Chapter Text
The first snow of the season arrived quietly, like a shy guest at the edge of dawn. It dusted the rooftops, softened the world, and wrapped the Min household in a white hush that felt like the start of something magical.
Inside, warmth bloomed. Cinnamon tea simmered on the stove, scented candles flickered on the dining table, and soft jazz hummed under the gentle clatter of breakfast dishes. Yoongi and Jimin sat side-by-side, sharing a blanket over their laps and a plate of toast between them, watching the snowfall as if watching a secret unfold.
Haru, however, was nowhere in sight.
Which was suspicious.
Yoongi narrowed his eyes over his mug. “She’s too quiet.”
Jimin blinked. “You’re right, she’s usually doing laps by now.”
As if summoned by their words, a faint scritch-scritch came from down the hall — uneven, determined, absolutely clandestine.
Jimin perked up. “That’s her ‘I-am-on-a-secret-mission’ sound.”
Yoongi sighed, tugging the blanket higher. “God help us. Last time that sound happened, she glued googly eyes on every banana in this house.”
Despite their teasing, both wore soft smiles — the kind only a parent wears when their entire world is bundled into a tiny, mischievous child.
But they let her be. They had their own Christmas discussion to finish.
“Home or vacation?” Jimin asked, tightening the blanket around their legs.
“Home,” Yoongi replied, without hesitation. “Christmas is supposed to smell like our kitchen.”
Jimin’s eyes softened. “But Haru might want snow slopes or gingerbread towns.”
“Then we build them in the living room,” Yoongi answered, brushing their fingers together. “Home feels like... us.”
Jimin pressed a small kiss to the corner of Yoongi’s mouth — a soft, grateful thing.
Little did they know that down the hallway, behind a half-shut door, a different plan was unfolding.
Haru sat on her bedroom floor with the seriousness of a world leader preparing a treaty. She had crayons splayed around her like fallen soldiers, sheets of paper in every pastel shade, and her tongue poking out in deep concentration.
Beside her sat Milo — perched like a furry chaperone, his tail curled neatly around his paws, observing the scene with the long-suffering patience only a cat can possess.
“Okay, Milo,” Haru whispered dramatically, leaning in. “This is your job too. You have to help me.”
Milo blinked. Slowly. As if he understood everything and judged it all equally.
Haru nodded, accepting his royal approval. She pulled a red crayon from the pile and began writing, each letter formed with effort and hope.
Dear Santa,
I was good this year. And even when I was not good-good, I said sorry and helpd Appa fix thinges.
She paused to look at Milo. “Remember when I spilled juice on the carpet? Papa didn’t cry. That means I was forgiven.”
Milo stretched one paw forward, tapping the corner of the page as though correcting her grammar.
Haru giggled. “Okay, okay, I’ll add that.”
She continued writing.
Please bring Appa a warm sweter becase he always says he is not cold, but he shevers like a pengooin. And please bring Papa new paints becase he used all of his old ones when we did the pumkin prooject, and he pritended he didn’t mind.
Her handwriting wobbled the more emotional she became.
And for Milo, please bring cat trits. The salmon ones. Not the turkey ones. He HATES turkey ones.
Milo flicked his tail, approving the accuracy.
Then Haru paused — the crayon hovering, her brows knitting, her tiny heart swelling with a tenderness too big for her small body.
And for me...
She tapped her chin, thinking hard. She thought about toys. Dolls. Books. Glitter pens. A pink sled she saw on TV.
But none of it felt right.
None of it felt important.
She leaned close to Milo again. “Appa and Papa always say Christmas is about love. And we have a lot of love, right, Milo?”
Milo meowed softly — a rare, gentle sound.
Haru smiled in a way that could break the strongest adult heart.
She wrote the final line with slow, steady strokes.
I only want happiness. And for my Appa and Papa to be happy too. A happy family of FOUR!
Love, Haru.
She drew a crooked heart. Then one for Milo.
And one giant one for the whole family.
The door creaked softly, and Haru flung herself across the letter like a tiny spy caught in the act.
Jimin peeked in, eyebrows raised. “Haru? Sweetheart, what are you doing?”
Haru smiled too widely. “NOTHING!”
Milo looked at Jimin as if to say, She’s doing something, and it’s dramatic.
Jimin tried not to laugh. “Okay, come out when you’re done with your... nothing.”
She nodded vigorously. “I will!”
As the door closed, Haru exhaled a huge, relieved breath. “That was close, Milo.”
The cat groomed his paw, unfazed.
With great ceremony, she folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and wrote: TO SANTA in oversized letters.
Then she looked at Milo again — big eyes shining with devotion and hope.
“We’re gonna make this the best Christmas ever,” she whispered. “For them.”
Milo bumped his head against her leg, purring, sealing their pact.
And down the hall, Yoongi and Jimin still debated Christmas plans, completely unaware that their daughter had already decided the most important part: Happiness — wrapped and delivered with love.
