CHAPTER 135: CHAPTER 135: AFTER THE STORM

The sunlight outside the orchard café was soft and long now, painting the gravel and trimmed hedges gold as the shadows stretched. It could have been any ordinary late afternoon in Jeju—if not for the overturned tables, the scuffed gravel at the gates, and the low murmur of voices that betrayed a day anything but normal.

PD Kang stood near the patio, his clipboard now tucked under one arm, looking every bit a man who’d just walked through fire. He motioned to the cast and crew, gathering them into a rough semicircle beneath the thinning branches. For a moment, nobody spoke; even the ever-buoyant Seul-gi just watched him, arms folded tight.

PD Kang’s voice, when it came, was gentle but edged with exhaustion. "I need you all to know... You did good work today. More than good. You looked after our guests, you protected each other, and you held together when things got ugly. That matters."

There was a quiet pride in the air, but it was mixed with fatigue—the kind that left people hunched and older than their years. Ji-hwan’s shoulders slumped, and even Mirae kept her gaze down, wringing her hands inside her sleeves.

PD Kang continued, "Tomorrow’s headlines are going to be wild. The networks want damage control. We can’t stop what’s coming, but we can decide how we face it. We need a clear, united response."

Seul-gi’s manager, a sharp woman with a phone always in hand, stepped forward, her tone brisk. "Let the managers coordinate. We know how to handle the agencies, the press. The cast needs rest."

Hye-jin was beside her in an instant, taking the cue but softening the edge. "We’ll handle the legal, the statements, all of it. You just take care of each other—and stay offline for a while."

PD Kang nodded gratefully, his face softening. "Thank you. Really. I’ll send a draft of our statement for you all to review tonight. But for now, please, go home. Rest. Let the professionals work."

As the group began to break up, Hye-jin pulled Joon-ho aside. Her voice dropped, warmth and steel entwined. "Get Mirae back to the hotel. She’s done enough today. I’ll handle everything else and let you know if there’s an emergency."

Joon-ho nodded, the relief clear in his eyes. "Thank you."

He found Mirae outside, sitting on the edge of the low stone steps by the parking lot. She was curled into herself, knees hugged to her chest, her chin tucked down as if she could make herself disappear. Strands of her hair escaped her ponytail, framing a face gone pale and pinched.

He approached slowly, crouched in front of her, not reaching out just yet. "Ready to go?"

She nodded, silent. The lines of tension in her jaw and shoulders didn’t fade, but she uncrossed her arms, unfolding herself with effort. He offered his hand; she took it, gripping tighter than he expected.

They walked in silence to the car. The fans who’d stayed late gave them space, whispering among themselves. Mirae barely noticed, eyes fixed on the ground as she climbed into the passenger seat. She pulled her seatbelt on and curled sideways, knees to her chest, her back to the window.

Joon-ho glanced at her as he started the engine. "You did well, you know."

She didn’t answer. Her eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment he thought she was asleep, but her fingers fidgeted against her knee—a restless, unspent energy twitching through her limbs.

The drive was quiet, the world outside already dimming. Every once in a while, Mirae shifted, the movement jerky. She pressed her forehead to the window, leaving a faint mark on the glass. The traffic was mercifully light, the sky painted with the last blush of sunset.

At the hotel’s underground lot, he parked as close as possible to the elevator. For a second he just sat there, hand on the key, listening to the engine tick and cool. Mirae stayed curled up, a quiet sigh the only sound from her side.

"Come on," he said gently, opening his door. She followed, slower than usual. They stepped into the elevator—two small figures surrounded by marble, mirrors, and soft yellow light. Mirae leaned into him on the ride up, not saying a word.

The suite was silent when they entered, heavy curtains drawn, the hush inside absolute after the noise and chaos of the café. Joon-ho set the keys and his phone down on the entry table. Mirae slipped off her shoes and stood in the foyer, swaying slightly, as if she didn’t quite know what to do with her body now that the adrenaline had faded.

He moved toward her, his hand finding the small of her back, grounding her. "You’re safe now. It’s over."

She looked up at him, eyes rimmed red but not crying. She managed a thin, grateful smile.

He guided her deeper into the suite, the city lights glowing faintly through the glass. Behind them, the world kept turning—news crews and hashtags, rumors and clips already racing across the internet—but for now, inside these walls, there was nothing but the soft, shared silence of survival.

The door barely clicked shut before Mirae spun, her chest rising and falling with each breath—every shred of composure torn away by adrenaline and a need she couldn’t name, only feel. She crossed the space between them in a heartbeat, throwing her arms around Joon-ho’s neck, her body pressed tight to his as she found his mouth with hers—a hard, desperate kiss, all tongue and tangled sighs.

She pulled back, her eyes shining and wild. "I need you. Right now. Please..."

He barely had time to answer before she was stripping—tugging her shirt overhead, flinging it to the floor, unclipping her bra so her breasts bounced free, nipples already flushed and hard. She didn’t wait, didn’t tease—she just kicked her jeans and panties off in a rush, leaving a glistening trail down the inside of her thigh.

Her urgency was contagious; Joon-ho felt his restraint burn away. He dropped his clothes, his cock already heavy and aching, standing thick as Mirae turned, bracing herself over the sofa’s edge, her back arching, ass high and inviting. With trembling fingers, she spread herself, her folds wet and open. She looked over her shoulder, hair spilling wild around her face, her voice hoarse and sweet:

"Please—just take me. You were so strong today, oppa... I can’t hold back anymore."

