jaitunapie

[jaitunapie]

ohmymfoogoddddd ahh shes so pretty ohhhhr wowwwwww i need her please

[jaitunapie]

RAHHH!!!

Summary: All Minji did was stop some books from killing a nerd.

It's clear that I put effort into the picture😝

— fem reader🧍🏽‍♀️

It was too early for public humiliation.

YN muttered a quiet curse under her breath as she adjusted her crooked glasses for the third time. She stood in the far corner of the university library, struggling with a stubborn book lodged high on the shelf. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled over her hands, her expression pinched in frustration. She knew she could’ve asked for help—but she didn’t do help. She did solitude, sarcasm, and a healthy dose of avoiding all human interaction.

With a determined huff, she stepped up on the very bottom edge of the shelf, fingers stretching toward the book she absolutely needed for class.

Bad. Idea.

With a terrifying creak and a swift betrayal by gravity, three other thick volumes gave up on life and came crashing down toward her head. Her eyes widened, body frozen, mouth opened in a silent scream—

—and then, arms.

A warm, solid arm curved around her shoulders just as the books slammed into the air where her skull should’ve been. Her back was pressed against something—or someone—tall, strong, and inexplicably citrus-scented.

“What—” YN gasped, blinking up into—

No. Freaking. Way.

Kim Minji.

The girl who had a fan club without even trying. Who looked good doing nothing. The cool, tall, “of course she plays basketball and gets straight A’s” type. Universally loved. Universally not in YN’s life. Until now.

Minji raised an eyebrow as she looked down at YN, a crooked half-smile forming. “You okay? You looked like you were about to become one with the Dewey Decimal System.”

YN pushed her glasses up in a flustered panic and immediately scowled, stepping away as fast as she could manage. “I had it under control.”

“Sure you did.” Minji crouched to pick up the fallen books. “These just volunteered to attack for no reason.”

YN grabbed one of the books and clutched it to her chest. “I didn’t ask for help.”

Minji handed her another book, unbothered. “You also didn’t die. You’re welcome.”

YN turned, ready to disappear into a hole—or at least the nearest exit—but Minji followed her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ve seen you around, right? You’re in that, uh... abstract painting class that smells like turpentine and sadness?”

YN narrowed her eyes. “How would you know what sadness smells like?”

Minji grinned, undeterred. “It’s a talent. I’m Minji.”

“I know who you are,” YN muttered, already walking away.

Minji kept pace beside her. “Cool. So, who are you?”

YN sighed. “Someone who’s trying to study alone.”

“Noted.” Minji gave a mock salute but didn’t leave.

YN stopped in her tracks. “Why are you still following me?”

Minji tilted her head, like she was trying to figure something out. “Because, I don’t know… You look like the kind of person who forgets to eat while studying. And fall off ladders. You might need supervision.”

YN’s jaw dropped. “I’m not a hazard.”

Minji just shrugged, lips twitching like she was holding back laughter. “Could’ve fooled me.”

YN groaned loudly. “Unbelievable.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Minji said brightly, and for some reason—annoyingly—YN’s heart skipped a beat.

YN absolutely hated mornings. She hated mandatory events even more. But what she hated the most… was walking into a crowded auditorium where the only thing louder than the echo of her footsteps was the collective energy of people who actually wanted to be there.

A university-wide “Vision Conference.” Whatever that meant. Probably just another excuse for the administration to hand out tote bags and pretend they cared about student input. She dragged her feet inside the hall, hoodie half-zipped, earbuds dangling but not even playing anything. It was her last line of defense—if people thought she was busy, maybe they’d leave her alone.

She scanned the room. Packed. Great.

Some overenthusiastic emcee at the front was already shouting into the mic about student potential and growth and future excellence. YN tuned them out instantly.

Her eyes locked on the one safe space: the very last row, right by the wall. Perfect. Shadowed. No chatty people. Minimal eye contact.

She made her way toward it, clutching her water bottle and notebook like a shield. But as she weaved between knees and backpacks, her boot caught the strap of someone’s oversized designer tote.

Of course she stumbled.

Her arms flailed like a windmill in crisis, and she mentally braced for impact—

Again.

Except... again, it never came.

Because of course.

Because standing there—like some guardian angel with a basketball scholarship and a smug smile—was Kim Minji.

Again.

“Do you fall a lot, or do I just have amazing timing?” Minji asked, holding YN upright by the elbow like she didn’t just appear out of thin air like a protagonist.

YN blinked up at her, stunned. “Are you stalking me?”

Minji tilted her head, smirking. “Please. If I were stalking you, I’d know not to sneak up while you’re about to faceplant.”

“I wasn’t going to fall!” YN snapped, yanking her arm free and immediately regretting it because she nearly lost her balance again.

Minji caught her again, with one arm, like it was nothing. “Yeah. Super stable.”

“Stop catching me!” YN hissed, cheeks burning.

“I’d love to,” Minji said cheerfully. “But you keep launching yourself into the floor.”

Several students in nearby seats turned to look, curious about the chaos in the back. YN shrunk into herself, mortified.

“Just—go sit with your fan club,” she muttered, finally making it to the empty chair and throwing herself into it like a sack of bricks.

To her horror, Minji didn’t move.

In fact, she sat down right next to her.

“What are you doing?” YN whispered, horrified.

Minji leaned back in the chair, arms crossed behind her head like she owned the place. “Keeping an eye on you. Safety hazard, remember?”

“I am not a safety hazard.”

“Tell that to the bookshelves. And the tote bag. And gravity.”

YN groaned and buried her face in her hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“Then why is it kind of fun?” Minji said, glancing sideways at her with that maddening sparkle in her eyes.

“Stop smiling at me,” YN muttered.

“Can’t. It’s a reflex when I see you trip over your own feet.”

YN looked away, jaw clenched, but her ears were glowing red. She didn’t respond—and Minji didn’t push.

For a few minutes, they sat in silence as the presentation continued, filled with overly enthusiastic buzzwords and PowerPoint animations no one asked for.

Then Minji leaned over and whispered, “Bet you ten bucks the next speaker says ‘innovation’ at least seven times.”

YN blinked, then... almost smiled—before catching herself. She elbowed Minji lightly instead.

“Shut up.”Minji grinned, victorious

The laundry room smelled like lavender detergent and bad choices.

YN pushed open the heavy basement door with her elbow, her laundry basket balanced on her hip like a baby she didn’t ask for. Her hoodie sleeves were rolled up, hair tied in a messy bun, and oversized glasses sliding down her nose. It was already a bad day, and the last thing she needed was other people.

She let out a long sigh when she saw it: only one washing machine free.

She marched toward it like a soldier in battle, muttering to herself. “Just ten minutes. In, out, peace.”

But when she got there—

Click.

The door to the machine shut just as her fingers touched the handle.

YN blinked.

A beep. A cheerful whirr.

No.

She slowly turned her head, and there she was.

Sitting casually on the folding table, legs crossed, back leaning against the wall like a scene from a youth drama, was Kim. Freaking. Minji.

She had her AirPods in, a half-eaten granola bar in one hand and a book in the other. She looked cozy. Calm. Incredibly annoying.

YN stared at her in disbelief. “Are you serious.”

Minji looked up, startled, and paused her music. “Hey.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me.” YN gestured dramatically at the machine. “I was literally reaching for that.”

Minji tilted her head, blinking innocently. “I didn’t see you. You move real quiet for someone who walks like she hates the ground.”

YN’s jaw dropped. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Minji just grinned. “You want me to cancel the wash and give it to you?”

“Yes,” YN said, without hesitation.

“Too bad,” Minji replied, hopping off the table and walking over to the dryer. “Laundry rule #2: First come, first wash.”

“There are rules?” YN groaned, setting her basket down with unnecessary aggression.

“Yeah,” Minji said, opening the dryer and pulling out a hoodie. “Rule #1: Don't bleach your roommate’s black shirt unless you’re ready to move out.”

YN sighed dramatically and sat on the edge of the empty counter next to the vending machine. “I hope your machine explodes.”

Minji glanced back, folding a sweatshirt neatly. “It’s not the machine’s fault you’re late.”

“I wasn't late. I was precisely on time. The universe just hates me.”

Minji chuckled, stuffing clothes into a laundry bag. “Maybe it’s trying to throw us together.”

YN looked at her, deadpan. “Is that a pickup line or a threat?”

“Would you prefer a threat?” Minji’s voice was light, teasing.

YN didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled out her phone and began scrolling aimlessly, pretending not to notice the way Minji leaned casually against the washing machine now, looking at her instead of her book.

Minutes passed like that—soft humming of machines, awkward silence, and that quiet tension hanging in the air like steam.

Then Minji casually said, “So… Do you always sort your laundry by color like a perfectionist, or is that just a nerd thing?”

YN raised a brow. “I am a nerd.”

“Yeah,” Minji said, smiling. “It’s cute.”

YN choked on her own breath. “Excuse me?”

“I said it’s cute,” Minji repeated with absolutely no shame. “Your whole glasses-wrinkled-shirt-angry-girl-who-knows-how-to-fold-socks vibe.”

“I’m not angry,” YN protested, clutching her water bottle defensively.

“You literally just wished death on my washing machine.”

“You deserved it!”

Minji let out a real laugh then—low, genuine, relaxed. The kind that filled the echoey room and made YN’s face go hot. She hated how nice it sounded. She hated how warm she felt.

“I’ll be done in like…” Minji checked her watch. “Seven minutes. You can have the next machine.”

“Wow,” YN muttered. “So generous.”

Minji leaned closer, elbow resting on the machine. “Or… we could share.”

YN looked at her, appalled. “I’m not mixing my laundry with a stranger.”

Minji shrugged. “I’ve seen you trip three times. We’re not strangers anymore. We’re a recurring event.”

YN tried to hold back the smile tugging at her lips. “You are so annoying.”

“Yet here you are,” Minji said with a wink. “Again.”

The campus bookstore was unusually crowded that day. A new shipment of specialty notebooks had arrived—something about recycled paper, limited cover art, and QR codes that linked to calming lo-fi playlists. In other words: Gen Z bait.

YN didn’t care about the trend.

She just needed one decent notebook to replace the one that got coffee-bombed earlier that week. (Still a sore subject.)

She ducked inside the shop, sleeves tugged over her hands, hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside. Her glasses fogged up instantly, and she muttered under her breath while trying to wipe them clean on the edge of her hoodie.

“Ugh. This is fine. Totally fine. I love communal humidity.”

Navigating between displays, she headed to the back wall where the last stack of the limited edition sketch notebooks sat on a shelf—glorious, untouched, perfectly organized.

She reached for the top one—

“Whoa, déjà vu.”

The voice made her freeze.

She knew that voice.

She despised how familiar it was becoming.

She turned slowly to find Minji—again—standing across the display, holding the same exact notebook, her smile far too pleased.

“Are you following me?” YN accused immediately.

Minji raised an eyebrow. “This is a public bookstore. You’re not the main character, Nerdy.”

YN blinked. “Did you just call me—”

“Nerdy? Yeah,” Minji said, flipping the notebook cover open and inspecting the pages. “You’ve got the glasses, the emotional damage, and the tendency to argue with shelves. It fits.”

“I do not argue with shelves,” YN snapped.

Minji didn’t even look up. “The laundry room shelf still hasn’t recovered from what you said to it.”

YN looked skyward, as if asking the ceiling to take her. “Why do you keep showing up everywhere I go?”

“I think you’re underestimating how much you go where I go,” Minji replied easily.

“I’m not stalking you!”

“Never said you were,” Minji said with a grin. “But you’re definitely consistent.”

YN groaned and turned to leave with the notebook clutched in her hands—but not before Minji noticed which one she picked.

“Of course you went with the one with the tiny constellations,” Minji teased, falling into step beside her. “Very on brand.”

“Why are you walking with me?”

“Because I’m bored,” Minji replied. “And maybe I like watching you pretend you’re not flustered every time we run into each other.”

YN stopped in her tracks. “I’m not flustered.”

“Sure, Nerdy.”

“Stop calling me that.”

Minji tilted her head, pretending to think. “Hmm… Nah.”

YN glared at her. “Do you just collect nicknames for people you annoy?”

“No,” Minji said, taking her notebook to the counter. “Just for the ones I like.”

YN blinked. Hard.

Like actually froze-in-place kind of blink.

Minji was already halfway through paying when she turned back around and saw YN still standing in the same spot, eyes wide.

She smirked.

“Relax. It was a joke,” she said with a shrug. “Unless you want it not to be?”

YN didn’t answer—mostly because she couldn’t remember how to use words at that moment.

Instead, she quietly walked up beside her, placed her notebook on the counter, and muttered under her breath, “You’re so annoying.”

Minji bumped her shoulder lightly. “You keep saying that. Yet here we are.”

It was already a mistake.

YN knew it the second she stepped into the tiny, overly warm on-campus café. The lights were dimmed to “emotional damage” levels, and fairy lights were strung across the ceiling like someone tried too hard. A sign near the door read: "Open Mic: Pour Your Soul or Go Home."

She absolutely should have gone home.

But her roommate had begged her to come. “Come on, YN, it'll be good for your soul or whatever. You’ve been staring at that same brushstroke for five hours.” And like an idiot, she caved.

Now she stood awkwardly near the espresso machine, clutching a cup of lukewarm tea and trying to pretend she didn’t want to disappear.

A girl onstage was reciting a poem about being left on read. Someone in the crowd actually snapped their fingers in response.

YN grimaced. “I hate this timeline.”

“Wow. That’s the most dramatic reaction I’ve heard and you’re not even on stage yet.”

YN froze.

No way.

Not again.

She turned slowly—and of course.

Minji.

In jeans, a black bomber jacket, hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside, and that same cocky smile like she was here for entertainment—and YN was the show.

Minji wasn’t alone this time. Behind her was a whole squad of chaos:

Yunjin, who wore headphones around her neck and smirked like she knew everything about everyone.

Hanni, who was already waving excitedly at someone across the room and half-spilling popcorn.

Jiwon, the fashion major who looked like she’d stepped off a runway and was judging the fairy lights.

“Please tell me this is a simulation,” YN muttered, sipping her tea like it had answers.

Minji just laughed, nudging her shoulder. “What, you don’t like poetry?”

“I don’t like people.”

“Fair,” Minji said, then motioned toward her group. “Come on. You already look miserable alone. Might as well suffer near us.”

Before YN could protest, Minji had already grabbed her by the wrist—lightly, casually, like it was no big deal—and was pulling her toward a corner booth where her friends were camped out.

“Guys,” Minji announced as they sat down. “This is Nerdy.”

YN nearly choked. “Don’t call me that in front of people!”

But it was too late.

Yunjin grinned. “Nerdy? I love her already.”

Hanni scooted over excitedly. “Hi! You’re so pretty! Do you write poems? Can you write one about bread?”

Jiwon just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but curious. “So this is the girl Minji keeps talking about.”

Minji’s face didn’t even twitch. She just sipped her iced Americano.

YN turned to her sharply. “You talk about me?”

“Only when it’s relevant,” Minji said. “Like gravity. Or fate. Or sudden disasters.”

YN buried her face in her hands.

But despite the embarrassment, she didn’t leave.

She stayed.

Because the energy around the table was stupid and chaotic and oddly warm. Yunjin made dry jokes under her breath, Jiwon kept critiquing every poem with fashion metaphors (“This piece has strong 2019 Pinterest vibes”), and Hanni kept offering everyone snacks from her oversized tote bag.

Minji, meanwhile, kept leaning closer to YN every time someone read a dramatic poem, whispering sarcastic commentary:

“Oh my god, he said ‘I am the moon, and she was the tide.’ That’s, like, peak Tumblr 2014.”

“Ten bucks the next one mentions ‘rain’ as a metaphor for depression.”

“Okay wait… that one was actually kind of good.”

At one point, the host called out, “Anyone else want to sign up for the mic?”

And Hanni—traitor—shot her hand up and pointed at Minji. “SHE DOES!”

The crowd clapped automatically.

Minji looked stunned. “What the hell, Hanni?!”

YN burst into real laughter for the first time that night.

Minji narrowed her eyes. “You're enjoying this, Nerdy.”

“Absolutely,” YN grinned.

Minji stood up with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. But if I die, I’m haunting you.”

She walked up to the mic, stuffed her hands in her pockets, and with no prep, said:

“This poem is called: ‘I wasn’t supposed to be here tonight, but then I saw someone trip on a bookshelf and now I can’t stop showing up.’”

The crowd laughed.

YN blinked, caught off guard.

Minji smiled—not at the crowd. At her.

It was raining. Again.

Not the dramatic storm kind, but the annoying drizzle that clung to your clothes and made everything feel damp and inconvenient. YN tugged her hoodie tighter, adjusting the sleeves over her hands as she jogged toward the small ramen shop tucked between two convenience stores near campus.

It was one of those hidden places that didn’t even have a sign—just a flickering neon bowl in the window and the smell of broth that could bring tears to your eyes. It was comfort food for tired students and broke souls. Exactly what she needed.

She pushed the door open and stepped into the warmth. The bell above the door gave a soft chime.

The place was full. Great.

There were barely any seats left, and the one corner booth that she usually claimed was already occupied by a group of students who looked like they were planning a group project—or maybe a coup.

She glanced around quickly, hopeful.

Then saw it.

One empty seat. At a two-person table. Already taken on one side by— Oh, come on.

Minji.

Sitting casually, long legs crossed under the table, chopsticks in hand, already halfway through a steaming bowl of ramen. Her hair was slightly damp, strands curling at the edges. She wore a grey hoodie under her jacket and looked like she’d just wandered out of a music video.

YN considered walking out.

Truly. She turned toward the door.

“Don’t even think about it,” Minji said without looking up.

YN froze.

Minji raised her eyes, one brow lifted. “There’s nowhere else to sit. Come on, I don’t bite.”

YN narrowed her eyes. “You absolutely bite.”

Minji shrugged. “Only people who deserve it.”

“Perfect. I’ll eat standing.”

Minji slurped some noodles, completely unbothered. “Suit yourself. But the owner does get passive-aggressive if people loiter.”

And as if on cue, the ahjumma behind the counter shouted,

“You eat, or you leave!”

YN groaned and shuffled over to the table, dropping her bag and sitting across from Minji with all the grace of someone being punished by fate.

“Thanks,” she muttered dryly. “I love being stalked by you across campus.”

“Right,” Minji said, chewing slowly. “Because you totally invented this ramen place, and I just followed your scent like a wolf.”

YN gave her the most exhausted glare she could muster. “You are unbelievable.”

“And yet,” Minji said, pointing to her with her chopsticks, “you’re still sitting here. Across from me. Again.”

YN huffed and waved at the owner for a menu, refusing to meet Minji’s eyes.

“You always eat ramen alone?” Minji asked after a moment.

YN didn’t look up. “You always talk this much?”

Minji leaned back, stretching her arms behind her head. “Only when I’m bored. Or entertained.”

The menu arrived. YN ordered the extra spicy bowl, mostly out of spite. Minji raised an eyebrow.

“Spicy?” she asked. “Didn’t take you for a masochist.”

“I didn’t ask you to take me for anything.”

Minji smirked. “I’m just gathering data. Nerdy’s got layers.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Never.”

Silence fell for a while as they waited for YN’s food. The rain pattered gently against the windows. The warm yellow lights made everything feel slower, softer.

And for a moment... it wasn’t so bad.

Minji tapped her chopsticks against the bowl. “You know, I don’t usually like sharing meals with people.”

YN looked up in surprise. “Why not? You’re everyone’s favorite.”

Minji shrugged. “Too much talking. Too many expectations. I don’t like pretending to care about shallow stuff.”

YN blinked. “That’s surprisingly honest of you.”

“You bring it out of me,” Minji said without missing a beat.

YN stared at her, suspicious. “That... sounds like a pickup line.”

Minji just grinned. “Wouldn’t work anyway. You’re immune.”

YN’s ramen finally arrived—red, steaming, dangerous.

Minji leaned in slightly. “You sure you can handle that?”

YN broke apart her chopsticks with the confidence of someone lying to herself. “Watch me.”

One bite later, she regretted everything.

Her eyes watered instantly, face turning red.

Minji burst out laughing. “Oh my god. You’re dying.”

“I’m fine,” YN coughed, grabbing her water.

“You’re not fine. You’re actively ascending.”

YN glared at her between gulps. “Shut up.”

Minji handed her a napkin, still laughing. “You’re cute when you suffer.”

YN nearly spit out her water. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Minji said, smiling. “You’re just really fun to mess with.”

And as the rain continued outside, they sat together—two stubborn souls, sharing warm food, sarcastic banter, and something neither of them would admit just yet.

By the time they left the ramen shop, the rain had gotten heavier. Not storm-heavy, just that steady kind that soaked through your sleeves and made the world smell like wet asphalt and fresh beginnings.

YN tugged her hood over her head, but it was too late—her hair was already damp. She groaned quietly, pulling her sleeves over her hands as she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Beside her, Minji was unfazed. Hands in her pockets, face tilted slightly up to the sky like the rain didn’t bother her at all. She looked annoyingly cinematic, like she belonged in a slow indie film with Korean subtitles and lo-fi music playing in the background.

They walked in silence for a moment, the only sound being their footsteps on the wet pavement and the cars whooshing by on the road.

Then Minji broke the quiet, as usual.

“So,” she said, kicking at a puddle. “That wasn’t horrible.”

YN glanced at her. “The ramen or your company?”

“Both.”

YN smirked. “Well… you’re tolerable in small doses.”

Minji grinned. “Wow. The highest praise I’ve ever received.”

They turned a corner toward the main road where a few taxis idled under the shelter of a bus stop. YN spotted one with its light on and picked up her pace a little.

“Hey,” Minji said behind her. “Before you go—what’s your actual name, anyway?”

YN slowed just a little. “It’s YN.”

“That’s it? No middle name? No tragic backstory attached?”

YN rolled her eyes. “Just YN.”

Minji stepped closer, smirking. “Still gonna call you Nerdy.”

“Don’t.”

“Too late. It’s branded now. You even respond to it.”

“I do not respond to it.”

Minji leaned in just a fraction. “You literally turned your head in the ramen shop when I said it.”

YN stopped in front of the taxi, hand on the door. “I was trying to figure out if I should throw miso in your face.”

“And yet,” Minji said, stepping beside her with a slight shrug, “you didn’t.”

YN shook her head and opened the door, then paused.

Minji tilted her head. “What?”

Without a word, YN reached behind her, shrugged off the black hoodie Minji had tossed over her shoulders when they left the shop earlier, and handed it back—folded clumsily but warm from her body heat.

Minji blinked. “You could’ve kept it. It looks better on you.”

“I don’t borrow things from people who call me Nerdy.”

“Ouch.”

YN smiled faintly, already half inside the car. “Well... Thanks for the meal. Or the seat. Or whatever.”

“Anytime,” Minji replied, taking the hoodie with a slight grin.

YN closed the door, rolled the window down halfway, and leaned out slightly as the taxi started to move.

She gave a casual wave, as if they hadn’t just spent the weirdest, warmest evening together. As if she hadn’t just memorized Minji’s stupid smile.

“Bye, Minji,” she said, emphasizing her name teasingly.

Minji stood on the curb, hoodie in hand, rain still falling softly around her. She didn’t say anything—just lifted one hand in a lazy, smug wave.

But as the car pulled away, she watched it go with something restless in her chest.

A hum.

A flicker.

Something that felt like… “See you soon, Nerdy.”

Even if she didn’t say it out loud.

YN had made a very clear decision when she entered college: no sports. ever.

She hated noise. Hated uniforms. Hated the very concept of teamwork. (Also? She once got hit in the face with a volleyball in middle school PE and never emotionally recovered.)

So how, exactly, did she end up standing at the edge of the university’s indoor basketball court, clutching a bottle of water like it was a weapon?

It started when she got dragged by her roommate to “watch the legendary Kim Minji at practice, just for fun.” Apparently, it was a thing—Minji’s practices often attracted a crowd. There was even an unofficial fan club:

Front row girls with matching headbands

A dude with a DSLR zoom lens the size of his arm

And one girl actually holding a handmade sign that said:

“Minji, step on me (respectfully) 💘”

YN had rolled her eyes so hard it hurt.

She had every intention of hiding in the back row of the bleachers and sketching quietly on her iPad. Until the coach’s voice boomed across the gym:

“We’re short a player for the scrimmage—anyone want to volunteer?”

And before YN could process what was happening—

“She’ll do it!” Minji’s voice. Loud. Clear. Pointing straight at her.

