Archive of Our Own

⋆꙳•❆🥭*°⋆❅🍓.ೃ࿔*🍫:･*❄︎₊⋆

The sky is blue.

Even when it was surrounded by the whiteness of clouds and the impossible white light of the sun that no one could truly escape. Even then, the sky remained blue. Everything else had been white.

The ground was white. Cold white. Snow.

They were lying in it then, backs pressed into the cold, saying, earnestly, that they only wanted to rest there for a moment. To stay still, just for a while. But could they truly rest, when deep down all children ever wanted was to play?

So Ricky, Gyuvin, and Gunwook were not only lying on the ground with nothing to do. Their arms stretched outward, sweeping through the snow. Their legs kicked and moved, careless and wide. They made snow angels.

Snow clung to their hair and settled into everything about them, decorating them until, looking back, it almost felt like they were angels themselves. Really lovely snow angels, caught in a moment that felt far too gentle.

They were at Gyuvin’s house then. Christmas break. They wanted to spend it there first, before moving on—house hopping to Gunwook’s, then to Ricky’s—stretching the days so no goodbye would feel too final. It was the 23rd of December.

A very special day.

Why it mattered so much at the time was something only Gyuvin knew.

They weren’t even supposed to play in the snow. The cold was sharp enough to numb fingers too quickly, to linger in bones, to invite sickness if they stayed out too long. They were warned about it.

But it was Gyuvin’s grandmother who was looking after them then, babysitting with the knowledge of someone who had raised children before and knew which rules could bend. They asked. They pleaded. And eventually, she gave them permission.

So the snow angels turned into a contest—who could make the widest one. Who could stretch their arms the furthest, their legs the longest. They were far too excited over something so small, laughter breaking through the cold air, movements exaggerated and earnest. One might have thought they could draw halos around themselves if they tried hard enough.

Ricky felt the cold creeping in. His fingers went numb, his back chilled through his clothes, but he didn’t care. He was having fun.

He didn’t have this much fun before he met them; every moment with them felt fun and safe.

“I know this is the winning one already,” Gyuvin said, pointing proudly at the snow angel he made. His cheeks were flushed red, both from the cold and from smiling too wide.

“Well, you are the tallest out of us three,” Gunwook replied, practical even then. “It’s only logical that you’ll win. You wanted it because it was advantageous for you.”

“You agreed to the whole thing,” Gyuvin countered immediately.

“I agreed because—”

“I know because—”

They stopped there, both of them turning their heads at the same time.

They looked at each other first, something unspoken passing between them, and then they looked at Ricky.

Ricky was watching them with big, shining eyes, completely intrigued by the whole ordeal, snow clinging to his hair as if it belonged there.

“Ricky said he wanted to,” Gyuvin said.

“Didn’t you, Ricky,” Gunwook added—

together.

Not a pause between their words. Not a break in the rhythm of it. As if they were cut from the same cloth. Because it really was the reason all along, wasn’t it?

“Yes,” Ricky said. “I wanted to play in the snow. I wasn’t able to before—it’s my first time.”

He tried to stand then, shifting awkwardly in the snow, and before he could manage it on his own, they reached for him. Both of them. Immediately.

Hands were offered without hesitation, steady and warm despite the cold, pulling him up from the snow as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if this were one of the first of many hand-held moments they would always keep in their hearts.

“There’s still so many firsts you’ll be able to experience with us,” Gunwook said then, fingers closing around Ricky’s gloved hand. Maybe it was the gloves that helped, fabric pressing against fabric, holding warmth in longer than bare skin ever could. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

“Ricky…”

Gyuvin said his name like it was enough to begin something new, gently shifting the conversation without ever truly leaving the last one behind.

“You look just like an angel.”

He brushed Ricky’s hair carefully, fingers slow and reverent, as if the snow tangled in it was placed there on purpose—as if it fell from the heavens instead of the sky.

And because Gyuvin was always like that—always too full of energy, too bright, too eager to give the world more than it asked for—he kneeled.

Oh heavens, he kneeled.

Right there in the snow, in front of Ricky, without a second thought. He began saying the most random, absurd, and yet sweetest things known to mankind, as if he truly believed the angels themselves were listening. As if this celestial being before him needed to hear every word.

“Oh angel from the heavens,” Gyuvin said solemnly, voice wavering between sincerity and excitement, “have you come to save us mortals from the fiery pits of what they call the living realm?”

He pulled lines together from every cartoon he ever watched—the ones adults dismissed as childish, never realizing how deep the stories went, how seriously children took them.

“Gyuvin, what are you doing?” Ricky asked, lifting his hand to cover his mouth, unable to stop the laugh that escaped him.

His voice sounded soft even then. Sweet. The kind of sound that felt like it could heal things without trying.

Gunwook, of course, refused to be outdone.

He kneeled too—not with the dramatic reverence of Gyuvin, like someone worshipping, but with the careful posture of a prince from a storybook. He extended his hands forward, offering… a stick.

A stick he somehow found, from who knows where.

“Oh most loveliest angel,” Gunwook said, chest lifted, giving it his absolute best, “I could only offer you this stick. I would have offered you a rose, but it pains me that this is all I have. Please accept my humblest offering.”

He said it so earnestly it almost felt believable. How remarkable this child was—even then, giving everything he had, even if it was only a stick.

Then Gyuvin, never one to be left behind, made an offering of his own: a snowball, perfectly shaped in his hands.

“Then please accept my coldest and whitest of snows,” he said, smiling far too sweetly, “that will surely befit your allure.”

He looked at Ricky with such reverence, as if he truly believed it. And yet, he couldn’t hide the grin he shared with Gunwook. Gunwook, who was equally amused, equally fond.

Honestly, was this what children learned at school?

To be entirely, hopelessly whipped for someone? To do everything for them, even the silliest of things, without shame or hesitation? Well, it was pretty much what this was.

Ricky, thoroughly entertained, smiled so wide he didn’t even realize it was possible. It felt like his face might ache from it later, but in the moment, he didn’t care.

“Wow,” he said, laughter slipping out easily, “I didn’t know you two could act so well.”

The sound of his laugh lingered in the cold air.

The other two, still kneeling there with their knees buried in the snow, looked up at him. Completely serious. Deadpan, even.

“This isn’t an act, Rick,” Gyuvin said, voice steady, expression unwavering.

“We’re just naturally like this,” Gunwook added, as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world.

Ricky blinked.

“Oh,” he said, not quite sure what to do with that information.

But they didn’t give him long to dwell on it.

“But our angel,” Gunwook continued, still holding out the stick like it was something precious, “what would you pick? Making a snowman?”

“Or a snowball fight?” Gyuvin asked at the same time.

They both looked at him then, eyes shining far too brightly, almost pleading. As if what mattered wasn’t the game at all, but that Ricky would choose. That he would pick them.

Ricky didn’t hesitate.

“How about both?”

He said it simply, easily, as if it had ever been anything but obvious. As if it had ever been difficult when it came to the two of them. As if choosing both wasn’t something that came naturally to him—choosing them from the first moment to the very last.

That choice was always his constant.

Gyuvin and Gunwook beamed at him, joy breaking through all at once. They were ready—so ready—to stand up and tackle him into the warmest, most comfortable hugs imaginable.

But Ricky moved first.

He reached up, brushing snow from their hair with careful fingers, small hands moving gently, deliberately. As if he couldn’t bear to leave even a single flake behind.

“You played so much earlier,” he said softly, focused on his task, “that you have snow in your hair.”

One hand rested on his beaming, devoted worshipper. The other on his little prince.

And they flushed.

So red. So warm. So unmistakably flustered that one might have been able to hold a marshmallow close and watch it turn into s’mores.

Children, after all, had too many emotions and not nearly enough ways to handle them. So they did the only thing they knew how. They reached for Ricky and ruffled his hair like their lives depended on it. Because maybe, in some way, it did.

“No—my hair!!” Ricky protested, hands flying up as he tried to fix it, even though he was the one to brush snow from their heads first.

Their reasoning was simple. Identical. If he was allowed to touch their hair to remove snow, then surely they were allowed to ruffle it too. Especially when it was so soft. So ruffable.

They looked at him then with that same lovesick, delighted expression they always seemed to wear when it came to Ricky. And if there had been anyone passing by on the street, watching the three of them from afar, they might have wondered—

How did children have a better love life than them?

Because if there was one thing they knew—one thing that would absolutely get a reaction out of Ricky—it was that he did not like his hair becoming unruly.

And so, Ricky ran.

He ran around the front of the house, boots slipping slightly on the snow, laughter caught somewhere between panic and delight. He wanted to get away from the two boys behind him, who were just as fast and far too optimistic about getting their hands back into his hair.

Thinking quickly, Ricky scooped up a handful of snow from the ground and turned just in time to throw it with all the strength he could muster. The snowball flew through the air, imperfect but determined, as he shouted—

“Snowball fight!”

The scream came out too soft for his liking. Like he was screaming in lowercase. An angry little kitten of a declaration, brows scrunched together, voice high and indignant in the cutest way possible. Anyone who heard it would have been doomed.

The snowball hit Gyuvin square in the face.

Directly. Completely. Covering his eyes, his nose, his mouth. A perfect bullseye.

At this point, Ricky might as well have been excellent at darts.

But the moment Gyuvin wiped the snow away from his face, Ricky froze.

All the laughter drained from him at once, replaced by frantic worry that rushed in too fast, decorating every feature of his face. He rushed forward immediately, boots crunching through the snow.

“Qubing—oh no, I’m sorry,” Ricky said quickly, hands hovering, unsure where to touch. “Did it hurt?”

Gyuvin stood there, face flushed so red it looked like someone dipped him into paint and then diluted it down to the faintest shade. He sniffed dramatically.

“Ricky…” Gyuvin said, his mouth trembling, eyes shining suspiciously like they might produce tears at any second.

Gunwook, who still had a perfectly formed snowball in his hands, stood there frozen. He wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to be worried, concerned, or laugh at the absurdity unfolding in front of him.

“Ricky, it hurts,” Gyuvin said again, laying it on thick.

“Where does it hurt?” Ricky asked, earnest and panicked.

Gyuvin pointed vaguely at his face. “Here. My whole face. Mama said a ppoppo could do the trick. Rick, kiss it better, so the pain will go away.”

As if to emphasize his point, Gyuvin leaned in closer, tilting his head up just slightly.

“Eh?” Ricky blinked. “Will that really work?”

“Yes,” Gyuvin insisted immediately. “Here.”

He didn’t even specify where—clearly willing to accept a kiss anywhere. Maybe even more than one, if Ricky felt generous.

Honestly, children really did need strict adult supervision.

Because what was this? Pretending to be injured just to steal a kiss from your friend? And Gyuvin’s grandmother—well. She wasn’t doing a particularly incredible job at supervising at the moment, happily inside the house with Christmas carols playing on the radio and the morning newspaper spread open in front of her.

So the kiss happened.

Just like Gyuvin wanted.

Right on the nose.

Because Ricky, after very careful consideration, had reasoned, that’s where the impact was the hardest.

And when Gyuvin felt the softness of Ricky’s lips on his nose, the world might as well have ended right there. He looked like the happiest person on Earth. Like everything had suddenly turned merry and bright, like he could start singing fa la la la la la la la la and mean every single note of it.

“WOW!!!” Gyuvin exclaimed, with far too much exaggeration to be believable. “I can’t feel the pain anymore!” He gasped dramatically before lighting up again. “Rick, do you want me to kiss you too?”

“But… I’m not hurt?” Ricky asked, genuinely confused, brows knitting together as he tried to understand the logic behind this.

“It’s okay,” Gyuvin said quickly, waving a hand. “A thank-you kiss. This will be a thank-you kiss for the healing kiss that you gave.”

He sounded very sure of himself.

Before Ricky could respond, a sound cut through the moment.

From none other than—

Park Gunwook.

Park-equally-sly-Gunwook.

“AH!” he cried, followed by a very convincing thud against the snow.

Both Ricky and Gyuvin turned immediately.

Gunwook was on the ground, clutching his forehead. A red mark had already begun to bloom against his skin, muted but noticeable. “It hurts,” he said, rubbing it slowly. “Ow.”

Ricky rushed to his side without thinking, worry blooming all over his face again.

“Wook, where does it hurt?” Ricky asked, gently brushing Gunwook’s hair aside so he could see properly.

“Here,” Gunwook said, pointing directly at his forehead—pout perfected, expression practiced just enough to look devastating.

“Oh no,” Ricky breathed.

He cupped Gunwook’s cheeks carefully with both hands and leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

Ricky’s eyes were closed when he did it, completely focused, completely sincere.

Gunwook’s were not.

Gunwook took the opportunity to glance sideways at Gyuvin, lips curling into a proud, smug little smirk.