The world still wore a thin coat of silver when Yoongi stepped outside the next morning, the early winter air nipping gently at his cheeks. The sun had barely risen — a pale gold smudge behind the clouds — and the neighborhood was quiet except for the soft crunch of fresh snow beneath his slippers.
He’d stepped out only to check if the milk delivery had arrived, rubbing sleep from his eyes. But when he opened the little red mailbox at the end of the path, a single envelope lay waiting inside.
Small.
White.
And addressed in wobbly, crayon-red handwriting:
TO SANTA
Yoongi froze.
The cold air hit deeper.
He picked up the letter carefully, as if it were made of glass — turning it over once, twice, heart thudding now with something warm and heavy.
Haru.
Of course, it was Haru.
He closed the mailbox slowly, staring down at the envelope in his hand with a tenderness so sharp it almost hurt.
“Ah~” He exhaled, his breath fogging in the air. “My baby girl.”
With the quiet awe of a man carrying something sacred, he walked back inside.
Jimin was still in the kitchen, humming softly as he stirred hot cocoa for the three of them. His hair was tied loosely, cheeks pink from the warmth, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up, revealing the softness of morning on his skin.
When Yoongi stepped in, Jimin looked up with a small, drowsy smile. It faded into curiosity the moment he noticed the envelope in Yoongi’s hand.
“What’s that?”
Yoongi didn’t speak at first. He simply handed it over.
Jimin recognized their daughter’s handwriting instantly. His lips parted in a tiny gasp. “Oh...”
They exchanged a silent glance — heavy, emotional.
Together, they sat at the dining table. Together, they opened the envelope. And together, they unfolded the letter.
Crayon strokes.
Misspelled words.
Little hearts drawn in corners.
But the meaning—
The meaning hit them like a wave.
As Yoongi read the first lines aloud, his voice cracked, barely audible.
Jimin pressed both hands to his mouth, eyes instantly wet.
Each sentence felt like being wrapped in their daughter’s tiny arms — pure, earnest love that had no edges, only warmth.
"Please bring Appa a warm sweater because he always says he is not cold, but he shivers like a penguin."
Yoongi let out a shaky laugh, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I—I do not shiver like a penguin,” he whispered.
Jimin sniffled, smiling brokenly. “You do, though.”
“Please bring Papa new paints because he used all of his old ones when we did the pumpkin project, and he pretended he didn’t mind.”
Jimin dropped his face into his hands. “Oh god...”
Yoongi placed a gentle palm on Jimin’s knee, thumb brushing tender circles.
“For Milo... please bring cat treats. The salmon ones. Not the turkey ones. He hates turkey ones.”
From the hallway, Milo meowed as if confirming the statement with impeccable timing.
Yoongi choked on a laugh and a sob all at once.
And then the final words — the ones written with careful strokes, slightly smudged where her small hand must have trembled.
“I only want happiness. And for my Appa and Papa to be happy too. A happy family of four!”
The room went utterly silent.
Breathless.
Fragile.
Jimin pressed trembling fingers to the words, tracing them with reverence. “She’s... she’s only five,” he whispered. “How can someone so small have a heart that big?”
Yoongi leaned back in his chair, head tilted toward the ceiling as tears finally spilled down his temples. “We don’t deserve her,” he murmured, voice thick. “But God, I’m grateful every damn day.”
Jimin reached across the table, fingers trembling as they found Yoongi’s hand. Their palms met — warm, steady, grounding.
Yoongi twined their fingers together, lowering his forehead to Jimin’s, breath mixing in a soft, shared exhale.
“We have to make this the best Christmas she’s ever had,” Jimin murmured.
Yoongi nodded, voice soft and determined. “She asked Santa for happiness. Well... we’ll give her a whole world of it.”
From the doorway, tiny footsteps padded.
Haru peeked in, hair sleepy, pajamas scrunched, dragging Milo by the armpits like a co-conspirator who had been caught.
“Appa? Papa?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. “Why are you crying?”
Their heads snapped up.
Both parents instantly tried to wipe their faces discreetly.
Jimin opened his arms first. “Come here, baby.”
Haru rushed to him, Milo dangling unhappily in her grip. Jimin lifted her onto his lap, hugging her tight, burying his face into her hair.
Yoongi wrapped his arms around three of them, voice trembling with love. “We’re not sad,” he whispered into the crown of her head. “We’re just... really, really happy.”
Haru blinked, confused. “Is it because of the snow?”
Jimin kissed her cheek. “Something like that.”
Milo, squished between them, let out a tired, unimpressed meow — the sound of a cat who understood none of human emotions but tolerated them anyway.
And just like that — in the warmth of their kitchen, under the soft string lights they hadn’t taken down since last winter — Christmas began.
Not with lights.
Not with gifts.
But with a letter written in crayon, held together by love.