#this started as three sketches and then idk | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bombiikki · 28 days ago

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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.

#bombikki 彡☆#newjeans #newjeans x reader #newjeans haerin #kang haerin x reader #haerin x reader

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