CHAPTER 130: CHAPTER 130: COFFEE PRINCE LIVE

The late afternoon sun spilled gold across the Jeju orchard, painting long amber streaks across the café’s wooden deck. The chaos of the day had finally burned itself out, leaving behind the faint scent of citrus and wood smoke. Crew members moved at an easy pace now, coiling cables, stacking chairs, and laughing in quiet relief.

The café door swung open again and again as the last wave of guests departed. Mirae stood near the entrance beside Seul-gi, both smiling and bowing with practiced warmth.

"Thank you for visiting!" Mirae’s voice carried that natural brightness the camera loved—though now, there were no cameras pointed at her. Just people.

A family of four waved back, the children clutching their leftover coloring sheets. "It was delicious!" the mother said. "Especially the bread!"

Seul-gi beamed. "That’s our secret weapon—bread and charm."

The parents laughed as they stepped into the glowing orchard, the gravel crunching softly beneath their feet.

Inside, Ji-hwan followed behind another couple, carrying a folded stroller to their car. His steady manner was quietly reassuring, the kind that made guests trust him instantly. When he came back, he gave Mirae and Seul-gi a thumbs-up.

"That’s the last family, right?" he asked.

"Almost," Seul-gi said, peering toward the counter. "Except our honorary guest."

Mr. Choi was still there, sitting contently with a cup of lukewarm cappuccino, his teenage granddaughter at his side. His posture was relaxed, the easy confidence of someone at peace.

Outside, the protest area that had caused so much anxiety earlier was spotless now. The signs were gone, the shouting replaced by birdsong and distant laughter from the crew packing equipment. The protesters had cleaned up before leaving—an unspoken acknowledgment of the man who had stood before them and made them listen.

For the first time all week, PD Kang Jin-ho wasn’t barking orders. He stood with his assistant near the orchard gate, arms crossed, simply watching the crew pack up. A half-smile tugged at his mouth.

"Feels like we finally got a happy ending," he murmured.

"Let’s not jinx it, PD-nim," the assistant muttered, knocking on a wooden crate.

Inside, the light was warm and easy. The hum of espresso machines had gone quiet, replaced by the soft scrape of plates and chairs.

At the counter, Joon-ho leaned casually against the polished wood, listening to Mr. Choi talk about hiking trails.

"You think I can go hiking again soon?" Mr. Choi asked, tapping his knee.

Joon-ho smiled. "Start with something small. Maybe Seongsan Ilchulbong first. Don’t rush Hallasan yet."

The granddaughter made a scandalized sound. "Grandpa! You promised you wouldn’t do anything dangerous again!"

"I said I’d be careful," he corrected, eyes twinkling. "Not that I’d be boring."

The girl groaned, throwing her hands up. "You’re impossible."

Joon-ho laughed quietly, shaking his head. "I can see where she gets her spirit."

"From her grandmother," Mr. Choi said with a chuckle. "That woman hiked Mount Halla twice in one year just to prove her friends wrong."

"Then I understand everything," Joon-ho said.

Mirae lingered a few paces away, arms folded as she watched the three of them. The sight stirred something gentle in her chest — the quiet image of a man once accused, now sharing laughter with the person who had cleared his name. It was ordinary, yet profoundly human.

After a few minutes, Mr. Choi pushed his empty cup aside and rose to his feet. His granddaughter immediately stood too, hand reaching instinctively for his arm—but he waved her off with mock indignation.

"I can walk, young lady. Better than you now."

She huffed, but smiled anyway.

Joon-ho moved around the counter to see them off. "You’ve made good progress," he said sincerely. "No limp at all."

Mr. Choi tested his leg, stamping it lightly. "You didn’t just patch me up, you made me new. You didn’t just treat the pain—you fixed what was broken. I owe you, son."

"You don’t owe me anything," Joon-ho replied, shaking his head. "Your words today helped more than any medicine could."

Mr. Choi’s eyes softened. "It was the least I could do. After all, you treated me like a VIP patient—for free, no less. My granddaughter’s been bragging to her friends all day that I got massaged by a celebrity doctor."