One that rattled Gyuvin to his very core.

Wha—That Gunwook!

And because they were children—because restraint was not a skill they possessed—Gyuvin reacted the only way he knew how.

In the middle of the kiss, he formed the biggest snowball he could manage and dumped it directly onto Gunwook’s head.

Hard.

Snow scattered everywhere. Some of it fell onto Ricky’s shoulders, but most of it landed squarely where Gunwook had been smug just seconds ago.

“KIM GYUVIN!!!” Gunwook shouted, lunging forward, hands reaching for Gyuvin’s legs.

Gyuvin yelped, already scrambling away, chaos fully unleashed—

When Ricky’s voice cut through everything.

“Gunwook… blood.”

“Huh?” Gunwook blinked.

He lifted his fingers to his forehead and froze when he felt the wetness. When he pulled his hand back, there it was.

Blood.

It wasn’t entirely from the snowball—though Gyuvin would absolutely take the blame for that later—but from the fall Gunwook orchestrated himself. The impact was just strong enough to break skin.

And that was when everything truly fell apart.

The laughter stopped. Panic rushed in. Voices overlapped. Snow forgotten. Games abandoned.

They broke into a mess—three children standing too close together, emotions too big, hearts too soft, suddenly unsure what to do next.

“Didn’t I tell you boys not to play too hard?” Grandma Kim said, her voice gentle despite the scolding. It was more habit than anger, really—a grandmother’s way of pretending she wasn’t already softening at the sight of the three of them huddled together.

“We’re sorry, Grandma,” the three of them said at the same time, their voices overlapping so perfectly it sounded like harmony.

Grandma Kim sighed, clicking her tongue quietly as she dabbed cotton against Gunwook’s forehead. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was enough to draw a thin line of red against his skin.

“There, there,” she murmured, cleaning the wound with practiced care. Gunwook winced just a little, more dramatic than necessary, but he stayed very still as Grandma Kim placed the bandage carefully on his forehead, right in the center like a badge of honor.

“Okay,” Grandma said finally, pulling her hands back. “All done. Now go hug each other and say sorry.”

They didn’t need to be told twice.

Gyuvin stepped forward first, wrapping his arms around Gunwook with a soft huff. Ricky followed immediately, squeezing in without hesitation, cheek pressed against Gunwook’s shoulder.

“Sorry, Gunwook-ah,” Gyuvin said, voice warm and earnest.

“It’s mostly my fault,” Gunwook replied, scratching the back of his neck, embarrassed but smiling anyway.

Ricky tilted his head, guilt still lingering in his eyes. “Sorry too,” he said quietly. “The kiss didn’t work very well.”

Grandma Kim’s ears perked up.

Her eyebrow lifted just a fraction—but she said nothing, simply watching them with a knowing look as the three boys clung to each other a little tighter, as if the hug itself could smooth over everything that had gone wrong.

And it did.

The tension melted away, replaced by giggles that bubbled up all at once, until they were laughing breathlessly, remembering the snow, the fall, the kiss, the snowball, everything all at once. It was chaotic and silly and full of life, and Grandma Kim let them have that moment.

“But Grandma,” Gyuvin said suddenly, pulling back just enough to look up at her, hands clasped together in a dramatic plea. “Can we play outside just one more time? Just until Eomma and Appa come back. Please. We’ll only make a snowman.”

“Please,” Gunwook added immediately.

“Please,” Ricky echoed, voice soft but hopeful.

Three pairs of wide, round eyes stared up at her.

Grandma Kim barely stood a chance.

She sighed again, pretending to think about it for longer than she really did. “Alright,” she said at last. “But only a snowman.”

“YAYYYY! THANK YOU, GRANDMA!”

They cheered all at once, already halfway to the door before she could finish her sentence, boots thudding against the floor as they scrambled toward the cold waiting outside. So much for not playing too hard.

As the door swung open and cold air rushed in, Grandma Kim returned to her chair, the house settling back into its familiar warmth. She turned the radio dial slightly, and a familiar melody filled the room once more.

She smiles to herself, listening to that familiar tune of—

⋆꙳•❅🌸*°⋆❄︎☁.ೃ࿔*🍀:･*❆₊⋆

“Santa Claus is coming to town.
SANTA CLAUS IS COMING.
SANTA CLAUS IS COMING.
SANTA CLAUS IS COMING.
To town.”

It’s that voice again on the radio, loud and cheerful and repeating itself like it’s afraid someone might miss it. It sings about Christmas and Santa Claus and how he’s coming here, to their side of town, like this place is important enough to be visited.

The song talks about lists and names, about naughty and nice, like those are easy things to decide.

But kids know better.

Kids are always a little bit of both. They can be good and loud at the same time. They can listen one moment and run away the next. They can say sorry with sticky fingers and mean it with their whole heart. No one is just nice, and no one is just naughty either, not really.

Still, because the song says it so many times, and because it sounds so sure of itself, the children believe it.

Santa Claus is coming to town.

“Daddy,” Hana asks from her seat, leaning forward just a little, the seatbelt pulling gently at her shoulders. Her eyes are big and bright, the shine never leaving them, twinkling like the little star that she is. “Is it true that Santa is coming?”

Ricky hears the question, feels it land soft and careful in the car.

But before he can think of an answer—before he can even turn his head properly—

“Santa is coming,” Haneul says, nodding to himself like this is already settled. “But I saw Santa already. On the street.”

Everyone pauses.

Ricky blinks.

“I saw him the other day,” Haneul continues with utmost certainty. “He was walking and giving people papers.”

Ricky knows exactly who he means. The grandpa with the long white beard and the tired eyes. The one handing out flyers while they were walking Sol, their dog, around the neighborhood. It didn’t help that the man was wearing a red jacket, bright against the cold air.

And the moment Haneul says he saw Santa, Ricky’s eyes widen just a little as he tries—fails—to keep his lips from smiling.

He glances back.

Gunwook is in the back seat with the triplets, his hand already covering his mouth, shoulders trembling ever so slightly. Gyuvin is driving, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, then to Ricky, then back to the road—his face twisted into something painfully close to laughter.

Their eyes meet.

They look away.

They look back again.

They try not to smile. Worse, they try not to laugh.

Because how funny Santa is, apparently.

“Haneul, my dear,” Ricky says gently, choosing his words with care. “That might not have been Santa Claus.”

Gyuvin lets out a sound that he quickly pretends is a cough, his face tight like it’s seconds away from breaking into a grin.

“But Daddy,” Haneul insists, “he had white hair.”

“And a beard,” Gunwook adds quietly, still facing the window.

Harui, who has been listening very carefully, tilts his head. “Daddy,” he asks, earnest and curious, “have you seen Santa before?”

Ricky pauses.

The song keeps playing. Bells ring softly in the background. Outside, the world moves past the windows in winter colors.

“Yes,” Ricky says finally, nodding. “I have.”

Harui’s eyes widen. Hana gasps softly.

“And we were close,” Ricky adds, entirely serious. “Santa and I.”

Gunwook turns his head away completely now. Gyuvin finally breaks, a quiet laugh slipping out despite his best efforts.

Ricky doesn’t stop smiling.

Because if there is one thing he knows for sure, it’s this: children’s imagination should be kept alive for as long as possible. Until they discover on their own that some things fade—and some things don’t.

The song reaches its chorus again, loud and proud.

Santa Claus is coming to town.

Ricky watches the road ahead through the windshield, the lights outside blurring softly, and for a moment he imagines Santa not as a man in red, but as something much closer. Something warmer. Someone who comes home tired but smiling. Someone who knows exactly which child likes which ice cream, which one cries quietly, which one pretends not to need a hug.

Maybe Santa looks like parents.

Maybe Santa looks like husbands.

Maybe Santa looks like them.

“Really?” Harui asks, leaning forward as much as his seatbelt allows, eyes widening until they’re rounder than the donuts he ate that morning. “Daddy, you’re close with Santa Claus?”

Ricky opens his mouth.

Chaos beats him to it.

“You see,” Gunwook says, stepping in immediately, tone calm and thoughtful like he’s explaining an ancient mystery, “Daddy was close with Santa in the past. We don’t really have contact with him now.”

Ricky turns slowly. “Gunw—”

“And,” Gyuvin adds from the driver’s seat, very helpfully, “Santa might be too old now. Like, really old. Maybe he’s tired of delivering gifts.”

The car goes quiet.

Three little faces fall.

“—BUT,” Gyuvin says quickly, far too quickly, “that doesn’t mean he won’t send gifts! He has elves! Elves can do delivery too! Santa just supervises!”

The silence lingers.

“…Oh,” Hana says softly.

Gyuvin winces. “Okay, that sounded worse than I meant.”

Gunwook exhales and gently takes control again. “What Appa meant to say,” he says, steady and reassuring, “is that Santa definitely comes for nice children.”

“We’re nice!” Hana says immediately, sitting up straighter.

“The nicest kids ever!” Harui adds, nodding so hard his hair bounces.

Gunwook hums, thoughtful. “Yes. Even though you fight almost all the time.”

“You’re included in the naughty list,” Haneul says without hesitation, pointing.

Hana blinks. “Yah—!”

They’re already mid-bicker, voices overlapping and rising, when the car slows without any of them noticing.

“And,” Gyuvin says suddenly, eyes lighting up as a familiar building comes into view, “we’re here. What do you know.”

He parks with a little laugh, like the universe timed it perfectly for him.

“Gyuvin…” Ricky says, turning to him, tone fond but very clearly good luck with the children.

From the back seat, Gunwook reaches forward and gives Gyuvin’s shoulder a small, comforting tap.

Gyuvin blinks. “…What does that even mean?”

“So,” Gyuvin says later, standing in front of the freezer, holding a tub of mango ice cream like it’s a sacred artifact, “about the Santa.”

“What about it?” Gunwook replies, already loading their cart with all the serious things—different cuts of meat, pasta, flour for cake, fruits, chocolate for the cake—

And, automatically, without discussion, several containers of strawberries. For Ricky. Always for Ricky.

The children would eat everything that was presented to them. Because they are trained—lovingly, unintentionally—to like what their parents like best after all.

If anyone was wondering where the triplets—Hana, Haneul, and Harui—are, they’re with their Daddy. With their own grocery cart, because it’s Christmas and okay, they can put whatever they want in the basket this time. Ricky is with them, because Daddy is the best companion, truly. Papa and Appa would agree anyway. Papa and Appa always have so much time with Daddy, so of course the kids want their time too. Fair is fair.

So when the triplets are not in sight, Gyuvin thinks this is the perfect time to finally say the plan that has been brewing quietly in his mind.

“You know,” he says, like he’s talking about the weather, “I could become Santa Claus for the kids.”

“What?” Gunwook pauses mid-reach. “You? You want to be Santa Claus?”

“Yes,” Gyuvin says easily.

“Because they were so sad earlier,” he continues, a little softer now, more earnest. “And I want to make their Christmas happier. With Santa Claus.” He nods to himself, convinced. “Ricky did say he knows Santa Claus well. So I’ll be Santa Claus for them.”

Gunwook blinks at him, processing. “Gyuvin… that’s sweet and all. But I don’t think they’ll be easily convinced if you dress up as Santa Claus.”

“Oh, they can. Trust,” Gyuvin says, already moving on, grabbing various seasonings for the food they’ll cook later.

It reminds him of just last week, when they were cooking and the triplets wanted to help. That adorable little trio, standing on stools, taking their task very seriously. And then Harui—sweet Harui—knocked over the seasonings directly onto the beef they were supposed to stew. A mountain of spices on a very small amount of meat. Completely unproportionate.

But there was no real trouble at all. The beef hadn’t even gone into the pot yet. It was just on the side. And besides—Harui can never do wrong.

He even apologized with a small sorry letter later, written carefully, and promised to make sure the stew would be perfect next time. It was fine. It really was. They just needed to wash the beef again.

Of course, the tears came anyway. Slowly, then all at once, when it finally dawned on him what had happened. And with one child crying, the others followed—because that’s how it works—even though Hana and Haneul tried their very best to comfort him. He is their youngest, after all.

In comforting Harui, Hana had said, soft but firm, “It’s okay. Noona’s here.”

And this was one of the rare moments her siblings allowed it. No ‘we’re triplets’, no corrections. Just Noona, accepted, for once.

Haneul had crouched beside him and offered, “We can play with your cars later. The blue one. And the red one too.”

Harui had sniffed, nodded, still clutching his apology letter like it was proof that he was good.

And Gyuvin—Gyuvin had stood a little to the side, hands hovering uselessly, trying so hard not to grab his phone and take a picture. Trying so hard not to be that kind of parent. The kind that documents tears.

Because honestly, they didn’t like it now. None of them did. But maybe when they’re older, they’ll look back and think, Oh. We were loved like this. Maybe then it would feel okay.

