Chapter Text
The first thing Yonghoon notices is the sound.
A constant hush, as loud as a breath being drawn in and out. The sea inhaling and exhaling with him, familiar in a way that makes his chest burn.
Even after all these years, the waves still sound the same.
He pushes down the window despite the warm June air and lets the coastal wind wash over him. It carries the scent of salt, sun-warmed wood and something he can’t name but has always associated with home. Maybe it’s wild grass, maybe it’s memory.
The small town unfolds in front of him like an old photograph. The winding coastal road, the half-faded sign welcoming visitors, the roofs of worn guesthouses dotting the hillside. Time seems to have softened its edges, but not altered them completely. The same neon signs still cling to the fronts of low buildings, their colors faded but stubborn, the same battered lampposts still lean slightly toward the water. The first sight of the boardwalk comes around a bend, and to Yonghoon it feels like seeing an old friend through the blur of a train window. If he looks closely, he can still spot the broken pier cutting out into the sea in the shape of a wound that never healed right. And beyond it, the hazy outline of the Night Island floating on the horizon.
Yonghoon’s fingers tighten around his bag strap as a thin ache works its way into his chest. He hadn’t realized until now, until this exact moment, just how deeply he’d missed this place.
The bus slows to a stop on the side of the road and the guesthouse he'll be staying in comes into view just as the sun begins to dip lower in the sky. It’s a two-story building tucked slightly uphill, where the hydrangeas bloom too easily. Its shutters are still painted the same dull lavender, chipped and sun-bleached, with a wooden sign carved in old-fashioned script hanging outside. A wind chime jingles softly as the bus doors hiss open, eager to get rid of him.
Yonghoon steps down onto the gravel, his legs stiff from the long ride and chest feeling heavier than it should. He hasn’t told anyone he was coming. Not his agent. Not his publisher. Not his parents. Not even the people here, if any of them even remembers him at all.
As he stands in front of the guesthouse, his grandmother’s face comes to mind.
This used to be her place, and every summer Yonghoon and his family would come down to stay. The scent of her cooking was always the first thing to greet him as he stepped out of his parents’ car.
Now the house belongs to someone else, another elderly woman from town, a friend of his grandmother who took it over after the funeral. When Yonghoon had called to book a room, she’d recognized his voice almost immediately. “Ah, you’re Hyesun’s boy!” she’d said. And the way she’d spoken, a scolding and a welcome in the same breath, so much like his grandma, had filled him with nostalgia and nearly made him feel sixteen again, calling her from his house in Seoul.
If his grandmother was still here, she would be waiting out on the porch, arms open wide, pulling him into a hug before squishing his cheeks the way she knew he pretended to hate. She would fuss over him, point out how thin he’d gotten, ask if he was eating enough. She would tell him off for staying away so long and then give him double portions at dinner.
But then again, if his grandmother was still here, Yonghoon wouldn’t have stayed away in the first place.
With a sigh, he drags his suitcase up the stone steps, the familiarity of the path sinking into him with every step. The screen door opens before he can knock.
“There you are.” The old woman says, hands on her hips. Her back is a little stooped, her hair more white than grey, but her voice holds that same no-nonsense warmth his grandmother’s once had. “You took your time.”
Yonghoon bows slightly, sheepish. “It’s been a while.”
She studies him for a long moment, before stepping aside to let him in. “Your grandmother always said you’d come back when the city finally wore you down.”
He almost smiles. “She wasn’t wrong.”
Inside, the air smells faintly of lemongrass. The wallpaper is still faded, the floorboards still creak, the porcelain vase that had survived decades of clumsy elbows is still by the stairs. But in between those familiar details, there are new ones. Brighter cushions on the armchairs, a fresh rug in the entryway, framed photographs of people he doesn’t recognize. It’s the same house, and not the same at all.
“You look tired.” The woman says.
“I am.” Yonghoon admits.
“Then rest. Let the ocean fix you.”
