Chapter 124: Chapter 124: Dawn at the Orchard Café
The digital clock on the dashboard glowed 4:03 a.m. in muted blue, the only splash of light against the still-dark road. Outside the rented IKA electric MVP, Jeju’s countryside was a blur of shadowy trees and quiet stretches of highway. The hum of the car was so soft it was almost nonexistent, the silence broken only by the faint thrum of tires rolling over asphalt.
In the passenger seat, Mirae was curled in an oversized hoodie, the hood drawn low, her cheek pressed against the window. Her breaths came slow and even, fogging the glass every few seconds. She’d tried to stay awake when they left the hotel, insisting she could help keep Joon-ho company, but the combination of the hour, the soothing quiet of the car, and his steady driving lulled her under almost instantly.
In the backseat, Hye-jin scrolled her phone, half for work, half to distract herself from how much she disliked this hour of the morning. She glanced up at the rearview mirror, catching Joon-ho’s eyes briefly before arching a brow."Are you sure you don’t want to ride in the agency van?" she asked. Her voice was low so as not to disturb Mirae, but edged with skepticism. "You could’ve closed your eyes, gotten some rest. Driving yourself seems unnecessary."
Joon-ho’s hands rested calmly on the steering wheel, the faint pre-dawn light from the horizon brushing across his features. His reply came without hesitation."I’d rather be the one steering," he said, his tone even, assured. "Keeps me sharp."
That answer made Hye-jin’s lips twitch. It wasn’t arrogance; it was that same plain certainty he carried everywhere, whether he was treating an injury or facing down PD Kang at the dining table."You’re not like the others," she muttered, shaking her head before returning her gaze to the phone screen.
From the corner of his eye, Joon-ho glanced at Mirae. Her head had slid lower against the glass, her lips parted slightly in the deep, unguarded sleep of exhaustion. A faint smile tugged at his lips. He lowered his voice, almost to a murmur."Sleep, Mirae. We’ve got an hour yet."
Her lashes fluttered once, as if she heard him even in her dreams, then stilled again. Joon-ho shifted his grip slightly, his focus returning to the road, but the softness lingered on his face.
By the time the car turned off the main road, the horizon had begun to blush faintly with streaks of gray and pale orange. The mandarin orchard sprawled before them, neat rows of trees dripping with dew. Floodlights set up around the filming area cut through the mist, illuminating tents, cables, and clusters of crew already bustling to life. Their voices, brisk and hurried, carried through the chill morning air.
Joon-ho parked smoothly near the crew vehicles. Mirae stirred at the stop, rubbing her eyes beneath the hood."Already?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
"Already," Joon-ho confirmed, reaching over to unclip her seatbelt before she could fumble for it with clumsy fingers.
Outside, PD Kang Jin-ho stood with a tablet in one hand, coffee in the other. His suit jacket was slightly wrinkled, his tie knotted loosely at the neck — the look of a man who hadn’t truly slept. He glanced up at the sound of the MVP door sliding open. His eyes sharpened first at Mirae stepping out, still blinking herself awake, then at Joon-ho, casually unfolding himself from the driver’s seat. Something unreadable flickered across his gaze at the sight of them arriving together like this.
Still, his tone was brisk as ever."You made it on time," he said, then turned to the nearest crew. "This is our new café manager. Treat him as you would any of the cast."
The words landed heavier than expected. A couple of crew members raised their brows, but nodded. To hear the notoriously exacting PD introduce someone new — and with warmth in his tone — was unusual. Joon-ho inclined his head politely."Show me where I should be."
Without missing a beat, PD Kang assigned him to the kitchen tent, pairing him with a crew member responsible for food prep. Joon-ho followed, asking immediately to see the day’s ingredient list and prep plan, his manner practical, almost clinical. The crew, at first wary, relaxed under the clarity of his questions.
Mirae, meanwhile, was gently tugged away by Hye-jin, the manager’s hand warm around her wrist."Come on, pajama girl," Hye-jin said with wry fondness. "You’ve got hair and makeup waiting."
Mirae only nodded, stifling a yawn, before being led toward the trailer parked at the edge of the orchard.
Inside the makeup trailer, the air was warm and smelled of hairspray, face powder, and brewed coffee. Bright bulbs rimmed the mirrors, casting a glow that made everyone look more awake than they felt.
Seul-gi was already perched in the chair nearest the window, phone in hand while a stylist worked on her hair. She wore a robe, her legs crossed neatly, and the smirk that curved her lips when Mirae entered was sharp enough to cut.
