Kyungsoo spends his summer cooped up in a pinewood cottage, depths of trees and dirt surrounding him. Occasionally, he sits outside on an old, decaying rocking chair—reading against the bare creaks of wood on the floorboards.

A dusty orange lights its way across the downtown path to isolated streets and beaches. But Kyungsoo prefers his vicinity of thick, badly stitched blankets and imported Arabian carpets—a canopy of broken lamps hanging from the roof of his cottage.

He traces his palms along smudges of older handprints—paint fading over the years. He’s glad he didn’t scrape them away during his high school youth (insanity). Because he now sees older memories intertwine with newer photographs—with newer faces and different smiles.

And Kyungsoo stirs from his thoughts as he sees his lover emerge from the mess of green leaves—evening warmth hanging thin in the air.

“Hyung! I got the firewood!” Jongin shouts—his arms raised above his head, clutching onto stacks of wooden planks and charcoal bags.

Yes, this summer will be the best, Kyungsoo thinks, as they walk—hands held together—to an empty beach, to a hopeful fire, to a summer’s dance, to a certain future.