Yonghoon doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he’s not sure anything could fix him anymore. Not the ocean, not time, not even himself.
He thanks her with a small smile when she hands him his key, then climbs the stairs. Room 03, his old room. Practically untouched. The fan in the corner grumbles awake when he steps inside. The bookshelf by the window still bears the same chipped corner where he’d rammed his suitcase into it at seventeen. The bedsheets are striped in a color he’s never been able to identify, pale lines now faded from too many washes.
With a soft thump, Yonghoon sets his suitcase down by the desk but doesn’t unpack. Nothing feels worth unfolding, for now.
Instead, he pushes open the window and lets the quiet settle over him. Outside, the ocean stretches wide, dark and endless under the moonlight, as though it’s been waiting for him all this time. Its voice drifts through the room, low, steady, holding him somewhere between memory and longing.
Yonghoon sits on the narrow bed, hands curling into the warm sheets. The fan keeps humming in the corner. Somewhere down the hill a gull cries out, sharp, almost like laughter.
Yonghoon had left the country a lifetime ago with a plane ticket, a suitcase full of ambition and a heart full of grief. He’s back now with an empty chest and fingers that haven’t managed to write a single line in months.
Maybe here, maybe with the tide and the dust and the ghosts of who he used to be, he can find his way back to something.
Maybe not.
But the ocean still sounds the same. And that feels like a beginning.
The town moves slower than he remembers.
Or maybe it’s just Yonghoon that runs too fast now, wired on city living, overdosed on deadlines and late-night coffees and too many words that never go anywhere, carrying exhaustion in places no one can see.
Here, time stretches. People linger.
Yonghoon walks slowly down toward the waterfront with his hands in his pockets and the ocean to his left, restless and constant. The wind pushes his collar back, tugs gently at his sleeves almost like it remembers him and isn’t sure if it should be angry or glad he’s returned. People pass by, faces he almost recognizes or strangers with the same cadence in their voices as those he used to know. The air is thick with sunscreen, salt, something sweet and sharp all at once. His shoes crunch against the boardwalk, the same uneven wood panels, the same rusted railings holding their ground against the years.
He passes the souvenir stands first, all still shut this early in the season, then a skewer stall with a chalkboard menu, then an old claw machine that hasn’t been replaced since he was a teen, still half-broken, still flashing its cheap plastic lights.
And then, the café.
White with blue trim, square windows fogged faintly at the edges, sitting on the curve of the boardwalk like it has grown roots there. It looks like it’s been repainted at least once since he left, but the vibe is still the same. A scattering of mismatched tables outside, too many plants in chipped ceramic pots, handwritten signs taped to the glass. A sleepy kind of charm.
Yonghoon stands outside for a moment, pretending to check the painted sign— Open 8 to 6— but really, he’s hesitating, bracing for something he can’t even name.
Eventually, he pushes the door open anyway.
A bell chimes overhead. The smell of roasted beans and something sugary wraps around him like a blanket.
Only a few people are sitting inside. A surfer scrolling through his phone, a couple sharing an iced latte in silence. There are more plants along the windowsill, a few postcards pinned above the counter in a disorganized line, curling at the edges from sun and time. An old guitar leans against the wall next to a shelf of mismatched mugs.
Yonghoon lingers near the door until someone steps out from the back.
Bleached hair falling into his eyes, apron tied low on his waist, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. He's muttering something to himself as he carries a crate of glasses, focused until he looks up.
He stops mid-step, his expression flickers. Surprise, disbelief, then something softer.
“No way… Yonghoon?”
His voice is more stunned than anything else, laced with the cautious tone of someone who recognizes him but doesn’t believe that he’s actually standing there. Yonghoon is startled to see how much he’s grown.
“Yeah.” He says, exhaling a deep breath. “Hey.”
Dongmyeong sets the crate down carefully and wipes his hands on a towel. “Wow.” He lets out a small laugh. “You’re the last person I expected to walk in.”
