The trailer smelled faintly of hairspray, powder, and lingering fatigue. It was early, too early — crew members stifled yawns, stylists hunched over palettes, and makeup artists dabbed half-heartedly at cast members who hadn't fully woken.

Then the door swung open.

The first thing to enter was the aroma — deep, rich, roasted warmth cutting through the stale morning air. A ripple of heads turned. In came Joon-ho, carrying a tray of steaming lattes, the foam still intact in their paper cups. Behind him, two younger crew members balanced trays of their own, moving carefully as if they carried treasure.

The room transformed in seconds. Drowsy faces lit up, sleepy shoulders straightened.

"Coffee?" one stylist whispered, eyes wide.

Mirae, who had been seated in the corner getting her eyeliner touched up, lit up instantly. She hopped to her feet, a natural smile blooming as she hurried over. "I'll help—don't just stand there, give me some!" She plucked cups from Joon-ho's tray, moving with the ease of someone used to taking care of others.

Her eagerness, and the way her body angled unconsciously toward him, did not go unnoticed.

Joon-ho's low voice carried easily as he passed a cup to a makeup artist: "Careful, it's hot."

The woman blushed like she'd just been handed roses. "T-thank you."

By the time Mirae turned back, balancing three cups in her arms, the trailer was buzzing.

She stopped in front of the other two cast members. "Here," she said, handing one to Ji-hwan, who accepted it with a quiet bow, and another to Seul-gi, who immediately eyed her with open curiosity.

Mirae hesitated, then drew in a small breath. "This is Joon-ho… he'll be on today's shoot."

Ji-hwan, always the gentleman, gave a small smile. "Welcome. I look forward to working with you."

Seul-gi, however, wasn't about to let it slide so politely. She leaned back in her chair, smirking, phone already in her hand. "So this is the man who made RAZA trend yesterday?" She tilted the screen just enough for the reflection of Joon-ho's tall figure beside Mirae to show. "Not just handsome, but mysterious too."

The stylists around them perked up like sparrows spotting a crumb. Whispers crackled.

Mirae's face flared pink. "Unnie—don't say it like that!"

Her protest barely left her lips before Joon-ho's arm slid smoothly around her waist, anchoring her to his side. His voice, calm and certain, dropped into the noise.

"No need to guess," he said. "Yes, she's my girlfriend."

The trailer went silent for exactly one beat.

Then chaos.

"Wha—?!"

"No way!"

The stylists squealed, makeup brushes frozen midair. One dropped her comb, clattering against the floor. Mirae nearly choked on her coffee, cheeks blazing crimson, but she didn't pull away. In fact, she found herself instinctively leaning into him, the solid warmth of his body grounding her as the room erupted.

Seul-gi clutched her chest dramatically, fanning herself with her free hand. "Hot. I'm sweating. Someone open a window before I faint."

The room burst into laughter.

Ji-hwan, understated but supportive, simply raised his thumb toward Joon-ho, lips quirking in approval. "Manly to admit it outright."

"Manly?" Seul-gi pounced instantly, narrowing her eyes at Ji-hwan. "Then when's your turn, Mr. Gentleman? Going to admit your girlfriend, or do we have to stalk your SNS?"

Ji-hwan only smiled faintly, sipping his coffee. "Some things," he said smoothly, "are better kept private."

"Ha! So you do have one," Seul-gi crowed, earning a round of teasing noises from the stylists.

Ji-hwan shook his head, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

Meanwhile, Mirae buried her face behind her cup, trying desperately to hide. Her shoulders trembled — with laughter, with embarrassment, with both. But the shy smile she couldn't suppress betrayed her completely.

And still, she didn't move away from Joon-ho.

The trailer, moments ago sluggish with pre-dawn lethargy, was now a hive of chatter. Stylists exchanged knowing looks, makeup artists whispered conspiratorially as they darted between brushes and curling irons.

"Oh, they match well."

"Should we coordinate outfits for them? Couple styling, maybe?"

"Imagine the ratings if the production leans into this…"

Mirae wanted to melt into the floor. But every time she risked a glance upward, she found Joon-ho unbothered, sipping calmly, as if public declarations like this were everyday business. His composure only made her blush harder.

Seul-gi gave her a playful nudge. "You're glowing, Mirae. Don't think we can't see it."

"Unnie!" Mirae protested, but her voice lacked heat. Her fingers clutched Joon-ho's sleeve unconsciously, betraying a quiet need to stay close.

He glanced down at her, the corner of his mouth tugging in amusement, then shifted slightly so her weight rested more securely against him.

The staff squealed again. Someone actually clapped.

By the time the last latte was distributed, the entire trailer was awake, alive, and buzzing — not just from caffeine, but from the unexpected drama dropped into their laps.

The revelation of Joon-ho and Mirae's relationship had transformed the atmosphere entirely. What had begun as a groggy, mechanical morning now pulsed with laughter, whispers, and barely concealed excitement.

And in the center of it all, Mirae clung to her coffee cup like a shield, cheeks burning, while the man beside her calmly held her waist as if he'd done it a thousand times before.

The stylists began to chatter about outfit changes, debating colors and fabrics that might make the "couple look" pop on camera. Mirae groaned softly, hiding her face in her hands, but her smile betrayed her.

Ji-hwan sipped his coffee, calm as ever, while Seul-gi fanned herself again, muttering theatrically: "This trailer's too small for this kind of heat."