YN nearly dropped her water bottle. “WHAT—?”

Too late. The coach waved her in. Minji was already jogging toward her with that damn smirk on her face.

“Come on, Nerdy. Let’s see if you’re useful outside of sarcasm.”

YN whispered harshly, “I don’t do sports!”

“You’ll be fine. Just run around and pretend you care.”

YN found herself somehow in gym shorts (borrowed, too big), standing awkwardly on the court, surrounded by tall, intimidating athletes and... Minji, who looked completely at home, spinning the ball on one finger like a showoff.

The scrimmage started.

YN didn’t run so much as she panicked while moving forward.

She got in people’s way, ducked instinctively every time someone passed the ball, and screamed once when someone just looked like they were about to throw it at her.

The team was wheezing with laughter.

“MINJI! YOUR GIRL’S GOT DEFENSIVE MOVES LIKE A CRAB!” “CAN WE GET A HELMET FOR HER?” “YO, FAN CLUB, CHEER FOR HER TOO!”

Even the fan club started chanting:

“NE-RDY! NE-RDY!”

YN wanted to dissolve into the floor.

Minji, of course, was thriving. Effortless dribbling, perfect form, tossing the ball in with a casual flick that made people in the bleachers scream.

Every time Minji passed near her, she’d throw in a smug:

“Having fun yet?”

YN’s answer was always a death glare.

But then... it happened.

Someone threw a clumsy pass from behind. YN—too shocked to react—just stood there.

The ball flew past her ear.

Minji shouted, “Watch out!” and ran to intercept—only it was too fast, too close, and—

CRASH.

They collided.

Hard.

The ball bounced somewhere off-court. People gasped.

Minji instinctively grabbed YN’s arms to keep her from falling completely—but the momentum pulled them both down to the floor in a heap.

And just like that…

Silence.

The gym faded. The laughter stopped. Even the fan club paused.

Because suddenly, Minji was on top of YN, both breathless, tangled limbs and pounding hearts.

Their faces—

Centimeters apart.

Minji’s hands were braced on either side of YN’s shoulders, her breath hot and fast. YN’s glasses were askew. Their eyes locked.

And stayed locked.

Too long.

YN’s voice came out barely a whisper:

“…ow.”

Minji blinked. Her voice was weirdly soft.

“You okay?”

“Y-Yeah.”

Neither moved.

Not yet.

Minji’s eyes flickered—YN’s flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips parted slightly like she wanted to say something but couldn’t. Her breath hitched. Just a little.

It was the closest they’d ever been.

Closer than teasing. Closer than sarcasm. Real.

And that was what made it terrifying.

The spell broke with a loud whistle.

“YOU TWO GONNA MAKE OUT OR GET UP?” someone from the team yelled.

The gym exploded in laughter.

Minji’s ears turned red. She scrambled up quickly, brushing her hair back.

YN just lay there for another second, staring at the ceiling, silently begging the universe to end her.

Later, outside the gym, Minji caught up with her near the vending machine.

“Hey.”

YN didn’t look at her. “Don’t.”

Minji grinned. “You didn’t completely die.”

“I literally got tackled by a basketball and you.”

“You’re welcome,” Minji said, handing her a sports drink. “For the hydration and the trauma.”

YN took it silently, cheeks still pink.

Then, softer: “Thanks... for catching me. Again.”

Minji glanced sideways at her, smirked.

“It’s becoming a habit. Guess I just like falling into you.”

YN choked. “Minji—!”

Minji only laughed, turning away, her voice echoing in the hallway.

“Nice fall, Nerdy.”

The moment YN woke up, her brain kindly played the memory of Minji’s face hovering inches from hers on repeat. Again. And again. And again.

The way her hair had fallen into her eyes. The way her voice softened when she asked, “You okay?” The way their noses almost touched—

“NOPE.” YN flung a pillow at the ceiling and rolled out of bed like it had betrayed her.

This was fine. She would go to campus. Avoid Minji. Pretend the incident was a dream. Maybe she hallucinated it from sodium overload.

9:22 AM — Art Building Courtyard

YN ducked behind a stone pillar, clutching her iced coffee like a weapon.

Minji was standing across the courtyard with some friends, her bomber jacket slung over one shoulder, laughing at something Jiwon said. She looked carefree, magnetic… exactly how she always did.

YN didn’t even mean to stop and stare. It just… happened. For like, three seconds.

Five.

Maybe eight.

Until Minji turned, as if she felt the stare— and locked eyes with her.

YN’s soul left her body.

She ducked back behind the pillar so fast she hit her own elbow.

“Nope. Nope. Just a ghost. She didn’t see me. That wasn’t real.”

She spent the next ten minutes taking the long way around campus to avoid passing within five meters of Minji.

11:03 AM — Library

YN tiptoed into her favorite section and crouched behind the philosophy shelf, clutching a book she didn’t intend to read.

Safe.

Alone.

Until—

“Are you hiding from me, or do you just like creeping next to Nietzsche?”

YN’s blood ran cold.

She turned slowly.

Minji was leaning on the opposite shelf, one hand in her pocket, smirking like she’d just discovered YN’s search history.

YN cleared her throat. “I’m not hiding.”

“Oh really? Because you ducked behind a literal pillar earlier. I thought you were reenacting a spy movie.”

“I was just… admiring the architecture.”

“In the opposite direction?”

“Yes.”

Minji stepped closer. “Is this because I tackled you?”

YN stepped back, hitting the shelf. “You fell on me.”

Minji shrugged. “Tomato, tomahto.”

Silence.

Too much eye contact again.

YN stared at the floor. “I just didn’t sleep well.”

Minji tilted her head. “Was it… the emotional damage? Or the physical proximity?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Minji grinned. “You’re blushing, Nerdy.”

“I’m literally not—”

“You are.”

YN pushed past her, muttering. “God, you’re so annoying.”

Minji followed her, slow and smug. “You keep saying that, but you never leave.”

“Because you keep showing up!”

“Maybe I like watching you panic.”

YN spun to face her. “Why?!”

Minji’s smirk flickered, just for a second. Something real passed behind her eyes.

She leaned in. Not close, but… closer than necessary.

“Maybe it makes me feel something.”

YN blinked. “What?”

Minji leaned back with a shrug, already turning away.

“Anyway. I’ll see you in class, Nerdy.”

YN stood frozen in place, heart hammering against her ribs like a drum solo.

She whispered to herself, “What the hell is she doing to me…”

Later That Day — Cafeteria

YN finally sat with her roommate, trying to zone out and eat in peace.

Then, out of nowhere, a tray slid next to hers.

She didn’t have to look.

Minji sat beside her, biting into an apple like she belonged there. Then casually, softly:

“You still taste like blushing.”

YN almost choked on her rice.

Minji reached out and handed her a napkin without a word. When their fingers touched—just briefly—

It was worse than yesterday’s fall.

Because now, she was aware. Every breath. Every graze. Every heartbeat. Louder. Closer. Realer.

“Remind me again why I’m awake before sunrise and holding a hiking backpack?” YN muttered, adjusting the strap on her shoulder with the enthusiasm of a hostage.

Besideها, her roommate—Sohee—beamed like she was going on a honeymoon.

“Because you never go out, you live like a vampire, and I’m worried for your social development.”

“I’m perfectly developed. Socially deficient, by choice.”

They reached the university bus parking lot, where students were already milling around, chatting and loading their bags. A large chartered bus waited with the engine running, its front plastered with a big printed sign:

“Faculty Cross-Department Nature Retreat: Art x Media x Sports”

YN groaned. “I can already feel my soul dying.”

Sohee shoved a paper into her hands. “Group B. Sit wherever. It’s a two-hour ride, so make friends or at least don’t bite them.”

“Zero promises.”

Inside the bus, it was already buzzing with energy. Someone was playing K-pop quietly from a speaker in the back. A couple of athletes were throwing snacks across seats. Fan club girls had already claimed the row behind the driver and were whispering excitedly while scanning the aisle.

YN climbed aboard and scanned for the least chaotic spot. Spotting a window seat halfway back beside a quiet-looking student from media studies, she slid in without a word and immediately put in one earbud.

Safe.

She slouched, pulled her hoodie up, and stared out the window. If she ignored everyone long enough, they might forget she existed.

But of course, peace doesn’t last when Minji’s fan club is within a 20-foot radius.

The bus erupted in noise as soon as Minji boarded.

Cheers, claps, and someone actually gasped. Minji walked down the aisle, unbothered as ever, wearing a black baseball cap low over her eyes, hoodie sleeves pushed up, and a duffle bag slung casually over one shoulder.

“Why is she dressed like a main character…” YN muttered under her breath.

Fan club girl #1:

“Minji-unnie! Sit with us!”

Minji gave them a small wave, barely smiling. “I’ll find a spot.”

She passed YN’s row. Didn’t glance. Didn’t stop.

Good.

Forty minutes in.

The bus had settled into soft chatter and occasional snoring. YN had almost managed to doze off, forehead resting lightly against the window.

Until—

“We’re stopping for a break! 15 minutes!” The bus driver’s voice echoed through the speaker.

The bus jolted slightly as it turned into a rest station.

YN blinked awake, grumbling, and followed the crowd off the bus to stretch her legs.

Sohee appeared out of nowhere with a coffee and handed it to her.

“Drink. You look like you fought sleep and lost.”

“I did.”

As she wandered toward a vending machine, Minji passed her in a soft jog, earbuds in, doing small stretches like she wasn’t made of bones and fatigue.

YN tried not to look. She really did.

But the way Minji flicked her ponytail, took a long sip from her water bottle, then leaned against a railing with her head tilted back— It was criminal.

YN huffed and looked away.

Back on the bus.

The seat beside YN… was taken.

Great. Someone had filled it while she was out.

She turned, looking for an open spot. Everything toward the back was now filled. A group of three girls had merged into two seats. Someone had their feet stretched out.

Then—

“There’s a spot here,” a voice said behind her.

She turned and froze.

Minji. Sitting alone. Patting the empty seat beside her.

YN opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Why?”

Minji tilted her head. “Why not?”

“The fan club will start a petition to assassinate me.”

Minji leaned back casually. “Let them try.”

YN stood awkwardly, debating. Her old seat was gone. Everyone else was paired.

Minji gave her a slow smile.

“Come on, Nerdy. I won’t even talk if you don’t want.”

YN groaned and slid in beside her. “Only because I have nowhere else to go.”

Minji shrugged. “Sure, let’s call it that.”

Ten minutes later, they were back on the road.

The bus vibrated gently under them, mountains rolling by through the window.

They sat in silence at first.

Minji was looking out the window, one earbud in, foot tapping lightly.

YN stole a glance at her.

Minji’s profile was… calm. Unbothered. Like nothing could shake her. Like falling nose-to-nose yesterday didn’t faze her at all.

YN turned her gaze back forward and sipped her coffee.

“You really didn’t want to sit next to me, huh?” Minji said suddenly, voice soft.

YN tensed. “I didn’t say that.”

Minji looked at her, eyes narrowed playfully. “You said everything but that.”

YN hesitated. “You’re… distracting.”

Minji raised a brow. “That’s a compliment, right?”

YN flushed. “No. It’s a warning.”

Minji chuckled, low and warm.

“Well, Nerdy… we’re stuck on this ride for another hour. Might as well get used to being distracted.”

The bus finally rolled to a stop at the retreat site — a cozy mountain camp nestled between pine trees and misty hills. The crisp air bit gently at everyone’s cheeks as they stepped out one by one, stretching, yawning, groaning.

YN rubbed her eyes and looked up at the cloudy sky. “Great. Nature. Dirt. Cold. Love this.”

Sohee bounced beside her, camera out already. “Don’t be grumpy! Look how peaceful this place is.”

“Peaceful until the mosquitoes find me.”

In front of them, a staff member was setting up a whiteboard. She banged a metal triangle loudly for attention, like this was summer camp for overworked adults.

“Alright everyone! We’re assigning tents now. Two people per tent. Grouped randomly from the sign-up list. No swaps!”

YN whispered, “Please not Minji. Please not Minji. Please not Minji—”

“Group 4,” the staff called. “Kim Minji and... YN.”

Complete silence.

YN stared blankly at the board. Minji, standing a few feet away, looked over her shoulder with the most smug face YN had ever seen.

“The universe is getting bold.”

One of the fan club girls gasped dramatically. “WHAT?!”

Another muttered under her breath, “There must be a mistake. Minji-unnie wouldn’t voluntarily—”

Minji ignored them completely and strode toward YN with her duffel bag, stopping just a foot away.

“Guess we’re roommates now. Try not to kill me in my sleep.”

YN looked up at the sky. “Take me, Lord.”

Their tent was small, beige, and way too intimate. It had just enough space for two sleeping bags side by side. Maybe six inches apart.

Minji tossed her bag down on the left side, flopped back like this was her private studio apartment.

YN stood at the entrance, still clutching her backpack like a shield.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” Minji asked, head tilted.

“This is a nightmare.”

Minji smiled. “You say that, but you still came on the trip. Must be fate.”

“I was blackmailed by my roommate.”

“Fate with extra steps, then.”

YN finally threw her bag down on the right side and sat, arms crossed.

Outside, they could hear the others setting up nearby. Laughter, gossip, zippers opening and closing, someone struggling with a lantern.

From just beyond their tent, a whisper:

“I heard Minji was smiling when she read the tent list.”

“Do you think she likes her??”

Minji and YN froze at the same time.

YN whispered, “Do they not know we have ears?”

Minji grinned. “Let them wonder.”

“You enjoy this, don’t you?”

Minji turned her head slowly toward her. “What, sharing a tent with you? The best sleepover I never asked for.”

YN glared. “I hope you snore.”

“I hope you talk in your sleep. I’m curious what secrets are locked up in that head.”

They stared at each other for a beat too long.

Then—

“CAMPFIRE IN TEN!” someone shouted outside.

Minji stood up, stretching. “Let’s go, Nerdy. I’ll save you from the mosquitoes.”

YN sighed. “Can you save me from yourself?”

Minji smirked. “Unlikely.”

By the time the sun dipped behind the trees, the campfire was already crackling, painting everyone’s faces in warm orange light.

Students gathered in a messy circle, legs crossed, marshmallows in hand, mugs steaming with cheap cocoa.

Minji flopped onto one of the camp chairs like she owned the mountain. YN stood at the edge of the group, clearly evaluating if this was worth her social energy.

Sohee tugged her arm.

“Come on, just sit! Stop hovering like a socially anxious bat.”

“I am a socially anxious bat.”

“Then come hang upside-down next to Minji, Batgirl.”

Before YN could object, Sohee shoved her into the only empty spot. Right beside Minji.

Again.

Minji looked over, casually raising an eyebrow.

“Look who’s back. Can’t stay away from me, huh?”

“I was forced. This is a crime.”

Minji offered her a marshmallow on a stick without a word.

YN narrowed her eyes… then took it.

The first activity started: “Pass the Question” — someone spins a bottle, and whoever it points to has to answer a random prompt.

The bottle spun wildly.

Landed on Minji.

Jiwon grinned. “Alright, superstar. The question is… Describe your type.”

Minji didn’t flinch. She sipped her cocoa.

“Someone who doesn’t annoy me.”

The entire circle booed dramatically.

“That’s too vague!” “Cliché!” “Be specific!”

Minji smirked. “Fine. Someone smart. A little weird. Quiet but secretly deadly.”

Someone laughed. “You mean like… a cat?”

YN, trying not to react, sipped her cocoa like her life depended on it.

Minji glanced sideways at her. “Yeah. Like a cat.”

A few rounds later, the bottle spun again— and landed on YN.

“YEAHHH let’s gooo!” someone shouted.

Question:

“What’s your most embarrassing school memory?”

YN blinked. “...There’s a list.”

“Pick one!”

She hesitated. “...In 10th grade, I accidentally entered the boys' bathroom, panicked, ran into a urinal, knocked it off the wall, and then slipped.”

The circle exploded in laughter.

Sohee was wheezing. “You told me it was a faucet!”

Minji leaned in closer.

“You broke a urinal?”

YN groaned. “Please bury me in this fire.”

Minji grinned, voice low:

“That’s iconic, Nerdy.”

Later that night, everyone broke off into mini-groups.

Some were roasting marshmallows. Others doing riddles. A group was playing “Guess Who” — where they stuck post-its on each other’s foreheads with a name, and had to guess who they were.

“Sit here!” someone from media waved at Minji.

“No—sit here!” her fan club chirped, patting the log beside them.

Minji ignored them, walking straight to where YN sat cross-legged on the ground, doodling idly in a small notebook.

Without asking, she sat beside her.

“Busy drawing how much you hate this trip?” Minji asked.

YN didn’t look up. “No. Drawing ways I could disappear.”

Minji peeked over. “That’s… actually kinda cool.”

Just then, someone tripped over a rock near them and fell forward— accidentally bumping into Minji—

Who fell sideways—

Straight into YN’s shoulder.

Both froze.

Minji didn’t immediately move. Neither did YN.

Their heads were practically touching.

Silence.

“...You’re warm,” Minji murmured.

YN, heart hammering: “That’s because you landed on me.”

Minji didn’t apologize. Just leaned back slowly, that unreadable smile on her lips.

From across the fire, someone whispered, “Are they flirting? Or about to fight

The next morning started with a megaphone and far too much energy.

“WAKE UP CAMPERS! Stretch, hydrate, and meet at the flagpole in fifteen!”

YN sat up in the tent with a groan. Her hair was a mess, her back ached from the thin sleeping bag, and Minji… Minji was already up, stretching outside like a human anime protagonist.

Sohee passed by with a protein bar. “Minji’s already awake? Of course she is. Did she even sleep?”

YN stepped out, blinking at the sunlight— only for Minji to toss her a water bottle without turning around.

“Drink before you pass out, Nerdy.”

YN caught it, scowling. “Thanks, I guess.”

The first activity was a group hiking challenge.

Teams of five had to follow a marked trail, collect puzzle pieces hidden at waypoints, and return in under an hour.

YN tried very hard to be placed on any team but Minji’s.

It didn’t work.

The coach called out:

“Team Three: Minji, YN, Sohee, Jiwon, and Lina.”

YN stared at the trees like they were the gates of doom.

Minji shouldered her backpack with a grin.

“Don’t worry. I’ll carry your body down if you pass out.”

Sohee whispered, “Why does she say stuff like that like it’s sweet?”

Thirty minutes into the hike,

YN was sweating, breathing harder than she wanted to admit, and absolutely regretting all life decisions.

“Why. Are. There. So. Many. Hills.”

Jiwon looked back. “You okay back there?”

“I’m fine!” she snapped—just as she tripped on a root.

Before she could hit the ground, Minji caught her by the wrist, pulling her upright with one quick movement.

Their faces were close again. Too close. Familiar close.

Minji tilted her head. “That’s twice now.”

YN muttered, “Stop catching me like I’m fragile.”

Minji replied without thinking, “You are fragile.”

Silence.

YN looked away quickly. “I’m not made of glass.”

Minji, softer this time:

“No. But you walk like you're allergic to the ground.”

Later, at the clearing,

The teams had a short break. Everyone spread out on blankets, eating snacks and chatting.

One of Minji’s admirers approached YN with a sugary voice:

“Are you sure you’re supposed to be here? This is more for, like, active people.”

YN raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I didn’t realize gatekeeping fitness was trendy now.”

The girl pouted. “Just saying. Wouldn’t want you to slow anyone down.”

Before YN could snap back, Minji walked up behind her—slow, calm, dangerous.

She stepped right beside YN and said simply:

“She didn’t slow anyone down. I was watching.”

The girl blinked. “Oh—I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you did.” Minji’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

The girl shrank away with a nervous laugh and scurried off.

YN blinked up at her. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Minji sat beside her on the blanket. “Sure I did. That was my job.”

YN narrowed her eyes. “Since when is it your job?”

Minji looked at her like the answer was obvious.

“Since you keep needing saving.”

Final activity: Sketch & share.

All students were told to find a view, sketch something they felt described the trip, and present it to the group.

YN sat on a rock, pencil in hand, drawing the surrounding forest—but her focus kept slipping.

Minji walked up, tossing a snack into her lap.

“Eat something.”

“I’m fine.”

Minji sat behind her this time, back against a tree, arms crossed.

YN tried to draw. But her mind kept returning to the way Minji caught her earlier. The way she stood up for her. The quiet comfort of her presence now—even saying nothing.

“Minji.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you always near me?”

Pause.

Minji opened her eyes, voice low, teasing.

“Maybe I just like your gravitational pull.”

YN snorted. “That’s not how gravity works.”

“It is when it’s you.”

The late afternoon sun began to dim behind the trees as the last activity of the day commenced: "Solo Exploration." Pairs were given small paper maps and told to collect colored tokens placed along a short forest loop trail. "Short" being a very generous word.

Minji and YN were—of course—paired again.

“It’s only a fifteen-minute loop,” the staff reassured. “You’ll be back before sunset!”

Spoiler: they were wrong.

Ten minutes into the trail, the path had become narrower, rockier, and completely unmarked.

YN held the map upside down. “This is either a hiking route or a prank.”

Minji leaned in to glance. “You're holding it backwards, Nerdy.”

“I’m not used to manual orientation! My GPS is emotional support.”

Minji took the map gently from her hand. Their fingers brushed. YN didn’t comment, but her heart did a little skip.

“We’ll figure it out,” Minji said, folding the map and tucking it in her pocket. “Just stay close.”

And for once—YN didn’t argue.

They walked in silence for a while. The forest around them grew quieter… thicker.

The path forked, and Minji took the left instinctively. YN followed, careful not to step on anything slippery.

But then the wind shifted, the trees creaked— and the trail ended.

Like, fully. Gone. No signs. No markers. Just ferns and shadows.

YN stopped, chest tightening slightly. “Wait… this isn’t right.”

Minji scanned the area. “We didn’t turn wrong…”

YN spun. The way they came now looked… unfamiliar. The light had changed. The air felt colder.

“Okay. Slightly terrifying.”

Minji pulled out her phone.

No signal.

“Cool,” Minji muttered. “Nature’s so welcoming.”

YN folded her arms, trying to stay calm. “Okay, it’s fine. We’re probably not lost-lost.”

Minji raised a brow. “Define ‘lost-lost.’”

Just then— A loud crack echoed nearby. Like a branch snapping hard.

Both of them froze.

YN instinctively moved closer, almost pressed against Minji’s side.

“…That was probably a squirrel,” she whispered.

Minji smirked, voice low. “A demon squirrel?”

“Shut up.”

They kept walking—slowly, now.

Minji lit her phone’s flashlight and held it out.

YN shivered slightly as the air grew chillier, evening creeping in fast.

“…Here.” Without warning, Minji shrugged off her hoodie and draped it over YN’s shoulders.

YN blinked. “What are you—”

“You’re cold. Your shoulders were tense. I noticed.”

YN clutched the hoodie tighter. It smelled like detergent, pine trees… and Minji.

Her voice softened. “Thanks.”

Eventually, they reached a mossy log and sat for a moment to rest. Everything was quiet now, almost too quiet.

YN leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I always hated being lost.”

Minji watched her. “You panic?”

YN shook her head. “No. I just hate not knowing where I stand.”

She wasn’t just talking about the trail.

Minji picked up a small twig, twirled it between her fingers.

“You always try to control things, huh?”

“Only because I’ve seen how messy people are when they don’t.”

Minji gave her a look. “You're not one of those ‘people are disasters’ people, are you?”

“I am the disaster. I just try to limit the damage.”

Silence. Then:

“I like your damage,” Minji said quietly.

YN turned to her slowly.

Their eyes met. Neither looked away.

A cool gust of wind passed, and YN shivered again without meaning to. Minji noticed.

She leaned slightly closer, shoulder brushing against YN’s.

“You okay?”

YN nodded, but her voice came out small. “Yeah.”

Minji didn’t move away.

They sat like that a moment too long. Close. Warm. Uncertain.

And then—

YN quietly reached out and held Minji’s hand.

It was small. Almost nothing.

But Minji didn’t pull away.

Her thumb gently brushed against YN’s knuckles.

Neither of them spoke.

Because words… would’ve broken whatever this was.

Eventually, voices in the far distance echoed—staff calling names.

They stood, still hand-in-hand for a beat longer, then let go as if nothing had happened.

But something had.

By the time Minji and YN made it back to the campsite, the sky had gone deep blue and the stars had started to blink through.