“Again,” Gunwook says now, pulling Gyuvin gently back to the present, “so I was saying. I mean, maybe you could convince Hana and Harui. But not so much Haneul.”

Gyuvin hums. “Right. Haneul.” He nods like he’s filing it away. “But let’s talk about it more when Ricky’s here.”

And as if summoned—

Speaking of the devil—no, clearly not. That’s an angel.

Ricky is already there, walking toward them with their three children in tow, the cart between them overflowing.

God. Their heart aches so badly.

How is it possible to fall in love over and over again with someone you see every day? To always long for someone even when they’re close enough to touch? It doesn’t make sense to others. But it has never needed to. It’s just them.

“So,” Ricky says, slightly breathless, smiling, “the kids grabbed everything in sight. They did think about it for a bit. And then they grabbed more.” He peers into the cart. “We really need to make sure they don’t consume too much sweets after this.”

“Papa,” Harui says proudly, eyes shining, “we bought so many things.”

“We even grabbed some of your favorites,” Haneul adds, earnest. Even though most of it is clearly theirs. It’s the thought that matters. And it’s enough to make hearts melt.

“And Daddy said it’s okay,” Hana says brightly, tilting her head just a little. “If Daddy says it’s okay, then it’s okay, right?”

She smiles like she already knows the answer. She knows her cards well. And she plays them perfectly.

This child. Whoever did she get that from?

They can only laugh. And smile. And let it happen.

Because they can never truly win.

And honestly? They don’t want to.

“Rick, we got some strawberries,” Gyuvin says, lifting the clear plastic container like it’s a prized treasure, turning it just enough so the red catches the light.

“It looks delicious,” Ricky says immediately, eyes soft, appreciative in that way he always is, like every small gesture matters.

“It’s the sweetest,” Gunwook adds, nodding with certainty, even though they haven’t tasted it yet. He just knows. He always does.

“Could we get a kiss for that?” Gyuvin asks, already leaning in, pointing at his cheek—though he doesn’t seem opposed if Ricky aims a little closer to his lips. “For no reason other than we’re the best husbands ever.”

“Ahhh! Appa’s initiating a kiss again,” Hana announces dramatically, already scrambling away. Harui and Haneul follow immediately, scattering in different directions like startled pigeons, all limbs and laughter, pretending very hard that they are not watching.

“A thank-you kiss, perhaps,” Ricky says, amused, stepping closer anyway.

“I would love a thank-you kiss,” Gyuvin replies, grinning.

Ricky gives it to him easily—light, soft, unhurried. The kind of kiss that feels like home, even in the middle of a grocery store aisle.

And of course, Gunwook gets one too. Ricky turns without hesitation, presses a gentle kiss to his cheek—sweet, warm, familiar. Like mangoes and chocolate and strawberries all at once. Like everything they love most.

Gunwook exhales, fond, dazed for half a second. Down bad, truly.

Then—

“Papa!” Hana’s voice cuts through from the vegetable section.

She’s holding a carrot up like it’s a discovery of great importance, waving it excitedly, brows furrowed in serious thought. “Do we need carrots?”

Gunwook blinks. Looks at the carrot. Thinks.

“What would we need carrots for?” he asks honestly, tilting his head.

⋆꙳•❆🥭*°⋆❅🍓.ೃ࿔*🍫:･*❄︎₊⋆

“We need the carrots for the snowman,” Gyuvin said with great emphasis, as if this was something that should already be known. “It won’t be a classic snowman without the classic nose. I’ll go get one.”

And before either of them could reply, Gyuvin was already heading back inside his house, boots crunching against the snow, leaving hurried footprints behind him.

While Gyuvin was inside, Gunwook and Ricky started rolling the snow into a big, big snowball for the body of the snowman. It was a smooth process for the first one—make the biggest ball you could, push and roll and shape it until it felt heavy and right. Let it become the body.

“Do you need help with that?” Gunwook asked Ricky, who was clearly determined to make the biggest snowball there was.

“No need,” Ricky said, smiling despite the cold biting at his fingers. “This is fun. Even just rolling snow.”

“Isn’t it?” Gunwook said, genuinely happy. He rolled a second ball, slightly smaller than the first, and carefully placed it on top of Ricky’s.

It fit perfectly—balanced, steady.

Like them, Gunwook thought, without fully understanding why that idea made his chest feel warm.

Ricky paused and looked down at the snow beneath his gloves, eyes bright. “You know,” he said softly, “the snow glitters like jewels. It’s so beautiful.”

Gunwook looked at the snow.

Then he looked at Ricky.

“Beautiful,” he agreed. “But not like you. You’re more beautiful.”

Ricky laughed, a little flustered. “You’re saying that a lot, you know?”

“Were you counting?” Gunwook asked, amused. “Then how many times is it now?”

Ricky actually thought about it, brow furrowing slightly as he counted in his head. “About ten times a day, I think.”

“Are you sure?” Gunwook asked with a smile. “Maybe Gyuvin says it the other times.”

“No, I’m sure,” Ricky said, crouching down to gather the stones he had picked up earlier and adding them to the ones Gunwook had collected. “Gyuvin mostly says cute.”

“Because you are,” Gunwook said easily. “The cutest Ricky.”

He lifted a hand, about to ruffle Ricky’s hair again—and Ricky was already preparing to dodge, fast as ever, when Gyuvin came running back toward them, breathless and proud, holding a carrot up in the air.

“I found the biggest carrot!”

“Qubing!” Ricky waved both hands excitedly, even though Gyuvin had only been gone for a minute or two.

“Ricky, you’re so cute!!” Gyuvin said immediately, for absolutely no reason at all.

“Thank you, Qubing,” Ricky replied, laughing. “But that is a big carrot. Wahh.”

Gunwook thought Ricky was right. Gyuvin really did say cute out loud all the time, without thinking, just like him. He nodded to himself, understanding, and simply watched as Gyuvin rolled another snowball and placed it carefully on top of the one Gunwook had made.

He loved being with them. Even in moments like this. Especially in moments like this—simple, ordinary, and warm in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

Soon, the snowman stood complete in shape. It had branches for arms, a carrot for a nose, and pebbles pressed gently into place for its face.

The only thing left was decoration.

“Should we put a leaf for design?” Gyuvin asked, tilting his head thoughtfully.

“How about more pebbles for design?” Gunwook suggested, already crouching down to gather a few smoother ones, brushing snow off his gloves.

Ricky tilted his head, thoughtful in that way he always was. “How about gloves for the snowman?” he offered gently. “Because he might get cold.”

Gunwook blinked. Considered this very seriously. “That’s… actually a good point.”

Gyuvin snorted. “He’s literally made of snow.”

“But still,” Ricky said, smiling. “Just in case.”

They were still laughing when Gyuvin suddenly straightened, head tilting sharply to the side.

“Wait,” he said. “Do you hear that?”

Gunwook paused mid-pebble-placement. Ricky stopped rolling the snow between his palms.

“I hear a familiar engine,” Gyuvin continued, dread already creeping into his voice.

For a second, they all froze. Like statues. Like the snowman itself.

Then—

“Oh no,” Gyuvin gasped. “They’re here.”

Gunwook’s eyes widened. “Already?”

“They said we weren’t allowed outside this long!” Ricky whispered urgently, panic soft but real.

Gyuvin spun around. “REMOVE THE EVIDENCE!”

“What evidence?” Gunwook hissed.

“The snowman!” Gyuvin pointed wildly. “THE GIANT ILLEGAL SNOWMAN!”

Ricky scrambled. “Hide the carrot!”

Gunwook grabbed the pebbles. “I’ll take the pebbles!”

“WHY ARE YOU TAKING THE PEBBLES?!” Gyuvin yelled in a whisper, already lunging forward.

In a moment of sheer bravery—or pure stupidity—Gyuvin threw himself in front of the snowman, arms outstretched, as if his body alone could shield it from consequences.

“GYUVIN—” Ricky started.

There was a slip. A loss of balance. A very dramatic flail.

And then—

BOOM.

⋆꙳•❅🌸*°⋆❄︎☁.ೃ࿔*🍀:･*❆₊⋆

Boom!

The sound from the television reverberates through the entire living room.

Hana is sitting on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, eyes wide and bright as the colors dance across the screen. Haneul and Harui are right beside her.

“And so, once again, the day is saved, thanks to… the Powerpuff Girls!” the narrator announces proudly.

Hana gasps, clapping her hands. Harui mimics her a second late. Haneul cheers, even though he definitely missed the fight part.

The TV is loud. Loud enough that it swallows everything else.

In the kitchen, Ricky, Gyuvin, and Gunwook speak in voices so soft they barely disturb the air.

They are preparing for tomorrow.

The cake ingredients are laid out neatly. Fruits washed. Wrappings folded. 

“Gyuvin as Santa Claus,” Ricky said thoughtfully, carefully measuring flour. “It’s actually a good idea.”

Gunwook looked up so fast he almost dropped the bowl. “Wait—you’re agreeing?”

Ricky smiled, that fond, unwavering smile. “Yeah. Our little stars really love Santa. And maybe…” He paused, glancing toward the living room. “Maybe this can be a Christmas they’ll never forget.”

Gyuvin blinked. Then puffed up immediately. “See? Ricky believes in me.”

Gunwook sighed, already defeated. “So you really want to do this?”

Gyuvin nodded without hesitation. “Of course. I’d do anything if it makes them happy.”

Gunwook watched him for a second longer. Then nodded too. “Alright. If you’re both in, I’m in.”

“So,” Gunwook continued. “We’ll need a Santa costume. Gifts. But we should ask them first what they want. What they want to ask Santa.”

Before lunch could even properly begin, Ricky wiped his hands, walked over to the couch, and sat down.

“My lovelies,” he says softly. “What do you want for Christmas? What’s your wish?”

Hana scoots closer immediately, like it’s instinct coded into her bones, curling into his side without thinking. Daddy smells warm. Like flowers and sugar and something that always means home. Like always.

Haneul clears his throat first, sitting up straighter.

“World peace,” he says seriously.

There is a pause. A long one.

Oh. That’s a tough one… even for a real Santa.

Ricky blinks. Gyuvin stops halfway through wiping his hands. Gunwook looks over from the kitchen, eyebrows lifting in something like disbelief.

“Equality,” Hana adds, just as solemn.

“Freedom,” Harui says calmly, nodding to himself like he’s checked something off an invisible list.

Alright. Right.

What have they been watching?

Is it the documentaries Gunwook insists on turning into bedtime stories, complete with photos from his travels? Or the motivational words plastered all over Gyuvin’s office walls when they come visit? Or the quiet afternoons at Ricky’s gallery, where art becomes stories and stories become feelings and suddenly everything means something?

It could honestly be all of it.

Ricky exhales softly, smiling despite himself, and tries again.

“I meant,” he says gently, carefully, “tangible things. Things Santa can actually put in a sack. What do you want for Christmas that’s tangible?”

There is a beat.

Then Hana speaks, voice calm and sincere. “Daddy, it seems that I don’t really have anything I want.”

“We have become advocates of not wanting earthly things,” she continues serenely, hands folded in her lap like a tiny monk who has achieved enlightenment.

“Nothing is richer than the mind when it reaches a perfectly balanced state,” Haneul adds, now sitting cross-legged, eyes half-lidded, at complete peace with the universe.

“We don’t need anything,” Harui says, eyes closing just so. “We just want an enriched soul.”

Silence.

From the kitchen, Gunwook bites the inside of his cheek, shoulders shaking as he stirs something on the stove, absolutely useless in this moment. Ricky turns slowly to Gyuvin, eyes wide, pleading in a way that very clearly says: Help! You understand this kind of thing better than I do.

Gyuvin sighs like a hero being called to action.

“You really don’t want anything for Christmas?” he asks gently.

The triplets shake their heads in unison.

“No, Appa.”

Gyuvin hums thoughtfully, then crouches a little, lowering himself to their level. “Hmm. Okay. But what if Santa really insisted?”

He turns to Hana first. “What about a new bracelet set? The one where you make your own with beads. Different colors. Charms.”

Hana’s ears perk up instantly. Her calm cracks—just a little. “With letters?”

“Yes,” Gyuvin says quickly. “With letters.”

She presses her lips together, fighting a smile. Losing.

“And Harui,” Gyuvin continues smoothly, already pulling out his phone, “what if Santa heard they released a new racecar collection?”

Harui keeps his eyes closed. Tries to be strong. Tries to stay enlightened.

Gyuvin tilts the screen toward him anyway.

Just a peek.

Harui opens one eye.

Then both.

Oh. Oh no.

His eyes shine immediately, bright and unfiltered, like stars that forgot they were supposed to stay in the sky.

“That one goes really fast,” he whispers.

“And it has interchangeable wheels,” Gyuvin adds helpfully.

