You didn’t expect the fan event to rattle you.

After everything—the engagement, the press, the scandal—you thought nothing could shake you anymore.

But the moment you stepped into that ballroom, flanked by Jimin’s team and swallowed by cheers and lights and hopeful eyes, you felt the nerves crawl down your spine like ice.

Hundreds of fans, dressed in pastels and glitter and emotion, lined up with albums, handmade signs, and letters pressed to their chests like they carried their hearts inside them.

You’d been told this would be intimate.

You were wrong.

This was sacred.

And you were walking into it like an outsider carrying a crown you didn’t earn.

Jimin was radiant.

He always was, but especially tonight—wearing a fitted cream blazer with soft gold embroidery, every movement polished, every smile real.

You stayed just behind him at first, watching as he greeted each fan like they were an old friend. Names. Birthdays. Favorite songs. He remembered it all.

And they loved him for it.

They had for years—long before you entered the picture.

You couldn’t help but feel like a shadow in his light.

Then came the moment you’d been dreading.

“Let’s bring Y/N out,” the host said, cheerful, mic in hand. “You’ve all been dying to meet her.”

The crowd clapped—polite, uncertain, curious.

You stepped onto the platform, heart pounding, fingers ice cold despite the spotlight.

Jimin reached for your hand immediately.

And when he laced your fingers together, something in the room changed.

Some of the crowd softened. Some smiled. A few still crossed their arms.

You met their gazes anyway.

One girl in the front row whispered to her friend, too loud to be subtle: “She’s not even an idol. What does she have?”

Jimin heard it.

He leaned toward his mic.

“She has everything I need.”

The crowd fell silent.

Then a few clapped.

Then more.

Then the whole room erupted into applause.

After the event, you sat backstage on a velvet couch, sipping water, your heels kicked off beside you.

Jimin dropped beside you with a tired groan, resting his head on your shoulder.

“Survived,” he mumbled.

“Barely.”

You smiled, but your chest felt tight.

He noticed immediately.

“What is it?”

You hesitated.

Then said, “I don’t have what they have. The talent. The glow. I don’t even belong in this world, Jimin.”

He leaned back, studying you.

“They don’t love me because I’m perfect,” he said quietly. “They love me because I’ve grown with them. And now... I want to grow with you.”

You blinked back tears. “But what if I’m not enough?”

He reached for your hand again.

“You’re more than enough. You’re my center. My truth. They’ll see that.”

And you wanted to believe him.

You really did.

But belief gets tested.

And yours would be—just days later.

It started as a small article buried in the corner of a gossip site.

A whisper that someone from your past was shopping around a “real story” about your relationship.

Within hours, screenshots appeared online—DMs allegedly from your ex, hinting that the relationship was fake, that you were using Jimin for exposure.

The worst part?

They looked real.

You stared at your screen in horror as trending hashtags rose again.

#GoldDiggerFiancée
#JiminWakeUp
#SheUsedHim

Soojin called within seconds.

“It’s fake,” she said. “He’s lying. I know the guy. He’s desperate for attention.”

But it didn’t matter.

The headlines were cruel.

The comments worse.

You shut off your phone and sat in the dark for a long time.

Until a knock came.

Jimin.

He didn’t ask if you were okay.

He just sat beside you in silence.

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You were too tired.

Too heartbroken by the lie the world seemed so eager to believe.

“I didn’t want to ruin this,” you said softly.

“You didn’t.”

“I don’t want to ruin you.”

He took your face in his hands.

“You saved me,” he said. “You reminded me what love feels like. If they don’t see it yet, that’s on them.”

You nodded, swallowing hard.

Then he said something you didn’t expect.

“Let’s get married next week.”

You blinked. “What?”

“No more waiting. No more press. Just us. I don’t care if it’s a courthouse or a rooftop. I just want you.”

Your heart jumped.

“You’re serious?”

He smiled.

“I’ve never been more serious.”

You said yes.

Not because it was spontaneous, or dramatic, or the perfect fairytale moment.

But because you were tired of defending something that had already become real.

You loved him. He loved you.

Everything else? Background noise.

The wedding was planned in three days.

No brands. No cameras. No guest lists curated by corporate strategists.

Just close friends, a few of Jimin’s most trusted staff, and Soojin—who burst into tears the moment you handed her the soft ivory envelope with the handwritten invite.

“You’re actually doing it,” she whispered. “You’re marrying Park freaking Jimin.”

You smiled. “I’m marrying Jimin.”

And that made all the difference.

You wore a simple hanbok, cream with pale gold embroidery. Hana had wept while tailoring it, her voice muffled as she said, “You finally look like yourself.”

Jimin waited for you at the small garden altar—just a wooden arch strung with paper flowers, the ones you remembered from the very beginning.

Symbolic.

Perfect.

When you stepped into the garden, the soft hush of string music followed you like wind. Jimin turned, and for a heartbeat, he looked like he couldn’t breathe.

His eyes—wide, full of wonder—met yours like the world had narrowed to just this.

Just you and him.

No idol.

No scandal.

No fake engagement.

Just love.

The ceremony was short.

There were no long vows, no promises rehearsed for a broadcast.

Just a few quiet words, hands held, and hearts wide open.

“I never thought I’d find someone who didn’t want a perfect version of me,” Jimin said. “You stayed when I gave you every reason to leave. You reminded me I’m more than my name. And I want to spend the rest of my life returning that gift.”