They emerged from the treeline quietly—calm, walking close, a little dirt on their knees, leaves tangled in their hair.

The fire was already lit again. The others turned at the sound of footsteps.

Then—

“They're ALIVE!” Sohee practically shouted, clutching her chest dramatically. “I thought we’d have to call mountain rescue!”

Jiwon grinned. “Where the hell were you two? It's been, like, an hour and a half.”

YN opened her mouth, but Minji answered first.

“We took a wrong turn. It was... scenic.”

Lina raised a brow. “You mean romantic?”

Minji didn’t respond. She just walked past them all, brushing leaves off her shoulders. YN followed, flustered, head slightly lowered.

But the fan club girls?

Laser-focused.

One of them whispered, way too loudly:

“They came back together?” “They weren’t even talking last week!”

Another one crossed her arms. “Minji’s probably just being nice. Like always.”

As if on cue, Minji turned, looked directly at them—then right back at YN.

And smiled.

It wasn’t a wide smile. Not smug. Not sarcastic.

Just... soft.

Like she was seeing something no one else did.

YN froze in place.

Her heart: not beating. Her brain: rebooting. Her body: floating.

And everyone noticed.

Later that night, the campsite quieted. The stars stretched across the sky like scattered wishes. Inside tent 4, everything was dim. Soft. Breathing slow.

YN lay on her back in her sleeping bag, eyes fixed on the ceiling of the tent.

Minji lay a few inches away, hands behind her head, staring at nothing.

Silence.

But it wasn’t awkward.

It was loud in its own way. Like every breath was saying what mouths couldn't.

Finally, Minji spoke, voice hushed.

“Are you mad I dragged you off trail?”

YN turned her head slightly. “You didn’t drag me. I followed.”

Minji looked over. “You didn’t have to.”

YN’s voice was quiet. “I know.”

Pause.

The moonlight barely lit Minji’s face. But even in shadow, her eyes were visible—watching.

“Back there,” Minji said. “You held my hand.”

YN swallowed. “…Yeah.”

Minji didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk. Just looked at her like she was trying to figure something out.

Then:

“I didn’t mind.”

YN’s throat tightened.

She rolled to her side to face her. They were so close now. Only the thinnest air between them.

YN whispered, “You always act so calm. Like nothing fazes you.”

Minji gave a tiny smile.

“You faze me.”

The words dropped like a match in dry grass.

Neither moved. Neither blinked.

Then—Minji’s hand reached out slowly, like she wasn’t even thinking, just drawn—

She brushed a strand of hair from YN’s face.

And her fingers lingered. Just for a second.

“Goodnight, Nerdy.”

YN whispered, “…Goodnight, Minji.”

But neither of them slept.

Not for a while.

The final morning of the retreat arrived with sleepy yawns and messy hair. Students packed up their tents, laughed over spilled toothpaste, and posed for last-minute selfies with the mountain in the background.

The vibe? Lighthearted. The emotions? Chaotic.

YN zipped her bag with a yawn, ready to disappear into the bus and sleep for three hours straight. Sohee, however, had other plans.

“There’s still one last group activity, sleepyhead! Don’t you want to say goodbye to nature properly?”

“I want to sue it.”

Sohee dragged her anyway.

At the camp center, the instructors had set up a fun final activity: “Compliment Circle.”

Each person had to give a quick compliment to someone they appreciated during the trip.

“Let’s end on a positive note,” the coach said, clapping. “Spread good vibes!”

YN immediately tensed. “This is a trap.”

Minji leaned behind her, whispering:

“You’re gonna compliment me, right?”

YN turned, deadpan. “I was thinking the squirrel that didn’t attack us.”

Minji smirked, hand brushing her shoulder.

“Rude. I literally gave you my jacket and my hand.”

“Yeah, and now your fan club wants to curse me.”

When it was Sohee’s turn, she stood with sparkly eyes and announced:

“I want to compliment my roommate YN—who actually came on this trip—and was super brave even when we thought she got eaten by a bear.”

Everyone laughed.Then Sohee added, smiling playfully:

“Also… Mr. Jaehwan from the media department for helping us find the trail again.”

YN blinked.

“Who?”

From the side, a tall guy in glasses raised his hand with a polite smile. “That’d be me.”He walked up to give Sohee a high-five—then turned to YN.

“Glad you made it back safely. You were… walking with Minji, right?”

YN nodded. “Yeah.”

“You looked cool. Very survival-movie aesthetic.”

And then—

He winked.

YN: (processing error)

Across the circle, Minji stared.Expression: neutral. Body: stiff. Aura: “Who is this tall discount actor and why is he looking at Nerdy like that.”Sohee whispered to YN, “Oh no. She saw the wink.”

YN looked at Minji—And yep. The glare. The micro-pout. The crossed arms.

She wasn’t even trying to hide it.Later, during the goodbye group photo, Jaehwan walked past Minji and casually said:

“You’re lucky to be her tentmate.”

Minji tilted her head. Smiled.

“Oh, I’m not just that.”

He blinked. “Oh?”Minji leaned slightly closer.

“I’m the reason she made it through this trip alive. So, yeah. Luck is a funny thing.”

YN, watching this from a few feet away, muttered to herself:

“What is she doing? Marking territory?”

Sohee whispered, “Are you jealous now?”YN: “No. I’m annoyed. Very different

Back at campus, the world felt louder. Traffic. Cafeterias. Lecture halls.YN walked across the quad with her sketchbook, headphones in. Trying very hard to pretend her heart wasn’t still on a mountain trail holding Minji’s hand.

From a distance, she spotted Minji across the lawn.Surrounded by her usual group. Laughing. Hair down. Head tilted back. That easy charm.

And yet— Her eyes scanned the crowd.Until they landed on YN.Just for a second.They didn’t wave. Didn’t smile.Just… held the gaze. Too long. Too much.And then looked away. Like nothing happened.YN exhaled and walked faster. “This is getting stupid.”Later that week, Minji passed by YN outside the art building.Their eyes met.Minji slowed.

YN didn’t.Minji called out, casual:“Still ignoring me, Nerdy?”YN turned just enough to reply:“You seemed busy. With your fanbase.”Minji blinked, amused. “Are you mad?”YN didn’t answer.

Minji leaned in slightly.“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”YN stopped. Turned. Eyes blazing.“I’m not jealous.”Minji grinned.“Sure, Nerdy. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”YN’s heart was racing.But she said nothing.She just walked away.Minji watched her go.Still smiling.But now— A little softer.Like she already knew:This war? Far from over. The party was loud. Of course it was.It took over the campus quad like a swarm—fairy lights hanging overhead, music pounding through portable speakers, half-spilled drinks sloshing in red cups, and students everywhere. Dancing. Laughing. Falling over.

YN stood on the edge, hoodie on, expression blank.Sohee nudged her. “You promised to stay at least an hour.”“I didn’t promise. You threatened.”

“Same thing.”Sohee twirled away toward a circle of students, leaving YN alone under a swaying light.As usual.

YN took a seat near the fence, where the music felt more like distant thunder than a personal attack. She pulled out her sketchbook, only half-seriously.

Just as her pencil touched paper—

“Is that your version of dancing?”

YN didn’t look up. “Is bothering me your version of flirting?”

Minji’s voice curved with amusement. “You admit I’m flirting?”

YN finally raised her head.

And immediately regretted it.

Minji was… Wow.

Hair tied up loosely, skin glowing under the golden lights, leather jacket slung casually over a fitted shirt. She looked like a scene from a movie. Unreachable. Unapologetic.

And the worst part?

She was smiling at her.

YN looked away. “Didn’t think this kind of party was your style either.”

Minji shrugged. “I go where the chaos is.”

“Then you’re in the right place.”

“And apparently…” Minji stepped a little closer.

“So are you.”

Soon enough, other students spotted them.

“Look who came out of hiding!” “YN, you clean up nicely!” “Minji, is she your bodyguard or your girlfriend?”

The teasing escalated. Minji shot back with sarcasm, YN rolled her eyes.

Then—

A guy stepped into their space. Tall, energetic, clearly tipsy.

“Hey—you're Minji, right? I’ve seen you at the gym.”

Minji nodded politely. “Yeah.”

The guy turned to YN. “And you’re... the artist? I’ve seen your stuff in the atrium.”

YN gave a stiff nod.

“You two together?” he asked, not really caring about the answer.

YN opened her mouth to say something biting— but Minji beat her to it, jokingly:

“She wishes.”

Everyone laughed.Even the guy.Everyone… except YN.

Ten minutes later, YN sat back down, face unreadable.

Sohee came over, cautious. “You okay?”

“I’m going back to the dorms.”

“What? It’s still early—”

“I’m tired.”

Sohee didn’t argue. But she watched her walk away with quiet worry.She wasn’t the only one watching.

From across the party, Minji saw it too— the way YN left without a word, shoulders tense.

Something in her chest twistedIt took Minji a few minutes to shake off the voices around her, the noise, the drink in her hand. She followed the direction YN had gone.Away from the lights. Past the quad. Into the garden path behind the library building.

There she was. Sitting on a bench under a lamppost, hoodie up, arms crossed.Alone. Again.

Minji didn’t say anything at first. Just walked up and stood in front of her.YN didn’t look up.

“…Why are you here?” she asked quietly.Minji's voice was low. “Why did you leave like that?”

YN scoffed. “Why does it matter?”

“It does.”

YN finally raised her eyes. There was fire there. But underneath it? Something brittle.

“You act like you care,” she said. “But then you joke. In front of everyone. About how I wish we were together.”

Minji stiffened.

“That was—”

“A joke?” YN stood up suddenly. “Right. That’s what you do. You flirt, then pretend it was nothing. You’re always half in, half out. You always act like you’re in control, and I’m just—what? Entertainment?”

Minji’s jaw clenched. “That’s not fair.”“Neither is this!” YN said, her voice cracking for the first time. “I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t want to feel anything. You just kept showing up. Every time I tried to keep space, you closed it. Every time I hated you, you saved me. You made me need you and now—”

Minji stepped closer.One step. Then another.

Their faces were inches apart now. Breathing heavy. Words gone.“Say something,” YN whispered, voice trembling.And Minji said nothing.

She just kissed her.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t soft.

It was need.

Fingers tangled in the hoodie’s collar, pulling her in. Lips pressed like they’d been waiting for this exact moment to stop pretending. All the teasing, the fights, the denial—it melted, burned, collapsed into this single kiss.

YN didn’t freeze. She melted into it.Hands finding Minji’s shoulders, then her hair. Their bodies fit like puzzle pieces. Like a crash and a landing at the same time.Minji pulled back just slightly, eyes half-lidded, lips flushed.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” she whispered.

YN, breathless, shook her head.

“Then show me.”

Minji kissed her again.Slower this time.But deeper. More desperate. Like she wanted to memorize every second.

It was hot. Messy. Real.And when they finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, the silence returned.But this time, it wasn’t empty.It was full of everything they couldn’t say.

The kiss had ended. But they hadn’t moved.

Minji’s forehead still rested against YN’s. Their hands were still tangled in each other’s sleeves. Their breaths? Still fast. Still shared.

YN blinked slowly. Her voice came out low.

“So… that’s what all the teasing meant?”

Minji pulled back a little—just enough to look into her eyes. Her gaze was raw. Stripped.

“No.”

YN blinked. “No?”

Minji’s voice was quiet. Shaky. Real.

“It meant less than this.”

Then she leaned in again— and pressed a kiss to YN’s cheek.

Then the corner of her lips.

Then her jaw.

Tiny, desperate kisses like her body was acting faster than her brain.

“I didn’t mean to…” A kiss near the ear. “Fall this hard.” A kiss against the neck. “But I did.” A pause. Their eyes met.

Minji swallowed. Her voice broke just a little.

“And now I don’t know how to stop.”

YN didn’t move.Her heart was pounding, but her body felt frozen. Not with fear. With the terrifying softness of being truly seen.Minji looked at her like she was standing on a cliff— And falling.

“I kept telling myself it was nothing. That I was just being stupid. That the reason I noticed when you were cold, or mad, or quiet was because… I liked annoying you.”

She smiled, weakly.

“But I wasn’t teasing you. I was… looking for reasons to be near you.”

YN felt like she couldn’t breathe.

Minji touched her face again, this time slower, her fingers brushing her cheek.

“And then tonight—when you walked away—I panicked. I thought, ‘She’s leaving. And I’ll never get to tell her what she does to me.’”

A pause.

Her thumb traced YN’s lower lip, eyes flickering.

“How every time you look at me like I’m a problem… I want to be solved by you.”

Then— Another kiss.This one softer. Lingering. Barely there. Like her mouth was writing an apology against YN’s lips.

Minji tried to pull back. Her voice cracked.

“I should stop.”

But she didn’t.She kissed her again.Once. Then again.

Each kiss shorter. Hungrier. Like she was trying to hold back but failing.

“I told myself just once would be enough.”

A kiss.

“But I lied.”

A longer kiss. Slower.

“I don’t want to stop.”

YN whispered, breath catching—

“Then don’t.”

And just like that—

Minji sank into her.A tangle of fingers in hair, jackets slipping from shoulders, lips pressed with desperation.But in all that heat, there was something achingly gentle in the way Minji held her.Like even as she consumed her— She was trying to protect her.When they finally broke apart—again, breathless, quiet— Minji leaned her forehead against YN’s and whispered, almost like a secret:

“I don’t know what we’re doing.”

YN nodded slowly.

“Neither do I.”

Minji’s hand closed around hers.“But I don’t want to pretend anymore

It was almost 1:00 AM.

The campus laundry room was dimly lit, humming quietly with the low mechanical growl of washing machines and the occasional clink of zippers tumbling in metal drums.

YN shoved a basket of clothes through the door, hoodie halfway off her shoulder, hair tied in a lazy knot, eyes half-closed from lack of sleep—and mood fully grumpy.

She muttered under her breath as the door squeaked behind her.

“Why are college students incapable of doing laundry at reasonable hours?”

She made her way down the row of machines—only to find them all either full… or blinking “OUT OF ORDER.”All except one.The last one.YN narrowed her eyes.And then—

“Oh. You again.”Minji.

Leaning against the last washing machine like it was hers by divine right, sleeves rolled up, hair down in soft waves, wearing a T-shirt way too big to be anything but stolen from YN’s drawer.

She was smiling, of course. That soft, slow, smug sunshine smile.

“Fancy seeing you here, nerdy.”

YN sighed. “Please tell me you didn’t actually use the last one.”

Minji shrugged. “I was here first.”

“How much is in there?”

Minji peered through the door.

“Well… about half of my stuff. And half of yours.”

YN blinked. “Wait—what?”

Minji looked over her shoulder, feigning innocence.

“You left your laundry basket outside our room. Again. I just figured… joint life, joint wash.”

YN stared.

Minji took a step closer, arms crossed.

“Or should I separate your socks out next time?”

“You washed our clothes together without asking?”

Minji tilted her head. “I mean, we already sleep together. It felt symbolic.”

YN blinked twice. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet.” Minji grinned wider. “You’re here.”

They stood like that for a beat.

Two people who still clashed like fire and ice— but now, the warmth in the middle belonged to both of them.

Minji leaned back against the machine, arms open in mock surrender.

“Go ahead. Glare at me. Grump about it. I’ll still kiss you.”

YN stepped closer, expression unreadable.

And then—

She did glare. But only for a second.Then she leaned forward and kissed her.A slow, drawn-out kiss.Soft at first—just the press of lips. Familiar now. Easy. But then… longer. Warmer.Minji smiled against her mouth. YN sighed through her nose and deepened the kiss.Their bodies leaned closer, comfortably tangled. Fingers slipped into hair. A hand brushed down a waist. A soft, muffled hum filled the space between them.Outside, the night kept moving. But in here? It was just them.

The washing machine beeped.They didn’t flinch.Minji pulled away just enough to whisper:

“Cycle’s done.”YN tucked her face into Minji’s neck.“Let’s stay a little longer.”Minji smiled. “We can dry them later.”Eventually, they opened the machine. Pulled out a pile of warm, tangled fabric.Minji held up a hoodie. “Yours.”YN held up a black t-shirt. “Yours.”They looked down.The rest? A mix of shirts, jeans, socks. No difference. All blended.Just like them.

“You realize,” Minji murmured, “we really are that couple now.”YN smirked, brushing her shoulder against Minji’s.“Gross.”

Minji kissed her cheek.“You love it.”

YN didn’t answer.She just smiled—soft, hidden, shy.The kind of smile only Minji could bring out of her

End

[jaitunapie]

GOD FORBID I EVER FIND MYSELF IN A HEALTHY LOVING SUCCESSFUL STABLE WLW RELATIONSHIP

[jaitunapie]

I get jump scared whenever I open the app and see your pfp

That's the goal.

[jaitunapie]

To Break Her Gently(Just Like Me)

//Hanni Pham x Reader//Very mini series//College AU//

Listening to: Pare Ko by Eraserheads

⋆.˚ Masakit mang isipin, kailangang tanggapin. Kung kailan ka naging seryoso — Saka ka niya gagaguhin ⋆.˚

⟡ WARNINGS: FEM READER, cliffhanger???, WEEED (reader sells it lol), Angst, too long to proofread ngl i got lazy and fell asleep, Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong™, psych!student!reader, manipulation, Wony’s kinda evil here (I love her pls don’t hate me) inspired by 10 things i hate abt u (watch it if u havent yet)

⟡ SYNOPSIS: Hanni Pham is busy. Like really busy. She has five deadlines, three group projects (which she’s carrying, obviously), and a scholarship to keep. She does not have time for distractions. Especially not the annoyingly attractive psych major who keeps showing up whereves she goes and calling her “pretty girl”.

So why does it bother her that you suddenly stopped?

⟡ GENRE: College AU · Fake Dating · Second Chance Romance

⟡ WC: 9.4K

Parts: [1]|[2]

a/n: I like psych majors idk, oh ymhofgddd i miss them sm im ognna cry huu

What does it take to make Saint Hanni Pham crack?

Hanni Pham.

How do you even describe her?

Academic weapon. Future summa cum laude. Probably has a five-year plan and a separate five-year plan in case the first one fails.

She’s got a full-ride scholarship. The professors practically drool over her. Admins adore her. The student orgs have practically declared her a patron saint.

So naturally, someone wanted to ruin her life.

Enter, Jang Wonyoung. Tall, pretty, rich, and absolutely deranged about being second place.

She’s been gunning for Hanni’s spot since freshman year and losing every single time. In grades. In recognition. In awards.

Wonyoung even joined Model UN once because she heard Hanni was in it. Guess who walked away Best Delegate?  

Not Wonyoung.

After the third time losing out on an academic grant to Miss Perfect Pham, Wonyoung did what any normal, rational girl would do.

She bribed someone else who could distract the girl.

But who in their right mind would have the guts to mess with Saint Hanni?

Simple.

You.

A broke psych major with a questionable work ethic and even more questionable income sources

A hundred bucks. To ruin her concentration, break her little routine, distract her just enough to knock her off the top. Just a tiny academic tragedy in exchange for a slightly less broke bank account on your end.

Did you feel a little bad?

Yeah. Maybe.

Did you take the money anyway?

Duh.

You figured: how hard could it be? Just annoy the golden girl until she starts slipping. That’s light work, right?

Right?

-

it wasn’t.

It was hell.

No, really. Absolute, exhausting, mind-numbing hell.

Getting through to Hanni Pham was like trying to chip away at a marble statue with a fucking spoon. It wasn’t just that she was smart; because everyone knew that. The girl could recite case studies and philosophical theories like she was reading them off the back of her hand. It wasn’t just that she was diligent. Because, again, no surprise there. 

No, What made it hell was how nice she was about shutting you down.

Her smile, her polite nod, every “Sorry, I really have to go,” or “Maybe some other time?”—it was like being rejected by sunshine itself. You couldn’t even hate her for it. She was so infuriatingly kind. So endlessly patient. So... untouchable.

You tried everything. You tried compliments. She’d thank you, genuinely, and walk away before you could tack on a flirt. You tried being bold. She’d laugh. (that pretty little laugh that did not help) You tried casual conversation. She’d entertain you for maybe a minute and then someone would ask her to help with their notes, or she’d remember a deadline, and she was gone.

And with every failed attempt, you were getting tired. Bone-deep tired. Honestly, you weren't even trying to flirt anymore. You were trying to break into a fortress made of fucking netherite. 

And for what?

The money. That stupid hundred bucks.

Every day, you told yourself: one more try. One more fail. Then I’m done.

And yet—here you were. Again.

Although... lately, you’d started to notice something. There was this faint tightness in her jaw. Her hands tapped her pen too fast. The smiles didn’t come as quick

You didn’t know what was up. Not yet. But maybe that’s why she snapped today.

-

“Hey pretty girl.”

“Are you seriously following me again, L/N?”

You raised a brow, leaning against the edge of the table. “Got your panties in a twist already?”

She looked up, finally, just to glare. “Don’t for one minute think you had any effect whatsoever on my panties.”

“Then what did I have an effect on?”

Hanni shut her laptop with a snap. “Other than my gag reflex? Absolutely nothing, L/N.”

She packed her things in quickly, swung her tote over her shoulder, and then walked off without a second glance.

-

“And then she just left!” you groan, collapsing onto Wonyoung’s bed and hugging an otter plushie.“I’m giving up.”

“Oh my god,” Wonyoung gasps, clutching her heart  “You? Giving up on a girl? What did you do to the Y/N L/N I used to know?”

“You know what-” You squint at her. “Why don’t you do it.”

Wonyoung rolls her eyes “I would—except I’m not her type.”

You squint. “And how the hell do you know her type?”

“She said she likes mysterious people,” Wonyoung shrugs. “You’re mysterious enough.”

“I sell weed behind the chem building.”

“Exactly,” she says, then pulls a book out of her tote and chucks it at you.

You catch it. The cover’s light pink with a doodled heart on the front. Gross.

You wrinkle your nose. “Is this... romance? Wony, I’m not reading your Wattpad bullshit—”

“It’s Hanni’s diary, dumbass.”

You stare at her. “That’s... so illegal.”

“And so is your side hustle.”

You sigh, flipping it open. “Ten bucks or I’m shutting this whole thing down.”

She doesn’t blink. “You’re extorting me with stolen property?”

“Capitalism, Wony.”

“Fine. Fuck you.”

You grin. “That’s extra.”

-

"Y/N L/N, that’s the fifth time this week. Honestly, just say it if you wanna fail."

You wince and give a half-assed shrug. “Sorry, Miss—I missed the bus.”

A lie. But saying “I had to convince my landlord not to throw my stuff on the sidewalk this morning” didn’t exactly roll off the tongue.

She clicks her tongue and gestures toward your seat. “Sit down.”

You exhale and shuffle to your seat. Your claimed seat. As in: you claimed it by threatening the actual seat owner a week ago.

You look over. “You got a pen?”

She doesn’t look up. Just hands one over like muscle memory. You recognize the little cat paw on the cap—it’s the third time you’ve borrowed this exact one.

You uncap it and start doodling on your notebook. You glance at her sideways. “Ever think about how generous you are to known degenerates?” you say, tapping the pen.

“Ever think about shutting up?” she replies, still not looking at you.

Okay. try again.

A beat passes. Then—

“How do you keep showing up thirty minutes late and still walk out with just a warning?”

You smirk. “Ouu… getting curious about me now, Pham?”

That earns you a look “don’t flatter yourself.”

“Relax” You lean back in your chair, arms crossed. “I dunno, maybe she just finds me charming.”

“More like concerning,” she mutters. “You’re late. You never bring anything. Your attendance is shit. But she doesn’t even write you up.”

“She’s human,” you shrug. “She has favorites.”

“And you’re one of them?” She snickers, but doesn’t argue. Instead, she turns back to her notes.

…

You tap the desk with the pen. “Tell you what. I’ll spill everything after class.”

Her head tilts slightly. Skeptical. “And why would I waste time on that?”

“…There’ll be bread?”

She hesitates. Not long, Like a little skip in her brain before she catches herself.

“I’m busy.”

Plan B(read) fail.

—

They say food is the way to the heart.

Hanni’s not sure who “they” are, but—okay, maybe it’s a little true. She’s never said no to free food. But free food from a stranger? 

Yeah, no. Stranger danger. She’s seen documentaries.

And yet… it’s not like you’re a total stranger. You’re just always…there. The cafeteria. The library. The hallway outside her 10 a.m. gen lecture even though you’re definitely not enrolled. She's tried to ignore it.