Harui gasps.

Ricky covers his mouth, already melting. Gunwook finally gives up and laughs softly from the kitchen.

Haneul squints at them, clearly judging. “I suppose,” he says after a moment, “wanting things in moderation is acceptable.”

Gyuvin beams. “See? Balance.”

“And for our Haneul,” Gyuvin continues gently, already knowing the answer before he says it, “how about that telescope you want?”

Haneul stills.

Then his eyes shine—soft at first, then bright, like the stars he keeps charts of, like the universe he insists on understanding piece by piece. He doesn’t say anything right away, just presses his lips together, the corners twitching upward.

“…A telescope,” he repeats softly.

One where he can see the constellations clearer. One where Orion and Cassiopeia and the Big Dipper make more sense. One where everything connects, the way he believes it should.

Ricky’s heart does that thing again. The one where it feels too full.

Turns out, they don’t need much. Just a little guidance. A suggestion. Sometimes wanting everything makes the head too loud, too messy, and all it takes is someone gently pointing and saying, This. You love this.

“So,” Gyuvin says, clearly not done being the Best Appa Ever, “where do you want to go for our Christmas trip? Well… after Christmas.”

“DISNEYLAND!”

All three of them say it at once, perfectly synchronized, like they rehearsed.

Ricky laughs. Gunwook exhales fondly. Gyuvin nods like, yes, that tracks.

“That one was easy,” Gunwook says from the dining table. “Alright. Let’s eat.”

Chaos erupts immediately.

The children scatter, running on pure excitement—but not before detouring. Hana throws herself at Daddy first, squeezing tight. Harui follows, arms wrapped around Daddy’s waist. Haneul joins in last, staying just a little longer.

Then Appa gets hugs. Proper ones. Dramatic ones.

Papa, unfortunately, only gets hugged around the legs. Because Papa didn’t have time to crouch down—the children were faster than him. 

“Papa is too tall,” Harui complains.

Gunwook sighs, defeated, and lifts them one by one anyway, because of course he does. Because the triplets love to be carried by Papa.

And just when the excitement threatens to settle, Ricky says it.

“I’m just going to call Santa for a bit,” he mentions casually, “to let him know what your wishes are.”

Silence.

Then…

“Santa’s coming?!” Hana gasps.

“Yes,” Ricky says easily. “Santa’s coming.”

That’s it. That’s the final straw.

They squeal. Actual squeals. High-pitched, delighted, bouncing-on-their-feet squeals.

In the garden, Ricky steps outside, phone already in hand. The cold air brushes against his skin as he dials a number he knows by heart. The Santa he mentioned isn’t exactly Santa—but someone who will help with the whole Santa surprise. Otherwise known as the most reliable, always-willing babysitter ever.

“Hello,” Ricky says softly into the phone.

⋆꙳•❆🥭*°⋆❅🍓.ೃ࿔*🍫:･*❄︎₊⋆

“Hello… Eomma, Appa.”

Gyuvin said it with a smile that was doing its absolute best.

Surely—surely—they wouldn’t notice.

Surely they wouldn’t notice that parts of their clothes were still damp, that the hems were a little heavier than they should be. Surely they wouldn’t notice how their hair wasn’t fully dry, how it lay just a bit flatter, like it had been hurriedly towelled by three small hands and one very amused grandmother while Eomma and Appa were still unloading things from the car.

Surely they would think they had just taken baths.

Surely.

“Gyuvin,” his mother said, eyes already warm, already sharp in that way only mothers could master, “did you miss us?”

He smiled wider. He could feel Gunwook and Ricky staring at him from his side, like spectators at a trial, waiting to see how he would navigate this.

“It’s only been a few hours,” Gyuvin said carefully. “You’re even early, Eomma.”

“We already listed what we needed,” she replied easily. “So it was faster.”

Then her gaze drifted.

To Ricky.

To Gunwook.

Oh no.

Gunwook’s injury.

Gyuvin felt it before it happened—the internal siren, blaring red. Alert. Alert. Alert. Every nerve lit up at once. His hands went cold. His eyes widened just a fraction too much.

Mama Kim stepped closer.

“Gunwook, dear,” she said gently, already frowning, “what happened to your forehead?”

The bandage. The bandage.

Gunwook froze. Ricky froze. They looked at each other. Then, slowly, they both turned to look at Gyuvin.

Gyuvin stared back, eyes screaming, say something reasonable, please, I beg you.

“U-uh,” Gunwook started, then rallied. “Auntie, I fell. On the floor. I was reckless.”

Which was technically true. No lies. Just… edited.

“But Ricky and Gyuvin, and Grandma helped me,” he added quickly. “So I’m fine.”

Mama Kim studied him closely. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“No,” Gunwook said at once. Then, inexplicably, proudly, “the kiss worked.”

He smiled. Big. Smug. Victorious.

Gyuvin’s soul left his body.

“The what?” Mama Kim asked.

From the sofa, Grandma Kim leaned forward slightly, interest piqued. Both ears were very much involved now.

“What kiss?” Mama Kim repeated.

Ricky, bless him, did not pause.

“The kiss that makes every pain go away,” he said earnestly, words tumbling out the way they always did when he got excited, “and makes everything feel better. I gave one to Gunwook.”

He nodded once, firm, like this alone should close the case.

“Gyuvin taught us about the kiss,” Ricky continued, still going, “and I gave one to Gyuvin too because he hurt his nose.”

He explained it carefully, one word after another, as if laying out a very important sequence of events. And as always, he didn’t quite realize what he was saying until he finished saying it. But what was the harm? It was all true. Completely true.

Gyuvin could only listen in mounting horror.

Please stop. Please pause. Please breathe, he begged silently, because now everything was out in the open—the kiss, the nose, the forehead, the snow that was definitely not mentioned but somehow implied. Everything.

In pure instinct, Gyuvin lifted a restless hand to his mouth, pressing his lips shut, as if by doing so he could stop any more dangerous truths from spilling out of himself. If Ricky wouldn’t stop talking, at least he wouldn’t make it worse.

“A kiss, hm?” Mama Kim asked again, tone light, eyes still on Ricky, before shifting to her own son with a look that said she knew exactly where this had come from.

“A ppoppo that you taught Gyuvin, Auntie,” Ricky said brightly. “A kiss that makes everything better.”

Mama Kim’s expression softened instantly.

“Aren’t you the sweetest,” she said fondly. “Our sweet Ricky.”

Ricky’s ears flushed pink at once. He ducked his head just a little, shy in that way that made it impossible not to adore him. He had never been very good at receiving affection so openly—aside from his Mama, no one had ever given him this much of it growing up.

“Is it okay if Auntie gives you a ppoppo too?” Mama Kim asked gently.

Ricky hesitated for half a second, then nodded, small and careful.

“Mhm…” he murmured.

Mama Kim leaned in and kissed the top of his head lightly, soft and warm. The kind of kiss that promised everything would be alright. That this Christmas, at least, would be good.

Gyuvin stared.

Then he stared at Ricky, who was smiling, a little dazed.

Then at Gunwook, whose jaw looked seconds away from hitting the floor.

Mother dearest, Gyuvin thought faintly, we haven’t even gotten the chance to kiss Ricky yet.

He barely had time to recover before—

“Gyuvin.”

He straightened immediately. “Yes, Eomma?”

“Go play upstairs,” she said, amused now. “With Ricky and Gunwook.”

“…Okay!” Gyuvin replied, startled but obedient. He grabbed Ricky’s hand without thinking.

And like a chain reaction—like ribbons tied together—Ricky reached back and grabbed Gunwook’s hand too.

They bolted up the stairs in a rush of hurried footsteps and barely-contained giggles, laughter spilling out now that the danger had passed. The sound followed them upward, light and breathless, like the exhale they had all been holding in.

When the three boys were already up the stairs, Mama Kim looked at her mother—Grandma Kim—and met her gaze without needing to say a word. Grandma Kim’s eyes were sharp, amused, knowing; Mama Kim’s were tired in the way only mothers ever were. They shared that quiet look, the one that carried entire conversations.

“Mom, how long?” Mama Kim asked at last, already aware of the answer. It was just a formality now—an act of pretending she didn’t already know.

“The entire time you were outside,” Grandma Kim replied simply.

Mama Kim nodded.

She would just have to prepare for their feast tomorrow.

For Christmas Eve.

⋆꙳•❅🌸*°⋆❄︎☁.ೃ࿔*🍀:･*❆₊⋆

“Nochebuena, Nochebuena! Woo! Nochebuena, Nochebuena!”

The triplets are singing at the top of their lungs, voices overlapping, feet barely touching the floor as they dance around the living room. There is spinning. There is clapping. There is joyful chaos that fills the house so completely.

“There’s a party going on, it’s Nochebuena!” Hana sings again, dramatically, like this is the greatest announcement she will ever make in her life.

“Nochebuena, Nochebuena!” the triplets chant once more, and this time Yujin joins in too, chest puffed with pride. Because he taught them this. Because Dora taught them this. And Dora, clearly, is the most educational cartoon in existence—about Christmas Eve, and parties, and joy, and the magic of knowing words in another language.

Even if Dora is, admittedly, very bad at finding things that are directly in front of her face.

It’s right at that moment—mid-song, mid-spin—that the door opens.

Ricky, Gyuvin, and Gunwook are home.

They stop just inside the doorway, greeted by Nochebuena ringing through the house like a celebration already in progress. They exchange looks, already resigned, already fond.

“Buenas tardes, Daddy, Appa, Papa!” Haneul greets proudly, Spanish rolling off his tongue with confidence borrowed entirely from cartoons.

His siblings echo him instantly, because of course they do.

“Hola! Soy Hana!” Hana announces, pointing to herself and beaming. She bounces closer, eyes bright, fully in-character. “Daddy, did you know we learned a new word? Can you say estrella? Say estrella!”

“Estrella,” the three of them say together without hesitation.

They don’t even question it. They never do.

And somehow, it fits them perfectly—standing there together, framed by warm lights and laughter, like stars that found their way home. The kind that shine quietly but steadily, waiting to be noticed, remembered, and loved.

“Excelente! Muy bien!” Hana claps, absolutely delighted, pride glowing all over her face.

“Wait—another one, another one!” Harui says, bouncing on his toes, excitement barely contained.

“Can you say Feliz Navidad? Say Feliz Navidad!”

As if on cue, Yujin reaches for the remote and presses play. The song fills the house instantly, wrapping around them all like tinsel and joy and noise.

“Feliz Navidad~” Ricky, Gyuvin, and Gunwook sing along, a little amused, completely sincere.

And while Yujin is still laughing—still very much enjoying the consequences of his own actions—he gets called out.

“Yujin,” Gyuvin says, voice light but eyes sharp with amused concern, “what exactly were you teaching the children?”

Because really—what if this never ends? What if the dining table turns into a Dora episode, and they’re all shouting Spanish phrases while trying to pass the rice?

Yujin, unfazed, lifts his hands in surrender. “They wanted fun and festive. So I gave them fun and festive.”

By this point, he’s already taken a careful step away, lowering his voice just enough so the children won’t fully catch on. Ricky, Gyuvin, and Gunwook follow suit, instinctively forming that familiar little adult huddle—the one that usually means important parent discussions are happening. Specifically, the kind involving Santa Claus.

“Oh, they’re definitely having fun,” Ricky says easily, smiling as he watches the triplets twirl and laugh. “So I think it’s okay.”

There’s no real worry in him. Just fondness. Just that awe he always feels when he watches them exist so freely, so happily, like the world hasn’t taught them how to be careful yet.

“I’m the best uncle they have,” Yujin declares, chin lifting proudly.

The three of them exchange a look, fond and indulgent, because—annoyingly—he’s not wrong.

“I’ll definitely be here tomorrow to witness it,” Yujin adds in a conspiratorial whisper, winking like he’s been entrusted with the greatest secret of the season. Because he has been. He’s very much in on the plan about Santa.

Then, thoughtful for a moment, he tilts his head. “What do you think I should gift them? The map?”

“A regular map. Not a talking and singing one. The map of the world could be educational,” Gunwook says after a beat, genuinely considering it. They already have maps at home, sure—but another one means more tracing, more questions, more places the kids will one day dream of going.

Yujin hums. “See? I am thoughtful.”

And as if the universe itself wants to prove that Dora has truly taken over the household, the children begin acting out something Yujin definitely taught them earlier.

Harui sneaks across the living room on exaggerated tiptoes, shoulders hunched, hands outstretched—every inch of him channeling Swiper energy. Hana stands guard in front of him, chocolate pretzels hidden behind her back like priceless treasure, while Haneul stands at her side, proudly playing the role of Boots.

“Swiper, no swiping!” Hana calls out, palms held firmly in front of her.