Joon-ho laughed under his breath. "I’m definitely not that."

"Try telling that to the internet," Mr. Choi said, amused. "Half the café was filming you earlier."

"Occupational hazard," Joon-ho replied, voice calm but warm.

They shook hands again—firm, grounded. It was the kind of handshake that meant something: a silent agreement that truth had been restored, that there was no grudge left between them.

Joon-ho said, "If you’re ever in Seoul, drop by my clinic. I’ll give you another massage session—no cameras this time."

Mr. Choi grinned. "You just want a rematch, don’t you? Fine. But only if you promise not to hold back."

His granddaughter crossed her arms, glaring playfully. "No hiking. Promise, Grandpa."

Mr. Choi winked. "We’ll see."

As the three of them walked toward the exit, the sunlight slanted in from the orchard, soft and amber. The crew filmed quietly from a distance, capturing the goodbye in natural light. No cues, no scripts — just life happening as it should.

At the door, Mirae and Seul-gi joined Joon-ho to send them off.

"Thank you again for coming, Mr. Choi," Mirae said, bowing politely.

"It’s me who should be thankful," Mr. Choi replied. "You’re all good people. Keep making food that brings smiles."

The granddaughter waved shyly before getting into the black sedan. Mr. Choi lingered a moment longer, nodding once more to Joon-ho, then climbed in.

The car rolled slowly down the gravel road, the dust rising softly in the fading light.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The orchard hummed with the sounds of cicadas and a distant breeze shaking through the mandarin trees. Mirae let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

"He’s really something," she said quietly.

"Stubborn," Seul-gi added. "But the good kind."

Joon-ho nodded, gaze still following the disappearing car. "He reminds me of a few of my old patients. The ones who heal faster because they refuse to stop living."

Seul-gi sighed, stretching her arms over her head. "Speaking of refusing to stop, PD-nim’s calling for setup again."

Across the café, Kang Jin-ho was already giving instructions. "All right, people, reset for the closing Q&A. Move those tables, bring four chairs to the middle. Keep it intimate—cozy lighting. I want this one to feel like a real café conversation."

The crew jumped back into motion, the calm turning into purposeful energy.

Ji-hwan rolled up his sleeves and began helping rearrange the furniture. "Do we know what kind of questions they’re taking?"

"No idea," Seul-gi said, grinning. "Probably more gossip. Viewers eat that up."

Mirae laughed softly. "Let’s just hope it’s not about protests or fake videos again."

Joon-ho smirked faintly. "Don’t jinx it."

Seul-gi shot him a teasing look. "Coming from you, that’s practically a guarantee something will happen."

The last rays of sunlight faded behind the orchard hill, leaving the café bathed in the warm glow of hanging lights. Inside, the four chairs stood ready in the center, coffee cups waiting on the table — a calm stage after a stormy day.

Mirae brushed a stray hair behind her ear and took one last look at Joon-ho, who was checking something at the counter, his expression quietly composed.

For the first time since they’d arrived in Jeju, everything felt right.

She whispered to herself, almost superstitious: "Let’s keep it that way."

And with that, the crew’s clapperboard clicked softly — the next segment ready to begin.

The café had transformed once again. Evening light filtered through the large windows, the orange glow replaced by soft studio lamps. Four chairs stood neatly arranged in the center, a low table between them lined with steaming cups of coffee. Behind the cameras, crew members moved briskly but quietly, checking wires, balancing mics, and adjusting focus for the final live segment of the day.

Mirae sat upright, smoothing her skirt and glancing at the monitors. Seul-gi lounged comfortably beside her, one leg crossed, ready to stir trouble. Ji-hwan occupied the far seat, hands folded neatly, while Joon-ho sat beside Mirae, casual in his posture but perfectly composed.

PD Kang raised a hand from behind the cameras. "We’re live in three... two... one—"

The red light blinked on.