The laughter rolled on, and even Hye-jin — perched quietly in the corner with her arms crossed — allowed herself a tiny smirk. She'd seen Mirae through countless mornings, countless shoots, but never this kind of brightness.

And never with someone willing to declare it to the world without hesitation.

The morning had just begun, and already the day's shoot felt different.

The walk from the trailer to the kitchen carried a different energy than usual. Mirae tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, stealing glances at Joon-ho as if still adjusting to the fact that he had so openly claimed her in front of everyone. She cleared her throat lightly.

"Oppa," she asked, voice pitched softer than usual, "how's the kitchen? Everything under control?"

Joon-ho adjusted the tray in his hands and answered with calm certainty. "Simplified. Bread with the orchard's jams, sandwiches with Jeju pork, and gambas with shrimp. Enough to impress without turning the set into chaos."

Seul-gi, who walked a half-step behind with her coffee cup, clapped dramatically. "If the shrimp tastes half as good as it smells from here, you're going to be more popular than us today."

"I'm counting on you to keep the spotlight," Joon-ho replied without missing a beat, his lips quirking.

"Too late," Seul-gi muttered under her breath, but the sparkle in her eyes betrayed amusement rather than jealousy.

"Come," Joon-ho said finally, with the calm air of someone inviting friends home. "Breakfast first."

The kitchen tent beside the orchard café was alive with movement. Assistants hurried past with trays, the wood-fire oven glowed orange, and the faint mist of dawn still clung to the mandarin trees outside. But all of that faded against the mouthwatering aroma of bread wafting from the oven.

One of the kitchen staff spotted Joon-ho and waved him over, beaming. "First batch is ready!"

They pulled out loaves of white, rye, and sourdough, each crust dark and crackling, steam seeping out in tempting ribbons. The cast instinctively leaned closer, noses twitching like children drawn to a bakery.

Joon-ho slipped on oven mitts, took a loaf of sourdough, and sliced into it. The knife broke the crust with a sharp crackle, and steam curled upward, carrying the tangy scent into the cool morning air. "Cut like this for tastings," he explained, showing the crew bite-sized wedges, "and like this for sandwiches." His hands moved with the ease of someone who belonged in kitchens as much as clinics.

Plates began to fill. White bread with mandarin marmalade. Rye with hallabong jam. Sourdough spread with tart plum preserve.

"Ladies first," Joon-ho said, sliding a plate toward Mirae.

She took one tentative bite. Her eyes widened, her lips parted in delight. "It's… so good," she murmured, almost in disbelief at the burst of orchard sweetness against warm bread.

Seul-gi grabbed a piece, bit down, and promptly fanned her mouth. "Oh no. If you keep cooking like this every shoot, I'm never fitting back into my stage dresses."

The makeup artists lingering nearby snickered.

Ji-hwan, more reserved, picked up a slice and chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed and said in his steady tone, "Simple. Honest. It will show well on camera."

More trays arrived, carrying sandwiches stacked with Jeju black pork ham, layered with spiced cabbage slaw and onions. The scent was smoky and rich, cut with the sharp crunch of vegetables.

Mirae bit into one and closed her eyes, savoring. "This tastes like home… and comfort," she whispered, not realizing she'd spoken aloud until Seul-gi nudged her with a knowing grin.

"It's definitely better than whatever we served last week," Seul-gi admitted, though her mouth was full and her words slightly muffled.

The real spectacle came when the oil hit the cast iron pan. Garlic sizzled instantly, a perfume of spice and warmth rising as thin red chilis joined in. Joon-ho slid in the shrimp, shells snapping and curling into a perfect pink. The sound alone made half the crew turn their heads.

He brought the pan out himself, careful but unhurried, and set it on the café counter. "Eat while it's hot."

Mirae dipped a piece of bread into the garlic oil, brought it to her lips, and couldn't stop the soft, unguarded moan that escaped. She clapped a hand over her mouth, mortified.

Seul-gi pounced instantly, pointing as though she'd uncovered a scandal. "This isn't a cooking show anymore. This is a love story!"

The trailer gossip hadn't cooled yet, and the kitchen crew's laughter made it roar back to life. Mirae's face turned pink, but she kept dipping bread into the pan anyway, her stubbornness betrayed by the sparkle in her eyes.

Ji-hwan dipped calmly, unaffected by the chaos around him, and nodded. "Perfect balance," he said simply, which only earned another round of applause from the kitchen crew.

In the back, two staff tried to sneak chunks of bread. "Yah! Save it for the shoot!" another shouted, chasing them out with a ladle. The commotion sent ripples of laughter through both cast and crew.

Mirae leaned closer to Joon-ho, giggling helplessly as she watched grown men practically duel over stolen bread. Her shoulder brushed his arm, the contact small but steady, like it belonged there.

Seul-gi caught it, of course. She lifted her sandwich high, announcing: "Couple breakfast! Everything tastes sweeter when it's shared."

Mirae nearly dropped her bread in embarrassment, but Joon-ho only smiled faintly, unbothered, as if the teasing was nothing more than background noise.

The kitchen smelled of garlic and citrus, of rising bread and fried shrimp, but the air buzzed with something sharper — an anticipation. Even the camera crew lurking discreetly nearby could feel it. Today's shoot would shine, not just because of the sunlight in the orchard, but because of the unspoken energy humming around the café counter.

And at the center of it, Mirae and Joon-ho sat shoulder to shoulder, laughter spilling between them like the simplest, truest kind of advertisement no network executive could ever script.

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