“I know.” Yonghoon concedes, a small smile still tugging at his lips as he steps closer to the counter. “You’re taller.”
“And you’re skinnier.” The response comes quick, the curve on Dongmyeong’s lips turns into a playful smirk. “And your hair, all long and messy. It looks good.”
Yonghoon chuckles softly, shaking his head at the familiarity. “I didn’t think you’d still be around.”
“I’m not, actually.” Dongmyeong says, leaning on the counter. “I only come down in the summer to help my parents. My brother takes care of our café in Seoul, so I can be here for a while.”
“Couldn't stay away if you tried, huh.” Yonghoon replies, watching as Dongmyeong only shrugs with a grin and lets the tease linger.
The ease between them is disarming. Strangely, surprisingly gentle. It hits him softly, shifting something deep inside.
For a long moment, Dongmyeong looks at him as though he’s not sure where to place him after all these years. Yonghoon can’t really blame him for that. But then, as if deciding not to overthink it, he slips right back into motion and flashes him the brightest of smiles.
“You want something?” He asks, shifting smoothly behind the counter. “Iced Americano, right?”
Yonghoon’s eyebrows rise. “You remember that?”
“Hard to forget.” Dongmyeong chuckles, already pulling a glass from the shelf. “You’d come in dripping seawater every day, sand all over your shoes, and still ask for iced Americano before anything else.”
Yonghoon huffs a small laugh. “That sounds like me.”
He sits on a stool and watches as Dongmyeong pours the espresso, adds ice, swirls it all together. It’s quick, practiced. The glass lands in front of him with a satisfying clink.
“Thanks.” He says, before taking a sip. It’s strong, cold, just bitter enough to wake something in him.
Dongmyeong lets him enjoy his drink while he tucks things back into place. The café hums softly around them, filled with the familiar sounds of steaming milk, spoons tapping porcelain and wind pressing against the windows.
“So…” Dongmyeong says after a while, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed on his chest. “Burned out or heartbroken?”
Yonghoon’s shoulders deflate as he sighs. “Is it that obvious?”
“You have ‘melancholy author returns to seaside town’ written all over your face.” He teases easily.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As you should.” Dongmyeong responds, not missing a beat. It takes a snort out of Yonghoon. “I heard you were doing well.” He adds then, almost tentative. “Writing books and all that.”
“I was.” Yonghoon says. “Still am, technically.”
“Doesn't surprise me at all.” Dongmyeong nods with a small smile. "It suits you."
Yonghoon doesn’t answer that. He traces the condensation sliding down his glass with a fingertip, following the drop as it makes its way onto the counter.
Writing had always been as natural as breathing to him, something instinctive that he never had to think about. These days, though, it feels less like air and more like a rope pulling tighter around his neck with every inhale. Too strained, too heavy, too close. He almost tells Dongmyeong that, but then thinks better of it.
Instead, he turns to watch the sunlight shift on the tables outside, listening to the low thrum of music from the speakers, the whir of the espresso machine. Against all odds, something inside him already starts to loosen.
“You’re staying long?” Dongmyeong asks eventually.
“A couple of weeks, I think.” Yonghoon shrugs. “Not sure yet.”
A knowing smirk tugs at Dongmyeong’s lips. “Bet this place will find a way to keep you around.”
Yonghoon lets out a soft chuckle. “We'll see."
Dongmyeong leans back on the counter then, watching him as something thoughtful settles at the edge of his smile, a decision clicking into place. “Well, since you're here..." He says casually. "We’re having a bonfire tonight, kind of a season opener. You remember those, right? It’s nothing fancy, but you should come.”
Yonghoon looks up. He’s not sure what he was expecting when he stepped in here this morning. Maybe something, maybe nothing at all beyond the coffee.
“I don't know.” He says, unsure. "I'm not exactly a summer regular anymore."
“You'll do just fine.” Dongmyeong replies without hesitation. “I told you, it’s not a big deal. Just some fire, some beer, and people who'll probably ask if you still remember them.”
