Page 53 of The Way Back Home

“I’m not touching that shit,” Ryowoon hisses with an edge that makes me hold my breath. “And you of all people should know better.”

My eyes cut to Haeil. Everyone knows that Haeil’s house isn’t much different from Ryowoon’s. That his dad has a temper that comes out of a bottle same as Ryowoon’s does, that Haeil shows up sometimes with mysterious bruises sometimes, same as Ryowoon does. It’s probably half the reason they get along so well, why they’ve drifted closer, cutting class together, smoking behind the school building. But no one ever says stuff like that out loud, not once, not even between the two of them as far as I know, and I’m surprised Ryowoon’s the one to say it so bluntly now.

Haeil doesn’t look hurt though, just rolls his eyes, more exasperated than anything. “Whatever, man. Don’t drink then.” He pours himself a cup instead, tips it back in one go, then glances at me, lifting the bottle. “You want some?”

I look at Ryowoon. He’s staring out at the harbor now, jaw still tight, shoulders drawn in.

“I’ll pass,” I say, shaking my head.

Haeil shrugs and passes the bottle on to Sihyung instead. The others go back to talking, easy again, the moment sliding past them. Ryowoon doesn’t say anything else about it, but he sits there with his knees pulled up quietly, which isn’t like him at all.

The soju keeps going, and the other boys get louder with every round. Sihyung nearly topples off his rock at one point, windmilling his arms to catch himself, and the rest of us lose it, laughing so hard my ribs ache. Yoohan’s cheeks are flushed pink, grinning wide as he tries to tell a story that keeps getting derailed because he forgets what he’s saying halfway through it.

I’m grinning, caught up in the chaos of it, my stomach hurting from laughing at Haeil trying to demonstrate a fight move he swears he saw in a movie and nearly kicking Sihyung in the face in the process. The whole thing’s a mess, all of them slurring their words and stumbling over each other, and I’m still sober enough to think it’s funny as hell.

But Ryowoon’s not laughing.

I glance at him and see his shoulders drawn tight, his hands fisted against his knees. He stares out at the water, his jaw locked, and the longer we sit here the more tense he gets, like every laugh and every slurred sentence is pulling him tighter and tighter until something’s going to snap.

Then he stands up, movements sharp and abrupt.

No one else notices. Sihyung’s trying to pour himself another drink and missing the cup entirely, Yoohan’s cackling at him, and Jinwon’s sprawled out on the rocks with his eyes half closed. Haeil glances up when Ryowoon moves, but he doesn’t say anything, just watches him go.

Ryowoon climbs the rocks without a word, not looking back, his back rigid as he heads up toward the street.

I watch him disappear over the edge, torn between staying and following. Haeil turns his head, watching Ryowoon’s retreat for half a second, then shrugs and goes back to laughing at something Yoohan just said. No one else cares.

I get up quietly, brushing off my jeans, and start climbing the rocks after him.

By the time I reach the street Ryowoon’s halfway up the hill already, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. I jog to catch up, breathing hard by the time I’m close enough to see him pulling out a cigarette, flicking his lighter open with one hand. The flame flares in the dark and he cups it, lighting up and exhaling smoke before I reach his side.

I don’t say anything as I reach over and pluck the cigarette from his fingers and take a drag. I hold it in for a second before blowing it out, then hand it back.

Ryowoon glances at me, mouth curving into a faint smirk, and takes the cigarette back without comment, putting it between his lips.

“You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

He exhales smoke, watching it curl into the night air. “Yeah. Just not interested in that shit.”

I shrug, falling into step beside him. “Alright. Let’s go find something else to do then.”

Ryowoon grins at that, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. He throws an arm over my shoulder, pulling me in close.

We walk up the hill together, aimless, just moving because sitting still feels wrong.

That summer is peaceful in a way I don’t think any summer has been before.

Ryowoon’s out late most days, working on cars for neighbors or covering evening shifts at the store, and somehow he seems to have gotten smarter about avoiding his dad. He goes weeks without any new bruises appearing, and when I see him in the mornings he looks lighter, like he can breathe properly. His shoulders sit easier, his jaw relaxes when he talks. He busies himself with work, with the guys, with late nights at the harbor where we sit on the rocks and watch the fishing boats come in.

I see him every day and he’s mostly the same old Ryowoon. Scrappy and quick to pick fights with anyone who looks at him wrong, but also the version of him who grins wide when he fixes something broken, who brings me stolen snacks from the market and tucks flowers behind his ears just to make me laugh. The version I like best.

But it doesn’t last forever.

One morning I’m opening the store alone, barely awake, the sky still gray with dawn fog rolling in off the harbor. The metal doors rattle as I unlock them, pulling them up with a groan. I’m halfway through counting the register as I hear footsteps outside, slow and uneven.

I glance up and see Ryowoon coming up the street through the mist.

The cigarette between his lips bobs as he walks, his bag slung over one shoulder, the way he’s moving makes my stomach drop. Careful, like every step hurts. His head’s down, hair falling forward to hide his face, and he keeps one hand pressed to his ribs.