“Swiper, no swiping!” Haneul echoes, serious and determined.

“Swiper, no swiping!!” they chant together, voices growing louder, more dramatic with each repetition.

Harui freezes.

“Oh, man!” he sighs dramatically, snapping his fingers in defeat—because clearly, the magic words have worked, and Swiper’s desire to swipe has been completely erased from existence.

Except.

The moment they relax, Harui bolts.

He dashes toward the dining table where more snacks are waiting, and the living room erupts into shrill giggles as Hana and Haneul chase after him.

“Vámonos! Vámonos!” Hana shouts, tiny feet pattering fast against the floor. “Haru will eat all the chocolate!”

Ricky, Gyuvin, and Gunwook all look at Yujin after witnessing the entire Swiper incident unfold in real time.

Yujin, very bravely, feigns innocence.

“Uh,” he says, lifting his shoulders just a little, like that might absolve him of everything, “I was just teaching the children that it’s bad to swipe.”

The three fathers stare at him.

“And,” Yujin adds quickly, undeterred, “I also taught them counting in Spanish.”

That one at least earns him a pause.

He clears his throat dramatically and begins, fingers tapping against his leg like he’s onstage.

“Diez
Nueve
Ocho
Siete
Seis
Cinco
Cuatro
Tres
Dos…”

⋆꙳•❆🥭*°⋆❅🍓.ೃ࿔*🍫:･*❄︎₊⋆

“UNO!”

Ricky said, holding tightly onto the last card he had left as he placed it in the center of Gyuvin’s bed.

“Wahh, already?” Gyuvin groaned, leaning back on his elbows. “This is only the third game.”

“Ricky, you learn fast,” Gunwook said with a grin, his eyes twinkling. “Even though we change the rules every five moves or so.”

“That’s because,” Gyuvin protested, pouting slightly, “I learned a different kind of UNO.” He slapped down a red eight onto the center pile, the card sliding with a satisfying whoosh. His stack of cards still towered in his hands, more than either Ricky or Gunwook could count without squinting.

Gunwook chuckled, shrugging. “Isn’t UNO just something you play with your own rules anyway?”

On his turn, he dropped a red skip card. Ricky’s lips pressed together, a faint pout forming, just enough to be noticed if someone was looking closely. Gunwook hesitated, guilt flickering across his face. He wanted to take it back, but rules were rules, even in this chaotic, cozy game.

Now it was Gyuvin’s turn. Ricky clutched his last card tightly, as if shielding a secret treasure, eyes darting between the two. Maybe he wanted to delay the inevitable moment, maybe he just wanted to savor it.

Gyuvin placed another skip card—a blue one this time—forcing Gunwook to miss his turn. Ricky’s eyes lit up instantly, sparkling like the snow falling softly outside their window. The blue card matched the one Ricky had been holding. Luck? Coincidence? Or maybe Gyuvin had simply known what would make Ricky beam.

Ricky quickly slid his last card onto the center pile—a blue three.

“I won!” he exclaimed, voice full of triumph, arms raised slightly. His smile was brilliant, uncontainable, bright enough to make the chilly winter afternoon feel warm.

Gyuvin looked at him endearingly, heart swelling at that little victorious grin. Gunwook smiled too, soft and quiet, just watching. Even if it had been purely coincidental that Gyuvin chose to play that blue skip card, it didn’t matter. Seeing Ricky happy, glowing with that simple joy, was more than a win—it was a gift.

Because for Ricky, and for them, the world could pause for a moment. Nothing else mattered but this—this laughter, this triumph, this smile.

After the third game, Gyuvin cleared his throat gently. “Okay… games are fun,” he said, voice softening, “but now… stories.”

Ricky and Gunwook leaned back under their blankets, curling into the soft warmth as Gyuvin went over to the window. He closed the blinds slowly, letting the dim light of the late afternoon fade, and then flipped off the ceiling lights. A hush settled over the room, the kind that felt like a secret.

Gyuvin grabbed a flashlight from the bedside table and flicked it on, angling it toward his face. The light threw shadows across his features, turning his eyes into glimmers of something mischievous, something magical.

“Santa… Claus…” he whispered, his voice low and ghost-like, as though he were summoning a legend from the farthest corners of the North Pole. He tilted the flashlight slightly, making the shadows dance, elongating his grin just a little, enough to send tiny shivers of anticipation through both Gunwook and Ricky.

“Do you believe in Santa Claus?” Gyuvin asked, moving the flashlight like it was a microphone, the beam bouncing across the walls of their little fort of blankets and pillows. His eyes sparkled, trying to make it sound serious, but there was that unmistakable twinkle of mischief too.

“No.” Gunwook said flatly, leaning back on his elbows, as if he already knew every secret of the universe.

“No.” Ricky echoed, tilting his head, thoughtful as always. “Mama never really made me believe in Santa Claus. And even if he were real… he’d be in the North Pole, not in Korea.”

Gyuvin gasped, clutching the flashlight dramatically. “Really? You two don’t believe in him?” His voice trembled just a little, like it was an injustice the universe had allowed.

“Yes, we don’t.” Gunwook said again, matter-of-fact, eyes bright with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.

Gyuvin narrowed his eyes, determination blooming. “At least hear me out!”

And of course, they did. Always. No matter how wild or impossible Gyuvin’s ideas were, they listened.

“I’ve seen Santa Claus every year,” Gyuvin said seriously, sitting cross-legged and hugging his knees. “For as long as I can remember.” He frowned slightly, thinking. “Well… the earliest one I remember is when I was two. And, technically, I remember it through photos, not entirely on my own.”

He scrambled for his small, worn photo album and opened it carefully, the flashlight now illuminating the pages like a spotlight. “Look!” he said, pointing. “That’s me. With Santa Claus.”

The photo showed a wide-eyed toddler Gyuvin, bundled in a puffy coat, sitting on Santa’s lap. The man in red had the kind of beard and bright suit that looked like it had been pulled straight from a storybook, holding a sack that clearly promised toys.

“Maybe… maybe Santa Claus is real,” Ricky murmured, leaning closer, eyes wide as he studied the photo.

“Then we’d know when he’d show up,” Gunwook said, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. “If he’s real.”

Gyuvin nodded eagerly, nearly bouncing on his knees. “Exactly! That’s why tonight—tonight, the twenty-third—we catch Santa Claus in the act!”

Ricky frowned slightly, curious. “Why not Christmas Eve?”

“Because…” Gyuvin paused, wagging a finger as if delivering the most important lecture of their lives, “…I’m one of the early children Santa visits. I’m on the nice list. Like… at the very top. So he comes early for me.” He beamed, eyes shining. “Tonight, we’ll catch him!”

Gunwook tilted his head, frowning in thought. “Is that really how it works?”

“Yes!” Gyuvin said firmly. “So the twenty-third it is. Tonight! We’ll hide, and wait… and see Santa Claus for ourselves!”

Ricky’s lips curled into a tiny smile. “You really believe you can catch him?”

“I know I can!” Gyuvin said, puffing out his chest. “We’ll be the best Santa detectives ever! And if we catch him…” He grinned slyly, leaning close. “…maybe we can even ask him for extra gifts.”

Gunwook laughed softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But fun,” Ricky added, bouncing slightly where he sat.

Gyuvin nodded, very serious now. “Exactly. It’s fun. And tonight… tonight is going to be legendary.”

⋆꙳•❅🌸*°⋆❄︎☁.ೃ࿔*🍀:･*❆₊⋆

“You mean, tomorrow?” Harui asks, kicking at a fresh patch of snow, watching it puff up around his boots. His voice is curious, the kind that only comes from five-year-old brains trying to figure out magic.

“Yes, tomorrow—the twenty-fourth!” Hana says, brushing a strand of hair from her face as she pets Sol’s soft fur. Sol rolls in the snow happily, tail wagging like a little flag, and the children laugh at every leap she makes. “Daddy said Santa will come visit tomorrow, right?”

Haneul crouches beside them, gathering snow in his mittens and forming it into a tiny snowball. “Do you think he’ll see our footprints?” he asks seriously, as if the North Pole’s finest would track them like a detective.

Hana giggles, shaking her head. “No, Appa said Santa is magical. He can see, but he won’t mind our snow footprints.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Luna isn’t here because she’s too lazy to be in the cold. She’s probably napping, thinking about the cozy blankets and warm sunshine.”

Harui shivers slightly, rubbing his hands together. “I like snow, but it’s cold. Sol doesn’t seem to care at all. She’s crazy for it.” Sol barks once, chasing a flake that drifts down like a tiny star.

Hana stands tall in the snow, fists on her hips, voice full of conviction. “So I was thinking—we really should not sleep tomorrow while waiting for Christmas. Even if we feel sleepy, even after eating, we must stay awake. We have to wait for Santa!”

Haneul nods thoughtfully, squatting to pack some snow into a mini mound. “Right. But maybe we could nap a little in the afternoon, like from two to six? Just a short nap.”

“Okay. That’s fair,” Hana agrees, hands pressed together as if sealing a pact. “We’ll hold out until then, and then nap. And then we’ll be awake for Santa!”

Harui smirks, kneeling to draw in the snow with a stick. “Isn’t that exactly what Daddy, Appa and Papa makes us do every Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve? You’re just repeating everything.” He draws a big heart, then inside it, scribbles three H’s, two G’s, and one R.

Hana leans down to add her own hearts around it, careful to make them neat. “That’s true. But it’s good, right? Let’s just do it.”

Haneul grabs another stick and starts drawing stick figures for all six of them: three children, three fathers. He takes his time, curling little smiles on each face. Harui tilts his head, squinting. “They look like the stickers families put on cars.”

“They barely even look like people,” Hana teases lightly. But then she kneels closer, inspecting Haneul’s work, and smiles softly. “Actually… they’re perfect. Daddy will say it’s the best, right? Daddy always says that whenever you draw.”

Haneul nods seriously. “He always says that. It’s true. My drawings are always neat and clean. And they’re the best.” He draws a tiny sun above the stick family, making sure it smiles too.

Hana looks at both of them, brushing snow off her sleeves. “So… the plan will commence at midnight, okay?”

⋆꙳•❆🥭*°⋆❅🍓.ೃ࿔*🍫:･*❄︎₊⋆

“Okay!” Gunwook and Ricky responded, bouncing slightly on the balls of their feet as Gyuvin asked the question. Maybe now they were just a little more convinced than before. For every word Gyuvin spoke about Santa Claus, the belief grew—a little spark flickering brighter in their hearts with each passing sentence.

“We won’t let the adults know,” Gyuvin said, throwing his head back in a dramatic laugh like the mastermind of the entire ridiculous plan. He wiggled his fingers like claws, exaggerating the evil genius vibe.

“But… don’t the adults know everything?” Gunwook asked cautiously, eyebrows furrowed, as if he was doubting the feasibility of their secret mission.

Gyuvin’s laugh grew louder. “We’ll keep it a secret. No one will ever know.” He leaned closer, whispering like he was sharing the grandest mystery of all time. “And if anyone does… well, they’ll never prove it.”

Ricky tilted his head, a small frown appearing. “I just hope Santa’s good to children.” His voice was soft, carrying that earnest worry only a five-year-old could have.

Gunwook grinned at him. “If anyone deserves it, it’s you, Ricky. You’re the nicest person I know.” His words were simple, sincere, and full of affection. Ricky’s face lit up with a shy smile, warmth spreading through him like sunlight on snow.

Gyuvin grumbled from the side, pretending to pout. “That was supposed to be my line.” He crossed his arms dramatically, though a small smile tugged at his lips. “I wanted to say the sweetest things to Ricky too!”

“Well, I guess that’s just bad for you… and good for me,” Gunwook teased, wagging a finger at Gyuvin with triumphant glee.

At that precise moment, Mama Kim peeked into the room, the light from the hallway spilling into the darkened space where the children had made their little hideout.

“Are you kids having fun?” she asked softly, her voice warm and knowing. Even though it was only afternoon, the room felt darker with the blinds closed and their blankets piled around them.

“Yesss!” the three chorused, voices brimming with excitement.

“Alright, go downstairs. Let’s go eat,” Mama Kim said, smiling.

“Okay!!” they all shouted in unison, little feet padding happily as they followed her downstairs. Their plan was already in motion, and the satisfaction of decision—paired with the thrill of secrecy—made them practically buzz with energy.

It was nearing midnight when they stood in the living room of the house, having carefully slipped out of Gyuvin’s bedroom and down the hallway. Every step was measured, every breath held just a second longer than usual, as if sound itself could betray them. They moved like they were made of air, like their feet barely touched the floor.

Their steps were quiet—quiet enough that they convinced themselves they were invisible. Like feathers drifting down instead of children sneaking past bedtime. And maybe it worked, because not a single floorboard complained, not even the stairs, which usually loved to snitch.