Mirae’s bright voice filled the cozy café:" Welcome back, everyone! Thank you for joining us again from Jeju Island! Can you believe it? Tomorrow’s our last day of shooting here."

Hearts and clapping emojis flooded the chat. The livestream viewer count was already climbing.

Seul-gi leaned toward her mic with a mock-serious expression. "And thank you all for not canceling us mid-shoot!"

The comment section exploded in laughter.

"LOL she said it."

"Queen Seul-gi never misses."

"Protect this show at all costs."

Even Ji-hwan chuckled, shaking his head. "You just had to say it, didn’t you?"

"Transparency builds trust," Seul-gi replied, flipping her hair.

Mirae giggled softly and turned back to the camera. "Before we wrap up today, we thought we’d do something special — a little Q&A session with our viewers!"

Cheers filled the chat.

"YES! LIVE QUESTIONS!"

"Ask about the food!"

"Ask about Mirae’s skincare routine!"

But when Mirae waited for the staff to feed her the first question, silence followed.

She blinked, smiling awkwardly. "...Okay, maybe the connection’s lagging?"

Behind the camera, the writers began whispering anxiously. One of them turned toward PD Kang. "Uh, PD-nim. We have a problem."

Kang Jin-ho frowned. "What kind of problem?"

"All the questions coming in are... about Joon-ho."

Mirae caught the whisper and glanced sideways at Joon-ho, trying not to laugh. He sat there, expression neutral, sipping from his coffee cup as though unaware of the growing chaos.

Seul-gi’s eyes gleamed. "Ohhh," she purred, already sensing blood in the water. "Looks like we have a fan favorite."

"Unnie, please don’t—" Mirae began.

Too late.

Seul-gi grabbed her mic dramatically. "Ladies and gentlemen, change of plans!" she declared. "Welcome to Coffee Prince Live!"

The audience chat detonated instantly.

"COFFEE PRINCE LIVE OMGGG"

"YES PLEASE INTERVIEW HIM!!"

"LET HIM EXPLAIN HIS MAGIC HANDS 😭☕️"

"SEUL-GI NATION RISE!"

PD Kang buried his face in his palm. "Fine," he muttered. "Give the people what they want."

Ji-hwan sighed but leaned back in amusement. "I knew this was coming."

The writers scrambled to sort through the flood of chat messages, trying to pick one that wasn’t completely insane. Then a single name popped up in the live chat — bold, confident, impossible to ignore.

@UnholyNuna: "Let us handle the poll."

Instantly, the comment section was a riot.

"+1!!"

"GIVE HER THE POWER!!"

"TRUST UNHOLYNUNA!!"

Even the staff hesitated. Everyone in production knew of @UnholyNuna — the Coffee Prince Fan Club admin who had already made Joon-ho trend twice in two days.

"Should we...?" a writer whispered.

PD Kang gave a long, suffering sigh. "Just do it. It’s her kingdom now."

The chat practically celebrated. Fireworks emojis, clapping, and chants of COFFEE PRINCE POLL START!!! scrolled nonstop across the screen.

Mirae put her face in her hands, half laughing, half mortified. "Unnie, what have you started?"

Seul-gi grinned wickedly. "Entertainment."

The first poll popped up seconds later, courtesy of UnholyNuna herself.

Q1: Is Joon-ho an actor or celebrity?

Mirae turned to him expectantly. "Let’s start simple, hmm?"

Joon-ho placed his cup down. "No," he said calmly. "Just helping today."

The chat didn’t buy it for a second.

"LIES."

"He has the face of a drama lead."

"His side profile is illegal."

Seul-gi cackled. "The internet disagrees, Coffee Prince."

Joon-ho gave her a patient look. "They’re welcome to, but the answer’s still no."

Q2: Will you enter stardom?

"Not interested," he said, tone firm but polite.

Mirae teased, "You realize half of Korea is watching right now?"

"Then they can go back to watching real stars," he replied.

The comment section erupted again.

"HE’S HUMBLE OMG"

"Real stars he says 😭😭😭"

"Sir you ARE the star."

