Page 109 of The Way Back Home

I look over at Seyeon. He’s already looking at me. We hold for a moment, the loaded silence saying everything. The question of what happens to the store is tangled up with the question of what happens to us, and we both know it, and neither of us has an answer.

Seyeon breaks first, turning to his mother. “No. We still need to discuss it.” He’s using his calm teacher voice. “There’s still a lot to be done anyway, if we plan to sell it.”

His mother hums. “I understand, of course.” She looks between us. “It’s just a shame. Mrs. Nam knew you two would know what to do with it. She obviously thought you’d be the best ones to run it, if you chose to.” A pause. “But of course you both have lives to get back to.”

I nod. Seyeon gets quiet.

We pack up the containers and see his mother to the front. She stops at the roll-up doors and turns, reaching up to grip both sides of my face the way she does with Seyeon, and plants a firm kiss on my cheek. Her hands linger, thumbs pressing against my jaw.

“Come by the house soon,” she tells me. “I want to see you more while you’re here.”

“I will, Auntie.”

She releases me and turns to Seyeon. “And will I see you at home tonight?”

Seyeon shifts on his feet, his posture easy. “Actually, I think I’m just going to stay here tonight. We have a lot to work on and it’s just easier.” He shrugs. “I might come by to pick up some of my things.”

His mother nods and doesn’t push. She gives us both one last smile, warm enough to carry for days, and then she’s heading down the hill.

I turn to Seyeon. Arch my brows.

He leans against the door frame with his arms folded, looking out at the street where his mother was. His expression is unreadable. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge the look I’m giving him, doesn’t offer any explanation for why he just told his mother he’s moving in here when his mother’s house is a fifteen minute walk and has actual plumbing and a bed that isn’t a mat on the floor.

I should say something. Should tell him to go home, that there’s no reason for both of us to be crammed into this one room when he has a perfectly good alternative. That him being here every night, sleeping beside me, waking up pressed against me, is making it impossible for me to think clearly.

I look at him standing there in my clothes, his hair still messy from sleep, the morning light highlighting the edge of his jaw and the line of his throat, Yuro sitting at his feet, and I don’t say a goddamn thing.

We work through the afternoon.

Seyeon sits behind the counter with his papers and his pencil while I go up on the ladder replacing wiring in the ceiling. When I glance down I catch him mouthing numbers to himself, the tip of the pencil tapping against his bottom lip. Yuro lies at the base of the ladder with his chin on his paws, one ear swiveling toward Seyeon every few minutes like he’s checking on him.

The sun moves across the floor and dries the puddles the rain left on the pavement outside. I rewire two of the overhead lights and manage to patch the section of ceiling that caved in properly this time, screwing in reinforced panels instead of the cheap tiles that crumbled under the water. By the time the light outside starts to warm Seyeon puts his pencil down and stretches, arms above his head, his back cracking audibly.

“I’m going to go grab some things from my mom’s,” he says, sliding off the stool. He scratches Yuro’s ears on his way past. “Need anything?”

I shake my head from the top of the ladder without looking down. “Nah. I’m good.”

I hear the glass door swing shut behind him. Yuro whines softly, nose pointed at the door, then looks up at me as if asking is he coming back? I reach down and flick the dog’s ear lightly.

“Yeah, bud. He’ll be back.”

By the time the sky turns purple he is. I hear the door and Yuro’s toenails clicking across the floor as he scrambles to greet him, and I keep my back turned, focused on tightening a bolt on the freezer hinge. But I hear the sound of a bag being dropped, not just the light rustle of food containers, the heavier thud of clothes, of items packed for staying.

I wipe my hands on a rag and keep working.

We close up the store as the last light fades from the sky, pulling the roll-up doors down together. I grab towels and my kit from the bedroom and tell Seyeon to shower first. He takes his bag with him, comes back through the kitchen door a few minutes later in his own clothes this time, grey joggers and a white t-shirt that fits him properly, his hair damp and pushed back from his face. He smells like his own soap now instead of mine, clean and slightly citrusy, and for some stupid reason I feel a pang of loss about it.

I take my turn in the outdoor shower. Let the water run cool because the evening air is warm and muggy after the rain, and the cold helps clear the fog in my head. I scrub down fast, towel off, pull on a pair of sweats and a clean shirt. Run my hands through my wet hair a few times and leave it.

When I step back into the bedroom Seyeon’s lying on the sleeping mat. He’s stretched out on his back, one leg propped up on the opposite knee, his phone held above his face, scrolling. The lamp is on beside the mat, giving the room a low warm light. He looks comfortable. Like he belongs in this room, on this mat, in this space that’s been mine alone for the past few weeks.

He turns his head when he hears me, lowers the phone. His eyes travel over me slowly. His gaze is open and unguarded and it guts me.

I lean against the doorframe. Let my shoulder take my weight and cross my arms. Just look at him for a minute, because I can, and because looking at Seyeon is something I’ve been starving for longer than I’ll ever admit to his face. He looks soft and relaxed, the tension of the past weeks smoothed away.

“What are we doing, Seyeon?”

His brow quirks. He sets his phone down beside the mat and sits up, cross-legged, facing me. Studies my face like he’s working out a problem.