The sun in Seoul doesn’t just shine—it weighs. It hangs thick and heavy in the sky like a second skin, pressing down on my shoulders, wrapping around my neck. I can feel the sweat gathering behind my knees and down my back, sticking my thin gray tee to the ridges of muscle that my trainer won’t let me forget. The air tastes like hot metal and grilled squid, with that faint tang of asphalt warming up beneath my sneakers. I shift the pizza box under my arm and tug down the brim of my cap, the navy one with the Doosan Bears logo that always earns me a nod or two from the older guys loitering at the pojangmachas.

It’s not just the cap. People know me. At six-ten, even in Korea where baseball’s a real thing, I don’t exactly blend in. But I’ve never cared much about the stares. Not when I’ve got my girls waiting on me.

My name’s Haneul Seo—though most foreigners I meet fumble it and just call me Han. My wife calls me "mi cielo," which always makes me feel like I’m seventeen again and stumbling over my Spanish homework just to impress her. The kids, well, they’ve got their own names for me. "Appa," of course. But also "teddy bear," "tree man," and once, very seriously, "princess protector."

I glance down at my phone—her text again. Get extra ranch, baby. And maybe those cinnamon breadsticks? Our little monsters had a big day in the garden. A smile pulls at my lips, even though my shirt’s starting to stick in new places. That rooftop garden is her pride. It's nothing but soil beds, potted mint, some tomatoes that keep dying in the heat, and a mess of lavender that the girls think smells like “candy and naps.” But to her, it’s her piece of home. That, and us.

When I get near the Domino’s, the familiar chime of the door gets swallowed by the buzz of street traffic and vendors yelling out watermelon prices. Right next to it, the old banchan lady, Mrs. Jung, spots me. She’s perched on her little red stool, waving a paper fan in front of her face. Her shop smells like sesame oil and chili, and her silver hair is twisted into a bun so tight it defies gravity.

“Ya! Seo Haneul! Did your pretty wife send you again?” she calls out, her eyes twinkling under the folds of her sun-hardened skin.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, dipping my head respectfully. “She’s craving pizza again. Blame the garden.”

“She’s so precious,” she cackles, the same way she always does.

“I know.” And I do. Every day.

Mrs. Jung always keeps a stash of hard candies just for my daughters. She adores them. All the old ladies on this block do. My girls walk these streets like little royalty—brown curls bouncing and baby cheeks shining in the sun. Even when I’m not with them, I get stopped at least twice for updates. "The older one, she still obsessed with frogs?" "The baby, she likes my barley tea still?"

The guy behind the Domino’s counter knows me. He grins and pushes the box toward me. “Your wife ordered the spicy bulgogi pizza. Two extra garlic dips. You got lucky, hyung.”

“Tsh. Lucky how?” I joke, but we both know I don’t mean it.

I head back into the heat, the smell of garlic and cheese making my stomach grumble. I can already picture the scene when I walk through the door: my two-year-old shrieking “PIZZAAAA!” like it’s a sacred word, the four-year-old trying to balance on the couch arm to sneak a peek inside the box, and my wife—probably barefoot, cheeks flushed from the rooftop sun—wiping her hands on her apron and looking at me like I just walked on water.