Seul-gi leaned toward Mirae and whispered loudly enough for the mic: "He’s good at this. Scary good."

Q3: Will you continue working as a doctor?

"I’m not a doctor," he corrected smoothly. "I’m a physiotherapist."

Even Seul-gi blinked. "Wait—seriously?"

Ji-hwan looked surprised too. "That explains the posture."

"Posture?" Mirae asked.

Ji-hwan gestured vaguely. "People who fix others’ backs usually have perfect ones."

The chat went into meltdown again.

"HE’S A PHYSIOTHERAPIST?!"

"Massage skills confirmed 😭😭😭"

"NO WONDER THEY CALL HIM COFFEE PRINCE."

Seul-gi slapped the table, laughing. "This is gold."

Q4: Do you own a clinic?

"Yes," he answered. "In Seoul. But I’m not accepting new clients right now."

"Why not?" Mirae asked before she could stop herself.

He turned slightly toward her, that calm, teasing glint in his eyes. "Because I’m busy with other things."

The chat instantly went wild."OTHER THINGS = MIRAEEE???""IS HE FLIRTING ON LIVE???""COFFEE PRINCE EXPLAIN!!"

Mirae flushed, fanning herself with her cue card. "Next question, please."

Q5: Is it one of those fancy clinics for celebrities?

"No," he said with a faint smile. "Actually, I’ll be busy in the coming months. I’ll be joining the national volleyball Olympic team’s medical staff."

For a moment, the café fell completely silent.

Then:

"Wait, WHAT?" Seul-gi nearly shouted.

Mirae’s eyes widened. "You never told me that."

Ji-hwan turned to him in disbelief. "You’ve been holding out on us, hyung."

Even PD Kang’s voice crackled through the mic. "Are we filming a cooking show or a sports documentary now?!"

The chat went berserk.

"OLYMPIC COFFEE PRINCE 😭😭😭"

"FROM LATTE TO GOLD MEDALS!!!"

"HE’S TOO PERFECT SOMEONE STOP HIM."

Mirae blinked, laughing despite herself. "You... really don’t do things halfway, do you?"

"I try not to," he replied simply.

The questions kept coming, but now Joon-ho was steering the rhythm. Mirae and Seul-gi could only sit back as he answered one after another with quiet authority.

He spoke clearly, his calm tone balancing the chaos of the chat. He handled praise with humility, teasing questions with subtle humor. It was effortless—like watching someone used to the spotlight, even if he’d never asked for it.

Ji-hwan, amused, quietly stood to refill everyone’s coffee cups. He whispered as he set Mirae’s down, "He’s running the show now."

Mirae smiled faintly. "He always does."

Finally, a new poll appeared, marked boldly by UnholyNuna herself:

Final question — Does Coffee Prince have a girlfriend?

The chat went wild.

"ASK HIM ASK HIM ASK HIM!!""WE NEED TO KNOW!!""IF HE SAYS YES I’LL CRY 😭😭😭"

Even the crew leaned forward. The air in the café seemed to thrum with anticipation.

Seul-gi grinned like a cat ready to pounce. "Well, Coffee Prince...?"

Joon-ho looked straight at the camera, expression unreadable. The light from the café window caught in his eyes, calm but alive.

Then, just for a heartbeat, his gaze flicked toward Mirae — soft, quiet, unguarded.

"I have... women who are important to me," he said evenly.

A beat of silence.

Seul-gi blinked. "Plural?"

Ji-hwan coughed into his drink. "Hyung, that’s... a bold way to put it."

The chat went berserk.

"HE SAID WOMEN???"

"WHAT DOES THAT MEAN 😭😭😭"

"HE’S TOO SMOOTH FOR THIS."

"COFFEE PRINCE OUT HERE BREAKING HEARTS."

Mirae froze, pulse racing, unsure whether to laugh or hide under the table. Her face was warm — too warm — and Joon-ho’s subtle glance in her direction didn’t help.

