The first official “appearance” took place the next afternoon, in the form of an elegant family brunch held under a canvas canopy in the Park estate’s back garden.

The setup was picture-perfect: round tables draped in cream linen, centerpieces of hydrangeas and eucalyptus, delicate porcelain teacups balanced on gold-rimmed saucers. It felt less like a family meal and more like a Vogue editorial spread.

You stood just off the veranda, fiddling with the hem of your dress—a soft pastel number Hana had picked out for you. Jimin appeared beside you silently, wearing a crisp cream suit and a watch that probably cost more than your entire student loan debt.

He leaned in just slightly.

“You good?”

You nodded stiffly. “Nervous. But not panicking.”

“Good,” he said, then offered his arm. “Shall we?”

You took it.

The guests were already seated—his parents at the head table, aunts and uncles scattered along the sides, and a handful of family friends eyeing you with curious smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.

Jimin pulled your chair out for you before sitting beside you, then reached across the table to lightly rest his hand over yours.

You nearly jumped.

He squeezed your fingers subtly and smiled for the onlookers.

“Relax,” he whispered. “They’re watching, but we’ve got this.”

The next hour passed in a strange blur of polite conversation, delicate bites of cucumber sandwiches, and subtle glances from every direction. Jimin played his part flawlessly—gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, offering you the first pour of tea, even cracking a joke about how you “could never remember where he left his car keys.”

You laughed on cue, though your heart was racing.

His mother, ever composed, watched everything with a cool, almost regal detachment.

“She’s quiet,” she said at one point, directing the comment toward no one in particular.

You smiled politely. “I prefer to listen before I speak.”

Jimin’s father let out a soft chuckle. “At least she’s honest. Most of the girls we’ve met couldn’t stop talking about themselves.”

That earned you a small nod of approval from Mrs. Park, though her eyes still held a note of calculation.

After dessert was cleared—tiny tarts you barely tasted—Jimin stood and reached for your hand again.

“Excuse us,” he said. “We’d like to take a walk through the gardens.”

The moment you were out of earshot, you exhaled so sharply you nearly wheezed.

“Oh my god,” you muttered. “I think my face is stuck in that smile.”

Jimin laughed, a real one this time.

“You did great. They bought it.”

“I think your mom’s planning to run a background check on me.”

“She already has,” he said casually. “She just didn’t find anything scandalous enough to stop this.”

You stared at him. “You’re joking.”

He shook his head, amused. “I told you. They don’t mess around.”

You followed him down a path lined with white roses and carefully clipped hedges. For a while, neither of you spoke. You noticed how different he seemed away from the cameras and family—less scripted, a little softer around the edges.

“So,” you said eventually, “are you planning to tell me anything real about your life? Or are we just going to play pretend the whole time?”

He glanced at you, eyebrows raised. “You want real?”

You shrugged. “We’re supposed to be engaged. Might be helpful if we actually knew each other.”

He thought about that.

Then, quietly, he said, “Okay. You first.”

You blinked. “Me?”

He nodded. “I know you’re a photographer, and I know Soojin vouched for you. But why’d you take this deal, really?”

You hesitated, then decided to just tell the truth.

“My mom passed away last year,” you said. “Cancer. I was juggling two part-time jobs to pay the bills, and I fell behind on rent. This… this deal? It’s a life raft. I’m drowning.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

“I don’t want to be rich,” you said. “I just want to stop feeling like I’m constantly five seconds from losing everything.”

Jimin looked at you for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “That you had to go through that.”

You shrugged, uncomfortable with the sincerity. “Everyone’s dealing with something.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s true.”

A silence settled between you, heavier now but not unpleasant. Then he glanced toward the trellis where photographers had begun setting up subtle equipment.

“We’ve got twenty minutes before the ‘candid' shots start. Want to make it look like we’re in love?”

You arched a brow. “Is this the part where you kiss me?”

He smirked. “Not yet. We’ll save that for a scandal.”

He stepped closer, his hand brushing yours. You looked up at him, and for a second, something unspoken passed between you—something that didn’t quite fit into the script.

Then he said, “Come on. Let’s give them a story.”

Later that evening, you sat in your guest room, scrolling through the “leaked” photos on Twitter. The top trending topic was #JiminEngaged.

You stared at the photos of yourself—laughing under the sunlight, walking beside him, your hand in his—and couldn’t believe how natural it looked. Like you were really in love.

It should’ve been thrilling.

Instead, you felt like you were slipping into something you couldn’t get back out of.

A knock on the door startled you.

You opened it to find Jimin standing there, holding a bottle of wine.

“Figured you could use a drink,” he said.

You hesitated, then stepped aside to let him in.

He sat at the little table in the corner while you grabbed two glasses from the vanity shelf. You poured without speaking, then joined him.

You lifted your glass. “To successful illusions.”

He clinked his against yours.

“To paper flowers.”

You gave him a puzzled look. “What?”

He took a sip before answering. “Paper flowers are perfect. They don’t wilt. They don’t fade. They survive everything… except water.”

You sat with that thought for a moment.

“Are we the flowers?”

He smiled wryly. “We’re the water.”

