise that seemed untouchable.

Hye-jin leaned closer to him, her voice pitched just enough for him to hear. "Funny, isn't it? She's not usually this glamorous."

Mirae's ears caught it, her head turning just enough to shoot her manager a glare. "Unnie," she hissed under her breath.

Hye-jin smirked, enjoying herself.

Mirae's cheeks colored, the mask of poise cracking for just a second. She muttered, quieter still, "I just… want to look good in front of my man."

Joon-ho's low chuckle slipped out before he could stop it. The sound deepened Mirae's blush, her composure wobbling, though she refused to meet his eyes.

They crossed the polished floors toward the flagship RAZA store, its gold-lettered logo glinting above wide glass doors. Inside, rows of mannequins displayed crisp blazers, sleek coats, perfectly tailored trousers. Staff in black uniforms bowed slightly as they entered, already recognizing Mirae.

The store manager spotted her immediately, hurrying over with a practiced but genuinely warm smile. "Mirae-ssi, welcome. It's been some time. What can we do for you today?"

Mirae dipped her head politely, her celebrity grace fully in place. "We're looking for clothes for him," she said, gesturing toward Joon-ho. "He has a shoot tomorrow."

The manager's brows lifted, though she hid her curiosity well. "Of course. Leave it to us." She clapped her hands lightly, and within moments, staff began fanning out, pulling racks and arranging displays as if royalty had entered.

Mirae lifted her hand quickly, flustered. "Ah—no, no need to go that far. We don't want to disturb other guests—"

But it was already too late. The staff worked with quiet efficiency, arms draped with jackets and shirts, trousers in muted shades and bold cuts. They laid pieces on polished tables, the fabrics rich under the store's lighting.

Other shoppers had noticed by now. Heads tilted, whispers carried across the boutique.

"Who's that with her?"

"Is he a new actor from the same agency?"

"Look at his shoulders. He doesn't look like an idol, more like… I don't know, someone older, more grounded."

A group of college-aged girls lingered by a rack of scarves, pretending to browse while angling their phones discreetly. Their giggles carried faintly as they snapped photos, whispering between themselves.

Meanwhile, Mirae busied herself with the clothing, her focus sharp. She lifted a blazer, held it against Joon-ho's shoulders, then stepped back with a critical eye. "Too boxy," she murmured, setting it aside. She picked another, brushing her fingers along the fabric before draping it against him. Her lips pursed thoughtfully. "Better. Try this one."

The intimacy of the gesture — her standing so close, tilting her head as she adjusted his collar — wasn't lost on anyone watching. The scene looked far too personal, far too natural. To strangers, it was less a star picking outfits for a colleague and more a girlfriend dressing her boyfriend.

The whispers sharpened.

"They look good together."

"Are they dating?"

"Impossible… right?"

Joon-ho, for his part, remained unbothered, his gaze following Mirae's movements with quiet patience. He allowed her to fuss over the fit, his steady presence grounding her even as attention from strangers grew heavier.

Hye-jin leaned against a display, arms crossed, watching with an expression halfway between amusement and exasperation.

"You're enjoying this too much," Mirae muttered as she caught her manager smirking.

"I'm just saying," Hye-jin replied, her voice lilting with mischief. "You usually hide when people stare. Now you're center stage, adjusting his sleeves like it's your drama debut."

Mirae's face flushed hotter, but she didn't stop. She tugged gently at the hem of the jacket, her brows furrowed in concentration. "He has to look good on camera," she said defensively. "It's important."

Within minutes, the first photos had already made it online.

On SNS, the flood began.

A post appeared with a blurry shot of Mirae holding a jacket against Joon-ho: "Mirae spotted shopping in Jeju — show filming not canceled after all?"

Comments piled in instantly.

"Shameless. The network is still forcing the show to go on?"

"Boycott confirmed. We're storming the set tomorrow."

"Look at her, carefree, shopping while the scandal burns. Unreal."

Her haters pounced, sharpening knives, their words quick and cruel.

But then another thread spun out beneath the first.

"Wait… who's the guy with her?"

A closer photo surfaced, catching Joon-ho mid-turn, his profile sharp, the lines of his body emphasized by the cut of the jacket Mirae held.

"Holy—who is he?"

"He's not an idol, but… he's better-looking than most of them."

"That body. That jawline. Husband material."

Within minutes, the tide shifted. Female netizens flooded the thread, calling him oppa, future husband, dropping strings of heart emojis. Some speculated he was debuting soon, maybe under Mirae's agency.

Male commenters tried to push back.

"Please. He's just a pretty face. Let's see if he can act."

"Idols like him come and go every year."

But the counterattack fizzled as more photos emerged — Joon-ho slipping into a fitted black blazer, Mirae adjusting the lapel, his calm expression framed by RAZA's sleek lighting.

The image was devastating.

"Okay, I take it back. This man is not normal."

"He's a model, right? Has to be."

"Find me his name. I need to stan him now."

Someone eventually recalled a scrap of memory.

"Wait — isn't that the guy who was with Ji-hye at the volleyball team? The therapist?"

"Yes! That's him. He treated the team!"

Comments tangled together, some remembering, some doubting, others furiously trying to track down details. But no official profile existed, no searchable record. He was a mystery, and mystery only added to the fire.