"Well, well," Seul-gi greeted, her voice light but laced with mischief. "Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence. And..." She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "So... who’s the mystery man?"
Mirae blinked, caught off guard. She pulled her hood lower instinctively."Mystery man?"
Seul-gi waved her phone like a weapon, the screen flashing with a familiar photo — Joon-ho in the RAZA fitting room yesterday, Mirae holding up a jacket against his shoulders. The image had clearly been taken from a distance, yet it captured them too naturally, too intimately."Don’t play dumb. RAZA’s trending with this. He looks like he walked straight out of a drama. And you—" Seul-gi gestured broadly at Mirae’s flushed cheeks—"looked like you were playing house."
The makeup artists and stylists, who had been quietly focused on their tools, burst into laughter and joined the chatter."He’s really a doctor?" one of them asked incredulously."Too good-looking to be just a doctor," another chimed in."I thought he was an actor I didn’t recognize. Those shoulders..."
Mirae’s face heated immediately, the blush creeping all the way to the tips of her ears."H-he is a doctor," she stammered, her voice squeaky with embarrassment. "And it’s not—it’s not like that..."
Seul-gi arched a perfectly styled brow, her smirk deepening. "Mm-hm. Sure. Not like that. That’s why you’re glowing redder than a ripe mandarin."
The room erupted into more laughter. Mirae swatted at her robe sleeve with a weak protest, but her lips curved despite herself. She couldn’t help it — the warmth inside her chest was too bright, too full.
Hye-jin, watching from the corner, only shook her head in exasperation, though her eyes softened. For once, she didn’t cut in to shield Mirae from the teasing. Maybe, she thought, a little gossip like this wasn’t a bad thing.
The orchard outside buzzed louder as dawn finally broke, the sky shifting to pale gold. Crews hurried between tents, cameras were rolled into place, and in the kitchen tent, Joon-ho studied the ingredients with quiet focus, sleeves already pushed up, looking every bit like he belonged.
But in the trailer, surrounded by laughter and warmth, Mirae still felt her heart flutter — not from the teasing, not from the lights or makeup brushes, but from knowing he was here, a part of her world now.
And though she tried to hide her smile behind her hands, she couldn’t keep the thought from spilling through her chest:
It really did look like they were playing house.
The kitchen tent smelled faintly of yeast and citrus. A long folding table had been set up as the prep station, its surface crowded with bowls of flour, cartons of eggs, jars of jewel-bright jams from the orchard, and a crate of shrimp still smelling faintly of the sea. A few sprigs of herbs and baskets of mandarins added bursts of color among the utilitarian clutter.
The crew inside the tent looked as bleary-eyed as the hour demanded. Their aprons were smudged with flour, their hair hastily tied back, the weariness of long shoots etched into their shoulders. When Joon-ho stepped in, his sleeves already rolled to his elbows, the low murmur of voices stuttered into silence.
"This is the new one?" one of them asked, half to the others, half to himself.
Joon-ho offered a polite nod, gaze sweeping the ingredients with a measured calm that made him seem less like an outsider and more like a chef inspecting his brigade. "What’s the plan?"
A younger crew member, cheeks still flushed from the cold air outside, pushed forward a clipboard. "Original setup was simple. Bread for sandwiches. An egg dish — omelet, scramble, we weren’t sure yet. And..." He gestured vaguely at the crate of shrimp. "We thought something with these. But honestly, we don’t know what works best under camera timing. The PD hasn’t said."
The others shifted uneasily. It was clear they weren’t confident. Too many moving parts, too little direction.
Joon-ho set the clipboard down. "Bread for sandwiches, eggs, shrimp. What’s the time window?"
"Two hours before first guests arrive," another answered quickly. "But cameras roll before then — they want footage of prep."
Joon-ho tapped a finger against the table, silent for a beat. Then, evenly: "Cut the eggs."
The crew blinked. "Cut them?"
"Too fiddly under pressure," he explained. "They’ll seize, overcook, or sit too long. Not worth the risk on live tape."
He shifted to the baskets of jam, lifting one jar and holding it up to the light. The amber gleamed, flecked with peel. "But you have something better. Local orchard jams. Bake more bread. Set up a bread-and-jam tasting. Highlight what this place actually produces. It’s simple, visual, and flexible."
The crew exchanged glances, surprised at how obvious it suddenly sounded.
