"You got this, son!"
The father of the bustling family of ten shouted, his voice booming with pride, as all eyes turned to the youngest member of the clan. The small boy sprinted with all his might, cheeks flushed, legs pumping furiously, sweat glittering in the afternoon sun.
His sisters screamed his name, waving their arms like flags. His mother clasped her hands over her mouth, whispering silent prayers. His uncle, sipping from a can of Coke he'd stolen from the woman beside him, cheered louder than anyone else.
The boy surged past competitors nine and five. Only number one remained. The finish line loomed. Dust rose. Breaths were held. The siren blared—
—and the boy didn't know who had crossed first.
"That's my nephew!" his uncle roared.
The boy turned to see his rival sprawled on the track. He had won. He had actually won.
The family erupted. The coach lifted him onto his shoulders. His mother wept. His father embraced her. His sisters rushed in for a group hug, the grandparents clapped with glowing smiles, and his uncle—
"Tell the director to cut."
Im Haneul's urgent whisper sliced through the scene. Seo Daehyun, the producer of Bosom Sisters, waved at the crew.
"Cut!"
The stadium dissolved into chatter. Some actors headed straight for the buffet table, others collapsed into chairs, fanning themselves with scripts.
All except Kang Joon Ho. The actor playing the uncle hadn't moved before Haneul had him by the collar.
"What is wrong with you?" she hissed.
"Nothing," he said, calm as stone.
"You never follow the script."
"I did. I cheered, I sipped someone's drink—"
"Coke."
"Fine, Coke. I looked happy. I shouted."
"But you didn't KISS!"
Joon Ho tilted his head, unbothered. "Was I supposed to?"
"Yes!"
But he was already slipping from her grip, strolling toward his dressing room with that maddening air of detachment. Daehyun trailed nervously behind Haneul, ready to smooth the storm when it broke.
"Ms. Han," Joon Ho called without looking back. His personal assistant, Han Mira, was busy adjusting the child actors' costumes and handing out desserts. She dropped everything to follow.
Haneul intercepted her, nails pressing lightly into Mira's arm. "I hope you're doing your job properly."
Mira swallowed, throat dry. Everyone on set knew: when Im Haneul didn't get her way, careers ended.
"Yes, ma'am," Mira murmured. It wasn't quite a lie.
"Good." Haneul's smile was red, sharp, and satisfied. "We've got five more episodes this season. And by next season? Kang Joon Ho will kiss on screen. I'm counting on you."
She strutted off, lipstick gleaming under the lights.
The set exhaled as though released from a spell.
Watching from the stands, Kim Minjae, CEO of Watanabe Telecommunications Korea, leaned toward his secretary. "Do you think Johnny will kiss?"
Secretary Min Sunwoo, expression blank as ever, didn't answer.
Minjae chuckled anyway. "I think so too."
Kang Joon Ho shut the door of his dressing room with a quiet click. The muffled chaos of the set faded, replaced by the low hum of the air conditioner. He leaned against the door for a moment, exhaling slowly, as if even standing had become a burden.
The mirror before him reflected the same face plastered across billboards a decade ago—sharp jawline, steady gaze, the kind of smile that once made headlines. Now the man staring back looked tired, his collar tugged loose, his eyes shadowed.
There was a knock.
"Come in," he said flatly.
Han Mira slipped inside, balancing two paper cups of iced coffee. She hesitated, unsure whether to speak. Joon Ho didn't look at her; he was already peeling off his blazer, tossing it onto the couch.
"Ms. Han," he said at last. "Was I really supposed to kiss her?"
Mira nearly dropped the cups. "Yes. It was in the script."
A faint laugh escaped him, humorless. "Always in the script."
He finally turned, and for a fleeting second Mira saw something raw flicker across his face—disgust, maybe even fear—before it vanished behind his practiced calm.
"I don't kiss for cameras," he said, sitting down and taking the coffee from her hand. "Not anymore."
Mira wanted to ask why. Everyone wanted to know. But she also knew better than to press. The last assistant who did hadn't lasted long.
Instead, she set down her own cup and busied herself with the schedule. "Tomorrow's call time is 6 a.m. You'll have three scenes. No intimacy."
"Good," Joon Ho muttered.
Another silence stretched. Mira glanced at him. He was staring at the script on the table, but not reading it. His hand lingered near the corner of the page, fingers curled tight.
"Ms. Han," he said softly.
"Yes?"
He looked at her then—not the actor, not the celebrity, but a man who seemed smaller than his reputation. "Do you think I'm difficult?"
The question startled her. She opened her mouth, closed it, then said carefully, "You're… particular."
That drew the faintest ghost of a smile from him. "Particular. I'll take that."
Before Mira could add anything more, the door burst open. Seo Daehyun, the producer, stepped in, sweating through his shirt.
"Joon Ho, we need to talk. About the kiss scene."
Joon Ho's expression shuttered instantly. Whatever softness Mira had glimpsed was gone. He stood, shoulders squared, the mask of Kang Joon Ho—the actor, the untouchable star—slipping back into place.
"Then talk to my agent," he said. "I'm done for today."
And with that, he left, his untouched coffee still cooling on the table.
Mira stared after him, her own coffee suddenly bitter.
She had no idea what secret lay behind his refusal, but one thing was clear: if Im Haneul wanted him to kiss, and Joon Ho swore he never would… then she, Han Mira, was trapped between two immovable forces.