Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 293 - 294: Su-Bin

Mirae stayed pressed to Seo-yeon, the three of them still tangled on the sofa when Seo-yeon's phone lit up again. The vibration rattled across the makeup table, harsh in the warm quiet, and Joon-ho felt it in his bones like a siren.

Outside the trailer, footsteps passed—too close. They slowed. A pause, the faint drag of a sole on linoleum—someone hovering with their ear to the door.

Joon-ho didn't move at first. He kept one arm around Mirae's waist, the other across Seo-yeon's shoulders. Both women were flushed, breathing hard, and any sudden scramble would turn into a story for the hallway.

Public protocol, he reminded himself.

No reacting.No arguing.No crying where someone can film it.

He reached out slowly and caught the phone before it could rattle itself off the table. The screen painted his knuckles blue. A notification stack. A name he didn't recognize. A preview line that turned his stomach cold.

NEW POST — "BULLYING AGAIN?" + a cropped photo + "insider audio."

He locked the screen without opening it. Even letting his eyes change was a mistake. He set the phone face down beside Seo-yeon's hip.

"Don't touch it yet," he murmured.

Mirae's gaze flicked to the door, then back to him. Her smile from a minute ago tightened. "Someone's outside."

"I know." He kept his tone flat, calm. "Listen. We leave like nothing happened. You're both fine. You're both bored. We're changing because call time."

Seo-yeon swallowed. The flush on her cheeks wasn't just heat anymore. Her eyes darted to the door as if she could see through it.

"They're listening," she whispered.

"They're fishing," Joon-ho corrected gently. "Don't feed them."

He shifted to face her. Seo-yeon's hands were clenched, knuckles pale, breathing already climbing into panic—shallow, fast. If she stepped out like this, she'd look guilty and scared, and the internet loved guilty and scared.

"Give me your wrist."

She hesitated, then offered it.

Joon-ho took her wrist and found the soft hollow just below her thumb. He pressed firmly—enough to be felt, not enough to hurt. "Focus on this," he said. "Right here."

Her lashes fluttered. "Oppa…"

"Breathe with me. In for four. Hold. Out for six."

He counted under his breath. Mirae leaned in, fingers sliding through Seo-yeon's hair in slow strokes, a quiet anchor. Again—inhale, hold, exhale—until Seo-yeon's shoulders loosened by a fraction and the wet shine in her eyes stopped looking like it was about to spill.

Good.

Joon-ho moved his thumb to the side of her neck where the muscle cord tightened when she swallowed fear. Press and release. Press and release. A steady rhythm that pulled her back into her body.

"You're here," he told her. "Not in their comments."

Seo-yeon nodded, small and shaky, but present.

Mirae tried to lighten it, voice soft but cheeky. "Manager Kim, you're scary when you go calm."

He shot her a look. "You want scary, I can be scary."

Mirae's mouth curved, just a little. It helped. Seo-yeon's lips twitched too, like a laugh trying to be born.

Then the phone buzzed again, stubborn as a mosquito.

Outside, the footsteps shifted. A throat cleared—quiet, deliberate.

Joon-ho stood first. No scrambling. He picked up his shirt and pulled it on like he had all the time in the world. Mirae slipped into a robe, tying it with unhurried fingers. Seo-yeon reached for her clothes with shaking hands.

"Slow," Joon-ho said, catching her wrist again. "No panic. We're just getting ready."

Seo-yeon forced her hands steady. Mirae stepped behind her, helping fasten her bra, calm and practiced, cheek brushing Seo-yeon's hair like a promise.

Joon-ho walked to the door and paused. Throwing it open would tell the watcher they'd been heard. Instead, he spoke at normal volume—casual, bored.

"Two minutes," he called. "We're changing."

Silence. Then the footsteps retreated, a little too fast to be innocent.

Mirae's eyes narrowed. "That wasn't staff."

"Maybe," he said. "Or staff with a hobby."

Seo-yeon's breathing hitched again.

Joon-ho pressed the calming point at the back of her neck once. "You're fine," he repeated. "We go out together. Mirae, hold her hand. I walk half a step behind. If anyone films, they get nothing."

Mirae's expression sharpened. "Copy."

Seo-yeon nodded, swallowing hard. "Okay."

Joon-ho picked up her phone one more time. He turned off previews, muted the app, lowered brightness until it couldn't light their faces like an interrogation lamp, then slipped it into her bag.

"You can look later," he told her. "Not now."

"I want to know what they said."