You blinked back tears, squeezing his fingers.

“I didn’t believe in miracles,” you whispered. “Not until you walked into that boutique. You changed everything. You changed me.”

He slipped the ring onto your finger—not the one from the stylists, but the one you picked that day in Cheongdam. The quiet one. The simple one.

The one that felt like truth.

After the ceremony, there was music, laughter, champagne. No speeches, just warmth. Jin sent flowers. Yoongi texted a dry, “Hope you survive this circus.” Jungkook appeared via FaceTime, shirtless and grinning.

You laughed more that day than you had in months.

And when the sun dipped below the skyline and the garden lights glowed like fireflies, Jimin took your hand and led you away.

Past the guests.

Down a quiet path.

Toward a bench under a flowering tree.

The paper flowers fluttered in the wind above you, gently strung across the branches.

“I asked them to put these here,” he said, sitting beside you.

You smiled. “Full circle.”

He nodded. “They don’t wilt. They don’t fade. But...”

“They can’t survive water,” you finished.

Jimin looked at you, eyes full.

“But we did.”

You leaned into him.

“We weren’t made of paper after all.”

That night, as you laid tangled together in crisp white sheets, skin warm, breath slow, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder and whispered, “What do we do now?”

You smiled against the pillow.

“We live.”

The first morning of your marriage was quiet.

No headlines.

No hashtags.

Just sunlight filtering through sheer curtains, the smell of jasmine from the open window, and the slow, steady rhythm of Jimin’s breathing beside you.

You didn’t open your eyes at first.

You didn’t need to.

His fingers were already tangled in yours.

His thumb brushed over your ring every few seconds like he still couldn’t believe it was there.

Like he still couldn’t believe you were there.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, smiling against the pillow.

“You’re glowing,” he replied. “It’s unfair.”

You cracked one eye open. “That’s what love does.”

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. “Then I’m going to be blind by noon.”

Breakfast came late.

You stayed curled under the covers for far longer than either of you should have, whispering about everything and nothing. Childhood dreams. Songs you loved. The wedding guests’ hidden dance moves. The way Minhyuk cried when he thought no one was looking.

Finally, hunger won out, and you made your way to the rooftop terrace, where the staff had laid out a quiet spread of your favorite dishes—comfort food in porcelain dishes, flowers in soft vases, and tea poured before you even sat down.

Jimin lifted a strawberry with his chopsticks and fed it to you with a grin.

“You’re officially spoiled,” he said.

“I was spoiled the minute you kissed me in that garden.”

He blushed—still, even now.

You tucked that knowledge away like treasure.

After breakfast, Jimin disappeared into the lower level of the house, promising, “I’ll only be gone ten minutes. Don’t follow me.”

Which, of course, meant you absolutely followed him—ten minutes and one curiosity-fueled minute later.

You found him in what used to be a closed-off storage room.

Now, it had been transformed.

The walls were lined with framed photos.

Your photos.

From old Instagram posts, your college portfolio, even some from the early days of your quiet freelance gigs.

There were candids, too—moments you didn’t even know he’d captured. You, laughing at Soojin’s jokes. You asleep with your camera across your chest. You blinking against sunlight on the morning he first kissed you for real.

You stepped forward, heart racing.

He was still pinning something on the far wall.

You walked to him in silence.

“What is this?”

He turned, sheepish. “A gallery.”

Your eyes flicked to the wall again.

“To me?”

“No,” he said softly. “To us.”

In the center of the back wall was one final piece: a single photo of the paper flower you’d folded the night you signed the fake engagement contract.

It was slightly crushed now. But still intact.

Beneath it, in his handwriting, were four words:

“Some things survive anything.”

You pressed a hand over your mouth, suddenly overwhelmed.

He came to stand beside you.

“I didn’t know where this would go,” he said. “I didn’t even know who I was anymore. But you… you made me real again.”

You turned to him, eyes wet.

“I was lost too.”

He took your face in his hands, brushing a thumb over your cheekbone.

“We found each other.”

And then he kissed you again—soft, slow, reverent.

Not because the world was watching.

But because this was your new world now.

That afternoon, you returned to the boutique where it all began.

The same glossy floors. The same mirrored walls.

Only this time, you didn’t stand behind the counter.

You stood in front of it, next to the woman who owned the place, who smiled as she handed you a simple envelope.

“Final payment,” she said. “I kept my promise.”

Inside was a check for the original contract amount.

You stared at it for a moment, remembering the desperation that drove you to accept Jimin’s offer in the first place.

Then you folded it neatly and handed it back.

“I don’t need it anymore.”

Her eyes widened. “You sure?”

You nodded. “I have what I need.”

As you turned to leave, you passed a shelf of accessories—necklaces, bracelets, trinkets meant for girls who still believed in magic.

Jimin reached for one. A tiny silver charm in the shape of a flower.

“Paper flowers don’t fade,” he murmured, clasping it gently around your wrist.

You looked at him, everything inside you swelling.

Neither did you.

Outside, you walked hand-in-hand beneath a soft, fading sky.

Pedestrians passed. Cars buzzed. Cameras flashed.

But for once, none of it felt invasive.

None of it felt like an attack.

Because your love had stopped being something to hide behind—

And had become something to stand on.

Real.

Unshakable.

Yours.