The living room opened before them, and there stood the Christmas tree.

It was dressed in everything they loved and everything Christmas was supposed to be. Shiny Christmas balls in red and gold, tiny wrapped presents that weren’t real but still felt important, ribbons curled just right, pinecones tucked between branches, little candies hung like secrets waiting to be stolen. In the daytime, it sparkled so brightly it almost hurt to look at.

But now, the lights were off.

The tree stood quiet and tall, wrapped in darkness. The room itself was dim, filled only with the soft glow of night leaking in through the windows—moonlight reflected off snow, streetlight shadows stretching thin across the floor. It was the kind of light that told you it was night without being scary. The kind that felt like holding your breath.

Even without the lights, they noticed it immediately.

There were no presents beneath the tree.

Nothing was stacked or hidden. No corners bulging with boxes. No ribbons peeking out from behind the branches. The space beneath the tree was clean and empty.

Ricky’s shoulders slumped just a little.

“He’s not here yet,” he whispered, voice barely louder than the night itself. “Santa can’t give gifts if he hasn’t come.”

Gunwook nodded slowly, arms folded in front of him. “I knew it,” he said quietly, but not smug. Just thoughtful. “It should’ve been on the eve. Other kids say it’s always on the eve. Tomorrow night. While waiting for Christmas.”

Gyuvin turned to him, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I thought you said you didn’t believe in Santa Claus,” he said, lowering his voice dramatically. “Why do you know so much about this?”

Gunwook shrugged. “I know a lot of things.” Then, after a beat, he added, “And it’s not bad to listen. There are movies about it too.”

Gyuvin scoffed softly. “Movies aren’t real.”

“But you said Santa might be,” Gunwook replied, just as quietly.

The air between them tightened for a moment, like a string pulled too far.

Ricky stepped forward immediately, placing himself right between them. He lifted his hands just a little, palms open. “Stop that,” he whispered. “Don’t fight over this.”

That was all it took.

They stopped. Instantly.

Like the argument had never existed. Like Ricky’s words were a switch that turned everything gentle again. Maybe it was magic. Or maybe it was just Ricky.

The room settled back into silence, and for a moment, it felt like the world was holding still just for them. No voices. No footsteps. No grown-ups. Just three children standing barefoot on the cold floor, waiting for something they weren’t sure was real.

Then something moved.

It was outside the window.

At first, it was only a flicker—something swaying slightly against the darkness. A color that didn’t belong to the night or the snow. Too bold. Too bright.

Red.

White.

The fabric shifted gently, brushing past the glass like it didn’t know it was being watched. Like it had always been there and was only now deciding to move.

They stared.

The shape became clearer the longer they looked. A sleeve, maybe. Or a coat. Thick, trimmed in white, moving slowly, deliberately. The red stood out against the snow like a heartbeat—soft, steady, impossible to ignore.

By the window, they noticed the rack. It stood just outside the house, placed there like someone had meant to use it even in the cold. Something ordinary. Something adults wouldn’t think twice about. The wind made it sway gently, and whatever hung from it followed along, obedient and quiet.

And it looked like—

No, it didn’t look like.

It really was Santa’s outfit.

“If Santa’s clothes are there,” Gyuvin whispered, eyes wide, voice full of wonder, “then maybe he’s near, right?”

Gunwook nodded quickly. “Maybe he just took it off. He wouldn’t wear it all the time.”

Ricky clutched his sleeves, heart racing. “Maybe he’s wearing normal clothes,” he said softly. “Because he’s not working yet.”

The idea made sense. It felt right.

Excitement bloomed too fast for fear to catch up. Before they could think better of it, the three of them slipped outside, proper winter boots forgotten, coats forgotten, breath puffing white into the cold night. This was too important. This was something you didn’t ignore.

What they saw up close made the world tilt.

Yes, the outfit was there. Red and white, hanging quietly. But it didn’t look right. The material was too thin. Too light. It clung instead of folded.

And beneath the red—something pale.

Something the color of… skin.

Gyuvin took a careful step forward. His legs trembled, but he didn’t stop. Someone had to check. Someone had to know.

“I’ll touch it,” he whispered, even though his voice shook with the dancing of snow.

Ricky wanted to stop him; Gunwook wanted to look away. Still, they stayed, frozen, watching the moment play.

Gyuvin reached out. His fingers brushed against it.

It didn’t feel like fabric.

He swallowed, then lifted it just a little—just enough to see.

And then he screamed.

“AHHHH!”

The sound tore through the quiet night, sharp and broken. Gyuvin dropped it immediately, the thing falling onto the snow with a soft, awful sound.

It wasn’t clothes.

It was skin.

Santa Claus’s skin.

Someone had skinned Santa Claus alive.

Someone had left him there. Hung in front of Gyuvin’s house like a decoration.

Their faces went white. Whiter than the snow. Tears spilled as they screamed, fear ripping through them all at once, too big to hold inside small bodies.

They ran.

They ran back into the house, up the stairs, straight into Gyuvin’s room. They didn’t care about footprints or open doors or getting caught. None of that mattered anymore.

Santa Claus had been skinned alive.

Christmas was supposed to be happy.

Instead, they cried and shook and clung to each other, cold sinking into their bones, fear sinking even deeper. Who knew Christmas meant screaming and hiding and trying not to die of fright in the middle of the night?

Santa Claus had come to town.

And it seemed like it was his last.

In Gyuvin’s room, they dove straight into the bed like it was a safe place they had to reach before anything else could catch them. The blanket came next—big, thick, and heavy—pulled up all at once, covering all three of them until there was nothing but breathing and fear underneath it.

The bed was big enough for all three of them—Ricky in the middle, Gyuvin on one side, Gunwook on the other. It had always been that way. Just like the first time, and the times after that, and every time they ended up like this. As if it had been decided long ago and never needed to be discussed.

They were still shivering from everything that had happened. The windows were locked, the blinds shut tight, the room dark and quiet except for them. Still, the cold clung stubbornly to their skin, slipping under the blanket no matter how hard they tried to tuck it in.

So they held each other.

Hands found hands. Fingers intertwined, clumsy and tight. They pressed closer, sharing warmth the only way they knew how, breathing together, hoping it would be enough.

Because Ricky—especially—Ricky hated the cold.

But this was better. The blanket and their bodies and their touches made heat bloom between them, slow and steady. Enough for Ricky. Enough to keep him from shaking too hard. His personal, lovable heaters, just like always.

“It’s not my imagination, right?” Gyuvin whispered at last, his voice small and fragile. “What we saw…”

“No,” Ricky said, though his voice barely sounded like his own. Like something had taken it and not returned it yet. Gunwook and Gyuvin were still holding onto him, their hands tight around his. “Santa is… Santa is…”

Gunwook suddenly sat up a little, eyes wide even under the blanket.

“SANTA IS DEAD!”

The words exploded between them.

They screamed. All at once. Loud and messy and terrified, hands flying to ears, bodies scrambling closer together. It only made things worse—because now it wasn’t the night scaring them anymore. It was themselves.

“Stop!” Ricky cried. “Don’t say that!”

Gunwook slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes watering. Gyuvin whimpered, curling in on himself. They couldn’t run to the adults. They couldn’t explain why they were awake, why they were outside, why Santa Claus had been—

No. No more.

So they did the only thing they could.

They squeezed their eyes shut.

They tried to sleep.

They tried to pretend that if they didn’t look, didn’t think, didn’t remember, then maybe the night would pass without notice, quiet and slow. But fear stayed, heavy and ready, loud in their chest as it crept, step by step, all the way down to the soles of their feet below. Even the clock on the wall felt too awake, every tick thick and sharp, echoing back like it knew something true, something they didn’t, something waiting to break through.

Eventually, crying did what thinking couldn’t.

Their sobs softened. Their breaths evened out. One by one, they fell asleep tangled together, exhaustion pulling them under despite everything.

Tomorrow would be better.

It had to be.

Tomorrow came.

And all three of them woke up burning.

Gunwook lay on the bed with another bandage on his forehead—not the fun kind from yesterday, but a damp towel now, carefully placed to cool him down. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glassy. Ricky and Gyuvin weren’t any better, limbs heavy, heads aching, bodies far too warm.

Maybe they had taken being personal heaters too seriously. Maybe their bodies decided to keep all that heat inside, just in case the cold came back.

Even through the fever, even through the dizziness and the slow blinking, one thought refused to leave them alone.

It lingered, quiet and patient.

Who skinned Santa Claus that night?

“What did you boys do yesterday?” Mama Kim was already by the bed, moving between the three of them. Her hand pressed to foreheads, one after another. Too warm. All of them. She adjusted the towels, making sure none of them burned too hot.

With the state they were in, there was no room for lies. Their bodies were too tired for that.

“Eomma,” Gyuvin said weakly, voice scratchy, “we played outside in the snow.”

“We think the cold came from the cold,” Gunwook added seriously.

“And because we saw Santa dead,” Ricky said.

He said it plainly. No drama. No inflection. Just the words, delivered like a fact that had already hollowed him out. His eyes stared somewhere past the ceiling, unfocused, like whatever part of him that made sense of things had stepped away for a while.

Mama Kim froze.

“…Santa is dead?” she repeated slowly, brows knitting together. Santa—who was not even real, how could he possibly be dead? “You saw Santa?” she asked again, gently now, like maybe she misheard.

“Yes,” Ricky said, still serious. “Outside. At night.”

“We saw everything,” Gunwook cut in, his voice shaking despite how hot he was. “His clothes. His—his skin,” he said in pure horror.

“He was skinned alive, Eomma,” Gyuvin said, summoning every ounce of strength he had left. “He was hanging there.”

That did it.

Mama Kim finally understood.

Ah.

The Santa costume. The one her husband had hung outside to dry. The one they forgot to explain. The mask. The suit. The unfortunate, very unfortunate decision to let it air out in the cold like that.

Her heart sank.

She hadn’t meant to scare them. Not like this. Never like this.

She sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing Gyuvin’s hair, voice softening. “Santa Claus isn’t dead,” she said carefully, very carefully, choosing her words like stepping stones. She did not add the part where Santa wasn’t real.

Gyuvin’s eyes flew open. “Then who was that?!”

Mama Kim hesitated for half a second too long. “…A friend of Santa,” she offered, unsure where this was headed but hoping—hoping—it would land somewhere safe.

“So Santa’s friend is dead?!” Gunwook gasped, half-sitting up in alarm before promptly wobbling back down.

“No, no,” Mama Kim said quickly. “That’s not exactly—”

She stopped herself. Because it really was hard to argue with children. She should’ve known that already—any adult should—but today made it painfully clear. The more she corrected them, the more tangled the story became. Every explanation only grew new branches, sharper and scarier than before.

Ricky stayed quiet. His hands clenched the blanket tightly, knuckles pale against the fabric. He processed slowly, carefully, like the memory itself might burn him if he touched it too hard.

“So Santa really is dead?” Gyuvin asked again, panic rising like a tide that refused to retreat.

Mama Kim exhaled. She gave up—just a little.

“…Maybe,” she said carefully, settling for something gentler instead of truer, “you can meet Santa again later. Nearing midnight.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Gyuvin’s eyes went impossibly wide. “We’re going to see his ghost later!!”

Gunwook whimpered, pulling the blanket up higher. “We’re the naughtiest children on his list.”

Ricky finally spoke, his voice small and strangely calm, as if emotions were a concept he had lost. “He’s going to haunt us,” he said monotone, “because we saw his corpse.”

There was no scream in his voice. No laughter either. Just a statement.

And then—

“NO!!!”

The screams came all at once.

All three of them shrieked in agony, eyes widening comically as they clutched each other in blind terror. Blankets twisted. Pillows shifted. Someone nearly fell off the bed. The room filled with panicked cries about ghost Santas, chains, and being dragged into the North Pole forever.

Mama Kim rushed forward immediately. “No, no, no—ghosts aren’t real! Santa’s ghost isn’t real!”

That… did not help.

“EOMMA, YOU DON’T KNOW THAT!” Gyuvin cried, voice cracking under the weight of imagination.

“WHAT IF HE HAS A BELL?!” Gunwook sobbed, clutching the blanket tighter, as if fabric alone could protect them from the sound of jingling doom.

Ricky swallowed hard. His eyes darted upward, fixed on the dark space above them, where shadows gathered and refused to explain themselves. “What if he watches us from the ceiling,” he whispered.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Gyuvin chanted helplessly, rocking slightly as if the rhythm itself could undo the thought. Santa—of all things—had become their Christmas nightmare.

Christmas Eve held onto their fear gently, like it didn’t want to let go just yet.

⋆꙳•❅🌸*°⋆᪥☁.ೃ࿔*🍀:･*❆₊⋆

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!!!”

