Y/N's POV:
The humid air clung to me like a second skin as I stepped off the plane in Incheon.
Stepping onto Korean soil always felt like coming home, even if it was just for the summer.
"Seoul, I'm back," I murmured, anticipation bubbling in my chest.
Every year, while my parents jetted off to some exotic locale for their "grown-up time," I landed on my Grandpa Jun's doorstep, ready for another summer adventure in his cozy Seoul neighborhood.
This year, however, felt different. This was my last summer before college, a last hurrah before adulthood came knocking.
And perhaps, just maybe, this was the summer things would change with Haerin.
Haerin.
The name sent a familiar flutter through my stomach.
We'd met at ten, me a clueless, boisterous American boy, she a quiet, watchful girl with eyes that held the somber beauty of Seoul's skyline at dusk.
Over the years, our summer encounters had morphed from awkward, silent exchanges to shared laughter and whispered secrets under the star-dusted Seoul sky.
She was a walking paradox, my Haerin.
Distant and reserved on the surface, yet underneath that carefully constructed wall was a girl who could outwit me in a debate, make me laugh until my stomach hurt, and whose quiet empathy touched a part of me I never knew existed.
"Y/N! My boy!" Grandpa Jun's booming voice broke through my thoughts as he enveloped me in a bear hug.
His familiar scent of ginseng tea and old books filled my senses, grounding me in the present.
"Grandpa, I missed you!" I said, returning his embrace.
We bundled into his beat-up sedan, the familiar scent of kimchi and old leather washing over me.
As we pulled into the familiar driveway, I saw her. Haerin.
She was sitting on their porch swing, a book in her lap, her dark hair cascading down her back like a silken waterfall. She looked up as we approached, her face unreadable.
Then, a slow smile spread across her face, lighting up her features. And just like that, my heart was doing somersaults.
"Haerin-ah," Grandpa Jun greeted her warmly, "our Y/N has grown taller, don't you think?"
"He looks the same to me, ajusshi," she replied, her lips curving into a playful smirk. "Still clumsy."
My cheeks flushed, remembering all the times I'd tripped over my own feet in her presence, much to her amusement.
"Yah! I haven't tripped once this year... yet," I retorted playfully, earning another melodic laugh from her.
The summer unfolded like a dream. We spent our days exploring hidden alleys bursting with street food stalls, watching sunsets over the Han River, and losing ourselves in the neon-lit wonderland of Hongdae.
One particularly humid afternoon, we sought refuge in our usual haunt – a quaint little bookshop tucked away in a quiet corner of the neighborhood.
"Have you picked something for the book club meeting tomorrow?" she asked, her fingers trailing along the spines of the books.
Our little book club was a tradition born out of our shared love for stories. It was just the two of us, of course, but we liked the formality of it all.
"Not yet," I admitted, "Any recommendations, my brilliant bookworm?"
She pretended to ponder for a moment, tapping her chin with a mischievous glint in her eye. "How about this one?" she said, pulling out a well-worn copy of 'Pride and Prejudice'.
