BTS IMAGINES AND SCENARIOS

Dating Disaster✿(Jeon Jungkook/JK)

If someone had told me this morning that I’d end the day fake dating Jeon Jungkook, I would’ve laughed. Or choked. Possibly both.

But here we are.

I work as a stylist assistant for BTS, which means I’m mostly fetching coffee, steaming clothes, and making sure buttons don’t mysteriously vanish before a show. I’m not supposed to be part of the news cycle — but that changed two days ago when someone snapped a blurry picture of me handing Jungkook his jacket outside the studio.

Apparently, “staff hands idol his own jacket” doesn’t get clicks, but “mystery woman spotted with Jungkook” does. The internet ran with it.

By the time I arrive at the company building this morning, the rumor mill is in overdrive. I’m scrolling through a particularly dramatic headline when Jungkook appears beside me in the elevator.

“Hey,” he says, like we’re discussing the weather. “I have an idea.”

I glance at him. “Oh no.”

“Let’s fake date.”

I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

He shrugs like it’s obvious. “If we pretend it’s real for a while, the paparazzi will get bored faster. Better than having them stalk your apartment looking for ‘proof.’”

I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already grinning that mischievous, bunny-smile grin. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

---

It’s… not fun.

It’s nerve-wracking.

Within hours, Jungkook is walking me out of the building with his hand resting casually on the small of my back. There are cameras. Lots of cameras.

I force a smile, leaning in like this is totally normal, like my heart isn’t pounding so loud I’m afraid he can hear it.

He whispers, “You’re good at this,” and I mutter, “You owe me bubble tea.”

The next few days are a blur of “dates” carefully staged for the public. Coffee runs. Late-night walks. A suspiciously intimate grocery trip where he insisted on pushing the cart while I picked snacks.

What’s worse is how natural it feels. How easily his arm finds its way around my shoulders. How his laugh warms something in me I didn’t realize was cold.

---

One night, after a particularly exhausting event, we end up back at his apartment — no cameras, no audience, just us.

I’m sitting on his couch, scrolling through my phone when he drops beside me, a little too close.

“You’re trending again,” he says, holding up his own phone. It’s a clip from earlier, where he leaned down to say something in my ear and I laughed. The caption reads: “Find someone who looks at you the way Jungkook looks at her.”

I groan. “They’re reading way too much into it.”

“Are they?” he says quietly.

I look up, and he’s watching me with that same expression from the clip — soft, a little intense. My breath catches.

“Jungkook—”

He leans in, just slightly. “You know, for this to work, we should probably practice.”

“Practice what?” I ask, though I already know.

“Kissing.”

My brain short-circuits. “That’s… not necessary.”

He smiles faintly. “You sure?”

I should say yes. I should stand up, grab my bag, and go home. Instead, I find myself leaning in. Just a little. Just enough that when his lips brush mine, it feels inevitable.

The kiss starts soft — tentative, testing — but when I respond, it deepens. His hand cups the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and I’m suddenly aware of how solid he feels, how warm.

When we finally pull back, I’m breathless. “That was… convincing.”

He grins. “Yeah. We’re pretty good at this.”

---

The line between fake and real blurs fast after that.

Our “dates” start lasting longer, even when there are no cameras. He texts me memes at 2 a.m. We start having inside jokes that no one else understands.

And then one night, during a “quiet dinner date” that was supposed to be for show, he reaches across the table and takes my hand. No cameras. No fans. Just him.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, my voice barely steady.

“I don’t want to stop.”

I blink. “Stop… fake dating?”

He squeezes my hand. “Yeah. Because it doesn’t feel fake anymore.”

The air between us feels charged, like that moment right before a storm. My chest feels tight.

“Me neither,” I admit.

His smile is slow, warm, the kind that makes my stomach flip. “Good. Because I really like you. And I don’t care if the whole world knows it now.”

When we leave the restaurant, his arm slips naturally around my waist, and this time, I don’t think about the cameras. I just think about him.