Choi San

Ugh, finally. San slumped against the steering wheel, the cheap plastic sticking to his sweaty palms. The digital clock on the dashboard glowed a malevolent 3:47 PM.

Fifteen minutes late. Again. Third damn time this week. A sharp, familiar pang of guilt twisted in his gut. They were going to think he’d forgotten them. Or worse, that he didn’t care. That thought sucked worse than the heat currently wilting him. His worn t-shirt was already plastered to his back, and yup, there it was – a headache, blooming right behind his eyes, a faithful companion after another endless day wrestling inventory spreadsheets for Sanishine Coffee.

The air conditioning in this old clunker was definitely fighting a losing battle against the Chunhae summer heat, maybe even actively helping it bake the inside of his car like a mobile sauna. He could feel that familiar prickle, the low hum of pre-heat simmering just beneath his skin, making his sweat feel... wrong, too.

The late afternoon sun hit the parking lot like molten gold as he finally skidded his dented silver Kia to a halt. He finally spotted the gates of Chunhae High School through the open windows, a swarm of students and parents buzzing around the entrance like cicadas in August. The air was thick with that sharp, weird tang of adolescent pheromones that worried him a lot more than he cared to admit. San squinted, his dark, cat-like eyes scanning the crowd. Where the hell are my kids?!

He scanned the thinning crowd near the school gates, towards the pick-up area by the brick wall. There! Sandongi doing his usual fourteen-year-old 'too cool for school' lean, arms crossed, white hair catching the glare. Sandeoki, his little princess, was bouncing beside him, her short purple hair a splash of color that iluminated every space. She was probably downloading her entire day's drama onto her brother, who was pretending really hard not to listen.

A pang of guilt, sharp and familiar, twisted in San’s gut. What if she’s hurt? She looks pissed... God, if someone did something to her—They’re not presented yet... Oh, goddess...

“Don't you worry, San, c'mon," he muttered to himself, pulling haphazardly into a space clearly not meant for parking. He fumbled with the gear stick, jamming it into park with more force than necessary. The engine shuddered in protest. Just gotta get them, get home, get into the cool dad persona... maybe bake that strawberry shortcake that Sandongi wants...

He practically fell out of the car, the heat hitting him like a physical blow. He jogged—or rather, waddled quickly, as his tired legs protested, towards them, Quick-quick-quick!

He was received by Sandongie’s quiet "The bell rang twelve minutes ago" and Sandeoki’s "Appa, you're sweating like crazy again," as she was fanning herself with a math workbook, a little breathy as she was rambling non-stop, purple bangs plastered to her forehead, looking less pissed, still scruching her nose.

The scent of San's own omega distress, a sweet, caramel-tinged wave, seemed to roll off him, because a group of lingering betas instinctively shifted aside as he charged through the remaining stragglers. The omega’s flushed cheeks, eyes maybe a little wild–his usual 'got-it-together' mask was definitely slipping as chaos erupted when he spotted their bags right away, slumped against the brick wall in the deserted pick-up zone.

Two nearly identical black backpacks. Okay, one had Sandeoki's slightly-lopsided, hand-stitched Totoro patch. The other... just looked like a bag, so similar to Sandongie’s minimalistic aesthetics—just like Dongie's own bag actually. It just had a faint scent, something sharp, like pine? but maybe it was just a teacher’s scent, nothing else. There's been a rise on alpha teachers lately.

Okay, bag. Need a bag. Strawberry shortcake ingredients... did I remember to check the fridge? Medicine... suppressants... Ugh! There’s so much to do... His heat-fogged brain rattled the mental checklist, and he just grabbed the nearest black backpack, the one without the Totoro patch, the weight feeling suspiciously light in his hand.

Sandeoki’s face lit up when she saw him pick their things, her earlier impatience forgotten. "Dad! You're finally here! Mrs. Kim gave us so much homework in history, it's totally unfair, and then—"

"Appa, wait-" Sandongie's voice, sharp and hesitant, cut through the humid air.

"Later, later!" San cut them off, a little breathless, reaching them. He gave Sandongi a quick pat on the shoulder, ruffling his white hair. But it was too late—San was already herding them towards the car, the image of a cool kitchen and the sweet scent of baking berries a powerful motivator. "We need to make that cake! A giant strawberry shortcake! With extra whipped cream! Your old man needs his sugar fix, you know how it is."

San fumbled with the car door handle, the unfamiliar backpack feeling a little... off, in his grip. Probably just my imagination. Or the heat making me loopy. Then came the sound – a clatter and skitter across the asphalt. A rain of colored pencils, a neon fidget spinner, and three small packets of alpha-grade scent blockers exploded across the ground around his feet.

Sandeoki’s gasp was a thin, sharp sound in the sudden quiet. "That's not our Tamagotchi! And since when Sandongi presented?! YOU DIDN’T TELL ME, LOSER!" She held up a keychain she'd grabbed, sporting a cartoon wolf instead of her usual pastel hamster, as she moves to annoy her brother about his “presentation” as an Alpha.

San stared down at the mess, at the foreign items, at the stark white packets. The cooling tower of his composure didn't just crumble, it collapsed. The realization slammed into him like a bucket of ice—his own naturally sweet omega scent, now sharp with stress, clashed violently, sickeningly, with the sharp, woody, unmistakably alpha pheromones permeating the spilled belongings. Somewhere behind him, shoes scuffed against the asphalt, getting closer.

The shadow stretched across the scattered items, long and dark in the setting sun. Both children froze beside him. “D-dad... Right behind... you,” Sandongi said, quietly, trying to get Sandeoki off of his arm. Sandeoki’s small hand crept into his trembling one as San slowly, hesitantly, turned around. Framed by the molten gold light of the street’s lights, stood a silhouette.

And in their hand, swinging gently, was a very familiar, Totoro-adorned black backpack. Why those spoiled brats didn't try to tell me I had the wrong bags!!!!