The triplets scream in delight, their voices overlapping and tangling together as midnight inches closer. This night—this night—Santa Claus is coming.

“I can’t wait for later!” Hana exclaims, bouncing on her heels.

They think of themselves as special. Not chimney-special, not window-special, not door-special. Direct visit special. Santa will come to them. They’ll see him properly. They’ll ask questions. Important ones.

What is it like to be Santa Claus?

What do you do in the North Pole all day?

Are all your reindeer real—and can we meet them?

Do elves really make all the gifts, or do they ever just buy them from the store?

What if a wish is too specific?

What if a wish isn’t a thing at all?

Children are curious like that—especially about stories adults swear are only stories.

But the hours stretch long, and midnight takes its time. It’s still too early for dinner, too late to nap, and they are bored in that dramatic, world-ending way only children can be.

So they decide to do something important. Something fun. Something delicious.

A snack tower.

A tower of biscuits.

Each layer must be different. Each layer must matter.

“Strawberry. Chocolate. Cream,” Hana says seriously, stacking the biscuits with careful hands.

“Strawberry. Chocolate. Cream,” Haneul echoes, nodding as he adds another layer, perfectly aligned.

“Chocolate, cream, chocolate, cream, strawberry, strawberry,” Harui announces proudly, creating his own interpretation.

“No, Haru,” Hana says gently but firmly. “Pattern. There must be a pattern.” She points at the tower. “Strawberry. Chocolate. Cream. Okay?”

“Okay,” Harui agrees, immediately correcting himself. “Strawberry. Chocolate. Cream.”

If you’re wondering why the biscuit is cream and not mango—it’s because they can’t find mango-flavored biscuits anywhere. And maybe that’s just how the stars align.

After making the perfect biscuit tower—layer by careful layer, effort evenly shared between the three of them—they tie it gently with a red ribbon. It suddenly looks less like a snack and more like a gift. One of those gifts you don’t buy, only make. One of the best kinds.

Hana leans back to admire it, hands on her hips.

“Is this your gift for me?” she teases. “Thank youuu,” she adds, voice exaggerated, hands clasped dramatically under her chin.

“But we made it together,” Haneul says, frowning a little. “How is it a gift for you?”

“Then why don’t we make a biscuit tower for each one of us?” Harui suggests thoughtfully. “Like an exchange gift.”

Haneul’s eyes light up. “Oh—wait, no. What if we make three more biscuit towers? One for Daddy, one for Appa, and one for Papa.” He points at the first tower. “This one is for us. We’ll share.”

Hana and Harui hum in unison, heads tilting as if weighing the importance of the universe itself. After a moment of very serious consideration—

“Okay!” they both exclaim.

“But,” Hana adds suddenly, grinning, “for the individual gifts… what if I just gift you both with a kiss.”

She puckers her lips dramatically and leans forward, shining a little too much under the light.

“No!” Haneul screams, scrambling backward and pushing at her face with both hands. “No, no, no!”

With her first target escaping, Hana immediately turns.

“Ew!!” Harui shrieks, attempting to flee. “It has your saliva in it!”

“What?!” Hana gasps, offended. “It’s not like saliva is that bad. Appa says sometimes the ice cream he eats tastes better because it has Daddy’s saliva in it.”

She nods confidently, as if this is a perfectly reasonable scientific explanation.

“That’s a different story,” Haneul says, clutching his chest, trying to recover from the emotional trauma of nearly being kissed.

“How so?” Hana presses, genuinely curious now.

And so they keep bickering—laughing, arguing, stacking biscuits again and again. Crumbs scatter across the table, ribbons tangle around their fingers, the world shrinking down to sugar and laughter and the certainty that tonight is special.

In the kitchen, their fathers work quietly but happily, moving around each other with ease. Taste-testing here, adjusting there. Everything is cooked with so much love it might as well be measurable. Food like that always tastes sweeter—almost too sweet—like swallowing sugar and spice and everything nice all at once.

It really is a feast for the eyes.

And for the heart.

“Is it delicious?” Gunwook asks, holding out a spatula with a careful scoop of sauce toward Ricky. It’s a pork dish, tomato-based, still steaming slightly.

Ricky leans forward obediently, tasting it without hesitation.

“Mhm,” he hums, eyes softening immediately. “Delicious.”

Gunwook’s shoulders relax at once, like that answer alone takes something heavy off his chest.

“And how about the texture?” Gyuvin asks next, already stepping in with a forkful of spaghetti. The sauce clings to the noodles perfectly—bright, glossy, unmistakably made from freshly picked tomatoes. “Too thick? Too sour?”

Ricky chews thoughtfully, then smiles. “It’s good. I like it. It tastes… otherworldly.”

A flowery compliment—somewhat indirect, but a good one.

Gyuvin grins like he’s just received the highest praise a cook could earn, and Gunwook lets out a small laugh, reaching for another dish. Even the fried chicken isn’t spared—crispy, golden, crackling softly as Ricky bites into it again, because apparently one opinion isn’t enough.

His reactions matter. His happiness matters. He matters, even if only for the simple fact that he exists.

It feels like they’re already having dinner, even though it’s only tasting. Their stomachs fill slowly, but their hearts fill faster. The kitchen is loud in the gentlest way—utensils clinking, oil sizzling, laughter slipping in between questions like seasoning.

After finishing their biscuit towers, the children tiptoe closer, peeking around the corner to see what their fathers are doing.

What they find makes them pause.

Appa and Papa stand close behind Daddy, arms sneaking around his waist from both sides, chins resting on his shoulders as he leans slightly into them. It isn’t hidden. It isn’t dramatic. It is just… love. Easy. Familiar. Safe.

“Oh, how romantic,” Hana whispers, eyes shining.

She clasps her hands together like she’s watching the most beautiful moment of her life. “It’s more romantic than all the romance movies I’ve watched.”

“I can’t deny that,” Haneul says, peeking too, nodding seriously.

Harui tilts his head. “What romance movie have you watched to make you say that?”

“The Aristocats,” Hana replies immediately, like there is no other answer.

Harui hums, considering. “That is romantic.”

“Don’t you think they’re like the Aristocats?” Haneul asks, watching their fathers laugh softly over the stove.

“Our fathers?” Hana asks, blinking.

“No,” Harui says thoughtfully. “I think the cats are more like us.”

Hana pauses, then smiles. “Hmm. I think you’re right.”

“But,” Haneul adds, quieter now, “I think we’re also like Daddy, Appa, and Papa too.”

“That’s true,” Hana and Harui say together.

Hana sighs dreamily, pressing her hands to her chest.

“Oh, how I love to be loved like that~”

Harui nudges her gently. “Don’t worry. You never know. A rose might bloom just for you.”

She smiles at that, soft and hopeful. “How wonderful would that be.”

“Let’s give them the treats when Christmas arrives,” Haneul says, looking proudly at their biscuit towers.

They all nod.

Behind them, in the kitchen, their fathers laugh again, sharing soft smiles, feeling completely loved and completely safe in the souls they have found for life. They are reminded of it whenever the sky turns blue and the stars begin to shine.

It is near midnight. Near Christmas. Near enough that Santa should have come already.

But nothing happens.

No bells. No footsteps. No laughter carried through the house. Not even the smallest sound of wrapping paper crinkling or boots landing softly on the floor. The house is… quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring a little if you listen too hard.

And that’s when they realize it.

Their parents are gone.

They don’t even know how it happened. One moment, Daddy, Appa, and Papa were there—laughing, cooking, tasting, loving—and the next, it’s just the three of them, standing in the living room with the clock ticking far too loudly.

“Yah,” Hana says, voice wobbling, blinking fast like she’s trying very hard not to cry. “What did you even wish for Christmas?”

Haneul swallows. “I wished that we’ll always be happy.”

“I wished for more Christmases together,” Harui says quietly.

Hana presses her lips together. “That doesn’t explain why Daddy, Appa, and Papa disappeared.” Her voice cracks just a little. “And my wish is just both of your wishes combined.”

They look at each other, the air heavy with confusion.

“What even happened?” Harui asks.

“I don’t know,” Haneul says.

“I was asking that,” Hana snaps, then immediately feels bad about it. Frustration creeps into her chest, hot and itchy and unwelcome.

Their minds are a flurry of confusion, thoughts tripping over one another like tangled Christmas lights. This is very not the kind of Christmas they were expecting. Christmas is supposed to be loud, messy, fun, and safe.

What actually happened, anyway?

As far as they remember, they were eating. Eating and enjoying the Christmas Eve feast, plates crowded with food and Appa insisting everyone take one more bite, Papa sneaking vegetables onto their plates, Daddy laughing and saying he’ll handle dessert.

They were full. Very full.

And maybe that is what happened—because the satisfaction from it makes them sleepy, unintentionally. Heavy eyelids. Warm bodies sinking into cushions.

“So we were eating, right?” Hana asks, trying to put the pieces back together.

“Right,” her two brothers answer in unison, like an echo.

“And then it was so delicious, right?” Hana asks again, because repeating it makes it feel more real.

“Right,” they agree again, nodding even though flavor should not be their focus at this very moment.

“And then we opened the TV,” Hana says.

“And then you chose a Barbie movie,” Harui adds, pointing gently.

“And then I chose a Barbie movie,” Hana confirms, because yes, she did, and she would choose it again.

“But then the sofa was so comfortable,” Haneul says softly.

“Right,” Hana and Harui say together, suddenly understanding. The way memory fades into black, like someone gently turning off a light.

“Should we look for them?” Haneul asks.

He is trying to think of a solution, even though it feels like his heart might be removed from his body if he keeps talking.

“I’ll check every part of the first floor,” Hana says quickly, because plans are good and plans mean control. “Harui, second floor. Haneul, you check outside. But do not stray too far from the house, okay?”

“Okay,” Haneul says immediately.

And so they move.

They check every nook and cranny of the house, voices echoing too loudly in rooms that should be full of answers.

“Daddy!!”

“Appa!!”

“Papa!!”

Is Christmas always like this?

Magical?

No—magical is not the right word. This feels mysterious. A little horrific. Because why is Christmas suddenly turning into a series of crime cases? One Christmas calls for murder, one Christmas calls for human trafficking. That is an intense level of naughty, honestly.

They search and search and search.

The places they always hide during hide-and-seek, because they are very good at it. Behind shelves. Under beds. Even places that are probably too obvious, because sometimes Appa hides in plain sight just to trick them.

But there is still… none.

No Daddy’s laugh. No Appa humming. No Papa pretending he didn’t hear them call his name.

The three of them meet again in the living room, standing close this time, like they’re afraid the house might swallow one of them if they drift too far apart. The search is brief but thorough, and it leaves the room feeling even bigger than before.

“They’re gone!!!!”

All three of them shout it together, voices overlapping, too loud, too sharp. The word gone echoes back at them, bouncing off the walls like it doesn’t want to leave.

And before the screaming gets worse—before the squeals, before the tears start spilling out without permission—

A sound cuts through the night.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!”

It comes from outside, floating in through the snowy winter air, cheerful and loud and entirely misplaced.

The triplets freeze.

Santa has arrived.

And apparently, Santa has chosen to enter through the living room window.

They watch in real time as Santa Claus commits what can only be described as burglary in their house. One leg through the window, then the other, boots dusted with snow, a sack bumping awkwardly against the frame.

This should be exciting. This should be magical.

It is not.

They are far too rattled to feel joy.

So instead of running toward him—despite the fact that Santa very clearly has no intention of stealing anything and is here to give them gifts—the children back away together, steps small and cautious.

Their frightened faces make Santa pause.

He straightens a little, clears his throat, and tries again.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!”

This time, it sounds… less confident.

“Santa,” Hana says, voice small but steady, because someone has to speak. “Do you know where Daddy, Appa, and Papa is?”

“You know everyone, right?” Haneul adds quickly. “You visited us because we were nice.”

“So you must know where Daddy, Appa, and Papa is,” Harui finishes. Then, after a beat, tilts his head. “Also, Santa… why are you thin?”

That does it.

Santa stops moving entirely.

And because he doesn’t step closer, and because he doesn’t answer right away, questions begin to tumble out all at once.

“Did you not have enough food in the North Pole?” Hana asks, genuinely concerned.

“Santa,” Haneul says, squinting now, eyes sharp in a way that surprises even himself. “You don’t look very old.”

He steps closer. Just one step.

“Actually,” he continues slowly, “you don’t look like someone from the North Pole. Santa… you look very familiar.”

Santa is in trouble.

He needs to deliver gifts. He needs to finish the night. But one wrong word, one wrong movement, and everything will spill out—and it is far too early for that.

“Familiar?” Hana asks, turning her head side to side, studying Santa carefully now. “Who do you think Santa looks like?”

The children aren’t backing away anymore.

They are advancing.