It’s probably a coincidence. Campus isn’t that big.

Or maybe—

No. No, no. Hanni doesn’t do fate. Or signs. Or whatever hopeless romantics call this kind of thing.

Gross.

 She sighs, lightly strumming the guitar resting on her knee.

What do you even want from her?

Her gaze wanders, unthinking. The window beside the rack of acoustic guitars, and beyond it is the street, hot in the summer heat. A couple walks by. Someone’s skateboarding across the path. Another student ducks under the awning to avoid the sun.

She isn’t really looking for you.

But then—there you are.

Across the courtyard, in the building across from the shop, framed perfectly by the bookstore’s wide glass. You’re leaned slightly against the counter, holding a paper bag. Laughing. She sees your profile tilt, your mouth moving with something mid-sentence, your hand pushing back a strand of hair.

It’s weird.

How quickly her stomach flips.

You’re annoying.

She blinks. And right then, like you felt it, you turn.

Your eyes meet hers and maybe she looks away too quickly.

And right then—

Plink.

She looks down. The high E string has snapped. It curls like a loose thread off the fretboard. For a second, she just stares. 

She sighs. Carefully sets the guitar down, but moves a little too fast. Her finger catches the broken string. It stings.

“Ow…”

Tiny dot of red.

Awesome.

She brings the guitar to the front, holding it by the neck. Her voice comes out softer than she wants it to.

“Hey, Tom…”

The old man behind the register looks up from his stool, smiling behind his glasses. “Ah, Hanni, kid! What’s up?”

“I think I snapped a string,” she says. “Sorry—I wasn’t really… I wasn’t being rough, it just—”

He waves it off, already getting up. “It happens. I’ve broken more strings than I’ve played, I swear.”

“No, no—let me pay for it. I’ve got it.” She starts rummaging through her tote bag.

Receipts. Crumpled tissue. A pack of gum.

Wallet.

She flips it open.

Empty. Just an old exam schedule and a faded sticky note reminding her to buy printer ink.

Her throat tightens. She knew she forgot something. She was supposed to withdraw cash this morning, but then they had that last-minute group meeting, and then Minji sent the wrong file, and the chem lab printer wouldn’t scan—

“You don’t have to, kid,” Tom says kindly.

“No, I got it—”

Another voice. Closer.

“I got it.”

Hanni turns slowly and you’re there. Right there. Just behind her, like you’d been standing there the whole time as you slip a bill onto the counter.

The bell above the door must’ve rung earlier. That’s what she’d heard.

“Y/N!” Tom grins. “Been a while!”

Hanni stares, not saying anything. She’s too busy reading your face, trying to figure out if this was planned, or just another coincidence in the ever-growing list of them. The list she’s starting to hate.

Tom gestures between the two of you. “You two know each other?”

You smile, casual. “We’re schoolmates.”

“Unfortunately,” Hanni mutters, quieter than she means to.

Your brows lift. “Hmm?”

She clears her throat. “I said thank you.”

You smile wider. Too wide. “No problem.”

She grabs the receipt Tom hands her and already starts reaching for her bag again. “I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

“How about now?”

She blinks. “I haven’t withdrawn—”

“No, I mean...” you tuck your wallet away. “Dinner.”

Her mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

You laugh, “I’ll pay. Think of it as you accepting your payment.”

She glances at Tom like he might save her.

He raises both hands and shrugs like, Hey, don’t look at me. But there’s a little smile playing at his lips that says he’s seen this kind of scene before. 

Hanni’s fingers brush the edge of the counter. Her heartbeat is annoyingly loud in her ears.

Why is she so nervous?

She licks her lips. Clears her throat.

“Where?”

—

“Aren’t you full already…?” you asked, watching as a crumble of crust clung to the corner of her lip, then tumbled down onto her sweater sleeve.

 “Answer the question.”

You sighed and leaned back in your seat, the plastic of the café chair creaking beneath you. The air smelled like burnt sugar and old books “Miss Park used to be my tutor.”

“That’s it?” she asked, words slightly muffled, the pastry was doing half the talking.

“That’s all,” you said with a shrug, like it didn’t matter. But she narrowed her eyes at you, chewing slower now. Not suspicious—just… curious. Still, she gave a small nod and let it drop.

She licked a crumb off her thumb. “And Tom?”

You clicked your tongue. “Nuh-uh. Only one relationship question per pastry.”

Her brow lifted. “Says who?”

“Says me. My turn.” You pointed a lazy finger at her. “Why are you always so… annoyingly studious?”

She stared at you. “I’m the one asking questions here.”

“Fine, dictator,” you muttered, reaching for your drink. It had gone cold. Tasted like watered-down chocolate and regret.

She grabbed a napkin and dabbed the corner of her mouth with mechanical precision, then flicked her gaze back at you. “Why do you sell... that stuff?”

You tilted your head. The hum of the ceiling fan filled the space between you.

“I need the money,” you said eventually, voice low.

The words just sat there. Not heavy. Just… true.

You picked at the edge of your cup. “Also… it helps people,” you added, quieter. “Helps them chill out. Get through the day. Makes things feel a little less… sharp.”

She didn’t reply right away. Just raised an eyebrow, skeptical but not judgmental. “By getting them addicted?”

“They don’t always get addicted,” you shot back, a little fast. A little defensive. Then, with a shrug: “It’s just… calming.”

She tilted her head at that. Thoughtful.

“Is it good?” you asked her eventually.

She nodded, finishing the last bite of her pastry. A beat passed. Then, wordlessly, she tore a piece from her third carp bread and held it out to you.

You smiled, shaking your head. “I’m fine.”

Her hand hovered for a beat longer than necessary, then she popped the piece into her own mouth. “Your loss,” she said, lips tugging into the faintest smile.

—

“Good morning, Miss Pham,” you say as you drop into the seat across from her—voice laced with that fake cheer you save for people you enjoy annoying. Or people you... whatever. Doesn't matter.

Hanni doesn’t even bother looking up. Just sighs. “It’s too early for you to be this loud.”

You smirked. No immediate roast today. Progress.

“It’s the perfect time,” you replied, sliding your bag under the table. “What are you even studying for? Exams aren’t until next week.”

She flips a page, still not looking at you. “Didn’t think you’d know that.”

“Wow,” you say, pressing a hand to your chest. “I dabble in calendar literacy, thank you very much.”

“This isn’t for the exams,” she added, eyes still scanning text. “Regional competition.”

“Obviously.”

She finally looks up, eyes sharp and amused in that way that makes your stomach shift a little too much. She expected that reaction out of you.

“What about you?” she asks. “Studying?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do I look like someone who studies?”

She doesn’t answer, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

“I mean,” you say, stretching your arms behind your head, like the ceiling’s ever done anything interesting, “if I actually tried, I’d probably beat you.”

That gets her. She looks up properly now.

“I’d like to see you try.”

And you should’ve just laughed. Should’ve brushed it off like you always do.

“Challenge accepted,” you say, trying to recover. “You want competition that bad?”

“No.” Her voice softens, just barely. “Seriously.”

A pause.

“I think you could do it.”

Your smirk falters. Just a second.

“What,” you say, trying to lace your voice with a joke that doesn’t quite land, “you recruiting your next academic rival or something?”

“Maybe,” she says, and this time, she closes the book gently. Doesn’t shove it aside. Just lets her fingers rest on it as she’s still holding the thought. “Study with me.”

Your instinct is to say no. Because that’s the plan. 

Keep distance.

But she’s looking at you like she means it. 

Why?

You exhaled silently.

“…Fine,” you say. “One session.”

You don’t say that your stomach’s doing that fluttery thing again.

Or that for a second, you almost forgot you were supposed to be playing her.

You don’t remember when you last studied seriously.

Not studied like skimming a page with your eyes half open.

Not studied like rewriting a bullet point just to feel like you tried.

Was it for the entrance exam? No. You barely even read the first page. You just sat there chewing on the pen cap until the taste of metal and ink sat bitter at the back of your tongue.

Was it in middle school? Or sixteen—when you moved in with your aunt and uncle, into a house where the dinner table was always quiet but the silverware loud, and the bathroom always smelled like mildew, lavender, and cold ceramic that never warmed up under your feet?

Or maybe it was when they got divorced two years later—like some part of you had been waiting for the final crack in the drywall to split the whole thing open.

You don’t remember. And you think you’ve stopped wanting to.

But what you do remember is— you’ve always hated studying. Always. Hated the way it wanted silence from you, the way it asked for stillness you never really had. Hated sitting there under the ugly stale yellow light of your night lamp, scratching notes into your notebook. So you used headphones. Not for music at first—just to mute the noises. Mute the verbal war going on downstairs, the sound of forks clinking against plates followed by the usual “You always…” “You never…” “Can’t you just…”

Though, at some point, elementary or  middle school maybe, you kind of liked it. The praise. The novelty of being good at something. Your mother used to beam when she saw your report cards. You remember the folder stuffed fat with awards, papers curling at the edges, certificates with your name spelled in big, proud letters. She used to call you her little genius. You don’t remember when she stopped.

But she did.

Eventually, the compliments turned into expectations, and the expectations turned into pressure, and the pressure became your whole identity. It was never enough. You were never enough. Not unless you were holding something at least; a medal, a ribbon, something that could be shown off at a dinner party while she laughed and said, “She gets it from me.” You swore once, when you were nine, that you’d be a doctor. That you’d make her proud. She cried when you said it and hugged you too hard. You felt her ribs in that hug. You felt her joy, and you thought, maybe this is what love is.

But it wasn’t.

It was what she wanted. And that’s different.

You started noticing that everything you wanted had to come second. Or third. Or never. That being “gifted” wasn’t a gift at all. It was a small glass room. You were the display, the fragile object in the center that everyone clapped for, but no one let out in fear that it might get damaged. Outside, kids your age played in the rain. You weren’t allowed to join. You watched them from the window with a pencil in your hand, your back aching from sitting so straight.

You remember, once, sneaking out when your parents were both working. You went to the playground and you thought, maybe someone will let me be a kid.

They didn’t.

You remember standing by the swing with the missing broken seat. You remember the stares. Not mean, just confused, they knew you didn’t belong. They sat together at the seesaws like atoms and you were the outsider molecule.

There was a girl, though. Pink party hat, carp bread in her hand. You remember her wide lopsided smile, her bangs stuck to her forehead from running too much. She handed you the bread in its crinkled plastic wrap and said, “My mom gives me food when I’m sad. It helps.”

You remember thinking: What does that even mean? You remember looking up at her and, for the first time, wondering what someone else was thinking.

“Where’s your mom?” the taller girl behind her asked. She got smacked for it. “Don’t ask her that!” Pink Hat said, turning to you with a sincere apology on her face. And then the rain came like it had been holding its breath all day and finally exhaled.

They ran. Moms rushing toward them with umbrellas and jackets. Kids laughing, slipping, squealing. You stood still. The rain poured onto your hair like it was trying to wash something off of you. You hid the bread under your shirt and sniffled but didn’t cry.

An orange cat sat beneath the tunnel slide, tilting its head at you like it wanted to understand. You walked toward it, shoes squelching in the wet sand. Sat inside the tunnel where the rain couldn’t touch you but the cold still did. You broke off a piece of the bread and handed it to the cat. It bit you, took the bread and ran with it.

You stayed. Arms wrapped around your knees, chin tucked down. You stayed until the sky dimmed and the swing outside creaked annoyingly.

When you got home, soaked, your mother didn’t ask why. She just shouted — Why did you leave your books? She didn’t see your wet hair. She didn’t see your hand bleeding. She didn’t ask about the bite.

That was the day you started hating studying. Not just the act, but the whole idea of it. What it meant and what it had taken from you. You stopped pretending. Stopped thinking that studying was anything other than what it really was–Proof. Of being enough and being useful.

Though the orange cat kept coming back after that. You’d see it outside your window, just sitting there like it was waiting for you to come outside to feed it. You fed it crackers, rice, leftover fish sometimes. It never bit you again. It started waiting at the gate when school ended. You’d pretend it was yours. You knew it wasn’t—the pink collar gave it away. Yet it still stayed.

Until the day you left. You were putting your bags in the car, the driveway wet with last night’s rain, and you saw it. Sitting there. Not running up to you nor meowing. Just watching. You opened the door but It still didn’t move. And then it turned. And walked away.

You didn’t cry. You should’ve.

Then came the rest. The move. The divorce. College. The feeling that everything breaks eventually.

—

But here you are, weeks later, in the library.

One session turned into three.

Then five.

At first, it was just for the money. You told yourself that. You sat across from Hanni Pham and made sarcastic commentary about the way her handwriting looked like a font. She mostly ignored you—except for the occasional sigh or dry remark that made your stomach twist in ways you didn't have the vocabulary to explain.

But then she started saving you a seat.

Not out loud, of course. She never said This is for you. But the chair opposite hers was always pulled out and the extra pen was always there.

It freaked you out, honestly.

Like—did she know?

Did she see through you?

Because you weren’t exactly subtle. Not really. You’d drop random references to Kant or Freud just to see if she’d look up. You’d poke at her note margins like you were teasing her, but really you just wanted to hear her laugh. Wanted to see that flicker in her eyes before she swallowed it back down again like she always did.

Some days you didn’t even talk. She’d have her notes out, and you’d have your half-assed attempts at pretending you knew what you were doing. She never called you out for it. Never asked what you were actually doing, she just let you sit there. 

And you hated it.

Not her.

Just the fact that you started wanting to try.

Which was worse.

Because you were supposed to distract her. 

But now you’re here, sitting across from her.

And you’re starting to really hate the version of yourself that said yes to all of this in the first place.

And then one quiet afternoon where the dust danced in the golden sunlight through the window that made everything feel softer. 

You didn’t say anything at first. You just looked back.

“What?” you finally asked.

She blinked. Looked away. “Nothing.”

“Liar,” you said, leaning forward. “You were staring.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You so were.”

A minute passes “I was just wondering,” she said, still not meeting your eyes, “how someone like you ended up here.”

“‘Someone like me?’” You laughed, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “What, a burnout?”

“No,” she said, and it was too soft to be anything but honest. “Someone who doesn’t believe they belong.”

And wow.

You hated that.

Hated how it was too accurate. Like she’d cracked your chest open and found the part of you even you pretend isn’t there.

“You think I don’t belong?”

“I think you do,” she said, finally looking at you. “But I don’t think you think that.”

It landed like a punch, even though her voice was gentle. She wasn’t trying to hurt you. 

After a beat, you muttered, “I don’t actually smoke, you know.”

Her head tilted. “What?”

“I just sell it. For the cash.”

“Figured.”

No judgment?

She leaned back in her chair. “So what did you want to do?”

You didn’t answer immediately because the question felt heavier than it should’ve.

“I don’t know,” you said, then corrected, “...Actually, I wanted to be a forensic psych.”

That made her raise an eyebrow.

You shrugged. “I like knowing how people work. Why they do the things they do. Thought maybe if I understood the worst of them, the rest wouldn’t seem so impossible.”

She nodded, slowly. “That tracks.”

You didn’t say the rest. About the notes you kept in your old phone of the symptoms your mom never got diagnosed for. Or how your dad called you “overdramatic” every time you cried and still expected you to set the table. Or how deep down, you just wanted to stop people like them from becoming the reason someone else ends up in therapy.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer.

“If med school doesn’t work out,” she said, fingers absently brushing her notes, “I’d want to be a vet. Or maybe a musician.”

That surprised you. “Musician?”

“Yeah,” she said with a small smile. “Guitar. Ukulele. Piano. I used to write songs in high school, but... I don’t know. Felt silly.”

“Doesn’t sound silly.”

The silence after that wasn’t awkward.

You started looking forward to the library. And, against all better judgment, maybe to her.

—

The sun was relentless, but the game was somehow still going. Minji’s backyard wasn’t exactly pro court material, but the net was up, and no one had collapsed from heat stroke yet, so. Success?

Minji served again, cleanly and fast.

“How do you know if you like someone?” Hanni asked, like she was commenting on the weather.

Minji raised a brow mid-jump. “Why’re you asking that now?”

“Why not?” Hanni replied, feigning nonchalance.

“UNNIE, ARE YOU IN LOVE?!” Danielle gasped from across the net, hands flying to her face just as the ball bounced pathetically at her feet.

Hanni rolled her eyes and bent down to grab it. “No, Dani. I’m not.”

Danielle grinned. “Your face says otherwise.”

“Mhm, It’s kind of red,” Haerin added helpfully, lips curled into a smirk. She bumped the ball back to Minji, who caught it instead of spiking it.

“Could be the sun,” Hanni muttered.

“Could be something else,” Danielle sing-songed. “Or someone else—Ooooh, is this about—”

“It’s not about Y/N,” Hanni snapped, turning just in time to miss the ball Minji had tossed back lightly. It hit her square in the forehead with a soft thunk.

A beat of silence. 

“…No one mentioned Y/N,” Haerin said, eyebrows raised, trying not to laugh.

Minji was already grinning. “That’s… kind of suspicious, no?”

From the bench in the shade, Hyein didn’t even glance up from her phone. “If you’re asking, you probably already like them,” she said flatly, thumbs tapping. “You just want someone else to say it first.”

The entire yard went quiet.

“Thank you, Hyein,” Hanni called, raising a hand like a distant high-five. “The youngest, ladies and gentlemen.”

Everyone else had gone home.

Hanni was still on Minji’s couch, arms crossed, hair still a little damp with sweat. The TV was on but muted, casting soft light across the living room.

“So…” she said, dragging the word out. “What was that earlier?”

Hanni blinked up at her. “What was what?”

The taller girl scoffed. “Don’t do that. Don’t play dumb.”

Hanni sighed and sank further into the cushions wishing to disappear. “I’m pretty sure I don’t like her.”

Minji raised both eyebrows. “Right. Is that why I saw you two at that café last week?”

Hanni groaned. “Okay, let me explain.”

“I’m listening.”

“I only said yes to that because Miss Park told me she’d bump my grade if I could convince Y/N to study, and because she did me a favor.” Hanni explained, hands moving animatedly. “That’s literally it.”

Minji paused. “Your grades are already good. Why would she—?”

“You’re missing the point.” Hanni leaned in. “Y/N’s late to class, like, every day. No detention. No warnings. Nothing. You don’t see it because you’re not in our class, but I swear, it’s weird. So I thought—hey, maybe if I get close, I’ll figure out what kind of deal she has with Miss Park.”

Minji blinked. “So what, you’re, like… spying?”

“It’s not spying,” Hanni muttered. “It’s… observing.”

Minji burst into a laugh. “Ohhh, and what about the part where you saved her a seat three days in a row? Was that just research too?”

“Shut up,” Hanni said, reaching out to shove her playfully.

Minji dodged just enough to avoid spilling her drink, grinning the whole time.

Then Hanni’s phone buzzed on the coffee table.

She glanced down and her breath caught—just a little.

You: are you free next week?

---

Everyone has a price. You used to think yours was pride.

But pride didn’t pay rent. And rent had started speaking louder lately—well more like shouting, really, in the form of red notices taped to your door and your landlord’s punch-like knock echoing through the thin walls of your apartment. 

Two weeks. That’s what he gave you. Fourteen days to shit out cash you didn’t have.

Gone would be the cracked ceiling you’d grown oddly fond of, the lukewarm showers you’d tolerated, the paper-thin walls that broadcast your neighbor’s stupid metallica addiction, the orange kitten that somehow gets in your home everytime you come home. And yet the thought of leaving didn’t feel like freedom at all. 

You’d sat yourself in the back corner of the campus café, hunched low beneath your hoodie, nursing a tea you hadn’t paid for. Across from you, Wonyoung looked ethereal, her iced Americano sweating and ignored. 

 But she wasn’t here to hang out.

“So,” she said, eyes fixed on you like she was analyzing something under glass. “There’s this party.”

You didn’t look up. Just kept doodling in the margins of your notes. “Cool.”

“It’s next week.”

You nodded. Didn’t ask.

She leaned forward, arms resting on the table now. “You should bring Hanni.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the night before regionals.”

That made you pause.

“And?. You want her to be—what—hungover?” You gave a small laugh, more disbelief than humor.

Wonyoung didn’t answer. She just tilted her head, like she thought this part should be obvious by now.

Your eyebrows lifted.

“I'm not asking you to make her drink. Just…distracted. Off her game. Whatever works.”

“Wow,” you said flatly. “So casual. Want me to spike her drink while I’m at it?”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

…

“...I’m not doing that,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “That’s not part of the deal anymore.”

“You said you’d help.”

“Not like this.”

“It’s one night.”

“She’s been preparing for weeks.”

“So have I,” Wonyoung snapped. For the first time, her voice cracked—just slightly. Then it flattened out again. “Look. You get her to come. Just keep her distracted. Doesn’t even have to be drinking. Just enough to make her tired or off her game.”

“No.”

“Y/N—”

“I said no.” The words tasted final in your mouth. “I’m done with this whole operation.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then Wonyoung leaned back in her chair, studied you like she was recalibrating. “You’re getting soft.”

You clenched your fists. “Or maybe I just remembered that she’s a person.”

She scoffed. “You weren’t saying that when you were ready to ruin her.”

She wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part. There had been a time—not long ago—when this entire scheme felt justifiable, But that was before study sessions turned into excuses to be with her. Before stolen glances started lingering. Before you caught yourself hoping she’d text first. Before it stopped feeling fake.

“I’m out,” you said, steady this time. “Do what you want, but I’m done.”

Wonyoung didn’t move. Just studied you for a long, quiet second, and you knew her long enough to know that she was running calculations in her head. Then her voice dropped.

“If you walk, I tell her.”

You froze. The shift wasn’t subtle. It didn’t need to be.

“I’ll tell Hanni everything,” she continued, “How this started. Who put you up to it. Why you talked to her in the first place.”

“She won’t even look at you after that,” Wonyoung added, almost bored. “You’ll still lose her. Just without the paycheck.”

A knot twisted in your stomach. One part anger, two parts fear.

“She won’t believe you,” you said, but your voice lacked weigh

Wonyoung didn’t argue. She didn’t need to. You both knew Hanni might.

“Fine” Then Wonyoung leaned in, voice soft now. Too soft. “Three hundred.” She let it hang. Knew it would. Knew what it meant to someone like you, someone with overdue bills and plastic bags used as garbage liners and a cracked screen too expensive to replace.

It rang in your head like a siren.

Three. hundred.

It sounded like safety. It sounded like two weeks of silence from your landlord. Like a month of not having to explain things to your aunt.

“I already said no.”

“I know,” she said. “But think about it, okay?”

You didn’t answer. You just picked up your phone and walked out.

Twenty minutes.

That’s how long you’d been sitting on the roof deck ledge, your legs half-asleep, the city humming low beneath you like it didn’t care whether you moved or not. The wind tugged lightly at your sleeves, and the air smells like exhaust.

You still hadn’t replied to any of the four notifications on your screen.

One from your landlord, something about next month’s rent.

Two from a friend asking if you wanted to go out that weekend.

One from your aunt reminding you to eat. Again.

 And then, at the bottom is hanni’s contact.

Your finger hovered and tapped. 

"Are you free in three days?"

You didn’t hit send.

Not yet.

Because how the hell did it end up like this?

You'd sworn you’d never be that kind of person. The kind that played with people. The kind that lied to someone’s face while secretly carrying a hidden motive. The kind that became the reason someone else stared at their ceiling at 3 am, wondering what they did wrong.

You always thought you'd be better than that.

And yet.

Here you were.

Sitting on a rooftop with a message you had no right to send and a heart that was far too involved for what this wasn’t supposed to be.

You hit send then locked your phone.

None of this was real anyway, right?

Even if, god forbid, some part of you wanted it to be.

-

You couldn’t sleep.

The sheets were too warm, tangled around your legs and god they might as well be trying to hold you hostage. You flipped your pillow over for the third time that hour, hoping the cold side would finally knock you into unconsciousness. It didn’t.

Your phone screen stayed dark on the nightstand. But you kept glancing at it anyway. Waiting for something. 

This was stupid.

You weren’t even sure what you were waiting for anymore. An answer? Permission? A reason to back out?

You sighed. Pulled the blanket higher and closed your eyes.

Your phone lit up on the nightstand.

Your phone lit up.

Hanni.

Your breath caught.

3:04 a.m.

You scrambled for it, heart doing something weird in your chest. Thumb swiping before you could think too much.

“Up early, pretty?” you said, teasing—You started calling her that after she let it slip once. “pretty”. Said it under her breath when she thought you weren’t listening. You’d weaponized it ever since, just to see her squirm. She always rolled her eyes and told you to cut it out.