The next morning, everything changed.

You woke to a series of buzzes from your phone, the vibration relentless and sharp against your nightstand. Blinking against the sunlight, you reached for it, expecting Soojin or Minhyuk.

Instead, what you found was a wildfire.

Trending: #JiminAndY/N
#ParkJiminEngaged
#PaperFlowerCouple

Dozens of accounts had reposted blurry paparazzi shots—some from the garden brunch, others that had definitely not been pre-approved. One, in particular, had gone viral: a photo of Jimin looking at you like the entire world had narrowed to just you.

But the problem wasn’t the photos.

It was the caption someone had added.

“Who is she? A nobody, playing a princess. The engagement is fake. I know it.”

Thousands of comments. A rapidly spiraling storm of hate and curiosity.

Your stomach twisted.

By the time you rushed downstairs, Jimin was already in the sitting room, holding his phone and staring at the screen in silence. His jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“You said you told no one.”

“I didn’t,” you said immediately. “I swear.”

“Soojin?”

“She would never.”

He exhaled slowly, fingers pressing into his temples.

Minhyuk entered with a tablet, his face grim. “It’s a freelance reporter. Works for Dispatch part-time. No name on the leak, but they’re calling for an investigation. Some fans are digging through her—Y/N’s—past. Already found her old Instagram. Comments are flooding in.”

You felt like ice was creeping up your spine.

Jimin looked at you finally.

“I’ll handle this,” he said. “Just stay off social media. Don’t respond. Don’t post. Don’t give them more oxygen.”

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak.

An hour later, you found yourself summoned to the west parlor—a sun-drenched room where Mrs. Park sat on a velvet armchair with a porcelain teacup in hand, the very image of controlled elegance.

She didn’t ask you to sit.

“I assume you’ve seen the coverage,” she said, without looking up.

“Yes,” you answered softly.

She set her cup down, the clink of china deliberate.

“I warned Jimin about moving too quickly. About trusting someone from outside the industry. But he’s stubborn, and… romantic.” Her mouth tightened slightly. “It’s a flaw he inherits from his father.”

You stood in awkward silence, unsure if you were meant to apologize or defend yourself.

Then she met your eyes. “Whatever arrangement you and Jimin have—it is a performance. I understand that. But there are standards that must be upheld. Public decency. Family image. Respect.”

“I’m trying,” you said, more shaken than you expected. “I never meant to cause trouble.”

Her gaze didn’t soften. “Try harder.”

She stood and smoothed the front of her dress.

“I can make problems disappear,” she said calmly. “But I can also create them.”

You nodded slowly, pulse hammering in your ears.

“Good,” she said, brushing past you.

You waited until she was gone before letting yourself breathe.

Jimin didn’t speak much that afternoon. He made a show of taking your hand during a brief family meeting, offered supportive glances during a walk past the reporters stationed beyond the estate gates. But there was a distance now, subtle but present.

Like he was retreating behind a wall again.

That night, you sat on the bench beneath the veranda, hugging your knees to your chest. The spring air was cool, but not biting. Quiet, save for the chirping of crickets and distant rustle of trees.

You didn’t expect him to join you.

But he did.

He didn’t speak at first. Just sat beside you, folding his hands in his lap, staring out at the dark garden.

After a while, he said, “I was ten when they told me I’d be marrying someone I’d never met.”

You glanced at him, startled.

He continued, voice low. “Her name was Seo Mira. From a chaebol family. Her father runs a tech conglomerate. Our parents made an agreement—business alliances, family image, the usual old-world nonsense. I thought it was normal. I didn’t question it until I debuted and realized… other people get to choose.”

“And you didn’t.”

He shook his head. “Not once.”

You were silent for a while.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

He looked at you, the cool mask cracking just slightly.

“I’ve spent years doing everything right,” he said. “Singing the right songs. Taking the right roles. Smiling when I wanted to scream. And now, for once, I’m doing something that’s my choice—even if it’s fake.”

You looked down at your hands. “Is that all I am to you? A symbol of rebellion?”

He winced. “No. It’s not like that.”

You stood, frustrated.

“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t beg for fame or money or your attention. I needed a way out, yes. But I’m not your pawn.”

He rose, too, eyes narrowing. “I never said you were.”

“Then stop treating me like a liability.”

A long pause.

Then, softer, he said, “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at the world we’re in. And I hate that you’re getting hurt because of it.”

You looked at him then, really looked.

For all his polish, Jimin was just another person carrying too much weight—crumbling under it but trying to stay beautiful while doing it.

“I’m not fragile,” you said.

“I know,” he whispered.

You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was both of you. But suddenly his hand was at your waist, and your fingers curled into his lapel, and the space between you evaporated.

He paused, eyes searching yours.

“This isn’t part of the act,” he murmured.

“I know,” you said.

And then he kissed you.

Not for the cameras. Not for the family. Just for you.

It was soft and slow, the kind of kiss that unfolded like a song—tentative at first, then deeper, more sure. You melted into it, heart thudding, all the tension and fear and loneliness spilling out between your lips.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want to lie anymore,” he whispered.

Your voice trembled. “Then don’t.”