Yonghoon snorts. “That sounds terrifying.”
“It’s not that bad." Dongmyeong grins. "If you come late, you can sneak in and pretend you've been there all along.”
There is something warm in his tone, something easy in the offer. No sign of pressure, but rather space made for him, a small door left open if he ever decides he wants to step through.
“Alright.” Yonghoon says finally. “Maybe I’ll come by.”
“Down by the rocks, past the boardwalk. After dark.”
“Got it.”
Yonghoon stands up slowly, brushing his hand across the rim of his cup before leaving it empty on the counter. Dongmyeong gives a small nod, then turns to grab another mug from the shelf.
He steps back into the warm summer air, letting the door swing shut behind him.
The taste of coffee lingers on his tongue, sharp and grounding. He doesn’t know if he’ll actually go to the bonfire, but the thought of it sits quietly in the back of his mind. There, present.
He starts walking again, the ocean to his left, the town to his right and the sky above washed in pale blue, soft and clear.
The sun hangs lower by the time Yonghoon returns to the guesthouse.
His grandmother’s friend is nowhere in sight, probably tending to the garden, or in the kitchen, or asleep with the news murmuring in the background.
He lets himself into his room. It’s exactly as he left it that morning and still, somehow, feels a little smaller. The window is cracked open just enough to let the breeze bring in the sound of the waves, muffled by distance but steady. He watches the way light bends across the floorboards, the way dust moves through the air like it has nowhere else to be.
His laptop stays zipped in his case. His notebook stays closed. He doesn’t have it in him, yet.
Instead, Yonghoon lies down and lets himself feel nothing. Not guilt, not relief, not inspiration. Nothing but the weight of his own limbs and the faint hum of the ocean in his ears. He stays still for a long while, listening to the hush of it rolling against the shore, close enough to feel like it’s calling for him.
As time stretches, he almost forgets about the bonfire. But when the light outside begins to turn lavender and the first scent of smoke threads through the air, he gets up.
A light jacket. His phone. The path down toward the beach. Simple. Familiar. And maybe that’s the point.
The beach glows with soft firelight by the time Yonghoon gets there.
Fire flickers tall and golden in the dark, throwing shadows across the sand and painting faces in warm, shifting hues. It’s not as crowded as he expected, maybe twenty, thirty people scattered in loose clusters. Some sprawled on blankets, some leaning against driftwood, some crouched near the flames roasting skewers or tossing bottles into a cooler. Laughter blends with the crackle of the flames, smoke curls lazily up toward the stars. A circle of warmth glowing against the dark stretch of water.
Ten years ago, Yonghoon might have been in the center of it all, carrying firewood, balancing skewers, showing up early to help light the first spark. Now, he hovers at the edge, barely more than a tourist in his own memory.
He finds a quiet patch of sand a little away from the crowd and sits, letting the fire warm his face even as the wind cools his back.
For a while, he just watches. Someone is playing a guitar, gently, half-tuned. Someone else shouts something about marshmallows. A couple walks along the surf, shoes in hand. There is a dog weaving between people, begging for food and getting too much of it.
No one seems to notice him. No one rushes to greet him or turns to stare. A few people glance his way with the kind of recognition that doesn’t need words. Oh. You’re back. But no one calls his name, no one drags him into the light. And that’s almost a relief.
Then, “You came.”
Yonghoon turns to see Dongmyeong approaching, holding two paper cups and wearing a windbreaker that swallows him whole.
“I thought you might ditch.” He says, handing him one of the cups.
“I almost did.” Yonghoon admits, a little self-conscious.
“Figures. You always overthink everything.”
Yonghoon smirks faintly. “You say that like we used to be close.”
Dongmyeong shrugs and sits beside him on the sand, cross-legged. “We weren’t. But this town is small. Everyone noticed you, even when you didn’t notice them.”
The words sink into him, heavier than Dongmyeong probably intends. But Yonghoon refuses to dwell too much on them, not tonight at least, and finally takes a sip of his drink. It’s something warm, vaguely sweet, surprisingly good.