The chatter shifted again.

"Imagine if he appears on the café show with Mirae."

"Ratings would explode."

"He looks more natural than half the cast already."

Back in the boutique, Mirae was oblivious to the online frenzy unfolding second by second. She held another jacket against Joon-ho, biting her lip as she tilted her head to gauge the fit.

"This one's good," she decided softly. "Really good."

Joon-ho glanced down at her, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "I'll trust your judgment."

Her pulse skipped. She looked away quickly, but the warmth in her chest lingered, bright and unshakable, even under the sharp glare of public eyes.

The storm broke before they even left the store.

On the glowing screens of countless phones, comments piled in like waves, one crest tumbling over the next. At first, the tide was bitter — anger at the network, fury at Do-jin, disdain for the production team that dared to continue filming.

"Boycott still on. We're not letting them bury this scandal.""Storm the café set tomorrow, everyone bring banners.""This show is trash, and so is the agency."

The outrage burned hot, but it couldn't hold the spotlight for long. Not when a new figure had entered the frame.

"Wait… who's the guy with Mirae?""Not Do-jin, not Ji-hwan… who the hell is he?"

Zoomed-in photos spread like wildfire. Joon-ho adjusting the cuff of a RAZA blazer. Mirae standing close, her hand brushing his shoulder. Another shot caught him in profile, jaw sharp under the boutique lights, Mirae's gaze fixed on him with unguarded softness.

Speculation erupted.

"Agency's new talent?""Guest cast replacement??""No, no — I swear I saw him with Ji-hye at the volleyball match!"

Someone dug up old fan-cam photos from the national volleyball tournament, blurry but clear enough to recognize the same man standing near Ji-hye.

"Wait… he's the therapist who treated the team, isn't he?""Yeah! He was mentioned in an article back then. Some prodigy physio."

The puzzle pieces refused to fit neatly, and that only made the obsession worse.

Netizens began "investigations" with the fervor of detectives. Posts flooded community boards: threads dissecting his build, his clothes, the way he carried himself. Every detail became a clue. But no agency profile surfaced, no official statement, no name tied neatly to his face.

The mystery became gasoline on the fire.

Unofficial fan accounts sprouted overnight, handles cobbled together from fragments: @CafePrince_Jeju, @MiraeMysteryMan, @RazaOppa. Within hours, they were posting edits, fancams clipped from shaky boutique videos, even collages of Joon-ho's blazer fits. Hashtags trended: #RazaOppa, #CafePrince, #MiraeBoyfriend??

Inside the store, Mirae finally felt the change. The whispers grew bolder, phones less discreet. When she looked up from holding another jacket against Joon-ho's shoulders, she spotted a pair of teenagers openly recording them from across the aisle, muffling their laughter as they hit post.

Her pulse spiked. Instinctively, she slipped her arm through Joon-ho's, pulling him closer.

He glanced down, surprised at the sudden cling, but didn't comment. His steady warmth anchored her, the quiet weight of his presence more effective than any disguise.

Pride flickered in her chest — pride that others could see what she saw, could feel a fraction of the magnetic pull that kept her tethered to him. But threaded through it was a sharper emotion, fragile and afraid. The world had a way of claiming what it admired. Fans built idols only to tear them down. If netizens latched onto him the way they were beginning to now, how long before he was no longer hers alone?

Her fingers tightened on his arm without realizing it.

Behind them, Hye-jin caught the gesture, her brows lifting slightly. She didn't say anything — not yet — but her eyes gleamed with a knowing that made Mirae's ears burn.

Across Jeju, in a cramped officetel smelling faintly of stale coffee and old liniment, Kang Min-seok scrolled furiously on his phone.

The screen lit his face in the dim room, each swipe dragging him deeper into the pit of rage.

Joon-ho's name — or rather, his lack of a name — was everywhere. Photos of him were plastered across feeds, strangers drooling over his looks, speculating on his role in the show. Memes already called him husband material, edits paired him with Mirae as if they were a drama couple.

Min-seok's lip curled. "Him? Again?!"

The humiliation tasted bitter on his tongue. Wasn't it enough that Joon-ho had ruined him once, back at the national camp? That his reputation had shattered while Joon-ho's star only rose? And now, after everything, the bastard was trending, adored by strangers who didn't even know his name?

He slammed the phone down on the table, the screen bouncing dangerously close to cracking. His breath came heavy, his jaw tight with fury.

The device buzzed again. A call. Unknown Seoul number flashing.

Min-seok stared at it, suspicion knitting his brows. He hesitated, then snatched it up, pressing it to his ear.

"…Hello?"

The voice on the other end spoke quickly, low and direct. Whatever words spilled through the receiver made the blood drain from Min-seok's face. His grip tightened until his knuckles whitened, his eyes narrowing as resolve twisted through his features.

When the line clicked dead, he sat frozen for a beat, chest rising and falling. Then, slowly, an ugly smile tugged at his lips.

He set the phone down with care this time, though his hand trembled faintly. In the reflection of the darkened window, his own expression stared back — tight, envious, dangerous.

The storm outside the boutique was just noise for now, tweets and hashtags rising like wind. But in Min-seok's small, suffocating room, a different storm had begun to gather — one fed not by fandom, but by jealousy and spite.

And when it broke, it would not be contained by screens.

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