Circling him slowly. Looking at his hands. His posture. The way he stands like he’s trying not to be recognized. The way his eyes soften when he looks at them.

Santa panics.

So he does the only thing Santa seems to do.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!”

It comes out nervous this time, awkward and too fast, like he’s clinging to a script he hasn’t memorized properly.

“It looks like…” Harui says, dragging the words out, thinking hard. Because it is obvious. Painfully obvious. And yet his brain keeps skipping over it.

“…Appa.”

Haneul says it quietly, like a realization rather than an accusation.

He looks straight into Santa’s eyes—and that’s all it takes.

Because no one else looks at them like that. Because no one else smiles with that exact warmth. Because even under a fake beard and a red suit and snow-dusted boots, that love is unmistakable.

“Wait. Hmm,” Hana says slowly, stepping closer now, staring so wide into Santa’s eyes it’s almost comical. “Is it really Appa?”

Santa—no, Appa—lets out a breath that sounds like surrender.

He gives up entirely and sits down on the floor, sack still clutched in one hand. That alone gives the children even more reason to examine him. The way he sits. The way his shoulders slump. The way his eyes soften even more when they’re this close.

“Appa,” Harui says, voice wobbling, on the very edge of tears.

“Mhm—mm,” Santa Gyuvin says, voice breaking before he can stop it. “Appa’s here.”

That’s all it takes.

All three of them rush into him at once, arms wrapping tight around his middle, faces pressed into red fabric and familiar warmth. Gyuvin drops the sack completely and pulls them into his embrace, holding them as close and tight as he can.

They don’t want to let go.

“Appa!!”

They cry it together, cheeks flushed from everything—from fear, from relief, from love so big it hurts. All the worry spills out at once, and it’s like their bodies finally remember how to breathe properly again.

The hug lasts for minutes. Five, maybe more. Long enough for the sobs to quiet. Long enough for sniffles to replace cries. Long enough for the world to feel steady again.

“Appa,” Harui asks finally, voice small and teary-eyed, fingers still gripping his sleeve. “Where’s Daddy and Papa?”

Gyuvin smiles, brushing a hand through Harui’s hair, then Hana’s, then Haneul’s.

“Daddy and Papa will come home after a while,
Once Santa has traveled each faraway mile,
Delivering gifts from his magical pile,
Till every child—naughty or nice—wears a smile.”

He says gently, like it’s a spell meant only for Christmas.

The triplets listen, wide-eyed, completely absorbed.

“And you,” Gyuvin adds, smile turning playful, “are the remaining children on my list for tonight, my dears.”

He reaches for the sack again and opens it, pulling out gifts he helped think of himself—gifts chosen with care, with love, with attention.

The moment the last gift is handed over—

The doorbell rings.

All four of them freeze.

And somehow, they all know at once.

Daddy and Papa are home.

Because Santa Appa has finished delivering gifts. Because the magic is allowed to end now. Because Christmas is kind like that.

They rush to the door together and swing it open.

Daddy and Papa are standing there.

Wearing Santa costumes.

The children blink.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

They didn’t even know it was possible to have three Santas. They thought it was impossible for even one to show up.

“Daddy! Papa!”

They run into them immediately, arms wrapping tight, another hug forming even as snow drifts softly around them. The cold doesn’t matter. It never does. Their embraces are always warm.

This time, the triplets didn't cry.

They’re braver now. And Santa Appa made everything feel lighter somehow.

“Merry Christmas, my stars,” Daddy says softly.

He kisses their cheeks—one by one—gentle and warm, followed by hugs that linger just a little longer, like that’s the proper way to seal Christmas.

“Merry Christmas, our Hana, Haneul, Harui,” Papa says this time, arms enveloping them all, holding them close.

And Appa—Appa would definitely not be left out in this.

Like the storm he is, he pulls them all in again, wrapping arms around his children and husbands alike, laughter caught in his chest. It almost seems like they could all fit inside his big red sack if he really tried. Maybe Santa Gyuvin’s gift for himself this year is exactly this—the entire Shen-Kim-Park family, bundled together.

“MERRY CHRISTMAS!!” Hana, Haneul, and Harui shout together, voices bright, smiles even brighter, eyes shining like they’re made of starlight.

They’ve gone through so much today—the crying, the fear, the relief, the love, the joy, the hope. Everything all at once. And yet here they are right now.

“Wait,” Haneul suddenly says, eyes widening. “The biscuit.”

“The biscuit,” Harui echoes, just as wide-eyed.

“THE BISCUIT!” Hana exclaims, louder, more exaggerated, still exaggerated as ever. She points a finger at their fathers, serious now. “Wait here, okay? Don’t disappear on us again.”

“Yes, our Hana,” all three fathers say at once, even going as far as to snap into a salute position, just to make sure the message is delivered properly.

Hana gives a short, aggressive nod—the kind that clearly means, Good.

There’s a lot of running after that. Small feet pounding, hurried whispers that are loud in the way they always are—more like distant talking than actual whispering. And then, just as quickly, they’re back again, standing in front of their fathers like they’re the Flash.

“Merry Christmas!” the triplets say once more, this time holding biscuits in their hands.

Three gifts.

For their three fathers.

Made by the three of them.

The biscuit tower is patterned carefully—strawberry, chocolate, cream. (And Gyuvin would definitely insist that the cream could count as mango in a way, because it’s close to yellow, like the color of a mango, and surely that counts.)

“Thank you, our lovelies,” the fathers say, voices soft, touched in that way love always is when it consumes you whole.

Three boys who once met under a sky so blue.

Children who shine like three little stars.

The rule of three. The magic of it.

And the promise of it all.

Honk.

Honk.

Honk.

But it isn’t done yet.

There are trespassers again. Trespassers is too strong of a word—but it looks like Santa’s reindeers have come to visit. Not Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, or Rudolph.

But instead: Uncle Jiwoong, Uncle Hao, Uncle Bin, Uncle Matthew, Uncle Taerae, and Uncle Yujin.

The triplets’ eyes shine impossibly bright at the sight. How many more times will they sparkle like this tonight? How much joy can one Christmas truly hold tight?

“We hope we’re not too late,” Jiwoong asks from the driver’s seat, leading Santa’s little pack of reindeers.

And—oh.

Someone is peeking from the backseat window too.

Not a reindeer.

But someone wearing an elf hat instead.

The night still has more magic left to give.

“Hiro!!” Hana, Haneul, and Harui cry out all at once, voices colliding as they run toward the car. They were already excited before—but now it’s something brighter, something breathless, something that feels like Christmas tipping over into something bigger than itself.

Snow crunches under their feet as they hurry forward, coats flapping, laughter spilling out of them like it can’t be contained. By the time they reach the van, Ricky, Gyuvin, and Gunwook are already walking over too—fond smiles on their faces, that familiar look of amusement and love that never really leaves them when they’re all together like this.

Gyuvin glances at the time, then at the group gathered inside the car. “You’re about twenty minutes late.”

“Sorry,” Taerae says, laughing a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was hard to dress up as reindeers without Santa, really. And besides—we were missing three reindeers still.”

Hanbin crouches slightly to be eye-level with the triplets, eyes warm and playful. “Do you three want to be the remaining Santa reindeers?”

“YES!!!”

Of course that’s the answer. What else could it possibly be?

“Alright~!! Let’s go to the North Pole!” Matthew adds, throwing his hands up dramatically, feeding the already hyper excitement of it all.

“Santas,” Hao says with a soft grin, gesturing toward Ricky, Gyuvin, and Gunwook, “lead us all to the North Pole.”

They don’t really have a choice—not when the children are already vibrating with joy, not when the night feels like it’s holding its breath for them. Gunwook makes sure to lock everything in the house first, thorough as always, because even magic needs practicality. Then they’re piling in, laughter and coats and scarves tangling together.

Ricky lingers for just a second longer, looking back at the house, at the light of the moon that reflects the comfort and safety of the place. He smiles—a gentle one, the kind that says ‘as long as Santa—us—is here, everything will be fine.

This road trip might lead them to the North Pole. Or maybe just a snow village somewhere. Or a toy factory. Or somewhere that simply screams Christmas.

Maybe it’s somewhere faraway. Somewhere closer to the sky, where clouds feel touchable and stars hang low enough to reach. Maybe it’s nowhere specific at all.

But wherever it is, they know this much:

It will always be a sparkling blue.

And it will always be beautiful.

As long as they are together.

⋆꙳•❆🥭*°⋆❅🍓.ೃ࿔*🍫:･*❄︎₊⋆

And together they were when Mama Kim visited them again in Gyuvin’s bedroom. It was the 25th of December. Christmas Day.

Their fevers had not let up yet. Their bodies were still warm in that uncomfortable way, heavy and slow, making it difficult to do anything other than drift in and out of sleep, waking only to drink water, to eat a little, to be reminded gently to take their medicine. The world felt quiet around them.

But Mama Kim was smiling.

Because even in sleep—especially in sleep—they were still holding each other’s hands.

Their fingers were tangled together beneath the blankets, instinctive, unthinking, as if letting go was never an option. As if their bodies understood something their minds did not yet have words for. 

Mama Kim paused by the door for a long moment, just watching. She thought about taking a picture. She really did. But some moments felt too fragile for that, too sacred to be captured and stored away.

This would be one she kept close to her heart instead.

Her children—yes, all three of them. She had never thought otherwise. Three small lives bound together by something quieter than fate but stronger than choice. Something that endured fevers and fear and long nights. Something that remained even when the world felt confusing and too big.

Like nothing could ever change their bond.

Like nothing could ever break it.

And then she noticed something else.

Where there had been plain white pillows the night before, there were now three new ones, resting carefully on their beds. Not ordinary pillows—these were special, unmistakably so. One shaped like a flower, soft and gentle. One like a cloud, light and forgiving. One like a clover, small but lucky, as if hope itself had been stitched into its seams.

Mama Kim adjusted the blankets a little, careful not to wake them. The world outside was still cold, but inside, in this room, everything felt warm.

It seemed that for these children, Santa had come after all.

Not with noise or bells or spectacle, but with something meant to last. Something they could carry with them for years and years to come. Something soft enough to be held close. Something constant.

Like how the sky remains blue.

A Whirlwind of Blue, A Moment With You

Blue is beautiful and sad,
Blue is a piece of life we’ve always had.
To live a life that sparkles like the sea,
Even through tears, we’ll simply be.

In sadness that consumes each fragile part,
There is still happiness born from the heart.
In doubt, in fear, in uncertainty too,
There is a light that gently leads me back to you.

A contradiction, an opposite design,
Yet balance lives within that tangled line.
For sometimes the boat won’t sail with ease,
Still we hold on—carried by the seas.

Even when it hurts, there is comfort found—
In you, who came crashing in without a sound.
Like a pillow soft that teaches me to sleep,
Like a safe, quiet space I want to keep.

Because even through it all, you smile at me,
And I remember how to breathe, to be.
You bring a happiness so warm, so true,
That sometimes I don’t even know what to do.

Just knowing that you exist is enough,
A tether to cling to when days get rough.
When it stings, when it pulses unbearably,
You are still here, so gently, with me.

A hand to hold, a touch to crave,
To feel the world open, no longer enslaved.
To see the sky so blindingly blue,
Every laugh, every smile, every moment with you.

There is a promise held with shaking hands,
One that lasts beyond what time demands.
A vow kept with every ounce of might,
One that makes each feeling feel right.

Through every second, every day, every year,
To love, to care, to hold even fear.
Because it was you I chose for all my life—
In sickness, in health, in calm and in strife.

The seasons bear witness as flowers bloom,
Even through quiet, inevitable doom.
Still, that never makes it less precious,
Every shade of blue feels gracious.

Sometimes you see a flower and think, how sweet,
Without a pause, without missing a beat.
Sometimes a clover—what luck,
And suddenly your heart is stuck.

Other times, it’s okay to just feel lazy,
Letting the breeze pass through, soft and hazy.
Watching clouds so impossibly white,
As the sky shifts softly from day to night.

Little moments we cherish, gather, and hold,
Some are gentle, some brave, some bold.
But nothing shines like silver, blue, and gold,
Like the stories the little stars have told.

The universe, a mastermind so kind,
Weaving every thread it meant to bind.
Each string entwined with careful care,
A promise that love can stay unbroken there.

If comfort, love, and happiness had a name,
Then it would be you—always the same.
Simply because that’s what you are to me,
Every feeling I hold, expressed in poetry.

The swirling of everything into a whirlwind of blue,
That steals my breath in every moment with you.
To the sea, to the stars, we reach so high,
Will the heavens know when the angels finally fly?

And still, there’s a glaring, unforgettable reminder:
Though nothing lasts forever, love grows ever kinder.
The memories we made shine even brighter,
For blue is only a piece—a piece that will stay as long as we’re together.

♡