Chapter 11!

The dirt road stretched long beneath the summer dusk, its edges glowing faintly where fireflies had begun to stir. Yujin kicked at a pebble as she walked, her schoolbag bumping against her hip. Beside her, (YN) carried his own bag slung casually over one shoulder, his steps steady in that maddeningly calm way of his.

“You only beat me by two points,"

She grumbled, eyes narrowed at the ground.

"That doesn’t even count as winning.”

He let out a short laugh. “Two points is still two points. A win’s a win.”

“You got lucky,” she muttered, kicking the pebble harder this time.

His laugh lingered in the air, quiet but sure.

“ You always say that.”

The sky above them deepened into streaks of orange and violet, cicadas buzzing from the trees lining the road. Their town was quiet at this hour, only the faint chatter of shopkeepers closing for the night reaching their ears. Yujin kept her gaze fixed ahead, refusing to look at him, as though her annoyance could keep her chest from feeling so strangely light.

Then her foot caught on a raised stone. She stumbled forward with a startled gasp, nearly losing her balance—

—but his hand was already there, wrapping firm and quick around her wrist.

She froze. For a second, all she could hear was the steady hum of the world around them and her own heartbeat drumming wildly in her ears. His hand was warm, too warm, and she hated how long she stayed frozen in his grasp before yanking her arm back.

The cicadas were loud back then too.

Yujin blinked, pulling herself back into reality. The sound of the waves replaced their shrill hum, relentless and crashing in uneven beats against the shore. For a moment she couldn’t tell where she was, on the dirt road years ago, stumbling over a stone with his hand steadying her, or here now, on the rough grains of sand meeting the water from the sea.

And then she realized his hand was there again. Around her wrist. steady, firm, warm.

(YN) stood in front of her, close enough that she could see the faint crease between his brows, the way his jaw tightened as if holding back something sharp. His eyes, darker than she remembered, tired yet piercing, were locked onto hers. It wasn’t the teasing glance of a boy walking her home. It was heavier, different.

As if he were searching for something. Or perhaps warning her away.

She drew in a breath, shallow against the salt air. Her pulse betrayed her, quickening beneath his touch.

The waves crashed again, louder this time, filling the silence between them. She wanted to speak, to say anything that might loosen the coil tightening in her chest, but the words tangled at the back of her throat.

Instead, she whispered his name. Barely audible.

“…(YN).”

It startled her how natural it felt, the syllables slipping past her lips after years of being locked away.

HOURS EARLIER!

The air inside the office was heavy, thicker than the salt wind outside. The shutters hadn’t been opened all morning, leaving the faint smell of stale paper and ink pressed into the walls.

“How is your report going?”

The chief’s voice broke through the silence, steady but carrying a weight that demanded precision.

(YN) stood in the middle of the room, his posture formal, hands pressed against his sides. His gaze lingered on the wooden desk for a moment before lifting, catching the faint beams of sunlight cutting through the blinds, dust drifting lazily in their path.

“I’ve sent my first draft to the editor today,” he answered, the politeness in his tone measured, almost automatic. “He said he’ll look at it.”

The chief nodded, eyes narrowing as though weighing the words themselves rather than their meaning.

Silence followed again, and in that quiet, (YN) realized what kind of job he put himself to. He bit his lip lightly, relinquishing the feeling of lying to someone who he pretty much worked for.

The chief tapped a pen against the desk, once, twice, before setting it down. “We’ll see what the editor says. Make sure your revisions are sharp. Accuracy is non-negotiable.”

(YN) bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment, though the words seemed to brush past him rather than sink in. He could feel the weight of the lie pressing against his ribs. His draft hadn’t been sent. Not yet. He hadn’t been able to finish it, not with the noise in his head, not with the questions that refused to settle.

When he finally stepped out of the office, the corridor felt too narrow, the air too thin. He loosened his tie, tugged once at the collar of his shirt, but it didn’t ease the restlessness crawling beneath his skin.

He told himself he’d stop by the editor’s desk. That he’d push through the draft tonight, polish it until dawn if he had to. But instead his feet carried him outside, past the doors of the station and faced the sun striking down on the streets.

“What’s up with you? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” (YN) turned his head to the sound of footsteps approaching him and found Seojin walking over.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up, a stack of folders tucked under one arm, two small cans of coffee on the other hand, and his brow damp from the heat. He gave (YN) a sideways glance, half amused, half concerned.

(YN) managed a faint exhale, forcing a small shake of his head. “Nothing. Just…talked to the chief.”

“Uh-huh.” Seojin adjusted the folders, squinting at him as if weighing whether to believe it. “Well, whatever it was, you look like someone who needs this.” He handed a can over, a gesture (YN) gladly accepted.

The drink popped open in his hands before he lifted it to his lips. “Hey, I don’t want to trouble you but would you mind if you do me a favor?” He looked between his friend and the can.

“Depends,” Seojin said, quirking a brow as he cracked his own can open. The fizz snapped softly in the heat. “If it’s about covering your late-night slot again, the answer’s no.”

“It’s not that,” (YN) swallowed, feeling the words stick in his throat as if they were heavier than any sentence he’d ever filed. He forced them out anyway. “Can you—can you stall Chief Hong for me? Tell him I need an extra day on the revisions. Say I ran into some dead ends and I want it right. Anything. Just…buy me time.”

Seojin blinked, then laughed, soft, disbelieving. “You want me to lie to the chief? That’s rich coming from you. You, of all people.”

For a beat Seojin watched him, studied him. He’d known (YN) long enough to read the difference between a thrown-off excuse and a cornered man.

The smirk slid from his face and something like concern took its place. He pulled a folder under his arm, tapped it with one finger, then nodded once. “Alright. One favor for that favor you’ll inevitably do for me someday. But you owe me, big time.”

“I owe you,” (YN) said, relief light and sudden. He felt faintly ridiculous asking for such a small thing, then infinitely grateful when Seojin shrugged.

“But,” Seojin raised his hand up just before he could bow his head. “What for? I thought you had everything covered.”

“Don’t you know what he put me up to? He wants me to write about y'know, her group.” (YN) quickly said, as if he didn’t put himself in this situation.

Seojin whistled low. “Oh. That one. Dispatch and all that circus, right? You really volunteered for this?” He sounded half–amused, half–sympathetic as if picturing (YN) being dragged into a tabloid flurry.

“It came down from Seoul,” (YN) said, jaw tightening. “They want somebody local. Quick, clean. And—God—I can’t just show up and play the part. Not like this.”

Seojin shifted, tucking a stray folder under his arm. “Not like this…meaning?”