"Keep the sandwiches," Joon-ho continued, setting the jam down. "They can be prepped in advance, cut neatly for serving. As for the shrimp..." His eyes flicked to the small cast-iron pans stacked near the oven. "Gambas al Ajillo. Garlic, olive oil, chili. Simple, fast, served bubbling in the pan. Bread on the side. If guests want something heavier, toss in pasta. It looks good on camera, and it’s foolproof if you stay ahead of the prep."
The tent went quiet, as if the air itself had shifted. The crew looked at each other again, but this time it wasn’t uncertainty — it was recognition. The plan made sense. More than sense; it was the first time all morning they’d had clarity.
"That..." the young one breathed, "might actually work."
Another let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Better than what we had, anyway."
Joon-ho didn’t smile, but the weight in his tone lightened. "Good. Then let’s get to it."
Flour dust soon clouded the air, soft and fine, catching the glow of the floodlights outside. Two crew members measured and sifted under Joon-ho’s steady instruction, while another cracked eggs into a stainless-steel bowl for the dough. Joon-ho moved among them with unhurried precision, showing how to fold, how to press, how to let the heel of the hand carry the weight.
"Not rushed," he said quietly as he kneaded, the dough stretching under his palms. "Bread doesn’t forgive haste."
The rhythm steadied the tent. What had started as anxious fumbling became smoother, calmer. Even the flour-smudged crew found themselves matching his tempo.
At the far end, someone stoked the wood-fire oven, flames licking brighter as kindling caught. Heat bloomed through the tent, cutting through the dawn chill.
When the dough was set aside to rise, Joon-ho dusted off his hands, glanced around the space, and turned toward the corner where the espresso machine sat neglected. Its chrome gleam was dulled with splatters, the drip tray half-full, the grinder left untended.
He crouched, running a practiced eye over the setup. "When was this last cleaned?"
The crew shuffled awkwardly. "Uh... yesterday? Maybe the day before?"
Joon-ho shook his head faintly, already disassembling the portafilter, wiping down the group head, running water through the machine until it hissed clean. He adjusted the grind, tamped a test shot, and let the rich crema bloom in the cup. The air filled instantly with the deep, nutty scent of fresh espresso.
He frothed milk with the same easy grace, poured the foam into a swirl, and slid the first latte across the counter. "Taste."
One of the crew hesitated, then took a sip. His eyes widened."This... this is better than our usual catering."
Another leaned forward eagerly. "Make one more?"
By the time Joon-ho had pulled the third shot, there was a line forming. It wasn’t part of the plan, not on any schedule, but in that small tent at dawn, morale lifted with every steaming cup passed into waiting hands. Laughter returned. Shoulders straightened. For a moment, the exhaustion that had clung to them melted away with the warmth of coffee.
When the last cup was drained, Joon-ho rinsed the portafilter, his movements as precise as ever. He glanced at the rising dough, checked the time. "The oven team can handle the bake?"
"Yes, we’ve got it," the young one assured him quickly, already moving to flour the benches again.
"Good. Then I’ll check on the others."
He gestured to the trays, still half-full of lattes, and added, "Bring these to the trailers. Cast, managers, stylists — everyone will work better if they start with this."
Two crew members scrambled to follow, balancing trays carefully.
Joon-ho lifted one himself, the steam curling into the morning air as he stepped outside.
The orchard had shifted in the short time he’d been inside. The sky was brighter now, streaked with pale gold. Cameras gleamed under their tarps. Wardrobe racks clattered as they were wheeled across uneven ground. The faint hum of generators blended with birdsong.
As he walked toward the makeup trailer, the scent of coffee trailed behind him like an announcement, heads turning one by one. Crew members blinked in surprise — not just at the coffee, but at the man carrying it as though he’d always belonged here.
Joon-ho didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The tray in his hands, the quiet assurance in his stride, the small nods of acknowledgment he gave as he passed — it all said enough.
By the time he reached the trailer, the chatter inside had already spilled into laughter, Mirae’s soft protests and Seul-gi’s teasing audible even through the thin walls.
Joon-ho waited a beat, then lifted a hand to knock. The tray of steaming cups waited between his palms, a quiet offering, a reminder that though he was new to this world, he had already woven himself into it — not by demanding space, but by filling it with something no one else had thought to bring.
Coffee. Calm. And the kind of presence that made people believe, without question, that the day ahead would run smoother simply because he was there.