But he stayed perfectly composed, resting his arm casually on the chair beside him. "That’s all for me."

Seul-gi broke the silence with a cackle. "That’s all for him, he says, after dropping a bomb like that."

Mirae tried to recover her voice, stammering a little. "A-and that concludes today’s Q&A! Thank you, everyone, for joining us tonight!"

Ji-hwan raised his cup, grinning. "To the Coffee Prince and... his mysterious women."

The chat went wild again:

"LEGEND."

HE DIDN’T EVEN FLINCH."

"SOMEONE CHECK ON MIRAEEEEE 😭😭😭"

"THE WAY HE SAID IT 😩🔥"

PD Kang’s voice cut through the laughter: "And... we’re clear."

The red light on the camera faded.

Instantly, the crew erupted into laughter and chatter. Seul-gi was still giggling so hard she had to wipe her eyes.

Mirae slumped back in her chair, covering her face. "I can’t believe he said that."

Seul-gi smirked. "Oh, come on. He didn’t lie. Just... didn’t clarify."

Ji-hwan nodded solemnly. "Man of mystery. Korea’s new national heartbreaker."

Across from them, Joon-ho only smiled faintly — that quiet, knowing curve of his lips that said he knew exactly what he’d done.

For everyone else, it was the end of a live segment.

For Joon-ho, it was just the start of the next storm.

The café was quiet again, long after the cameras stopped rolling. Outside, only the hum of the night cicadas and the distant rush of waves filled the still air. Inside, the last traces of production — cables coiled, mics packed, lights dimmed — lingered like echoes of the chaos they’d just survived.

But beyond those orchard walls, the world was no longer quiet.

By the time the crew sat down for a late dinner, the livestream had already gone viral.

#CoffeePrince was trending in Korea. Within two hours, it cracked the global top ten.

Every major platform was flooded with clips: Joon-ho’s cool expression under the café lights, that measured pause, the faint smile when he’d said it — "I have women who are important to me."

Comment threads burned like wildfire:

"He said it like a movie line!""He’s smooth and he knows it 😭😭😭""Forget Coffee Prince, he’s the Therapist King.""My man said plural and dipped. ICON."

Someone had already slowed the moment down, adding dramatic background music and cinematic color grading. Others remixed it into memes, fake magazine covers, even anime edits.

PD Kang’s phone buzzed endlessly. Every five seconds, a new notification: articles, mentions, tagged videos. The thumbnail of Joon-ho’s serene face appeared on every news aggregator.

Dr. Han Joon-ho — From Controversy to Cult Fame in 24 Hours.’Coffee Prince’ Confession Stuns Viewers.Who Are the "Women" in His Life? Netizens Speculate.

Across all platforms, theories spun. Some insisted he must have a girlfriend. Others argued he was referring to his coworkers, his patients, or his colleagues on the national team. The ambiguity only fueled the obsession.

And in every clip, Mirae’s reaction — her stunned expression, the faint pink on her cheeks — was replayed over and over with captions like:

"The way she looked at him 👀""She’s the woman, I can feel it.""Protect this ship at all costs."

By midnight, @UnholyNuna had already turned the moment into legend.

She posted a sleek highlight reel: a perfect montage of Joon-ho cooking, laughing with kids, helping Mr. Choi, and finally delivering the line.

Caption:Therapist. Cook. National Team Doctor. What can’t he do?Actions speak louder than edited videos.

The post hit 100,000 likes in an hour.

Beneath it, the comment section exploded:

"I’m ashamed I doubted him before.""He’s the real deal.""Petition to make him permanent cast.""How do I apply to be one of the women??"

UnholyNuna, in her usual dramatic flair, replied to one thread:

"Relax, he belongs to the fandom now. All of us are his women."

That single comment got pinned — and retweeted across fandom circles until it reached mainstream celebrity gossip accounts.

The fan page’s follower count doubled overnight. Even reporters quietly followed, pretending not to.

Back inside the now-empty café, the crew sat in a small circle. The mood was lighter than it had been in weeks.