So, obviously, you kept saying it.

But this time—

“…Who is this?”

Not her.

The voice on the other end was wrong

“…Sorry—who?” you asked, suddenly very awake.

“This is Hanni’s father.”

Oh.

“…Right,” you said, voice cracking slightly. “Uh, sorry. Wrong—number?”

He didn’t answer.

You hung up. Fast.

The silence afterward was loud.

You dropped your phone face-down on the blanket and just sat there.

You hadn’t heard from Hanni since the call. She’s probably busy. But now you were waiting. Waiting for the moment you’d get hit with it—literally or verbally, you weren’t sure which.

It came the morning later, in the form of a textbook to the head.

"Ow—what the—?" You looked up from your laptop just in time to see Hanni drop her bag on the chair across from you, sliding into the library seat like she had every right to assault someone.

She raised a brow. “Good reflexes.”

You gawked at her. “You threw a book at my head!”

“Anatomy,” she said, like that explained anything. “Figured you needed to study up on nerve endings. Since you clearly don’t have any.”

You rolled your eyes.

“You.”

“Me?”

She leaned in, “Did you—or did you not—call me pretty over the phone?”

You paused. Slowly closed your laptop. “Okay, technically—yes. But—”

“At three in the morning.”

“It was meant to be a joke!”

“To my dad?” she whisper-yelled, eyebrows hitting maximum height.

You cringed. “I didn’t know it was your dad! I thought it was you, obviously. I wouldn’t flirt with a grown man at 3am —I have standards ew what the hell.”

“Do you also have a death wish?”

You tried to smile. She didn’t.

“Okay.”

She sighed like it physically hurt her. “He told my mom. Y/N.”

“They think you’re my girlfriend now.”

Your heart did a weird stutter. “And… you clarified, right?”

She tilted her head. “I tried. I said we’re just friends—you know what my mom said?”

You shook your head.

“She said, ‘It’s okay to be shy about it, Hanni. We think she sounds sweet.’”

Your lip twitched. “Don’t,” she warned. “I’m not!” you said, trying very hard not to smile. “I’m being respectful.” “Respectfully shut up,” she muttered.

You pressed your mouth into a tight line. The corners still betrayed you. “At least they’re not homophobic?” you offered carefully. “Yes. that's amazing dude,” she said, deadpan. “Also not the freaking point.”

You cleared your throat, trying to recompose yourself. “Okay. So... what now?” “They want to meet you.” “Sorry—what?” “Dinner,” she said, like it was a minor inconvenience. “Tomorrow” “Dinner?” “Yes.”

You looked over at her, eyes squinting. “Why’d they even call me in the first place?” “They got suspicious,” she said, pulling a notebook from her bag, “ About me coming home late after our study sessions, so they checked my phone.” You frowned. “That’s lowkey invasive.” “They’re my parents,” she said with a shrug. “I kinda don’t get a say.”

—

“Too slutty.”

You groaned as you returned to the room to pick another set of clothes, tossing the leather jacket onto your friend’s already chaotic bed. You pulled out a plain white button-up and stared at it in the mirror.

“Too boring,” you muttered. “I’m not trying to look like her professor.”

Your phone buzzed on the dresser. It was a text from Hanni “How’s the outfit hunt going?”

“Terribly. Do your parents even like leather? Because that’s all I’ve got here.”

The reply came instantly

“Wear whatever man, Just… don’t look like a felon.”

You rolled your eyes. Easier said than done.

Ryujin peeked her head through the doorway, arms crossed and barely holding back laughter. “You know, for someone who sells weed for a living, you care way too much about impressing her parents.”

“It’s not her. It’s the deal. I eat at family dinner, and in return, she shows up at the party next week. Whatever, we both get what we want.”

Ryujin rolled her eyes but smirked. “This is different. you're too invested-.”

Ignoring her, you grabbed a sweater from your chair, pulling it over your head. “Better?”

Ryujin gave you a once-over and shrugged. “Passable. You look like someone who could… I don’t know, work a nine-to-five.”

“Ha! That’s what I’m going for,” you said, grabbing your sneakers. “’Stable and responsible.’”

As you’re putting on your shoes, Hanni sends a follow-up text: “Are you sure you can pull this off? They’re going to ask questions.”

You replied: “dw I’m great under pressure. Besides, your parents will love me😁👍”

Hanni: “...That’s what I’m afraid of.💔”

“Anyways, head outside, I'm here, blue car.”

You sent a little thumbs up emoji as you hurried out sending a little thanks to Ryujin for letting you borrow her clothes

You squinted down the curb until you spotted the car and jogged toward it.

Sliding into the passenger seat, you turned to Hanniwith  a smirk. "Well? How do i look”

Hanni barely spared you a glance as she pulled out of your driveway. "You look like someone who got lost on the way to their corporate job and ended up selling weed instead."

"Perfect. Thanks."

She let out a deep sigh, gripping the wheel a little tighter. "Just… don’t overdo it, okay? My mom is wayy too excited to meet you, and my dad is already suspicious."

You raised an eyebrow. "Suspicious of what?"

Hanni shot you a deadpan look. "Of me going home late because of you. Of the fact that I suddenly have a ‘girlfriend’ and never mentioned it. Of literally everything. He’s a cop, by the way."

"A cop?"

"Ex-cop. Still terrifying."

You inhaled sharply, resisting the urge to throw yourself out of the moving car. "And you’re telling me this now??"

"Would it have helped?"

You opened your mouth, then shut it. Yeah, probably not.

—

The second you sat down, he leaned forward. “So. How did you two meet?”

Right…Straight into it, then.

You glanced at Hanni. She looked a little caught off guard too, but recovered quickly, her leg brushing against yours under the table.

“Oh,” you said, buying time, “We had a class together. Chem lab. One of those forced group activity things. We got paired up.”

It wasn’t a full lie. 

Her dad nodded slowly. “And you’re taking…?”

“Psych,” you replied.

He didn’t nod nor smile “So, not medicine.”

You smiled anyway. “Nope. I’m more into the mind than the body.”

A pause.

 “And what made you decide on that?”

You hesitated—not because you didn’t know, but because something about the way he looked at you made it feel like your answer might go on something like a permanent record.

“I guess I like… figuring people out,” you said eventually. “Why they do things. Even when it doesn’t make sense. It makes me slower to judge.”

Something shifted in his expression—almost approval. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

Her mom smiled. “That's very thoughtful. Hanni did say you were insightful.”

Your eyes flicked to Hanni. She pretended to focus on pouring water.

Then came the next bullet.

“And how long have you two been… seeing each other?”

There was the briefest hitch in your breath.

Hanni turned to you slightly, mouthing: Say three months.

You nodded, whispered: Got it.

Then turned back to her parents with a bright, and very confident smile.

“A year.”

Hanni’s leg jerked under the table as she kicked you hard, and her dad’s head snapped to look at her—eyebrows raised in silent surprise.

You barely flinched. “Time flies when you’re in love.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet!” her mom gasped. “Hanni’s never brought anyone home before.”

“Seriously? I’m the first?”

That was… surprising. She was literally the most dateable person you’d ever met.

Hanni muttered, half into her napkin, “Unfortunately.”

Her dad didn’t let up. “And how exactly did you and Hanni… get together?”

You grinned. Oh, you had this one ready.

“She chased me.”

Hanni choked on her water. “I—excuse me?”

“Obsessed,” you added. “She kept texting me. Kept showing up wherever I was, super romantic stalker behavior, really.”

Hanni’s dad slowly turned his head to stare at her.

“She’s joking,” Hanni nervously laughed.

“Am I?” you said, winking.

Her dad raised an eyebrow. “Is she?”

You grinned.

Hanni looked like she was considering homicide.

Thankfully, her mom stepped in, placing a gentle hand on her husband's arm. “Oh, I just love young love.”

Then, with a sudden brightness, she perked up. “The roast! I think it’s done. Hanni, dear, would you get it from the oven?”

Hanni stood up like the chair was on fire, shooting you a final don’t fuck this up look before vanishing into the kitchen.

The moment she was gone, silence settled in.

“Y/N.”

Oh no.

You turned back to find her dad watching you—not coldly, but still very much in dad mode.

You straightened your back. “Yes, sir?”

He sighed, rubbed his thumb along the edge of his glass. “I hope I didn’t come off too harsh earlier.”

“She’s never brought anyone home before.” He continued,. “It’s not that I don’t like you. I just—”

“I get it,” you cut in gently. “You love her. You want her safe. You want the best.”

His eyes searched your face for a second, like he was testing if you meant it. Then, finally, a quiet nod.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he added, softer this time. “It’s… nice to see her with someone stable.”

You swallowed.

That part was almost funny.

“Mhm. Yeah.” You forced a small smile. “Though—if I may? Just an opinion.”

He gave a cautious look. “Go on.”

You glanced toward the kitchen, then back. “I think you should let Hanni… be a little more free. She knows what she’s doing. She’s smart. And careful. But she can’t breathe if the leash is too short.”

He didn’t respond right away.

 “...You’re not what I expected.”

You tilted your head. “Is that a good thing?”

“We’ll see.” He smiled.

And from the kitchen came the sound of Hanni yelling “It’s fine, it’s just a little smoke!”

-

“See? I told you I got it,” you said, laughing as you leaned back on your hands.

Hanni groaned, dragging her palms down her face. “That was so embarrassing.”

“They loved me,” you teased, kicking at a loose pebble by your shoe.

She peeked at you through her fingers. “My dad looked like he wanted to run a background check.”

“He probably did.”

Hanni laughed. Briefly. Just a breath of it. Then her hands dropped back to her lap.

And maybe it was the way she went still for a second that made the next words come out the way they did.

“So… about the party?”

You meant it light—casual. But the air changed the second it left your mouth.

“Right,” she said, not looking at you. “The party.”

You didn’t press.

A breeze passed by, brushing her hair against her cheek. She exhaled.

“I… don’t think I can go.”

You paused. You kept the smile, but it felt wrong now—stiff at the corners.

“Oh,” you said. Tried to keep your voice from dipping. “Why not?”

“I know I said I would,” she added quickly. “And I meant it. I did. It’s just…”

Her eyes dropped to a chipped patch of wood near her feet. The porch creaked faintly as she shifted.

“Something came up?” you offered.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

You don’t believe her. Not fully. But you don’t push either. You just watch her thumb run over the same corner of fabric again and again, like maybe she thinks she can rub the moment away if she tries hard enough.

“I mean,” you said gently, “you don’t have to stay long. You can come late, leave early. I’ll walk you in. I’ll walk you out. Whatever makes it easier.”

She doesn’t look at you.

There’s this beat where it feels like something invisible’s pressing in around your chest.

“Why are you pushing this so much?” 

You blinked.

“…What?”

She turned toward you a little, brows drawn but not angry. Just… searching.

“What’s in it for you?” she asked.

You blinked again, slower this time. The porch creaked faintly under your shifting weight.

“What do you mean?”

“This. All of this.” Her voice didn’t rise, but something in it curled tight. “Why do you want me at this party so bad?”

You straightened a little, suddenly aware of how your hands were resting in your lap, your thumb rubbing over the side of your palm like a nervous tic.

“Because I want you there,” you say, trying to keep your voice even. “Is that weird?”

She didn’t answer.

You kept going, “Do I need a reason to want to hang out with you? I thought that was kind of the point.”

Still, nothing.

You fumble for something else. Anything. “I just thought… I don’t know. It’d be nice. If you were there.”

And for a second, you think she softens.

But it’s not toward you. It’s not the kind of soft that says maybe she’s changing her mind. It’s like she already has.

She stands up. Slowly. Like she’s waiting to see if you’ll say something that changes the moment.

You don’t.

“I should go,” she says, quieter than before.

“Hanni—”

She turns, and the porch creaks. The door groans a little as you wait for the slam.

But it doesn’t come. 

She closes it softly.

—

The clock blinked 12:00 in that soft, judgmental way only digital clocks can—like it wasn’t just keeping time but reminding her that she was still here, still stuck, still on the same page of the same notebook she’d been staring at since the sky was pink.

The page in front of her was a mess—ink smudges, arrows drawn and redrawn until they tore the paper, chemical formulas that no longer made sense under the dim light of her desk lamp, and at the very bottom of the page, almost invisible, a small dot where her pen had rested too long.

She let her head fall forward with a soft thud against the desk, cheek pressed to her open notes, breathing in that dry-paper scent, that weird combination of ink and highlighter and the faint, lingering smell of the strawberry lotion she applied earlier that day just to feel a little more like a person and a little less like a panic machine.

Was she being too much?

Too guarded, too reactive, too quick to assume the worst of someone who’d—God—looked at her like she mattered? Someone who'd laughed like she was easy to love and touched her guitar with careful hands and eyes full of awe, not like it was an instrument, but like it was an extension of her? 

She didn't know. And she hated not knowing.

Uncertainty was an itch she couldn’t scratch. It crawled under her skin, filled the silence in her chest, made her legs bounce and her throat tighten and her hand reach, again and again, for the only thing that had ever calmed her down when her thoughts grew too loud.

The guitar was resting by the bed, just where she'd left it that morning, leaned against the wall like it had been waiting for her. It always waited.

She picked it up carefully, fingers brushing over the frets.

She tried to strum—just a chord, anything, but her hands didn’t want to move the way they usually did, and her brain wasn’t offering her the usual pour of melodies. It just gave her you.

You, watching her play with your chin in your palm and your eyes too bright for the dim room. You, nodding to her rhythm like it was something sacred. You, the soft exhale of breath after the last note, like you’d been holding it the whole time.

You, handing her a bunny bandage after she pricked her finger on a snapped string

And suddenly, even the strings didn’t sound right, God—even music had too much of you in it.

She sighed and placed the guitar back down, careful not to let it clatter. She’d scratched it once, two years ago, on the leg of her desk, and it still made her stomach flip every time she saw that shallow scar on the side—because she remembered crying after, like it was a person she’d hurt. Like it had feelings.

She sat on the bed for a while, not doing anything.

Her phone was beside her, lit up with unread messages. The one from earlier still sat there, unopened from an anonymous number.

“You really think she’s not playing you?”

She hadn’t responded. She didn’t know if she wanted to.

Should she show you? Should she say sorry for how quick she’d pulled away, for the look she’d given you when you asked about the party, like you were offering a trap and not a night to be near her?

She didn’t know. And she hated that, too.

The competition was in a week. She needed to study. Needed to focus. No distractions, no parties, no goddamn feelings.

And yet here she was, letting her whole night warp around someone’s stupid laugh and someone’s stupid stammer and someone’s stupid eyes that didn’t know how to lie. 

Ironic, really. You’re a psych major.

You should’ve been better at lying.

She turned her head toward the shelf by the corner of the room, eyes falling on a pink party hat, that had crinkled at the edges and had tiny stars glued to it by a child’s hand.

It had dust on the tip.

She hadn’t touched it in years.

Minji’s birthday. That’s where it was from. She remembered the park, the cake, Minji’s mom tying the hat ribbon too tight under her chin, making her sound like a squeaky toy when she laughed.

And she remembered a kid.

A kid, just like her, who wandered a little too far from the picnic table and got bitten by a cat that didn’t want to be touched. She didn’t cry, though. Just sat there, hand pressed to her other bitten hand.

She had a Hello Kitty bag that day, full of nothing useful—stickers, crayons, a couple of mints she wasn’t supposed to eat—but she did have a Band-Aid. She remembers holding it in her hand, about to walk toward the kid.

And then the rain came down like the sky had decided to interfere, and Minji’s mom pulled her back toward the car, and the Band-Aid never made it past her fist.

She remembered watching through the foggy car window as the girl sat under the slide, ankle swelling, rain soaking the top of her head like she didn’t even notice.

And she remembered how, even then, she thought—I want to be like her.

The kid with the brave face and the quiet mouth and the line of medals that came later. Hanni clapped from her seat while you stood on the stage. 

And then one day, she was gone. Disappeared between semesters like the girl were never there to begin with.

She remembered checking the park that summer. Looking for something familiar. But all she found was an orange cat curled up in the tunnel. Waiting, like it had been left behind, too.

Waiting for what?

She still didn’t know.

Like how she didn’t know whether to risk it.

Fine.

She’ll go to the stupid party.

---------------

a/n: if you made it to the end—WOWWIEE. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING I LOVE YOU. LET’S KISS.

alsooo if you’ve seen any of my unfinished series or smau lurking around… pls be fr… what do you wanna see continued 😭🙏 drop it in the replies or inbox pls i am weak for feedback ily fr tee hee

10 likes and i wont do my school works

taglist: @keiji-jin @strangercat @hazel-tanthamore22 @yjiminswallet @idkwhatim-doinghere101 @Mj.Db @frankzz9 @hydrardz @arihiu @jkwsel @saysirhc @somedaydream @peranoo @syronns @angiisss @nnewjeansstuff @nishi-riki @imsogay504 @wintersgff @sh1ba100 @tashasmywife @Takuhg @groundedfr @wanderer.inc

[jaitunapie]

can someone recommend me some Katseye angst fics pls i need to sob uncontrollably rn

[jaitunapie]

𝖇aller ⸝⸝ 𓂃₊ ⊹

⋆˙⟡ — non idol!haerin x fem!reader

♯ 𝖘ynopsis : you weren’t really interested in basketball, even though your best friend was the star player. but, you got dragged to one game and now you’ve somehow ended up stuck between a sketchbook and a shy basketball player who doesn’t know how to flirt back.

𝖈ontains : just a whole lotta fluff, baller!haerin, artsy!reader, minji the matchmaker, also minji being a real flirtatious friend, jealous haerin(?), shes js confused, idk she also js doesnt want to homewreck, except it was js all a misunderstanding

𝖜ord 𝖈ount : 6.9k

𝖆uthor's 𝖓ote : this is js a short lil fluff one shot as an apology for that angst spidey!r fic 😓😓and also cuz the idea has been in the corner of my mind for like a while now! i was gonna draw haerin for this fic too but then i forgot im rlly ass cheeks at realism and also traditional art...... this is like also js a quick midnight whip up so ya FIRE

the buzzer screamed like something feral, sharp and electric in your ears.

you flinched—only a little—clutching your sketchbook tighter against your ribs as a blur of jerseys exploded onto the court. sneakers squeaked in wild rhythm, like they were trying to beatbox, like they had something urgent to say and no time to say it. the ball bounced sharp and fast, like a second heartbeat you could feel in your teeth.

you didn’t know the rules. couldn’t name a single play. but still—you liked the chaos. liked the movement, the noise, the electricity of it all. it was loud, sure, but it was alive.

and there was minji, right in the center of it, grinning like she had the whole damn game wrapped around her finger.

you snorted. of course she was thriving.

her ponytail cracked behind her like a whip as she darted past someone twice her size and made a shot that sent the crowd into an explosion of cheers. she turned as she jogged back, pointed directly at you, and winked.

show-off.

“you better cheer for me,” she had told you earlier, arm slung lazily over your shoulder. “i’ll be watching.”

“why would i cheer for you?” you’d asked with a smirk. “you’re not even my favorite player.”

her jaw had dropped. “rude. disrespectful. hurtful.”

“and yet,” you’d said, flipping a pencil behind your ear, “you’ll still buy me a slushie after you win.”

“...i hate how well you know me.”

you didn’t care much about the sport. that hadn’t changed. but you came because minji asked, and because she was your friend—your irritating, dramatic, endlessly flirty best friend who you matched beat for beat. your banter was practically its own sport.

you found a seat near the back of the bleachers, where the noise felt like it was buzzing just beneath your skin. people shouted and whooped around you, but you weren’t watching them.

you cracked open your sketchbook, flipping past familiar doodles and half-finished pieces. maybe you’d draw the ceiling. maybe some rando in the front row. maybe you’d just watch minji and roast her later.

and then—you saw her.

number fifteen.

you didn’t know her name, but it didn’t matter. she was the kind of girl you noticed right away. not because she wanted you to—she didn’t strut or smile or perform for the crowd. no, she moved like she didn’t care who was watching. like her thoughts were three steps ahead of everyone else on the court.

she wasn’t flashy, not like minji. she didn’t smile much. didn’t even talk, from what you could tell. she moved with this sharp, quiet precision that made you lean forward, made your fingers twitch toward your pencil.

she was... cool. not the curated, instagram kind. the accidental kind. the kind that just was.

smoke, you thought. that’s what she was. not fire like minji—smoke. calm and clever and a little bit dangerous.

you stared. and then you started sketching.

your pencil moved fast, carving out the slope of her shoulders, the line of her arms as she jumped. you caught the way her hair slipped loose from her ponytail, how it curled damp against her forehead. you sketched the look on her face—concentrated, unreadable.

god. she didn’t even know she was captivating. that was the worst part.

you leaned back a little, tapping your pencil to your lip, grinning to yourself.

minji made another shot and pointed at you again, her grin bright and smug.

you pointed your pencil back at her, raised your brows, and mouthed, “mid.”

she gasped like she’d been physically wounded and nearly tripped over her own feet trying to yell at you.

you laughed, turned the page slightly, and went right back to sketching number fifteen.

you drew her over and over—her reaching, her landing, her turning with barely-there glances. you didn’t even know what position she played. you just knew she made the court look like a stage.

and you liked her better than the game.

by the time the final buzzer rang, your sketch was nearly done. rough, fast, but good. and it felt like her. sharp edges. soft shadows. something untouchable, but real. something that made you feel like you knew her a little—even though you didn’t.

not yet.

the team huddled together on the court, shouting and laughing and slapping each other’s backs. minji blew you a kiss. you caught it with exaggerated flair and stuck your tongue out.

she motioned for you to come down.

you hesitated—just long enough to glance at the sketch in your lap. then you stood.

sketchbook in hand, smirk on your face.

you didn’t just walk toward the court.

you stalked toward something you already knew you wanted to claim.

you made your way down the bleachers with easy steps, sketchbook hugged to your chest like it was carrying something holy. the crowd buzzed around you, warm with leftover excitement, the court still echoing with stomps and laughter.

minji spotted you the second your foot hit the gym floor. her smile stretched wide—too wide, like she was planning something.

“look who came running down to see me,” she purred, pressing her cheek dramatically against yours. “can’t stay away, huh?”

you rolled your eyes but leaned into it, your smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “you’re literally sweating all over me.”

“aw, i knew you liked it.”

you snorted, elbowed her gently in the ribs. “down, casanova.”

from across the court, number fifteen was watching. not openly. not obviously. but her gaze flicked toward you and lingered. just for a moment. long enough to notice how close you and minji were standing. long enough for her to blink and look away like she hadn’t been staring at all.

your eyes followed her as she leaned down to grab a water bottle, her movements quiet and neat. she didn’t speak to anyone. just sat, elbows on her knees, eyes on the floor.

“hey,” you murmured, still watching. “what’s number fifteen’s name?”

minji raised a brow. “asking for a friend?”

“sure,” you said dryly, “a very attractive, extremely talented, devilishly charming friend.”

she cackled, loud and wicked, tightening her arm around your shoulders. “you’ve got a little crush, huh?”

you tilted your head, smirking. “you jealous?”

her mouth dropped open. “you—no! i mean—wait, why does that actually hurt a little—”

“you flirt with everyone, min. it’s bound to catch up to you eventually.”

“okay, rude.”

you both laughed, easy and unbothered, wrapped in the kind of closeness that came from years of teasing each other into the dirt and calling it love.

minji finally nodded toward haerin. “her name’s haerin. she’s kinda... judging-cat energy.”

“judging-cat energy,” you repeated. “you’re just saying that because she hasn’t smiled at you.”

“no, seriously. she’s super quiet. barely talks. always has this blank little face like she’s judging everyone. but once she gets used to you...” she trailed off, thoughtful. “she’s actually really nice. in a weird, ‘i’ll sit beside you in complete silence and somehow it’s comforting’ kind of way.”

you looked back at haerin.

yeah. that sounded about right.

“she’s not anything like me,” minji quickly addded

“thank god.”

“hey!”

you grinned.

“want me to play matchmaker?” she offered, nudging you gently. “i could go full cupid. set the scene. light a candle. fake a sprained ankle, make her carry you to the nurse’s office.”

“no, don’t worry about it min,” you said, slowly. “i got this.”

she blinked. “oh?”

“i mean, come on.” you wiggled your brows. “look at me.”