Dongmyeong watches the fire, then nudges his chin toward the crowd. “This used to be your kind of thing, didn’t it?”
Yonghoon nods slowly. “It was.”
“Feels weird, huh? Coming back and seeing it all still here.”
“Yeah.” It's all Yonghoon can manage. Because weird is not nearly enough to explain the feeling, the way being here pulls something soft and sore in his chest.
So he doesn’t bother and they just sit together for a while, catching up, trading small memories, letting the fire fill the pauses. They reminisce in fragments, how the boardwalk used to rattle under their bikes, the arcade with machines that never worked, the way summers always smelled like salt and grilled squid. It’s surface level, but it’s enough, a thread back to the same place even if they weren’t tied to each other then.
The laughter between them fades into the crackle of the fire, blending with the voices circling around, until someone calls Dongmyeong from the other side of the flames. A small group is gathered there, laughing at something out of earshot, already waving him over.
Dongmyeong pushes himself up with a sigh, brushing sand off his jeans. “I’m coming!” He shouts back, then turns to Yonghoon, his tone softer.
“Don’t just sit here alone all night.” He tells him, tilting his head towards the crowd. His voice travels easily over the soft hiss of burning wood. “Hyungu should be around somewhere. I don’t think he’s seen you yet.” He says it with a smile, easy, certain. “You should go say hi. He’ll love to see you again.”
And then he’s gone, jogging off into the dark before Yonghoon can say a word.
His chest tightens at the mere mention of the name. Yonghoon hasn’t said it out loud in years, but hearing it now presses sharp against his ribs.
He forces himself to breathe, staring down at his cup as if the swirl of liquid could anchor him. He tries not to look right away, not to search the crowd, but every laugh, every silhouette, every flash of a hoodie in the light could be him, and the anticipation seems to dig claws into his stomach.
Minutes slip by. Yonghoon finishes his drink, looks up at the stars scattered bright above the ocean. Someone yells something in the distance. A burst of laughter follows, bright and loud.
Then, without warning, someone stops beside him and a shadow falls over the sand.
“I knew that was you.”
Yonghoon stills at the sound of the voice. It hasn’t changed much, maybe only a shade lower, a touch rougher than he remembers. But still calm, still warm, still undeniably Hyungu.
Yonghoon turns, slow enough to take it in. Hyungu stands framed by the glowing flames, a bottle dangling loosely in one hand, a hood pulled over messy hair, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looks like he’s just come from the water and hasn’t warmed up yet. The firelight glances off his profile, catching the edge of a smile, surprised but not hesitant.
Yonghoon blinks and for a second the beach drops away. The years do, too.
“Hey.” He says. It comes out softer than he means to.
Hyungu drops onto the sand beside him without waiting for an invitation, close enough that the warmth between them becomes its own small fire. His thigh brushes the sand near Yonghoon’s, deliberate or not.
“I thought you’d forgotten this place.” He says. His tone is casual, almost offhand, but the warmth in his eyes catches Yonghoon off guard. It twists into him, sharp at first, then slower.
“I tried.” He admits quietly.
Hyungu hums, sets his bottle in the sand and tips it toward the fire, watching the flames flick and bend in the breeze. The quiet between them stretches, filled with heat, gull cries, the guitar straining into the night. Yonghoon feels every single beat of his own heart.
“I figured you wouldn’t come back.” Hyungu says at last. “Not after… you know.”
The words drift between them, heavy, careful. They both know what he means without needing to explain. Yonghoon shifts, brushing sand from his palm. The moment tugs at something deep in his chest, a sense of longing that will never go away, but he tries to keep things light.
“I can’t tell if you’re happy to see me or not.”
Hyungu glances over then, just for a heartbeat, and the look in his eyes is too layered to read cleanly. A flicker of something raw, quickly tucked away. But Yonghoon sees the shift of his mouth. It’s almost a smile, almost something else.