PD Kang stared at his tablet, scrolling through the trending tab with wide eyes. "We just tripled our engagement in one day. Triple."

Seul-gi raised her cup like a toast. "To our Coffee Prince — the man who can crash the internet just by speaking calmly."

Ji-hwan groaned. "You’re enjoying this way too much."

"Of course I am." Seul-gi grinned. "Tomorrow’s headlines will call this a turning point in modern broadcasting."

Mirae leaned back against the counter, arms folded, half amused, half exasperated. "You realize the network’s going to milk that clip for months."

"Let them," Seul-gi replied. "It’s free publicity."

PD Kang looked up from his screen. "Actually, the higher-ups just texted. They want to release a ’Coffee Prince Moment’ compilation by tomorrow morning."

Even Joon-ho chuckled quietly at that. "Guess I should start charging royalties."

Seul-gi shot him a grin. "Or at least autograph coffee beans for your fans."

Mirae rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched with a smile. "You’re impossible, all of you."

Joon-ho shrugged lightly, sipping his water. "It’s fine. They’ll forget by morning."

But Mirae looked at him, steady, serious. "No... I don’t think they will."

For a moment, the café fell silent. The low lights cast a soft glow over the polished counter, the empty cups, the fading traces of the day.

Joon-ho met her gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes — part amusement, part quiet acknowledgment.

Then he said, softly, "If they don’t forget, then I’ll just have to live up to it."

4. Emotional Closing

Ji-hwan broke the quiet by standing, grabbing the French press from the counter. "All right, last round. One for each of us."

The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air again — smooth, grounding, familiar.

PD Kang slumped into his chair. "Can’t believe I was ready to pull the plug this morning. Now the execs are calling it a miracle episode."

"Feels good to win one for once," Seul-gi said, clinking her cup against Mirae’s.

Across the table, the writer team dozed against their laptops, exhausted but smiling. The cameras were off, but the café still hummed with quiet life — laughter, clinking cups, the rustle of papers.

Mirae sipped her coffee, her eyes drifting across the table.

Joon-ho sat at the far end, posture relaxed, his expression composed as always. But when the light from the pendant lamp caught his face, there was something different — a rare softness.

He wasn’t basking in attention, or even reacting to it. He simply existed in the calm after the storm, unshaken, unpretentious — and that, she realized, was what drew people in.

When the world tried to tear him down, he had met it with stillness. When the chaos peaked, he’d chosen kindness and humor. And when the cameras demanded a headline, he’d given them one — but on his own terms.

Mirae’s lips curved into a quiet smile.

Ji-hwan raised his cup again. "To surviving Jeju."

"Barely," Seul-gi quipped, laughing.

"Barely is enough," Mirae said softly.

They drank, the simple clinking of porcelain echoing in the small space.

Outside, the cicadas faded into the hum of night. Somewhere down the road, car lights swept across the orchard, vanishing into the dark.

PD Kang stood, stretching. "All right, everyone, get some rest. Tomorrow’s the final shoot. Let’s end strong."

As the crew packed up for the night, Mirae lingered by the window. Through the glass, she could see Joon-ho stepping outside, phone in hand, glancing up at the stars as if measuring the quiet.

She watched as he smiled faintly at a message — maybe from a friend, maybe from one of those "important women" he’d mentioned — then pocketed his phone and turned back toward the café.

When he saw her watching, he gave a small nod — casual, warm — before walking past.

Mirae exhaled slowly. Her heart felt oddly full.

Maybe the chaos would come back tomorrow. Maybe the spotlight would grow harsher. But tonight, in this little pocket of calm, they’d made it through.

And somehow, against all odds, the world had started to see Joon-ho the same way she did — someone steady, grounded, and quietly extraordinary.

As the café lights dimmed for the night, the final notifications kept pouring in.

#CoffeePrince remained in the top three.

Clips continued to spread.

And somewhere between admiration and obsession, a quiet legend was taking shape — one cup of coffee, one calm smile, one cryptic answer at a time.