"That's why you don't look," he replied. "Because if you know, you'll react. And reactions are what they sell."

Mirae squeezed Seo-yeon's fingers. "We'll read it together. Like adults. With snacks." 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

This time Seo-yeon laughed—thin, but real.

"Keep that," Joon-ho murmured. "That's the face we wear."

They stepped into the corridor.

The hallway lighting was harsh, the kind that made everyone look tired. A runner glanced up and away too fast. Two assistants stood "busy" at the far end, bodies angled just enough to keep a line of sight. Someone's phone lifted—maybe checking messages, maybe capturing—then lowered when Joon-ho's gaze landed.

He didn't glare. A glare would be a clip. He gave the look he used when someone was about to waste time: polite, flat, quietly humiliating.

The phone stayed down.

Mirae walked with her chin up. Seo-yeon stayed close, Mirae's fingers threaded through hers. Joon-ho followed half a step behind, close enough to shield, far enough to not look like a scene.

At basecamp, the atmosphere hit like humidity. It was the hush of people pretending not to stare while staring anyway. Whispers that stopped a second too late. The faint click of camera shutters pretending to be screen taps.

Mirae's jaw tightened. He felt her wanting to snap, to walk up and rip phones out of hands. He brushed two fingers against her elbow—one of their old signals.

Don't. Not here.

Mirae exhaled and turned it into a bright, professional smile, sharp enough to cut. "Morning," she called cheerfully to a cluster of crew. "Everyone looks… well-rested."

A couple of people laughed awkwardly. Someone pretended to cough.

Seo-yeon mirrored Mirae's posture, smoothing her hair, lifting her chin, acting like a girl who had nothing to hide. Joon-ho steered them toward the water cooler like it was the most normal decision in the world. He poured three cups and handed one to Seo-yeon.

"Drink," he said. "Hydrate your nerves."

She swallowed. The tremor in her hands shrank.

His phone buzzed.

He didn't check it immediately. He scanned faces first—who looked disappointed they weren't breaking, who kept glancing at them like they were waiting for tears, who was too eager to make eye contact.

Then he looked down.

Su-bin: I'm here. Don't move sloppy. We'll catch who's feeding this.Su-bin: Madam Ha-eun told me to babysit you because she wants to spend time with Soo-jin. I'm suffering.

A laugh threatened to slip out of him. He covered it with a sip of water, but Mirae caught the twitch.

"What?" she demanded, instantly alert. "Tell me it's not another post."

He turned the screen toward her.

Mirae read it and snorted. "Babysit you? As if you're the one who needs babysitting."

Seo-yeon leaned in, reading too, and the smallest spark of curiosity cut through her fear. "Madam Ha-eun… wants to spend time with Soo-jin?"

Mirae's grin turned wicked. "Our madam has priorities now. About time." Then, softer, to Seo-yeon: "Su-bin's scary, but she's on our side. That's good."

Joon-ho typed back.

Tell Madam Ha-eun to enjoy her date. And tell you to stop whining. Where are you?

The reply came instantly.

Su-bin: Two tents over. I can see you. Don't turn around like a rookie.

Joon-ho let his gaze drift without snapping his head. He caught Su-bin's silhouette near the equipment tent—cap low, posture relaxed, like she belonged anywhere. She didn't wave. She didn't acknowledge. That was the point.

Mirae's shoulders eased by a fraction. Seo-yeon took another sip, slower this time.

Joon-ho pocketed his phone and leaned in so only they could hear. "Su-bin's here," he said. "That means we don't play defense alone."

Mirae's eyes gleamed. "Are we hunting?"

"We're trapping," he corrected. "And until it closes, you both do your job. Smile. No comments. No private talks with anyone who suddenly 'cares.' If someone asks leading questions, you say, 'Please go through our agency.'"

Seo-yeon nodded, swallowing hard. "Okay."

Joon-ho squeezed her shoulder once, firm and grounding. "You're not alone," he reminded her. "And you're not the story they're trying to sell."

His phone buzzed again with one last message, like a warning bell.

Su-bin: I'm coming closer. Keep them walking. If the leaker wants a reaction, we give them boredom.

Joon-ho looked toward the set entrance where the day waited—bright lights, scripts, and people pretending this wasn't happening. He pressed the calm point at the back of Seo-yeon's neck once more.

"Alright," he said, voice steady. "Showtime."

And the three of them walked, together, giving the hallway—and the internet—absolutely nothing to eat.