“unfortunately.”

you stuck your tongue out at her and pulled away, your sketchbook tucked under your arm. your fingers were buzzing. not from nerves, exactly—more like anticipation. you weren’t the type to hold back when something felt right. and haerin, quiet and unbothered and ridiculously beautiful in the way an overcast sky is beautiful, felt like something worth chasing.

you stopped in front of her, just a few feet away. she looked up, eyes slow and steady, sweat-damp hair clinging to her temple.

“hey,” you said, voice light but sure.

haerin blinked. “…hi.”

“you were really good out there,” you said, nodding toward the court. “you play like it’s easy.”

a pause.

she tilted her head like she hadn’t quite heard you right. she sort of looked like a cat hearing a strange sound. her brows drew together just the tiniest bit. she pointed to herself with a questioning glance. 

“…me?”

you bit back a smile. “well, yes. you.”

her ears went a little red. it was cute.

and then you opened your sketchbook and turned it around so she could see.

haerin stared.

her eyes flicked over the page—over herself, sketched in movement, caught mid-jump, mid-breath, mid-magic. your pencil had caught the furrow in her brow, the way her fingers curved, the exact way her ponytail swayed behind her. it was rough. rushed. but it was her.

“you—” she said, and then stopped.

you raised a brow. “what? don’t like it?”

“no!” her voice pitched higher than she meant it to, and she winced. “i mean. yes. i mean—” she coughed. and then—very softly, very awkwardly—she said, “you… did this? for me?”

“yes, for you,” you said, like it was obvious. because it was.

she looked down again, blinking rapidly. her ears were pink. her entire posture had shifted—smaller now, somehow, like she didn’t know what to do with her limbs. she rubbed the back of her neck. tried and failed to speak again. finally settled on—

“…cool.”

you laughed, flipping the sketchbook back around. “you’re terrible at flirting.”

she looked personally offended. “i wasn’t flirting.”

“exactly.”

she opened her mouth, then closed it again, fidgeting with the hem of her shorts.

you scribbled something quickly on the bottom corner of the page, tore the drawing from your sketchbook, and held it out to her.

“here,” you said. “keep it.”

she reached out like she thought it might vanish if she moved too fast. her fingers brushed yours. they were warm and a little shaky.

before she could say anything else—before her brain could short-circuit—you were already walking away, your grin hidden beneath the swing of your hair.

haerin looked down at the drawing again.

and there, scribbled in your quick, looping handwriting at the bottom corner:

text me sometime. xxx-xxx-xxxx.

her fingers curled around the paper, her heart stumbling somewhere stupid in her chest.

haerin hadn’t let go of the drawing all night.

she took it home carefully, like it might crumble if the wind touched it wrong. she didn’t fold it. didn’t dare roll it. she held it flat against her chest on the bus ride home, fingers curled tight around the paper’s edges, heart thudding like a loose drum in a quiet room.

it wasn’t just good. it wasn’t just flattering.

it was… seen.

the kind of seen that made her throat close up a little, like maybe someone had figured her out. the way you sketched her—quiet but alert, all elbows and sharp turns, the way she melted into the game without saying a word—it felt like you knew. like you’d been watching with something other than your eyes.

and there, at the bottom, your number.

she stared at it like it was a dare.

that night, after everyone else in her house had gone to sleep, haerin lay on her stomach with the drawing beside her and her phone in her hand. her room was dark but soft, a tiny lamp glowing in the corner. 

she opened her contacts. stared at the empty “name” field.

she hesitated. then typed: 

art girl

and below it, your number—just sitting there, glowing softly in her dark room.

her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. she typed:

hi. it’s haerin :)

then deleted it. then typed it again. then stared at it like it might bite.

she didn’t want to send it. not yet. not until she was sure.

she thought about your smile. the way you looked at her when you said, you’re really pretty and play well. the sketch. the soft curve of your laugh. and then—

then she thought about minji.

she thought of you laughing with minji. that casual, familiar way you leaned into her. the playful smirk she gave you. the hand around your waist. the banter that felt easy and built on something old.

haerin’s stomach twisted.

she couldn’t do that. couldn’t throw herself between something that looked like love—even if it wasn’t love. 

minji was her friend. one of the few who understood the rhythm of basketball, who stuck around even when haerin didn’t talk much. minji had defended her in practice when someone called her a ghost. had looped an arm around her once and said, you don’t gotta talk. just ball.

haerin would never try to mess with that. not even for you.

so she deleted the text. shoved her phone under her pillow and closed her eyes like that would quiet her heart.

the next game came faster than she expected.

you were there. you were always there now, like something warm and steady. sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil dancing in your fingers. she caught sight of you once—only once—but it sent her pulse into overdrive.

so she didn’t look again. didn’t wave. didn’t smile.

not until she could be sure. not until she could ask.

and after the game, when you lingered by the edge of the court, eyes scanning the sea of jerseys, she slipped past the benches and vanished into the locker room like a ghost.

but minji? minji was already watching.

she found haerin five minutes later, crouched by the water fountain like she might disappear into the floor tiles if she stayed still enough.

“okay,” minji said, voice light but dangerous. “what was that?”

haerin blinked at her. “what?”

“don’t play dumb with me. y/n was waiting. you saw her. you did that little pretend-you-didn’t-see-anything shuffle you always do when you panic.”

haerin frowned. “i didn’t panic.”

“right,” minji said, leaning against the wall like she had all day. “and i’m not devastatingly hot.”

“you’re not,” haerin mumbled.

minji gasped. “how dare you. slander.”

haerin cracked a small smile but looked away.

minji narrowed her eyes. “seriously though, what’s up with you? you’ve been all squirrelly since last game.”

haerin stiffened. “no i haven’t.” 

“...okay,” minji said, folding her arms. “then why’d you run off after the game? y/n was looking for you.” 

haerin blinked. looked away. 

minji tilted her head. “wait—are you ignoring her?” 

“i’m not ignoring her,” haerin said quickly. “i just—i thought you two were… y’know. together.” a pause.

minji stared at her. blinked. then burst out laughing—loud and delighted, like this was the funniest thing she’d heard all week.

“oh my god,” she wheezed. “me? and y/n?”

haerin looked down. “…you’re close.”

“we’re always like that, because she’s my best friend. we flirt for fun. it's a bit—a hobby. it’s called performance art.”

haerin’s face was burning. “i just thought…”

“you really thought i’d keep flirting with other girls if we were dating?” minji made a dramatic face. “y/n would murder me. no trial. straight to jail.”

haerin tried to look casual, failed spectacularly. “…i wasn’t sure.”

“you thought i was gonna be like, ‘hey haerin, nice drawing you got from my girlfriend’?” minji said, nearly doubled over from laughing. “god, you’re so tragic.”

haerin rubbed the back of her neck, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor like it held the secrets of the universe. “i just didn’t want to mess anything up.”

“haerin,” minji said, gently this time. she nudged her shoulder. “you’re not messing anything up. if anything, you’ve been ghosting someone who clearly likes you. that’s the real crime.”

haerin winced. “i didn’t mean to ghost. i just… panicked.”

minji hummed. “you panic a lot, huh?”

“only when people draw me like i’m something worth looking at.”

that made minji pause. her teasing softened into something warmer.

“well, maybe she sees something you don’t.”

haerin shrugged. “she doesn’t even know me.”

“okay, but she saw you on the court and drew you like it mattered. you know how rare that is? that’s not ‘just flirting.’ that’s something.”

haerin didn’t respond. her heart was pounding too loud. she thought about how carefully you’d held your sketchbook, how your eyes tracked every movement like you were learning a new language.

“to think y/n could pull,” minji said, grinning widely. “this is really adorable. were you jealous of me?”

“no,” haerin muttered. “just… confused.”

“well, it’s time to get un-confused,” minji said, clapping her on the shoulder. 

and then haerin said, very quietly, “well, i saved her number.”

“oh?” minji perked up like a cat catching movement. “what’s she saved as?”

haerin mumbled it into her hoodie.

“what was that?” minji leaned in, grinning like the gremlin she was. “say it louder, rinnie.”

“…art girl,” haerin muttered, ears bright red.

minji made a loud, delighted noise. “you’re so done for. this is perfect.”

haerin let out a little laugh, half shy and half suffering. “i’m not good at this.”

“you don’t have to be,” minji said. “she likes bold, yeah, but she also likes sincere. just be awkward and real. it’s cute.”

haerin side-eyed her. “you sure?”

“haerin,” minji said, deadpan. “she gave you her number. me, she gave an eye-roll and a sarcastic thumbs up. trust me, you’re winning.”

haerin thought about the way your fingers danced when you talked. the way you’d looked at her, not just like she was interesting—but like you already knew the shape of her. like you’d memorised it.

“…okay,” she said, voice small but firm. “okay. maybe i’ll text her.”

minji beamed. “that’s the spirit.”

haerin glanced down at her phone again, thumb hovering just above your contact. the name still read art girl, and she smiled despite herself.

she didn’t text you that night.

but the drawing was still taped up on her mirror, right where the sunrise would hit it. and this time, she didn’t look away.

three days had passed. no text. no “thank you.” no “hi.” not even a single emoji.

you told yourself it was fine. 

people get drawings all the time. people forget. people get busy.

maybe she’d lost your number. maybe her phone was broken. maybe—god—for all you knew, she was on a secret government mission and couldn’t risk communication. you laughed at that one, but it came out hollow.

but you were trying hard not to lose it.

your sketchbook stayed open on your desk. the page you’d drawn her on was long gone, but your fingers kept tracing shapes that looked like her. cat eyes. soft hair. shoulders that curved inward like she was always listening to something the world couldn’t hear.

maybe she hated it. maybe she laughed. maybe she threw it away the moment you walked off.

you tried to convince yourself it didn’t matter.

but it did.

your phone sat beside you, screen off, but it felt loud in the silence.

you tried to read. tried to draw. tried to nap. nothing stuck.

finally, with a dramatic sigh, you threw yourself down next to minji on the floor of her room and groaned into her pillow.

“what now,” she said, not even looking up from her phone.

you rolled over, face smushed. “she hasn’t texted me.”

minji paused. looked down at you. then dropped her phone and flopped backwards like someone had shot her in the chest. “oh my god. again with this.”

“i’m being ghosted, minji.”

“you are not being ghosted,” she said, eyes closed. "well, not really.”

“she’s shy, okay?” she continued. “she probably stared at your number for an hour and panicked.”

“she didn’t have to panic,” you muttered, flopping beside her. “i literally handed her a compliment on paper.”

minji peeked one eye open. “...you’re spiraling, huh?”

“a little,” you mumbled. “maybe a lot.”

“dude,” minji said, patting your arm like you were on your deathbed, “haerin thought you and i were dating. she’s emotionally constipated. give her a sec.”

you blinked. “wait. she thought we were—”

“yes,” minji said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “apparently i’m so charming that our friendship reads as romantic. tragic, really.”

you snorted. “we do flirt a lot.”

“we flirt like siblings,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “which makes her confusion even funnier.”

you didn’t answer, just stared up at the ceiling.

minji sat up, grabbing her phone again. “she likes you, you know.”

you sighed. “how do you know?”

“because she saved you in her contacts as art girl.”

you turned to look at her in utter disbelief. “what?”

“oops,” minji grinned. “was i not supposed to tell you that?”

before you could respond, your phone buzzed beside you.

your heart stopped.

you stared at the screen like it might disappear if you breathed too hard.

unknown numberhey it’s haerin i liked the drawing and the compliment

you sat straight up, heart punching your ribs from the inside.

you reread the message five times. and then again. it was short. simple. but somehow, it made your chest feel like it had bloomed.

minji peeked at your face. “...did she finally text?”

you nodded slowly.

minji threw a hand in the air like she’d won the lottery. “hallelujah.”

and that’s how it started.

just some quiet messages on a thursday night.

art girl ure welcome! i meant everything i said btw u played really well last game too. haerin thank you i was nervous i didn’t see you after the game. art girl yeah…. cuz u disappeared. haerin oh. yeah.. i panicked.

you both laughed about it—digitally, awkward little “lol”s that somehow felt real.

and then the days kept moving, but slower now. gentler.

the texts trickled in like rain on windowpanes.

you talked in the quiet hours, when everything felt softer and words came easier. she once asked if you always sketched during games. you told her you only drew what caught your eye.

she didn’t say anything to that for a few minutes. and then—

haerin oh. thank you.

you started sending her your drawings. not just of her, but little things too—crumpled shoes, soft sunsets, a half-drawn cat in a box.

she sent back songs. calming piano pieces, sleepy vocals. sometimes she sent blurry photos of her actual cat, who always looked like he hated her.

haerin he loves me he just doesn’t know how to show it art girl relatable

one night, just past midnight, she sent a picture of your sketch. taped neatly to the corner of a mirror, edges curling just a little.

haerin i put the drawing on my wallit catches the morning light

you didn’t know what to say to that so you sent a little heart. just one.

and she sent one back.

neither of you said it. not out loud. not yet. but it was there—in the way she asked how your day went, in the way you sent a picture of your chipped pencil and said it was her fault.

art girl breaking pencils over you smh haerin sorry :( should i buy you new ones? art girl only if u walk into the art store like “which pencil says i like a girl but i’m also painfully awkward” haerin oh… i think that one might be sold out

you smiled into your pillow. everything about her made you feel like you were drawing in the margins of something bigger.

then, one quiet afternoon, your phone lit up with a new one.

haerin there’s a game friday you know… if you wanna come no pressure

as if you hadn’t been at every game since the first.

you grinned.

art girl yeah. i’d love to.

and maybe you were imagining it—but you could almost feel her smile through the screen.

the gym felt louder this time.

maybe it was the crowd, packed tighter than usual, voices bouncing off the walls like thunder. maybe it was the pep band, snare drums rattling through your ribs. maybe it was just your heart, thudding steady and stupid in your ears.

you stood near the bleachers, sketchbook tucked under your arm like a shield, trying not to fidget. the air smelled like polished floors and sweat and sugar from the concession stand. it buzzed with something electric.

and then you saw her.

haerin, already in uniform—shoulders squared, ponytail swaying as she jogged across the court. her jersey was a little too big, hanging loose over her frame, but she moved like it didn’t matter. like the fabric belonged to her. like the court was hers too.

you raised a hand in a small wave.

she glanced up.

and her eyes caught yours.

for a second, she froze.

you smiled, unsure, and lifted your hand again—smaller this time, soft at the wrist, like you were saying hi without trying to startle a bird.

and then—slowly, almost shyly—she smiled back.

it was small. but it was real. and it hit you like a ripple in still water.

next to her, minji caught it. saw the whole thing. she elbowed haerin hard in the ribs, grinning wide. haerin stumbled, scowled, and shoved her back with a face pink enough to match the team’s colors. minji winked. haerin rolled her eyes like she regretted everything.

and then the whistle blew.

the game began.

haerin moved the way she always did—quiet but commanding, like her body knew the choreography and her mind was already three steps ahead. she cut across the court, passed sharp, pivoted like gravity couldn’t quite catch her.

but tonight… there was something different. there was something new in the way she drove toward the basket, the way her eyes flicked to the stands just before each shot. a quiet urgency. like she was trying to say something without words.

because you were there. and she knew it.

when the final buzzer rang and her team took the win, the gym erupted—cheers rising like fireworks, stomps shaking the bleachers. players swarmed each other, arms thrown over shoulders, sweat-slicked and glowing.

but haerin didn’t linger.

she ran a towel over the back of her neck, nodded once at something minji said, and then slipped away toward the locker room with her head down and heart racing.

you waited outside the hallway, just a little past the “authorised personnel only” sign, pretending you weren’t pacing. the sketchbook was still against your chest. your palms were damp.

you told yourself it was no big deal. but your hands said otherwise.

when haerin finally appeared, she looked like she hadn’t expected you to still be there.

her hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends. her face flushed from the game. jersey half-off, draped over one shoulder. her expression flickered from surprise to something softer—nervous, maybe.

“hey,” you said first, voice quiet. “you were amazing.”

haerin smiled, breathing still a little shaky. “thanks.”

the hallway was warm and a little too quiet. you could hear the muffled echo of the team celebrating in the locker room behind her. but here, between you two, the air felt fragile. like glass.

she looked at you for a long moment.

really looked.

and in that moment, it felt like she was memorising something. the set of your mouth, the line of your shoulders, the way your fingers curled around your sketchbook like it held your whole heart inside.

“i’m… really glad you came,” she said finally. “and, um. thanks again. for the drawing. and the texts. and everything.”

you tilted your head slightly. “you don’t have to keep thanking me.”

“i know,” she murmured, looking down. “i just don’t know what else to say.”

you smiled, gentle and sure. “you could say yes.”

her eyes flicked up. brows furrowed. “to what?”

you lifted the sketchbook slightly. your fingers brushed the corner. “to letting me draw you again. maybe not during a game this time.”

haerin blinked. her breath caught just a little.

“somewhere quieter,” you added, careful. “maybe… over coffee?”

her ears went pink instantly. her hands tensed like she’d been bracing for something—like maybe she thought you’d ask for too much or see too much—and instead landed in something soft. something good.

she looked down, laughing once under her breath, shy and disbelieving. then she looked up again, steadier this time.

“yeah,” she said. “you can draw me again.”

you stepped just a little closer, not too much, and your fingers brushed hers—barely there. not a grab, not a hold. just a hello in skin.

neither of you moved away.

and in the soft space between your hand and hers, in the hallway full of fluorescent light and leftover noise, it didn’t matter that you didn’t know what came next.

it only mattered that she’d said yes.

you met at a little coffee shop tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore. the kind of place that felt like it had always been there—weathered signs, chipped mugs, chairs that wobbled just enough to be endearing. it smelled like cinnamon, warm bread, and steamed milk, like someone had bottled up a rainy day and left it there to steep.

a bell jingled overhead when you walked in, soft and cheerful. the barista behind the counter had sleepy eyes and too many pins on her apron—tiny frogs, tiny ghosts, a crooked heart that said “meh.” she barely looked up from the register, but the music playing low through the speakers—some lo-fi beat wrapped in jazz—seemed to greet you anyway.

and there was haerin.

she was standing awkwardly near the pick-up counter, holding two drinks with both hands like they might slip right through her fingers. her hoodie was slightly too big, her hair pulled back but already falling loose, and her eyes darted from her shoes to the menu to the people behind her, like she was trying to be invisible in plain sight.

your heart did something soft.

you walked over, easy steps, and took the drink from her gently.

“you remembered my order,” you said, a little impressed, a little surprised.

haerin blinked at you like she hadn’t expected you to speak. “you texted it to me.”

you grinned. “still counts.”

she blushed, lips twitching, and you could feel the nervous energy coming off her like heat on asphalt. jittery, warm, a little messy. you didn’t mind. you just nodded toward the small corner table by the window, half-lit by the pale afternoon sun.

“come on,” you said, soft and certain. “i’ve got a new sketchbook.”

she followed with the hesitant shuffle of someone walking across a floor they weren’t sure would hold. like every step might be too loud, too much. you didn’t look back—you just knew she was there by the quiet footsteps, the awkward hover before she sat down.

the drinks sat untouched for a while.

she fiddled with the sleeve of her hoodie. picked at a thread. the collar was crooked. her shoulders were tense.

you flipped open your sketchbook, pencil already in hand, and glanced at her.

“you okay?” you asked, voice low, light.

haerin sat up straighter too quickly. “yeah,” she said. “just. nervous.”

you tilted your head, pencil pausing mid-air. “why?”

she stared at you like you’d asked her to solve world peace in five seconds.

“you’re…” she gestured vaguely in your direction, hands fluttering and then falling. “you’re, like… cool.”

you blinked. then laughed, loud and real.

“cool?”

“yeah,” she mumbled, looking away. “like, you’re good at talking. and drawing. and existing.”

you smiled, sharp and amused. “you’re good at basketball. and looking like a stray cat that wandered into gym class.”

her head whipped toward you. “is that a compliment?”

“yeah,” you said, smirking. “it is.”

she blinked slowly, lips parting like she had something clever to say back. you could see it—her brain pulling a sentence together, lining up the words like bricks, getting ready to build some kind of reply.

“you’re…” she started. then stopped. then tried again. “you have… really nice hands.”

you glanced down at your own hands, then back at her.

“…thank you?” you offered, unsure if that was meant to be flirting or a medical observation.

“for drawing,” she added quickly. “because of how they… you know. move.”

you stared at her.

“you’re horrible at this,” you said gently.

“i know,” she groaned, and dropped her face into her hands. her ears were red. she peeked at you through her fingers like a kid playing hide and seek.

you laughed, already sketching.

it didn’t take long—just a few quick lines, a soft curve for her shoulders, the way her hands pressed against her face, the slouch of someone wishing for invisibility but too cute to disappear.

you turned the sketchbook so she could see.

haerin peeked again. stared. groaned louder. “oh my god.”

“you’re cute when you panic,” you said simply.

“you’re evil.”

you just smiled, tilting your head. “you came anyway. even though you were nervous.”

she peeked again—smiled too, small and crooked like a cracked window letting sunlight through. “yeah. i did. of course i did”

and you kept sketching.

she took a sip of her drink finally, holding it with both hands like it might fly away. her fingers tapped the side of the cup. she talked a little more when she forgot to be afraid. asked you about your art. laughed—soft and surprised—when you made some dumb joke about baristas being underpaid therapists.

you caught her staring once, then again. both times, she looked away so fast it was like her eyes had slipped without asking. but you didn’t call her out. you just smiled into your cup. kept drawing.

once, your knees bumped under the table and neither of you moved away. the space between you stayed close, like an almost-touch waiting to happen.

maybe nothing else needed to happen yet. not a kiss. not a confession.

just this.

two drinks gone warm. a sketchbook half-filled. quiet laughter. a clumsy compliment hanging in the air like a balloon.

she was here. and so were you. and something soft was blooming between you—slow and awkward and bright as spring.

and it felt, gently, like the start of something good.

the gym smelled like sweat, floor polish, and popcorn again.

it was the same as it had been that first time—same buzz in the air, same thunder of sneakers against hardwood, same too-loud whistle that made everyone flinch. the drums pounded steady in the corner, and the crowd moved like one big animal—roaring, clapping, jumping to its feet.

but it all felt different now.

because haerin was down there and you were here. and she kept looking up at you.

you sat in your usual spot near the bleachers, sketchbook open, pencil resting loose in your fingers. you hadn’t drawn anything yet. you were too busy watching her. not like before, not in that tentative, curious way. now it was more like you couldn’t look away.

haerin was not subtle. not even a little. every time the game slowed, every time the ball was passed to someone else, her eyes flicked up to the stands—searching, landing, softening.

and you were always there, smiling back.

once, you caught her mid-stare and raised your brows. she startled like she’d been caught doing something scandalous. turned bright red. nearly tripped over her own feet trying to look casual.

it was hopeless. she was hopeless.

minji caught the whole thing—every lingering glance, every soft little smile.

she didn’t even slow down as she passed behind haerin, just clapped a hand on her back and muttered, “maybe try blinking before you sprain your neck, lover girl.”

haerin stiffened.

“this is a basketball court, not a rom-com!” minji called over her shoulder, spinning just long enough to shoot haerin a grin that was all teeth and trouble.

haerin looked like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

you, however, laughed so hard your pencil slipped and left a crooked little scar across the page. you didn’t even try to fix it.

they won, of course. haerin always played like her heart was on fire when you were watching.

and this time, when the final buzzer echoed through the gym and the team piled onto each other in a messy, cheering knot—haerin didn’t run off toward the locker rooms.

she jogged straight toward you.

her cheeks were flushed, jersey clinging to her skin, hair a little wild from the game. she looked like she’d sprinted the whole way—not just across the court, but maybe across every inch of hesitation she’d ever had.

you stood, sketchbook tucked under your arm, mouth opening to greet her, but she beat you to it—awkwardly holding out a sports drink with both hands like it was a fragile offering.

“for you,” she said, breathless.

you blinked. took it. the bottle was sweating in your palm.

“…this is red-flavored.”

“it’s cherry,” she mumbled, already wincing like she knew how ridiculous it sounded.

you smiled, warm as summer. “thanks. romantic.”

“i try,” she said, then winced again. “actually, no. i really don’t. i suck at this.”

you reached up without thinking, fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. it stuck slightly to your skin. she froze.

it was the first time you’d touched her like that in public.

and she melted.

“okay, pause the moment!” minji shouted from the side, clutching her chest like the lead in a soap opera. “i lit this flame. where’s my parade? where’s my statue?!”

you turned toward her with a groan. “you want a thank-you card or something?”

