#armyimagines

You’d recognize him anywhere, even with his black bucket hat pulled low and his mask hiding that boyish smile. Jeon Jungkook. He’s been a mystery since he first wandered into your tiny shop six months ago, drawn by the cinnamon-sugar scent wafting onto Seoul’s bustling streets. He always orders the same thing: a black coffee, no sugar, and a pain au chocolat. Always sits at the corner table by the window, scribbling in a worn sketchbook. Always leaves a tip tucked beneath his saucer, folded into a tiny origami star.

But today, the sky is weeping. Rain pelts the cobblestones outside, and Jungkook arrives earlier—2:43 PM, hair damp, shoulders dusted with droplets. He hesitates in the doorway, eyes scanning the empty shop before landing on you.

“Hi,” he says, voice softer than the dough you’d kneaded that morning. His mask slips down just enough to reveal a shy grin. “Can I, uh… wait here? Until it lets up?”

You nod, heart stuttering. Casual. Be casual. “Of course. Coffee?”

“Please.”

---

The universe hates you.

One moment, you’re refilling the sugar jars, mind racing about rent, supplier fees, and Mom’s doctor’s appointment—the next, your foot slides through a patch of flour spilt near the counter.

“Oh shi—!”

Time blurs. The floor rushes up—but then arms catch you, strong and sure, pulling you against a chest that smells like rain and vanilla extract.

“Got you,” Jungkook murmurs, voice trembling with adrenaline.

Your face burns. His hands grip your waist, steadying you, and you’re close enough to see the flour speckled in his hair, the nervous bob of his throat as he swallows. “Th-thank you,” you stammer, scrambling back.

But he doesn’t let go. Not yet. His gaze flicks to the dark circles under your eyes, the way your hands shake as you smooth your apron. “You’re… really tired,” he says quietly. Not a question.

You laugh weakly. “Is it that obvious?”

His brows furrow. “I notice things.”

---

Jungkook stops coming on Sundays.

Instead, he starts appearing on Thursdays—early mornings, when the shop is still closed. At first, you think he’s confused.

“Can I… help?” he asks one day, peering through the door you’d cracked open to accept a flour delivery. His sleeves are rolled up, tattoos curling over his forearm, and there’s a smudge of what looks like charcoal on his cheek. “I’m a fast learner.”

You blink. “With… baking?”

He nods, earnest. “I want to make something. For… a friend.”

And so it begins.

Jungkook in your kitchen is a disaster. A beautiful, endearing disaster. He cracks eggs with the intensity of a soldier disarming a bomb, yet somehow gets shell fragments in the batter. He forgets the oven mitts and yelps when a tray singes his fingertips. Once, he accidentally dumps a cup of salt instead of sugar into the mixing bowl and stares at the dough like it’s betrayed him.

“Hyung would laugh at me,” he mutters, pouting at his lumpy croissant attempt. You don’t ask which hyung. You’re too busy memorizing the way his nose scrunches when he’s frustrated.

But he doesn’t quit. He arrives every Thursday, determined, flour dusting his hair like snow. Slowly, he learns—how to temper chocolate, how to braid pastry dough, how to pipe rosettes on cupcakes without them looking like… well, blobs.

---

One Sunday, he returns.

It’s raining again, but this time, he carries a small box tied with a lavender ribbon. His hair is a mess, his hoodie splattered with dried batter, but his smile is brighter than the oven light.

“For you,” he says, shoving the box into your hands. Inside rests a single almond croissant—your favourite, the one you’d once mentioned craving during a lunch break. It’s lopsided, slightly over-browned, but…

“You… made this?” you whisper.

He rubs his neck, sheepish. “I wanted to give you something that… that makes you as happy as your pastries make me.”

Tears prickle your eyes. “Jungkook, I…”

“Wait—” He flips the box over. Scrawled on the bottom in his messy handwriting:

“P.S. I didn’t burn down the kitchen. Mostly.”

You laugh, wet and wobbly, and he beams like he’s won a Grammy.