He didn’t answer with words. He simply gripped her hips—his fingers digging in, possessive and steady—lining himself up with her slick, trembling entrance. Mirae’s back arched higher, her thighs parting in silent invitation, every muscle in her body taut with anticipation. With a single, hungry thrust, he pushed deep, filling her to the hilt.

Her cry split the air, sharp and utterly helpless—then muffled as she buried her face in the cushions, shuddering around him. Joon-ho held her there, letting her feel every inch as he bottomed out inside her. He drew back, then surged forward again, hips snapping against her ass with a sound that was obscene and addictive.

He found his rhythm, slow at first, deep and grinding, making her gasp with every withdrawal, every forceful return. Soon, the tempo built—rough, relentless, each movement shaking her whole frame, his grip unyielding on her hips, pinning her in place. Her body welcomed him, greedily clutching at his cock, her slickness growing with every punishing stroke.

Every thrust was a purge—a violent letting go of all the fear, frustration, and pain they’d pent up over the day. The stress, the chaos, the helplessness—he pounded it out of both their bodies, until nothing was left but want. Mirae’s need took over; she met him thrust for thrust, pushing back, moaning wantonly, the sound growing higher, rawer, desperate.

Her legs quivered, her toes curling against the floor. She rocked back hard, hips rolling, chasing every jolt of friction, her pleasure building with every collision. "Harder—please, don’t stop—" she choked out, voice shredded, body wracked with trembling.

He pulled her up without warning, dragging her back to his chest. She gasped, her back slick with sweat against his skin. One of his hands closed over her breast, palming it roughly, squeezing and kneading. His thumb found her nipple, flicking and pinching until she arched with a helpless sound—a mix of pain and lust, her head falling back on his shoulder.

His other hand slid lower, slipping between her thighs, middle finger finding her clit—already swollen, throbbing for attention. He rubbed it in tight, rough circles, pressing harder, faster, not letting up. Mirae’s body jerked, her hips bucking, a shudder running through her as she teetered on the brink.

His mouth descended on her neck—hot, greedy, biting hard enough to leave a mark. He sucked and licked, his teeth grazing just below her ear, trailing down to the hollow of her collarbone. He left her marked, his hickeys dark and blooming on her skin. She sobbed with pleasure, the stinging pain only amplifying the sweetness, her hips grinding against his hand.

Mirae’s moans were broken, high and trembling, her walls clamping down around him, the world narrowing to nothing but the punishing rhythm, the ache in her core, the wet, relentless pressure of his fingers and cock.

"Oppa... don’t stop, please, don’t stop—" Her voice was frantic, on the edge of breaking. She clenched around him, her orgasm crashing through her in shudders that left her weak, her knees buckling.

He held her up, his arm banded across her stomach, supporting her weight as her legs threatened to give out. Every thrust was hard, merciless, driving her forward and then yanking her back, the slap of their bodies echoing off the hotel room’s walls. Sweat slicked his chest and Mirae’s back, their bodies sliding together, heat and tension wound tight between them.

Joon-ho’s rhythm was unrelenting—each snap of his hips jolting her, forcing the air from her lungs in ragged, desperate cries. The sounds grew raw, filling the room: the wet, obscene squelch with every deep drive; the rapid thud of his hips against her ass; the shaky, open-mouthed moans that slipped from Mirae’s lips, getting hoarser with each passing second.

He leaned over her, pressing his mouth to her shoulder, biting down just hard enough to sting, to remind her she was his and only his. His free hand never left her clit, rubbing it in rough, urgent circles, stoking her pleasure higher and higher.

Mirae’s body bowed against him, her muscles tensing and fluttering. She tried to meet his gaze over her shoulder, hair wild, eyes huge and glassy with need and adoration. "Oppa—" she pleaded, her voice trembling, her words cut off by another thrust.

Joon-ho couldn’t hold back any longer. The feel of her so hot and impossibly tight around him, the way she trembled and clenched with every thrust, drove him to the edge. He lost himself to the pounding urgency, slamming into her harder, faster, his cock buried to the hilt with each punishing stroke. His hips pistoned with savage intent, his fingers digging bruises into her waist as he pulled her back to meet every thrust.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice low and wrecked, barely able to hold on. She turned her face to him, her lips parted, eyes shining with tears of pleasure and longing.

"Cum for me, Mirae," he growled, his own voice shaking now, desperate. "Let go. I want to feel you—"

She shattered around him with a scream, her whole body convulsing as she came, walls squeezing him so tight it nearly undid him. He kept fucking her through it, not letting up, chasing his own release now, lost in the heat and slick friction, the way she sobbed his name over and over.

He felt the coil inside him snap—white-hot pleasure ripping through him as he slammed deep, burying himself with a final, shaking thrust. He spilled inside her, groaning low and rough, his arms locked around her waist as her aftershocks pulsed around him.

They collapsed together onto the sofa, breathless, skin flushed and damp. Mirae whimpered, utterly spent, clinging to him as he held her tight, their bodies tangled, the afterglow buzzing hot between them.

He kissed her shoulder, her cheek, her hair, whispering words that were half-promise, half-confession, as the city lights flickered beyond the window and the world outside faded away.

They stayed like that—tangled, sweating, trembling—until their breaths slowed. Joon-ho slipped out and sank to the floor, Mirae sliding down with him. She curled into his lap, half-laughing, half-crying, overwhelmed by relief and love. He stroked her hair, whispered into her skin—words that promised safety, presence, and a future together.

For a long time, neither of them moved. The city lights outside glowed, soft and distant, a world away from the private storm that had finally found its peace.

But the hunger in their bodies was not done—not yet.