“please. minimum. scented paper. cursive font. glitter optional but encouraged.”

haerin made a strangled sound and buried her face in your shoulder. you didn’t move.

“you’re warm,” she mumbled against your shirt.

“you’re sweaty,” you replied.

“sorry.”

“i don’t mind.”

and you didn’t.

because even if haerin still fumbled her words, still blushed at every compliment, still handed you drinks instead of flowers—she was trying.

and she was yours.

she peeked up at you again, eyes big and soft and a little dazed.

“you’re really pretty,” she said suddenly, like it had escaped without permission.

you blinked. “oh?”

“just… yeah.” she shrugged, helpless. “i forgot how to say it in a cooler way.”

you laughed, chest warm. “that was the cooler way.”

haerin smiled back, bashful and blooming.

somewhere behind you, minji let out the loudest sigh known to mankind.

“you two are so painfully soft it’s giving me a cavity. i’m gonna sue.”

you turned, eyebrows raised. “for what?”

“emotional damages. excessive yearning. public displays of mutual pining without a license.” she crossed her arms, looking smug. “this is a hazard zone. i need goggles just to witness it.”

haerin groaned into your shoulder. “can we ban her.”

“nope,” minji grinned. “i’m the reason this is even happening. i’m like—your mutual friend matchmaker side character with main character energy. i deserve royalties. or at least a drink.”

“fine,” you said, flipping open your sketchbook. “here. your reward.”

you handed her a ripped-out page. a very unflattering sketch of minji mid-yell on the bench, mouth open, arms flailing like a muppet on fire.

she stared at it. blinked.

“wow,” she said flatly. “i look like a dehydrated pterodactyl.”

“accurate,” haerin mumbled.

“i’ll treasure it forever,” minji declared, already folding it and stuffing it into her jacket like it was a love letter.

then, without warning, haerin snatched your sketchbook and flipped it open to a fresh page.

you blinked. “uh. what’re you—?”

“hold still,” she muttered, squinting at you. “i’m gonna draw you now.”

“...have you ever drawn anything before?”

“no,” she said, already making a mess with the pencil. “but how hard can it be?”

minji leaned over her shoulder, peering at the chaos. “oh no. it’s already a crime.”

you waited patiently—kind of—for haerin to finish. after a few minutes of suspicious scribbling and dramatic pencil snapping, she handed the sketchbook back.

you looked down.

you had a potato for a head. your hands were just circles with lines sticking out. and, for some reason, your eyes were drawn angrily huge.

“what… what am i doing in this drawing?”

“drinking the red-flavored sports drink,” she said proudly.

“...why am i crying?”

“artistic interpretation,” she replied, crossing her arms.

minji looked over and howled. “it’s modern. it’s abstract. it’s tragic romance meets vitamin deficiency.”

you smiled anyway. folded the page gently, tucked it between the others like it was priceless.

because honestly? it kind of was.

haerin looked at you with her usual red cheeks and wide eyes. “sorry it’s bad.”

“no, it’s perfect,” you said. “definitely going on the fridge.”

“you don’t even have a fridge.”

“then i’ll buy one. just for this.”

minji threw her hands up. “and i’m the dramatic one?”

haerin laughed—really laughed, bright and unguarded—and you leaned a little closer, the buzz of the gym fading into background noise.

and maybe it wasn’t some fairytale moment. maybe it was awkward and loud and ridiculous. but it was yours. and it was perfect.

haerin nudged you gently with her shoulder. “wanna get food after this?”

you nodded. “only if you promise not to draw me eating.”

“no promises,” she grinned.

minji smiled softly at the sight of you two. “i’m coming too. you two need supervision.”

and with that, the three of you walked out of the gym—laughing, teasing, hearts full—like the end of a sitcom episode. if there’d been credits, they would’ve rolled right then—theme song and all.

except this wasn’t an ending. not really. just the beginning of something stupid and sweet and maybe kind of perfect.

[jaitunapie]

writing is so funny because i could write nonstop for 9hrs and then hit a block where im like "how do i transition between this moment and the next?" and then i just dont touch it for 6 months

[jaitunapie]

Are you able to fly? 🕊️

i tried once

[jaitunapie]

WOOWEHAHWEHHHEHH MORE HAEIRN FICS PLEASE?????

my cats gayer than me

— ★ k. haerin x female reader

synopsis - your cat snow’s been acting weird—coming home late, smelling like someone else. when she doesn’t return one night, you go looking… and find her with another cat. turns out, that cat belongs to your cold, quiet neighbor kang haerin

genre - idk actually they’re so awkward w eo, fluffy

warning - strong language, nothing else

a/n - first time posting a fic pls gays don’t judge me 💔🥀

snow had been acting suspicious

and not in the “knocked over your succulent again” kind of way

no, your perfect, pampered, indoor princess had started going out

as in: climbing out your window like a rebellious teenager and coming back hours later with grass in her fur and a look in her eyes that said i’ve seen things

she used to be the clingiest little snowball — hence the name.

now she barely meowed at you when she returned, and worst of all?

she smelled like someone else

like betrayal

lol jk, but like... chicken-flavored betrayal yum

so naturally, being the concerned parent that you were, you called the only person who would understand the gravity of the situation: your best friend, hanni

you were pacing around your room like a full-blown single mother mid-breakdown, phone to your ear, one slipper on, the other missing (just like your cat)

“she’s a child,” you grumbled into your phone

“you said she’s two,” hanni deadpanned from the other end

“she’s emotionally a child.”

“she’s emotionally out getting laid while you’re emotionally constipated,” hanni yawned. “face it, your cat’s just in heat.”

“no, i’m in heat,” you shot back, “she’s missing.”

“or getting laid somewhere, maybe.”

“she came home glowing yesterday. glowing like a woman in love.”

“that’s just catnip, you dumb bitch.”

you sighed, dragging a hand over your face. “i swear if she doesn’t come home tonight i’m calling the cops.”

“on who, the streets?”

“on whoever put that twinkle in her eye.”

★. ★. ★. ★. ★.

cut to: 12:03am

snow still not home.

cut to: 12:27am

you outside in sweats and socks with one slipper because the other one’s been missing since june, flashlight app open, whisper-screaming “snowwwwwwwww” like a deranged disney princess

you had checked the entire apartment complex, the bushes, even the back alley where the mean ginger cat with the eye scar hangs out

no snow. no white fluffy traitor

“i’m gonna die,” you muttered. “i’m gonna die and they’ll find me half-eaten by alley raccoons.”

“meow.”

you froze.

“meow...? SNOW!?”

“meow.”

you turned.

and then you saw her.

snow.

perched on the low garden wall, tail swishing like a smug little bitch. and right beside her — another cat. tall, black, mysterious.

looking like the kind of feline that listens to lana del rey and journals about trauma

they were nuzzling.

they were nuzzling.

your jaw dropped. “what—”

“she’s been here for an hour,” a soft voice said from your leftyou yelped, flinching so hard your flashlight dropped.

and standing there, hoodie too big, slippers matching (both slippers) was none other than kang haerin

your neighbor.

your mysterious, quiet, cold neighbor

the one you secretly thought was cute

the one you also thought would murder you for knocking too loud

“…you scared the shit outta me,” you blurted, clutching your heart

haerin blinked slowly. “you scared me. you were stomping like you were summoning a demon.”

“that’s just how i walk,” you mumbled.

she looked down at your feet. “…with one slipper?”

“can we not talk about this.”

silence.

you cleared your throat. “uh. that’s… my cat. the white one.”

“i figured.” she looked back at the two cats who were now straight up cuddling.

“and the black one is…?”

“moon. my cat.”

“…moon,” you repeated.

“yeah.”

“…like the moon?”

“…yes.”

you nodded slowly, brain short-circuiting. “so. they’re… close?”

“they’re dating,” haerin said flatly.

“they’re—” you choked.

“they’re dating??”

“yeah. snow comes by every other night. i feed them and they just hang out.”

“hang out?? she told me she was playing with leaves!!”

“…you talk to her?”

“shut up.”

you dropped to sit on the curb, utterly defeated. “i can’t believe this. my cat’s gay. and got a girlfriend before i did.”

“uh, same,” haerin said.

you looked up. “…what?”

“i mean,” she shrugged, “moon’s my cat. i’m single. she’s not.”

your brain stalled. oh, she’s single!

“so we’re both single. and our cats are dating.”

“yeah.”

“they’re like… lesbians in love.”

“guess so.”

“and we’re… co—nevermind..”

“pardon?” she asked gently.

“n-nothing..”

a silence fell.

snow let out a long, affectionate meow, brushing up against moon

you and haerin both turned to look. “…i thought she was straight,” you whispered. “i mean, hanni said so. that snow’s on heat. getting laid somewhere..”

“i thought moon was shy,” haerin whispered back.

you stared at each other.

then looked away, awkward.

“…anyway,” you stood up, brushing off your butt. “thanks for… y’know. watching over her. and not… stealing her. or sacrificing her to a witch cult.”

haerin actually laughed at that.

laughed. soft and real.

“you’re not as crazy as i expected,” she said.

you blinked. “wait. you thought i was crazy?”

“you yelled at the vending machine last week.”

“wait... YOU SAW THAT!?”

“yeah, while i was getting back home.”

OMG, SHE KNOWS YOU. SHE NOTICED YOU. YOU HAVE A CHANCE—nevermind. let’s calm down now.

you cleared your throat. “it ate my money. that was a valid crash out.”

another small laugh.

you scratched your neck, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. “uh… wanna trade numbers? y’know, in case the cats get married and we have to plan the wedding?”

haerin raised a brow, but handed you her phone. “sure.”

you typed in your number, trying to act normal and not like your heartbeat was about to fly out your ears. “cool. uh. yeah.”

“cool,” she nodded.

you reached for snow, who looked up at you like you were interrupting her first date.

“we’re going home, missy.”

“we are too” haerin picked up moon.

“uhm.. see you around?”

“yeah,” she said, and then, quietly, “hopefully sooner.”

you walked away, snow tucked under your arm, heart racing like you just got hit by cupid’s nerf gun

once inside, you tossed your slipper across the room and collapsed on your bed, brain screaming

you were into her.

and she wasn’t cold.

she was just… shy and soft-spoken and sweet and kind and pretty and cute and adorable and beautiful and so more ugh

and maybe possibly gay.

and your cat’s girlfriend’s mum.

and your number was in her phone.

and suddenly, your phone buzzed.

[unknown number]: hi sorry i forgot to say g’night

[unknown number]: it’s haerin btw

you stared at the messages, cheeks on fire

you quickly saved her name as moon’s mum before replying to her back.

snow hopped onto your bed, smug as ever.

“don’t even, you little traitor,” you muttered.

she meowed once, victorious

[jaitunapie]

bubble gum

danielle marsh x 6th member!reader

established relationship, fluff, slight angst, comfort

synopsis: ever since newjeans debuted, you have brought nothing but controversies. but god damn it, do they bring good publicity and more fans to the group.

but then one day, a certain company wanted to take advantage of that. 

contains: secret dating, mentions of h*be🤢, jiwoo of h2h, loser!r, gamer!r, (lmk if i should add more!)

word count: 7.4k

ador is actually in shambles right now. another unhinged sentence came out of your mouth during a live.

you were playing League of Legends (without your manager’s approval, by the way), the tripod was positioned in front of your torso, your phone streaming your computer screen. you were trying out a new strategy of doing an AD LeBlanc instead of the typical AP route.

needless to say, bunnies and your teammates were not happy with your choice. the moment your mouse hovered over the Trinity Force item, they were already spamming your chat, asking what the hell you were doing.

26 minutes into the game, you have 5 items in your inventory, 18 kills, and 0 deaths, they were not saying much anymore. except your team’s jungler, Nunu.

the enemy team was attacking the dragon. all 5 of them. his little monkey brain decided to go in and ult, expecting a penta kill. did he at least kill one of them or steal the dragon? no. he died within seconds of going in.

and of course, he decided to blame you. the one that was actually carrying the team. he was pinging your character, flaming you in chat with profanities that surely will get him banned.

[Team] Nunu & Willump: lb u piece of shit i literally get zero help

[Team] Nunu & Willump: we couldve gotten an ace but ur just standing there waiting for some kills to steal like a fukin npc

[All] Nunu & Willump: report lb for trolling pls

“what the hell is wrong with this guy?” you exclaimed, effortlessly killing 3 of the enemy team and even managing to steal the dragon. “not my fault you’re braindead. like, who in their mind would go in and expect something good despite being 2/7/4? you’re barely in your third item, you bozo!”

[Team] LeBlanc: aw gonna cry to mommy? tell her how lb hurts ur wee lil feelings? :(

you decided to hide the in-game chat, knowing that slurs and more profanities are going to be sent by Nunu because you provoked him. you’re already going to get in trouble for streaming a game without proper consent—you weren’t going to dig yourself a deeper grave by exposing bunnies to the toxic environment that is low elo gameplay.

instead, you shifted your whole focus on trying to win the game despite two of your teammates purposely dying. one of the turrets protecting the enemy team’s nexus was destroyed by you. you were alone, trying to finish the game early because you were tired of the dead weight that is your team. seeing this as an opportunity to finally give you your first death, all 5 of the enemy team jumped you. you killed them with ease, one by one, securing yourself a pentakill. i mean, would they even stand a chance against a full build 26/0/9 LeBlanc?

“I’M THE NEXT FUCKING FAKER! I’M SO GOOD THAT T1 IS GONNA OFFER ME A CONTRACT BECAUSE I'M THE GOAT!” you screamed, jumping behind the camera with your hands still on your keyboard and mouse. 

the last turret fell and the nexus was destroyed. a victory screen was in front of you and bunnies. the chat went crazy, praising you and saying different variations of ‘congratulations’ with some occasional: 

‘wow this woman really is crazyᄏᄏ’ 

‘no way she actually did it’

‘sybau y/n🥀’

just as you were about to take your phone off the tripod to show your face and talk to your fans, a text message from your manager saying ‘End the live. We need to talk. Right NOW.’ appeared on top of your screen.

you chuckled nervously, “i need to go now, bunnies! the game drained me and i’m tired. i’ll talk to you guys again soon! bye!” and with that, you quickly ended the live.

you were reprimanded. heavily. saying stuff about how they are very disappointed in you, and that they will not hesitate to put you on hiatus if the parties involved (Faker and T1) do not receive your words well.

danielle, who was watching your live from start to finish, knew that something was wrong when your farewell to bunnies was rushed. usually, you would yap for 20 minutes more despite already saying that you were going to leave soon.

she made her way to your room, knocking softly before opening the door. she didn’t wait for a response. didn’t have to. it was something you and danielle agreed upon when you first started dating.

there you were, sprawled on your bed with your head buried on the plushie that danielle won for you (she’ll never reveal to you how much money she lost trying to win that damn minion plush). your headset was tossed carelessly to the side, and the slight shaking of your shoulders told her more than enough.

“hey,” she started softly, rubbing your back, “what did they say?”

you groaned, not lifting your head. “that i should watch my mouth and i would be in a month-long hiatus if i didn’t.”

she let out a quiet hum and pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder, her hand never stopping its comforting strokes.

“do you want me to make you something?” she asked after a beat, voice low and careful, like she knew you’d only eaten cereal and coffee today. “or we could just order from that chinese place you like. the one with the angry dumplings.”

you let out a muffled laugh against the plush. “you mean the really spicy ones?”

“yes, but you always tear up and get all snotty eating them. so angry dumplings.”

“i’d like that,” you mumbled.

danielle chuckled and kissed your temple, then gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “okay, angry dumplings it is. but you’re cuddling with me while we wait, i missed you.”

you finally lifted your head just a bit to look at her. “you’re not mad?”

“at you? never.” her hand slid down to intertwine your fingers. “but if they really try to put you on hiatus, i’m giving them a piece of my mind.”

you grinned, putting a hand on your chest. “my hero.”

“always,” she whispered, and kissed the tip of your nose.

the explosion didn’t happen all at once.

at first, it was a quiet hum— couple of clips on twitter, few thousand views on tiktok, and a mid-level panic in the PR group chat.

but within twelve hours after your live, the ripple turned into a full-on wave.

a huge LoL related account had posted the clip of you declaring that you were the next Faker, captioning it, “this kpop girl just solo-carried, roasted her toxic jungler, AD LeBlanc, all while saying she’s the next faker”

and then the real chaos started.

because the official T1 twitter account saw it and quote-tweeted it.

@/T1LoL: sign the contract big girl, sign the contract

the post had over 100,000 likes in under six hours. (did they really have to quote mike tyson?) 

and if that wasn’t already a death sentence or a badge of honor (you couldn’t decide which), Faker himself went live later that night— and of course, chat spammed him with your name the second he turned his cam on.

“oh, y/n from newjeans?” he asked, amused. “yeah, i saw the clip.”

he smiled genuinely and added, “26/0/9? that’s not easy. not even in low elo. she’s actually decent. kind of aggressive, though.”

then, after a pause:

“but that AD build on LeBlanc… yeah, no. that was criminal, but somehow she managed to make it work. you’d need talent for that.”

“if i retire, please put y/n in our roster.”

ADOR’s PR team originally drafted a formal apology.

they had the whole thing ready — tight, polished, apologetic without being too apologetic — until someone on the social media team pointed out that most of the backlash had already turned into applause.

so instead of an apology, they rewrote the statement.

NewJeans’ Y/N recently shared an unscheduled but heartfelt gaming stream with fans. While we acknowledge the concerns about language and the importance of mindful online interaction, we ask for understanding. We also want to thank everyone—especially the League of Legends community—for the surprising and overwhelming support.

your merch sales reportedly spiked that week. huh.

you didn’t think much of it at first.

your schedule just said ‘internal sync meeting’ – three words that could mean anything from an updated media briefing to a light dressing down over your most recent quote trending on stan twitter. you showed up five minutes late, iced americano in one hand, hair still damp from the shower. you hadn’t even bothered to put on make up.

the room smelled like burnt coffee and unease.

a mix of too many overused essential oil diffusers, the dull hum of industrial-strength air conditioning, and the constant clicking of keyboards filled the sterile hybe conference room. two men in suits sat on one side of long black table, a third slightly off-center-someone from SM, you assumed, based on the lanyard he has around his neck.

you sat slowly, your iced americano suddenly tastes too sharp against your tongue. a thin gray folder in front of you, unopened. your nails picked at the edge of the manila cover. it had your name written on it. in sharpie.

beside you, your manager’s boss, had a tablet in front of her but hadn’t touched it since the meeting began. you were told she was here to “make sure you were okay”.  she hadn’t made eye contact with you once.

“thanks for coming in on short notice,” one of the SM reps said, hands folded on the table like this was a negotiation. beside him, a woman — someone you recognized from ador’s PR team — smiled like she’d rehearsed it.

Your own manager gave you a nod from the corner. you frowned.

“what’s this about?” you asked.

they didn’t answer right away. Instead, the rep tapped the screen of a tablet and slid it towards you.

on it: a media tracker. articles, tweets, graphs. your name. trending charts. Thumbnails from videos with titles like “4th gen it girl” “why y/n is the only interesting idol right now.” one had your freeze-frame from music bank with the caption, “NewJeans’ y/n - idol or menace?”

“you’ve been talked about a lot lately,” he said. “consistently.”

you glanced down, finding the condensation on the side of your iced coffee much more interesting than whatever this was. “i didn’t even do anything this week.”

“exactly,” the woman chimed in, her tone light. “that’s the point. you trend even when you don’t mean to. it’s something we think is… useful.”

you blinked slowly. “useful for what?”

the SM rep smiled, folding his hands. “we’re launching a push for our rookie girl group – hearts2hearts. you know them?”

“kind of,” you muttered. you’d seen their debut on music core. clean choreo, pretty styling, stable vocals. their music video already had over 20 million views. that was good, especially for a rookie group.

“they’re doing well,” you added, cautiously.

“they are,” the woman said quickly, “but we’re aiming higher. aespa-level buzz. and to be completely honest, we’re missing the noise. we need a little unpredictability. we need people talking.”

“and that involves me how?”

“you’re the most talked about idol right now. it would benefit everyone involved.”

“what we’re saying is that we want to stage a casual meetup. between you and their leader, jiwoo.” the man said.

your brow furrowed.

“a staged hangout. something that can pass off as spontaneous. han river. picnic blanket. snacks. some walking, talking, laughing. maybe some matching accessories.”

you stared.

“matching–?”

“the point is to make it believable, not scandalous. just two young idols vibing on their day off. and if the public happens to like the chemistry…”

you put the coffee down slowly. “...you’d want a fake relationship,” you continued, voice flat.

“eventually, yes. but right now, friendship. and we want a mutually beneficial moment,” the PR woman corrected.

“and how is this beneficial to me?” you asked, leaning forward now.

there was a pause. not awkward — just rehearsed. like they’d been waiting for the question, unsure how to answer it without saying the quiet part out loud.

“well,” the ador rep started, carefully, “not everything needs to be transactional, right?”

you didn’t respond. didn’t blink. just watched as she shifted in her seat.

“sometimes it’s about… showing goodwill,” she added. “being a team player. stepping up for the industry. and truthfully, there aren’t many idols who could pull this off without it looking obvious.”

the sm rep nodded. “you have a certain… credibility. people believe whatever you do is real. that kind of authenticity can’t be manufactured.”

you tilted your head slightly. “but this is manufactured.”

“sure,” he said, as if that part didn’t matter. “but if you do it, it won’t feel like it.”

you could hear what wasn’t being said — that you didn’t need more fans, or buzz, or press. that the only thing you stood to gain was keeping the machine running, uninterrupted. that your ‘benefit’ was staying exactly where you were: talked about. watched. useful.

which, you realized, was just a nicer way of saying: you get nothing, but please make this look good anyway.

“so let me get this straight,” you said slowly. “your rookie group is doing objectively well — millions of views, good public response. and yet, that’s not enough.”

they hesitated.

you added, “you want aespa numbers.”

“aespa-level popularity, yes,” the woman admitted. “and to get there, we need a jolt. a shift in narrative. and right now, you are the narrative.”

you didn’t reply.

“just meet her once,” the SM rep added. “talk. feel it out. we’ll set a follow-up meeting with the two of you in the same room, and if you both agree, we’ll go ahead with planning the shoot.”

a pause. just long enough to be uncomfortable. 

“what if i say no?” you finally asked.

silence. then:

“then we remind you that your contract includes clauses regarding promotional obligations and collaborative projects,” the hybe rep said.

you didn’t respond. not because you agreed—hell no—but because you felt your own fury curling up behind your ribs, white-hot and petty. you’d say something sharp if you opened your mouth again. something too honest. something you’d regret later.

they wrapped the meeting shortly after. they didn’t need your input. just your face, your presence, your “controversial charm.”

you didn’t tell danielle that night.

you could have.

she made you dinner. sesame noodles with crisp vegetables and a soft-boiled egg, cut just the way you liked. she’d even remembered the seaweed. you sat together in the little kitchen corner where the late-night light came in warm and drowsy. the floor beneath you was cold but she kept pressing her knee into yours like it meant something, like the touch would anchor you there a little longer.

she was smiling when she talked about her day. not the big stuff—just little things. how hanni dropped her phone in the cereal. how minji sneezed seven times in a row and tried to claim it was a hidden talent. you were smiling too, or at least you thought you were.

but there was a hollow kind of sound to your laughter that didn’t sit quite right in your chest.

you curled into her later, both of you tucked under her favorite yellow blanket, her hand resting on your hip. she always slept warm. one of those people who radiated comfort, even when she was dreaming. her breath was slow and even, and you counted them like seconds until you fell asleep too.

you didn’t tell her.

not because you wanted to keep it from her.

but because saying it out loud felt like betraying something.

you had done fan service before. lived in it, actually — turned it into a second language, one that required no subtitles. so when you were told that today would be “natural,” you already knew what that meant: curated spontaneity. manufactured ease.

they picked the han river for a reason.

picturesque, but public. wide, open grass that caught the light perfectly. enough civilians walking by that it wouldn’t feel suspicious. enough distance that no one could hear what you were saying.

you were seated on a checkered blanket. picnic basket placed just right, snacks barely touched, drinks arranged with label sides forward. haerin would’ve rolled her eyes at the effort. hanni would've fixed the food to look prettier.

you tried not to think about them too much.

jiwoo sat across from you, knees tucked under her skirt, hands folded neatly in her lap. she looked calm, but you recognized the stillness — that media-trained tension in her shoulders, the constant awareness of where the invisible cameras might be. the two of you had been told Dispatch might be “in the area.” they weren’t subtle. they never were.

still, you both pretended you didn’t know they were watching.

