Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 279 - 280: Table Read

Mirae’s alarm went off before the dawn light. For a moment, she lay still, the warmth of the night clinging to her skin, the world outside the windows muted by the heavy rain. Joon-ho’s arm was draped over her waist, his breathing deep and even, but Harin’s side of the bed was empty, the sheets already cool. Mirae rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. Her body still ached pleasantly from the night before—her lips tingled, her thighs felt raw and alive—but her mind was running wild, already skipping ahead to the day’s schedule: the first full table read for "Eclipse" and the unveiling of LUNE’s new OST track.

She slipped from the covers, careful not to wake Joon-ho, and padded to the bathroom. The house was already alive: the faint clatter of pans from the kitchen, a kettle whistling, the smell of coffee drifting down the hall. Mirae pulled on her robe, tied her hair back, and followed the scent.

Harin stood at the counter, meticulously slicing fruit, moving with a tired sort of efficiency. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, dark shadows under her eyes. She didn’t look up as Mirae entered, just slid a mug of coffee across the counter.

"Morning," Mirae said softly.

"Morning," Harin replied, her voice flat. "Do you want toast or just fruit?"

"Toast, thanks." Mirae hesitated, watching Harin butter the bread with quick, practiced motions. For a moment, she thought about last night—about Harin’s hands, Harin’s mouth, Harin’s body tangled with hers and Joon-ho’s. It had felt easy, natural, like something fragile and secret. But this morning, the air was different: heavy with unsaid things, exhaustion, the pressure of the day.

Yura’s voice drifted from the living room, shouting instructions over the phone, half in Korean, half in clipped English. "No, move the Lumina samples to the front display! If they want the new lipstick, tell them it’s preorder only!" She was already in work mode, heels tapping against the hardwood as she organized her bag.

Joon-ho shuffled in, rubbing his eyes, wearing only sweatpants. He kissed Mirae’s forehead, then squeezed Harin’s shoulder. "Big day?" he asked quietly, as if trying not to spook anyone.

Harin nodded, still focused on breakfast. "You’re leaving soon?"

"Yeah," he said. "I’ll drop Yura at her office, then head to the studio." His hand lingered on Harin’s back for a moment. "You’re coming to the table read, right?"

"I’ll be there," she replied, finally meeting his eyes.

Mirae nibbled her toast, watching them, feeling like a guest in her own house. Yura breezed through, already on her third call, a whirlwind of perfume and tailored black. Harin handed her a sandwich wrapped in foil, the kind she liked best, and Yura gave her a quick, grateful smile before vanishing out the door with Joon-ho.

The house felt emptier, somehow, even though Mirae and Harin were still there. Mirae finished her coffee, set her mug in the sink, and hesitated. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice tentative.

Harin shrugged, wiping crumbs off the counter. "Just tired," she said, too quickly. "Go get ready. You don’t want to be late."

Mirae wanted to press—wanted to reach out, to touch Harin’s hand and ask what was really wrong. But instead, she turned away, retreating to her room, letting the sound of the rain fill the silence behind her.

The studio was a storm of its own: people running scripts, fixing lights, checking last-minute emails, all moving with frantic purpose. Mirae felt the familiar knot in her stomach tighten as she stepped inside. The conference room was packed—producers in black, the director perched at the head of the table, the lead writer, three assistant directors, cast members she barely recognized. Everyone was tense, even the air smelled electric, ozone and coffee and too many bodies in one space.

Joon-ho was there already, leaning against the back wall, talking quietly with the LUNE music director, Han Su-bin. She caught his eye and he winked, his presence both a comfort and a pressure. Mirae took her seat, script open, hands sweating.

The table read started with polite introductions, but quickly escalated. The director wasted no time: "This is the real thing. Let’s see if you’re worth the salary." The first scene was tense, a family argument, and Mirae’s lines came early. She took a breath, steadying herself, then let go.

The words flowed—angry, raw, heartbroken. Mirae felt herself disappear into the character, felt the hush around the table as she found the right rhythm, the right broken note. She didn’t overplay it, didn’t shrink away. When her scene ended, there was a long, loaded silence. Even the director looked up from his notes.

"Good," he said. "Again, but softer."

She ran it back, dialing down the anger, showing the cracks beneath the surface. This time, when she finished, she heard someone across the table exhale. The other lead actress, Choi Seon-hee, shot her a wary glance.

As the read continued, Mirae let herself relax into it, the nervous energy turning to adrenaline, to something close to joy. For a moment, she forgot about the tension at home, about the rumors, the weight of expectation. She was just herself, or maybe someone else entirely—someone who could hold the room.

After a break, the production team brought in the LUNE OST demo. Su-bin handed out sleek little headsets, and the first notes filled the room—a soaring, melancholic melody, strings and piano layered over a pulsing beat. It was cinematic, fresh, just a little raw. Halfway through, the vocals came in, a voice Mirae didn’t recognize—maybe one of the new trainees. It was so good Mirae felt her skin prickle.

People murmured, impressed. The director nodded, then actually smiled. "That’ll sell downloads," he said. "Nice work."

Su-bin shot Mirae a thumbs-up. Even the prickly assistant director looked satisfied. Mirae let herself breathe, her chest swelling with pride.

During the second break, Mirae slipped out to get some air. The hallway was busy—staffers with clipboards, a stylist fussing over an actor’s hair. Mirae leaned against the wall, eyes closed, just savoring a moment of quiet. Her phone buzzed: Joon-ho. You crushed it. Proud of you.

