BTS IMAGINES AND SCENARIOS

Kitchen Chaos✿(Park Jimin)

When Jimin said, “I’ll help you bake for the fan event,” I pictured him standing beside me in the kitchen, smiling sweetly while following directions perfectly.

What I got instead was flour in my hair, sugar on the floor, and a very guilty-looking Jimin holding a cracked egg in one hand and the shell in the other.

“Don’t be mad,” he says, his voice soft, almost sheepish.

“I’m not mad,” I sigh, taking the shell from him. “Just… mildly concerned.”

“It’s fine! I can fix this.” He grins, wiping his hands on his apron — which, by the way, is already dusted with enough flour to bake a second batch.

I glance at the clock. We need a hundred cookies ready by tomorrow morning for the BTS fan event, and so far we’ve made… twelve. Burned ones.

“Jimin,” I start carefully, “have you ever baked before?”

He puffs his cheeks out in thought. “I made toast once. Does that count?”

“No.”

---

Somehow, we get a second batch of dough mixed together — with me doing the actual measuring and him “supervising,” which mostly means singing softly under his breath while sneaking chocolate chips from the bowl.

“You’re supposed to put those in the cookies,” I scold.

“I am putting them in the cookies,” he says, popping one into his mouth. “Just… in me first.”

Despite myself, I laugh. He looks ridiculously proud of making me smile, like that was his goal all along.

---

When we start shaping the dough balls, things spiral again.

“Why are yours perfect little circles and mine look like… sad potatoes?” Jimin asks, holding up a lumpy mass.

“Because I have practice,” I say.

He narrows his eyes in mock challenge. “Teach me.”

Before I can answer, he moves behind me, his chest brushing my back as he takes my hands in his.

“Like this?” he murmurs, guiding my fingers to roll the dough.

I can feel the warmth of him against me, the soft puff of his breath near my ear. My pulse does this weird, fluttery thing that I try to ignore.

“Uh… y-yeah,” I manage. “Just like that.”

When he finally steps back, I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved.

---

The cookies go in the oven, and I’m wiping the counter when I hear him gasp.

“What?” I turn just in time to see him holding the bag of flour with a suspiciously mischievous smile.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn.

He tilts his head, grin widening. “Why not?”

“Because—”

Too late. He flicks flour at me, and I let out a startled laugh.

“Oh, it’s on,” I say, grabbing a handful and tossing it back at him.

Within seconds, the kitchen is a battlefield. There’s flour in the air, on the counters, in my hair. Jimin is laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the counter, and I can’t remember the last time I felt this carefree.

---

We call a truce when the timer dings. The cookies — miracle of miracles — are actually perfect this time.

“See?” he says proudly. “I’m a great baking partner.”

“You’re a disaster,” I correct.

“A fun disaster,” he adds with a wink.

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “Thanks for helping, though. Really.”

He leans against the counter, looking at me in a way that makes my stomach flip. “I’d help you with anything.”

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the soft hum of the oven cooling and the sound of our breathing. He takes a slow step closer, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Jimin…” I start, but whatever I was about to say gets lost when he leans in and kisses me.

It’s soft at first — sweet, tentative — but there’s something underneath it, a warmth that makes my knees feel a little weak. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over my skin.

When we pull back, we’re both smiling like idiots.

“Guess that makes us more than baking partners,” he says, and I can’t even argue.