“have you had anything to eat today?” jiwoo asked gently.

you shook your head. “no. i forgot.”

she pushed an onigiri towards you. “this is my favorite, try it.”

you took it, murmured a soft thanks. chewed slowly.

the conversation was light, intentionally forgettable. favorite drinks, training stories, pets. something about a dance move from a stage you couldn’t even remember doing. you tried to listen, really — but your mind kept drifting back to the meeting that started all this.

the breeze picked up. a paper napkin fluttered off the basket and you reached for it at the same time as jiwoo. your fingers brushed. instinctively, you pulled back.

you heard the faint click of a camera nearby.

dispatch was here.

jiwoo straightened, tucked her hair behind her ear, and smiled as if you’d just told her something funny. you laughed too — or mimicked the sound of it. not too loud. not too quiet. just enough to sell it.

you passed her a bottle of yogurt drink, and she took it like you’d done it a thousand times before.

“this feels weird,” you said under your breath.

“it is weird,” she replied, tone light. “but at least we look good.”

you looked at her, amused by the honesty. she smiled, a little apologetic, a little grateful.

“we only have to do this once, right?” you asked.

“hopefully,” she said.

for a moment, the two of you sat in silence, watching the water.

the blanket rustled under your weight as you leaned back, arms stretched behind you, face tilted toward the sky. you closed your eyes, breathed in the late afternoon air, and pretended you weren’t waiting for your phone to blow up.

when it did, later — when the “rumored meet-up” headlines hit, when the blurry but perfectly angled photos surfaced on twitter and forums and fan accounts — you were already back in the van. already watching the reactions roll in.

but that would come later.

for now, you tilted your head to jiwoo and asked, “how much longer do we need to stay?”

she glanced at her watch. “twenty minutes. max.”

you nodded. “let’s make it count.”

she grinned. “let’s give them something to talk about.”

it started like most dispatch drops did.

no warning. no statement. no teaser.

just a photo.

the han river glowing gold, a girl in beige pants and a soft blue sweatshirt, leaning back on her hands. another girl, legs tucked to the side, holding a yogurt drink, smiling at her like they’d shared the same inside joke. wind in their hair. effortless. soft. intentional.

the caption was simple.

“Hearts2Hearts’ Jiwoo and NewJeans’ Y/N spotted enjoying an afternoon together. Casual senior-junior hang out or something more?”

hashtags followed. speculations.

within minutes, it was trending.

within an hour, it was global.

‘omg????’

‘the duo we never knew we needed’

‘this looks staged lmao’

‘they look so good tgt omg power couple in the making???’

‘y/n better leave h2h alone, they’ve only been in the industry for 2 months PLEASE😭’

danielle wasn’t surprised when the article dropped.

she had known something was coming. you told her before you left for the shoot, your voice unsure but trying to sound casual, the way someone might explain that they accidentally knocked over a vase but everything was fine now. 

you didn’t downplay it, not really — you told her the truth. sm wanted you and jiwoo to stage a hangout. it was a publicity stunt, a photo opportunity. han river, a picnic setup, dispatch on standby. “they think it’ll bring attention to her group,” you said, fingers twisting at the hem of your sweatshirt. “it’s not a big deal. they said we just have to look like we’re having fun.”

 you didn’t ask her directly if it was okay, but danielle could feel the question wedged in every pause. still, she smiled, nodded, and offered an “i get it” that sounded steadier than it felt.

because what else was she supposed to do? say no? tell you to back out and risk making a mess of something your company clearly already agreed to?

so when the first photo appeared later that day — not through any official announcement, but through a now-familiar Dispatch-style drop — she wasn’t shocked. still, the moment she saw it, a strange ache bloomed in her chest. her thumb hovered over the image on her screen, heart beating a little too loud in her ears. 

you were there, exactly like you’d described. legs stretched out on a gingham blanket, soft blue sweater catching the breeze just enough to make the hem flutter. beside you, jiwoo leaned in close, holding a yogurt drink, smiling at you like the two of you had been friends for years. the kind of smile people could easily mistake as something more.

danielle’s first instinct wasn’t to panic or jump to conclusions. no, it was subtler than that. it was a weight behind her ribs, the kind of heaviness that made her blink too slowly. she studied the photo again, noticing the things other people might miss — how your eyes crinkled, how your hands were placed neatly in your lap, how the sunlight hit just right. and how none of it looked posed. it was natural. effortless. exactly what sm and hybe wanted.

she didn’t go running to you. she didn’t text you a storm of anxious questions. instead, she lay on her bed, one leg curled beneath her, the other swinging slightly off the edge, her phone still in her hand. she didn’t want to admit it, not even to herself, but the longer she stared at the image, the more it hurt. not because she doubted you, not because she thought anything happened — but because of how well you had to play pretend. how easy you made it look. and because everyone else was going to see that and think they knew something about you. something they didn’t.

she closed her phone, but that didn���t help. she opened it again ten seconds later. instagram, twitter, tiktok, a loop of checking and rechecking — like maybe one of those places would offer something that made it sting less. instead, all she found were screenshots, cropped photos, confused fans theorizing. some of them laughed about how staged it all looked. others pointed out how “comfortable” you and jiwoo seemed. the comments weren’t malicious, but they chipped away at her mood like water dripping on stone.

danielle put in her earbuds eventually. turned on something gentle — soft piano, slow vocals, nothing too dramatic. just enough to let her thoughts wander without completely drowning in them. she watched the ceiling for a while, then turned her head and let her cheek press into the pillow. the quiet filled the space around her, heavy and unmoving.

when you finally walked into the room later, the air shifted. you didn’t say anything right away, and neither did she. you just sat down slowly on the edge of her bed, pulling your sleeves over your hands, the way you always did when you didn’t know what to say. you didn’t ask if she saw it. of course she had.

danielle turned her head to look at you, her expression unreadable at first. you looked tired — not just physically, but in the way your shoulders sagged a little more than usual. she could see it in your eyes, the guilt that lingered even though you hadn’t done anything wrong.

still, she didn’t ask you to explain. didn’t demand reassurance. instead, she reached out and gently tapped her phone screen to pause the music. then, without a word, she passed you one of her earbuds.

you took it.

you leaned in, resting your head lightly on her thigh, like you weren’t sure you were allowed to. she let you. her fingers instinctively found your hair, combing through it slowly, like she’d done so many times before. the music resumed, soft and melancholy.

the silence stretched long between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

because she wasn’t angry. not really.

she just missed you. even with you right there.

danielle didn’t speak at first.

her fingers stayed in your hair, tracing slow, careful lines across your scalp. the kind of absentminded affection she only gave when she didn’t feel like putting anything into words yet. you let yourself melt into it, cheek warm against her thigh, eyes unfocused, staring past the comforter and into nothing at all.

you stayed like that for a while. the music hummed quietly in the background. it was a song you both liked, but neither of you were listening. not really.

“you looked happy in the photos,” danielle said eventually, so softly it almost didn’t feel real.

your throat tightened. “i didn’t mean to.”

“i know,” she sighed. not upset, not cold—just tired. “i just… noticed.”

you turned your face slightly, enough so you could see her from where you were lying. she didn’t look like she was joking, but she wasn’t bitter either. there was a calmness to her, a kind of weary acceptance that made your chest ache.

“i tried to tell them no at first,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “i told them hearts2hearts is already doing well. i told them their debut video has over twenty million views—like, they’re fine. they don’t need this.”

danielle nodded, like she already knew.

you shifted, pulling your hand from under the pillow to fidget with the end of your sleeve. “they said they want aespa-level attention. aespa-level noise.”

she gave a dry little laugh through her nose. “so they picked you.”

you didn’t know what to say to that.

she ran her thumb along your hairline. “i get why they did. you’ve been everywhere lately. people don’t stop talking about you.”

you flinched, but she caught it. her hand stilled for a moment.

“not your fault,” she added gently. “i know you didn’t ask for this stuff.”

you looked up at her, eyes glossy. “i didn’t want it to feel real.”

danielle’s expression softened even more—if that was possible. she leaned back against the headboard, letting out a long breath. “it didn’t. not to me.”

you let out a breath too, shaky and quiet. “really?”

“yeah.” she smiled a little, brushing a strand of your hair aside. “i know what you look like when you’re really happy. i know how you laugh when it’s real. and that… that wasn’t it.”

you swallowed, guilt thick in your throat. “it still sucks though.”

“it does,” she agreed, because she didn’t want to lie. “but we’re okay.”

you blinked. “are we?”

danielle didn’t hesitate. “yeah. we’re okay.”

you closed your eyes at that, pressing your face into her leg like you could hide there for a while. her fingers found your hair again, picking up where she left off. she didn’t rush you. didn’t ask for anything more.

just held you like she always did.

quietly. tenderly. like she knew this was just another part of the storm, and the two of you would ride it out together.

within a day, hearts2hearts saw a spike in their streaming numbers. fancams of jiwoo at past music shows resurfaced. clips from their debut showcase hit trending, especially those highlighting jiwoo’s stage presence and visuals. people wanted to know who this girl was. who was close enough to be seen with y/n — the y/n, the ‘problem child (lovingly)’ of newjeans, the center of every forum thread lately.

the sm execs were, reportedly, thrilled. insiders leaked that they’d been hoping for just this: buzz, speculation, google searches. even the doubt surrounding the authenticity of the meeting played into their hands. “controversy creates interest,” one staff member was quoted anonymously. “and interest builds momentum.”

you heard that SM gave a hefty amount to hybe and ador as thanks. kind of unfair that they didn’t give you a percentage of it, to be honest. you did most of the work after all.

you didn’t mean to write a song. not at first.

it started during one of those rare quiet weeks — a break between promotions, schedules light enough for the dorm to actually feel like a home again. late nights meant low music, acoustic strings, and you sitting on the floor with hanni’s guitar balanced comfortably in your lap. not borrowed this time. you’d asked, and she’d waved a hand, told you to take it like it already belonged to you.

you weren’t a beginner. you’d learned to play long before debut — enough to strum smoothly, build chords, mess around with melody when the mood struck. hanni was still leagues ahead of you, her playing effortless in a way you admired but didn’t try to chase. still, you could hold your own— enough to turn a passing thought into something real.

you weren’t trying to write lyrics that night. you were just playing, letting muscle memory carry you, repeating a soft loop that sounded warmer the longer it stretched. something sweet. something almost too light to hold onto.

danielle had been on your mind.

she’d always been on your mind lately. (when did she ever leave?)

especially now, when it felt like the rest of your world was being steered by other people’s decisions. meetings you hadn’t asked for. texts from your manager about follow-up “check-ins” with jiwoo, vague phrasing that left little room to decline. they’d never used the word “date”. not even once. but that’s exactly how it was starting to feel. manufactured intimacy, scheduled like it was any other content shoot. just this time, the cameras were from Dispatch, not the company. none of it your choice, not really. 

and somewhere between the third repetition and the quiet in your chest, the words started forming. not heavy ones. nothing about heartbreak or longing. just the soft things. how danielle’s voice made the air feel warmer. how her laugh was something you looked forward to. how being around her made you feel like your shoes had lifted half an inch off the ground.

you didn’t write it down that night. just hummed through it, fingers tracing the shape of the chorus on the strings.

a couple nights later, hanni passed your room, then doubled back. leaned on the doorframe, brow raised.

“what is that?”

you blinked. “what’s what?”

“that,” she nodded at the guitar, where your hands had just been moving. “you’ve been playing the same thing for the past twenty minutes.”

you hesitated. “just a thing i’m messing with.”

hanni padded in, plopped down cross-legged on your bed. “play it again.”

you did. sheepish. a little shy.

she listened. tilted her head. “you’ve got something there.”

and just like that, she was in. offering tweaks, pointing out where a melody could tighten. adding little touches to the instrumental as you mumbled potential lyrics under your breath. she never pried. never asked what — or who — it was about. just helped shape it. (i mean, who are we kidding? hanni definitely knows who it was about.)

when you played the demo for your team, you weren’t sure what you were expecting. maybe a polite head tilt. maybe it’s cute, but let’s shelf it for now.

instead, your ceo was grinning before it even hit the second chorus. “this is good,” she said. “really good. i want you to do more in the future.”

you nodded, stunned.

but even then — even with the green light, the credits, the polished version lined up neatly on the album — what stayed with you most was the way danielle had smiled when she first heard it.

soft. unreadable at first. then, slowly, unmistakably warm.

like she knew. even before anyone else. even before you said a word.

eventually, hanni’s name and yours both end up in the producer credits.

and the lyrics?

they weren’t dramatic. not poetic in the way people might expect. but they were yours.

you added how your heart beat a little faster every time she walked into a room. about the small thrill of getting ready to see her, despite living together. about the secret sort of joy that made you feel like you were floating — high up, like a balloon that couldn’t be pulled back down.

it was a song full of sugar and soft crushes and pink-tinted feelings. light as air. sticky, sweet, like the candy it was named after.

bubble gum.

by the time the comeback rolled out, fans were already curious. the moment the tracklist was posted and you were credited as the sole songwriter — with you and hanni also tagged as producers — theories spread like wildfire.

people analyzed every line. made lyric videos. pointed fingers. and of course, one name kept popping up: jiwoo.

some swore the song had to be about her. others said it was a clever misdirect. the debate carried on for days, louder than anything you’d expected. a mess you didn’t mean to make. (you just wanted to make a song about being utterly in love with your girlfriend, for god’s sake.)

“it has to be about jiwoo,” a fan had tweeted. “they had their little han river picnic era right when she would've been writing this. the timing adds up.”

“maybe it’s just about love in general?” another chimed in. “but y/n doesn’t do general. she always writes about something specific. this sounds like someone real.”

ador hadn’t said anything. sm didn’t say anything either. but the comments piled up. jiwoo’s name trended alongside yours. again. pictures of your recent ‘hangout’ at a cafe in hannam were being paired with bubble gum on tiktok. people made edits. made assumptions. built stories out of half-truths and blurry photos.

it was one of those sleek, polished interview sets — glossy table, soft white lighting, everyone in coordinating pastel outfits that made all of you look like you were dropped out of a spring daydream. newjeans had just wrapped up a music show stage, and now you were seated in a semicircle across from a seasoned interviewer, surrounded by cameras, staff, and publicists lurking just out of frame.

the questions started out light — the new ep, behind-the-scenes moments, favorite snacks. danielle answered one with her usual brightness, hanni made the room laugh with her dry timing, and you found yourself playing with the hem of your sleeve, listening.

but then the topic shifted.

“now, let’s talk about bubble gum,” the interviewer said, glancing down at their notes. “the response has been huge. but what’s really fascinating is that the song credits list only one lyricist — y/n — and one of the producers are her and hanni as well. can you walk us through that process?”

there was a beat of silence. you smiled softly, eyes flickering down to the floor for a second. you could feel the shape of danielle’s knee lightly brushing yours under the table — a casual touch that no one would see, but it grounded you.

“i wasn’t really planning to write anything for the album,” you said, voice calm, measured. “i just started... toying around with hanni unnie’s guitar one night. i didn’t think it’d go anywhere.”

“and the melody?” the interviewer asked.

hanni jumped in, grinning. “she kept borrowing my guitar. like, for weeks. we’d be in the dorm, and i’d hear the same chords over and over again from the living room and when i pass by her room. it got stuck in my head before the lyrics did.”

that earned a laugh from the group, and you ducked your head slightly, cheeks pink with quiet embarrassment. “it just... fit. i didn’t even realize it was turning into something until hanni unnie helped me lay out the chords properly. correctly.”

the interviewer nodded, clearly pleased, and then, like clockwork: “it’s a really tender song. very specific, very emotional. was there a particular inspiration behind it? someone you were thinking of?”

the room was still. the lights were just a little too bright. your fingers, hidden beneath the table, found danielle’s. a brush of fingertips. not quite a hold. but danielle’s hand shifted toward yours instinctively, a quiet answering touch that only the two of you noticed.

you didn’t look directly at her. just slightly to her side. enough.

“i think,” you started, voice calm and almost amused, “some songs don’t try to hide what they are.”

you rested your other hand in your lap, fingers brushing over your rings. “they’re not metaphors. they’re not abstract. they just… describe a feeling exactly as it happened. like how someone makes your heart race. or how getting ready to see them suddenly feels like the most important part of your day.”

danielle didn’t look at you either, but her cheeks were dusted pink, lips pressed together as if holding in a laugh or a secret. under the table, her thumb brushed over your knuckles once.

“bubble gum is like that,” you continued. “it’s made up of little things. tiny, honest moments. someone’s laugh, the way they speak, the way time starts feeling like it’s only yours when they’re around.”

you shrugged lightly, like the song hadn’t come from your own heart. “so maybe it’s not a mystery, you know? maybe it’s just what it sounds like.”

danielle didn’t say anything, didn’t even move, but under the table her pinky slipped to hook around yours—so quickly no one would notice.

the interviewer tilted their head, trying again. “so it’s safe to say it’s drawn from personal experience?”

“i’d say,” you said with a nod, “it’s drawn from memory. but mostly romance movies, though.”

the subject shifted after that, onto choreography challenges and trainee days, but the atmosphere had changed slightly. warmer. softer.

and when all of you stood to take post-interview photos, danielle reached for your hand — just briefly — while you waited for the photographer to count down.

“a moment,” danielle whispered under her breath, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “that’s how you described me?”

“you’re the gum part,” you whispered back. “sweet. sticks with me.”

danielle rolled her eyes, but her fingers never left yours until the flash went off.

the dorm was alive that night, full of the soft chaos that only came after an interview day and too many shared inside jokes. makeup off, pajamas on, the members had settled into their usual post-schedule routine — limbs tangled over the floor and couch, snack wrappers scattered across the coffee table, someone’s playlist humming faintly from a speaker in the corner.

“you’re actually insane,” hanni declared dramatically from across the room, “you held her hand under the table. that’s, like, the oldest ‘we’re secretly dating’ move ever!”

you groaned into the couch cushion. “we weren’t even holding hands—”

“we saw you,” minji interrupted, lying flat on the floor with a bowl of ice cream balanced on her stomach. “don’t even try to lie to us. the only way dani would smile like that is when she’s being all lovey-dovey with you.”

“the way you looked at her when you were asked if it’s about someone?” hyein chimed in from the kitchen, one eyebrow raised as she stirred honey into her tea. “oh my god.”

“i was being genuine!” you protested, your voice pitching upward in desperation. “that’s how normal people talk about their songs!”

“nah,” hanni said, leaning back and mimicking your expression during the interview — eyes half-lidded, lips parted just slightly, voice low and dreamy. “‘a feeling that lingers. that stays with you. one you don’t want to let go of’ — like be serious. i thought you were gonna propose to dani right then and there.”

“you guys are so dramatic,” you muttered, though your face was already burning.

“it’s embarrassing, really,” hanni added. “you sat there all dreamy-eyed, talking about feelings and moments and whatever. no wonder people still think you and jiwoo have a thing.”

minji licked her spoon slowly. “you really thought you were being vague, huh? sweetie, you folded so hard. you said ‘it’s not really about a person,’ and then stared directly at your girlfriend like you were reliving the entire demo session in your head. i’d be surprised if people are still going to talk about you and jiwoo when the interview comes out.”

you groaned again and flung the pillow across the room, where it landed harmlessly against the base of a chair. “i’m never writing another love song again.”

“sure,” haerin replied calmly, her tone utterly unconvinced. “until next comeback, when we find lyrics like ‘your voice is my sunrise’ and realize it’s about danielle ordering iced coffees for you.”

“that was one time!” you said, sitting up. “ we were trainees–we were young and she remembered my order— that’s just— that’s—”

“—so romantic,” a familiar voice teased behind you, light and airy.

you turned to see danielle walking in with two cups of tea, that ever-gentle smile on her face. she handed one to you and settled beside you on the couch, tucking her feet under her and leaning in just enough that her arm pressed against yours.

“thank you for immortalizing my coffee order in verse,” she added, taking a sip.

“i hate it here,” you grumbled, but you were already smiling. it was hard not to, especially when danielle’s eyes crinkled the way they did.

hanni screamed into a throw blanket. minji groaned loudly and rolled over. haerin just shook her head, amused.

“anyway,” hyein finally piped up from where she was curled in a chair, phone in hand. “if you really don’t want them to speculate, maybe don’t, like, write the sappiest song in our discography.”

“i was subtle!” you insisted weakly.

there was a pause. and then a chorus of groans.

“get out,” hanni muttered, tossing a pillow at you.

but no one meant it. it was all part of the rhythm of your group — the teasing, the closeness, the safe space to unravel. eventually, the conversation shifted to stage outfits and how brutal the next day’s rehearsals would be. but you and danielle stayed quiet in your corner of the couch, pressed together, content in the lull that followed the chaos.

the room around you buzzed in quiet tones, but your world felt slower — gentler — tucked into this moment with her.

you didn’t speak for a while. just sipped your tea, now slightly cooled, letting the silence wrap around you both. her hand rested on your knee, warm and steady. yours covered it after a while, fingers slotting into place like it was second nature.

danielle’s head tilted toward you, her voice soft. “you really wrote it for me?”

you glanced at her, at the way her expression held something unspoken. she already knew the answer — had known it from the moment you showed her the demo, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. but hearing it out loud, even just between you two, was different. it meant different.

your answer came not in words, but in the way your fingers gently squeezed hers. in the way your eyes didn’t waver when you looked at her. in the way your silence was filled with meaning.

she leaned in, resting her head on your shoulder, a quiet smile playing on her lips.

“write more,” she whispered, barely audible, a secret meant just for you. “even if no one hears it. even if it’s just us.”

you pressed a quick kiss on her head.

“i will.”

a/n: first fic, yay!

[jaitunapie]

Can confirm shes 5 😌

exposed💔

[jaitunapie]

how old r are you

this is the THIRD age question i’ve gotten.

[jaitunapie]

You're weirdly funny 🫰

weirdly funny is still funny so i’ll take it

[jaitunapie]

lets fight whoever gave you the task on the first day jai

YEAH FIGHT MY COUSIN

[jaitunapie]

HAERIN.

— Choose Your Character !

🎧 Perfect Night - lsrfm ⁞ Tick-Tack - illit ⁞ Hurt - njz ⁞ (Online Love) - conan gray ⁞ Bourgeoisieses - conan gray ⁞ IT GIRL - aliyah's interlude ⁞ Winner - conan gray ⁞ Girl, so confusing - charli xcx

⌯» Synopsis On the brink of a midlife crisis, your father, owner of a notorious videogames company, decides to develop a 2d fighting game called “Choose Your Character” — The catch? All playable characters are famous streamers and that includes you. Armed with your loyal keyboard and headphones, you decide to play it live, although a problem is quick to present itself: choosing the character. Not wanting to aliment the ongoing war between your two favorite streamers, Minji and Haerin, they become last on your list — that makes the situation worse: they begin to compete for your attention and heart.

⌯» Pairing streamers!catnipz x streamer!fem!reader

⌯» Contains swearing, kys/kms jokes, family issues, rage quitting, ga(y)mers being ga(y)mers, brainrot, poly couple and more!

⌯» Starring njz members, harvey and cocona (xg), yunjin, sakura and chaewon (lsrfm), sunhye (yp), felix and hyunjin (skz), sophia (katseye), haewon (nmixx), yeji and ryujin (itzy), soyeon, minnie and shuhua (i-dle).

⌯» Genre fluff, angst, crack, streamer au, social media au, strangers to friends to lovers, exes to lovers, slowburn.

a/n: this is what I've been working on for the past few weeks. I spent so much time on this than on my hw at some point. Welp, you know the drill, everything is fiction (of course) and there's not a specific faice claim for Y/n. READ THE CHARACTERS PROFILES, THEY'RE IMPORTANT FOR THE LORE. Enjoy, girls, gays and theys😈.

⌯» profiles bitchless fr ⁞ what is a shower ⁞ grass touchers ⁞ NPCs

⌯» undergames

⌯» the hwang family

⌯» chapters

prologue

001. "Thanks! You're getting blocked"

002. Oh, it's just her

003. Pricey apologies (MONEY!)

004. She's so kind it's making me want to throw up

005. War is NOT over, it just begun

Ꮺ status: coming soon (not so soon)

Ꮺ taglist (open):

🗂️NJZ masterlist

[jaitunapie]

first day and I alr give up