She smiled, about to text back, when someone cleared their throat beside her. She opened her eyes to see a woman—mid-thirties, stylish blazer, notepad in hand, the telltale sheen of a reporter about her. "Excuse me, Ms. Kwon? I’m Park Hana, with KStar Weekly. Do you have a moment for a few questions? We’re doing a profile for the drama’s launch."

Mirae hesitated, manners winning out over instinct. "Of course."

Park smiled, too bright, and flipped open her pad. "So, your character has a very unconventional family dynamic. Does any of that come from real life?"

Mirae laughed, keeping it light. "I think everyone brings a little of themselves to a role. But no, my family’s pretty normal. Just hard-working parents, lots of homework."

Park nodded, making a note. "But I understand you’re living with a few... close friends? There have been a lot of online rumors—fans are fascinated by the ’household’ you share. It sounds very... modern. Is that true?"

Mirae’s smile tightened. "I live with friends, yes. We all help each other out. It’s just like a big family. Nothing scandalous."

"But you’re all quite young. Is there ever jealousy? I heard one of you is dating Kim Joon-ho—sorry, that’s a rumor, but people do talk..."

Mirae tried to laugh it off. "Rumors get wild online. We’re all just focused on our careers."

Park leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Do you ever worry about the impact on your image? You know, being seen as a—"

A voice cut through the hallway, brisk and authoritative. "Ms. Kwon, five minutes till we need you on set." It was Su-bin, all business, appearing behind Park with the calm of a practiced PR shield.

"Thank you," Mirae said, turning to leave. Park tried to press in one more question, but Su-bin guided Mirae away, her hand firm on her elbow. As they rounded the corner, Su-bin murmured, "Don’t talk to her alone. She’s been sniffing around since last week."

Mirae nodded, her heart pounding, anger flaring beneath the veneer. "Thanks for the save."

"Anytime. Ha-eun’s orders: keep the wolves away from our girls."

The rest of the table read passed in a blur. Mirae nailed her remaining scenes, even as her nerves buzzed from the encounter in the hall. The other cast members watched her differently now—some with grudging respect, others with something sharper, hungrier. The production team seemed pleased, though, and as she left, the director clapped her on the back, murmuring, "You’ve got something special. Don’t let them break you."

It was raining even harder by the time she caught a ride home, the city outside the window streaked and blurred, neon signs flickering in the downpour. The apartment was warm, lights low, music playing softly—one of Harin’s mellow playlists. The smell of dinner drifted from the kitchen, but the air felt different, off.

Harin was at the sink, sleeves rolled up, washing a stack of dishes. The counter was clean, the floor spotless, laundry sorted in neat piles. Mirae paused in the doorway, watching her for a moment, guilt blooming in her chest.

"You’re home early," Harin said, without looking up.

Mirae set her bag down, feeling awkward. "Table read went fast. I... I think I did okay."

Harin hummed, still focused on the dishes. "I saw the live updates online. People are already talking."

Mirae wanted to share the rush, the little thrill of accomplishment, but something in Harin’s tone stopped her. She hovered at the edge of the kitchen, feeling useless. "Do you need help?"

Harin set down a plate, finally turning. Her eyes were tired, voice tight. "It’s fine. I’m almost done."

Mirae bristled, unsure why she suddenly felt like a guest. "You know, sometimes I feel like I’m just the auntie around here. Floating around, waiting to be called in."

Harin snapped the dish towel a little too hard. "Maybe if everyone helped out, I wouldn’t have to do everything myself." The silence stretched, sharp and uncomfortable. Mirae stared at the floor, biting her lip.

Joon-ho appeared, sensing the tension immediately. He crossed the room, dropping a kiss on Mirae’s cheek, then wrapping his arms around Harin’s waist from behind. "Hey. Let’s not fight. Big day for everyone, right?"

Harin softened, just a little, but her smile was small and tired. Mirae mumbled, "I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I’m just... tired, I guess."

They drifted into a kind of uneasy peace, eating dinner in the living room, half-watching a variety show, nobody really laughing. Mirae kept glancing at Harin, wanting to bridge the gap, but the words never came. Harin retreated to her room early, closing the door softly behind her.

Later, Mirae stood at the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. Her phone buzzed—a text from Su-bin: Heads up. KStar is digging for dirt. Be careful who you talk to. Another text followed from Joon-ho: I’m proud of you. Don’t let the noise get in your head.

She was about to reply when she saw movement outside. Down by the entrance, a figure was standing just beyond the light—phone out, angled toward the building. The hair on Mirae’s arms prickled. She squinted, trying to make out the face, but the figure stepped back into the shadow as a security guard hurried over.

She watched as the guard—Su-bin, now wearing a black windbreaker, earpiece visible—walked up to the figure, words exchanged in low, tense voices. The would-be photographer protested, gesturing wildly, but Su-bin was unyielding. Eventually, the figure turned and disappeared into the rain, Su-bin watching until they were gone.

Mirae let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The apartment was quiet, the only sound the rain and her own heartbeat. She backed away from the window, pulled the curtains closed, and sat on the edge of her bed, feeling both grateful and exposed.

In the living room, the TV flickered on, casting the apartment in pale blue light. Somewhere down the hall, Harin’s voice was a low murmur behind closed doors. Mirae wondered if she should go to her, apologize, try to make things right—or just let the storm outside run its course, hoping tomorrow would be easier.

Downstairs, Su-bin keyed her radio, voice calm. "Target gone. No photos. Madam Ha-eun, we’re clear for tonight."

But Mirae knew the peace wouldn’t last. The bubble they’d built around their little family was thin as glass, and somewhere out there, someone was waiting for it to crack.