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It starts with a pancake.
More specifically: a T-Rex-shaped pancake that’s slightly burnt on one edge, made from a cartoon mold Jungwon said was “for fun,” but Heeseung privately suspects is a tool of war.
Yurim is already at the table, legs swinging. Sunglasses on indoors. Shirt inside out. Alpha energy radiating like a small sun.
Heeseung holds up the dinosaur. “There’s only one left.”
Yurim lifts his gaze without removing the sunglasses. “And?”
Heeseung blinks. “We could share.”
Yurim tilts his head. “We could also battle.”
A pause. Jungwon walks past, sipping barley tea, and without looking up says:
“Last time you two battled, the rice cooker died. No more contests before 9 a.m.”
“Correction,” Heeseung mutters. “I died. The rice cooker survived.”
By 10 a.m., they are at the beach.
Heeseung is covered in sunscreen and regret. He’s digging a trench beside Yurim’s sandcastle because apparently the ocean “respects strong urban planning.”
“This is the west wall,” Yurim explains, shoving a plastic pail into Heeseung’s hands. “If it collapses, we lose the living quarters.”
Heeseung raises an eyebrow. “Why does your castle have living quarters?”
Yurim shrugs. “You said Appas provide housing.”
Heeseung blinks at him. The six-year-old alpha shoveling wet sand with military efficiency. The tiny gold bracelet Jungwon made him wear so Heeseung could “find him in crowds.” The serious, terrifying concentration.
Heeseung turns to Jungwon, who’s lounging under an umbrella reading a murder mystery.
“Your son’s unionizing the beach.”
Jungwon doesn’t look up. “At least he’s not biting kids anymore.”
Yurim shouts from the castle, “They touched my crayons, Papa! I was provoked!”
At noon, they go to the market.
Heeseung carries two canvas bags and a list Jungwon wrote on a napkin. Yurim skips ahead, greeting locals like a miniature mayor.
One of the aunties waves at Heeseung. “Alpha Appa! You look strong today!”
Yurim steps in front of him, crossing his arms.
“He’s bonded.”
The ajumma laughs. “So are my knees, sweetheart.”
Jungwon appears like divine intervention. “Yurim, baby. Let the auntie flirt. It keeps her blood pressure stable.”
Heeseung nearly drops the gochugaru.
At 3 p.m., a tragedy strikes.
Heeseung sits down on the floor. Yurim climbs into his lap with suspicious intent.
“I’m going to ask you something serious,” the boy says.
Heeseung nods solemnly. “Okay.”
“Do you think you can beat me in a push-up contest?”
“Absolutely.”
Jungwon, from the kitchen: “You’re gonna lose.”
“Don’t side with the child.”
“I’m siding with gravity.”
Heeseung narrows his eyes. Yurim smirks. They begin.
Heeseung makes it to fifteen.
Yurim stops at ten, gets up, eats a rice cracker, comes back, and does five more — maintaining eye contact the entire time.
“Get rekt,” he whispers.
At night, after a very dramatic bath (“My shampoo is for alphas, Appa, yours is for people who cry at weddings”), Yurim curls up between them on the bed.
Heeseung runs a hand through the boy’s drying hair. “You’re intense, you know that?”
Yurim yawns. “Alpha things.”
Heeseung kisses his forehead. “You’re gonna change the world.”
Yurim replies sleepily, “I already changed your job title.”
Heeseung turns to Jungwon, who is flipping through a picture book.
“Is he always this scary?”
Jungwon snaps the book shut and says, calmly:
“He’s mine. Of course he is.”
And honestly, Heeseung can’t argue with that.
Not when the bed is warm.
Not when the house smells like home.
Not when he’s never been happier to lose every fight.