Page 122 of The Way Back Home

“Miss me?”

I answer by curling a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him down. His mouth is warm and tastes faintly of the candy he ate on the bus ride back, sweet and artificial. He hums against my lips, his fingers finding the hem of my tank top and slipping beneath it, palms flat against my stomach. The casual touch sends heat pooling low in my gut instantly the way it always does when Seyeon puts his hands on me.

He was gone since yesterday. Some kind of school related appointment he mentioned. I didn’t ask for details because Seyeon always gives them whether I want them or not. So I spent the day at the garage and the evening on the couch watching a movie I’d already seen twice and smoking on the balcony and pretending the apartment didn’t feel cavernous without him in it.

Now I make up for it. I pull his shirt off button by button, pressing my mouth to each patch of skin as it’s exposed. His collarbone. The hollow of his throat where his pulse jumps. The flat of his chest, his ribs. I flip him onto his stomach and work his jeans down his hips, press my lips to the knobs of his spine one at a time while he shivers beneath me. I take my time the way I’ve learned to make myself do. I’m not patient by nature, but the sounds Seyeon makes when I go slow are worth every second of restraint. The soft sighing noises. The way his fingers curl into the sheets when I mouth at the backs of his thighs. The little involuntary twitch of his hips when my tongue finds the spot behind his ear.

I fuck him face down with my chest against his back, both hands laced through his, my nose in his hair, breathing him in with every thrust. And when we’ve both come and the sweat is cooling on our skin and Seyeon is boneless beneath me, his lashes fluttering, I stay inside him for a long minute. Just feeling him. The warmth. The pulse of his body around mine. The flutter of his heartbeat against my chest.

After, I pull out carefully, press a kiss between his shoulder blades, and he makes a satisfied noise like a cat in a patch of sun.

We go again because Seyeon rolls over and looks at me a certain way while I’m wiping us down with a towel and I can’t say no to that look, have never once been able to. This time he’s on his back, legs wrapped around me, his heels digging into the small of my back, his nails leaving crescents in my shoulders as I drive into him and watch his face twist up with pleasure. When he comes his body arches and he grabs at my hair, pulling hard enough to sting, and I follow him over the edge with his name between my teeth.

By the time we’re actually done the room is dark and we’re both useless. Seyeon is a warm heap beside me, his leg thrown over my hip, his breath slow and even against my chest. I think he might’ve dozed off. I let him for a few minutes, tracing circles on his hip with my thumb, staring at the ceiling.

Eventually my throat gets dry. I untangle myself carefully, easing out from under Seyeon’s leg, and sit up. Pull on the sweatpants that got kicked to the floor earlier. I stand, stretching my arms overhead until my spine pops, and reach for the shirt I left on the back of my desk chair.

My hand stops.

Beneath my shirt, spread across the desk in a neat fan, is the stack of what Seyeon set down when he walked in. I didn’t look at them then. Didn’t care. But now I can make out the glossy covers, the bright fonts and photographs of campus buildings.

Pamphlets. College pamphlets.

I pick one up. Gyeongsang National University. Another beneath it, a vocational school in Busan. A trade college in Changwon. A technical institute in Gimhae. All of them local. All of them within an hour or two of Haemok.

My frown deepens as I flip through the next one, reading the front. It’s advertising a teaching certification transfer program.

I look back at the bed. Seyeon’s propped himself up on one elbow, watching me quietly. Like he’s been waiting for me to notice.

“What are these for?”

Seyeon sits up, runs a hand through his hair. His collarbones are flushed pink, dotted with the marks of my mouth. He looks thoroughly fucked and entirely unbothered by the question as he says, “I went to look around at some schools closer to home.”

I stare at him. The pamphlets feel slippery in my hand. “For what? Aren’t you almost done with your program?”

He shrugs one shoulder. The casualness of it makes my skin prickle. “I’ve been thinking about transferring somewhere closer for my last semester. A few of these have compatible programs, I could finish out my degree at Gyeongsang and still graduate on time. And there are a couple of schools around Busan with teaching internships that look solid.”

I put the pamphlets down. Pick one back up. Put it down again. “Transferring.”

“Yeah.” He swings his legs off the bed and reaches for his boxers, pulling them on as he talks. “It makes sense when you think about it. Cost of living down here is way less than Seoul. I could find an apartment in Busan for half what I’m paying for my shoebox up there. And honestly,” he tilts his head, smiling a little, “I’m kind of over it. Seoul’s lonely. I don’t really have anyone up there besides classmates I barely talk to.”

Cold starts at the base of my spine. A creeping frost that works its way up vertebra by vertebra.

“What about your internship?” I ask tonelessly. “The one at that academy. The private school.”

“I can find one down here too. There’s a couple of decent academies in Busan, one in Changwon that has a partnership with one of these schools.” He gestures at the pamphlets. “I already called and asked about availability.”

He already called. He’s already made inquiries. This isn’t a passing thought, not an idle daydream floated on the tail end of a good lay. He’s been planning this. Went to visit campuses. Collected materials. Researched transfer programs and called ahead about internship openings. All while telling me he had some kind of school appointment.

Seyeon keeps talking. I can see his mouth moving, can hear the words tumbling out, he’s laying out a plan he’s already committed to. A mentorship program at one of the colleges, about being close to his mom, about being close enough to check in on Mrs. Nam.

About being close to me.

He doesn’t say it outright but it’s there in every sentence, between the practical justifications. This way we can see each other all the time. This way I don’t have to leave.

The buzzing in my ears gets louder.

I lean against the desk with my arms folded and my jaw locked tight. Seyeon’s still sitting on the bed, legs crossed, looking up at me with quiet expectant brightness like he’s waiting for me to be happy about this. Like he’s brought me a gift and can’t understand why I haven’t opened it yet.