“I haven’t decided yet.” He says, and the curve of his lips tilts up a little higher.
Yonghoon mirrors it despite himself, letting the tightness in his shoulders loosen ever so slightly. “Fair.”
Another breeze moves through, lifting smoke toward the sky. The fire seems to crack louder for a while. Hyungu opens his mouth like he wants to say something more, but then swallows it and reaches for the bottle instead. His knee angles just slightly toward Yonghoon, as if unconsciously closing the space he’d tried to keep neutral.
Then, he tips the bottle toward him. “Want some?”
Yonghoon takes it. Their fingers brush, briefly, too gentle to be accidental. The glass is warm from Hyungu’s hand, the drink sharp and burning on the way down. He hands it back, careful but not careful enough to avoid another glancing touch.
Hyungu studies him for a long moment, openly now, no longer pretending he isn’t looking, staring like he’s trying to find the boy he remembers in the man sitting beside him now. It makes Yonghoon tense, afraid of what Hyungu might find if his eyes dig too deep, as if he could see through the thin threads he’s holding himself together with.
But all Hyungu says eventually, calm, sure, is “You look the same.”
It’s a simple observation, so certain, almost fond. And all Yonghoon had braced for, something sharper, some jab or some comment meant to sting, vanishes into thin air. The tension in his chest eases, relief sneaks in under his ribs.
But so does something more dangerous. The ache of being seen, the urge to laugh it off before it gets too much.
So, before he can think better of it, he blurts “You don’t.”
That earns him a side glance. Hyungu's brow arches. “Good or bad?”
Yonghoon hesitates, weighing the answer on his tongue. He has to stop himself from responding too honestly, from admitting that it’s both even though he doesn’t fully understand why. Instead, he swallows down the mess of it, and picks the safest truth.
“Different.” He answers quietly. “Not bad.”
Hyungu hums again, not entirely convinced, though he doesn’t push. But Yonghoon couldn’t explain it if he tried, how Hyungu feels exactly the same and completely different all at once. And it’s not just about the way his shoulders are broader now, or how his jawline is sharper. It’s the way he feels next to him, still familiar, but somehow changed.
Enough to remind Yonghoon how long it’s been. And how little that matters.
At some point Hyungu leans forward, elbows pressed to his knees, watching the fire like it’s speaking only to him. He inhales, slow and uneven, and his mouth twists into something between a smirk and something else.
“I used to think,” He says after a while, voice low. “That if I ever saw you again, I’d want to punch you.”
Yonghoon blinks, not sure if he should laugh or brace himself. He knows the words are meant to tease, but he also knows Hyungu once truly believed them. “Well, do you still want to?”
Hyungu lingers on the question, considering it. His head turns just enough for his eyes to meet Yonghoon’s, but there is no anger there, there never was. It’s something older instead, thinner. Something that’s been carried around for far too long.
He huffs then, shaking his head. “Nah. Too much effort.”
The laugh that slips out of Yonghoon surprises even him, quick, unguarded, gone before he can catch it. Hyungu’s smile answers it, breaking fully for the first time. He tilts his head a little, and the hood slips to reveal more of his eyes. Something in his expression has cracked open now, left unguarded. Like this, he almost looks younger.
For a moment Yonghoon thinks he might leave it there, but then Hyungu shifts and exhales slowly, as if he’s surrendering something.
“I think… it’s nice to see you here.” He says quietly, finally. “Weird. But nice.”
Yonghoon lingers on his gaze and lets himself look, catching the way softness blooms at the edges of Hyungu's eyes. There is a weight lifted he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and he can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at his own lips.
He exhales, nods once, slowly. “Yeah. You too.”
And it is. Even if Yonghoon doesn’t know what comes next.
For now, the fire keeps burning steady, warm against his face. The ocean keeps rolling in and out like it always has. And beside him, someone who once knew all the best parts of him, and maybe still does, is still sitting in the sand.
Close enough to touch. Smiling at him. Not looking away.