Jae min

You’re not sure when it started—maybe during the first practice, maybe the first time you blocked his shot—but you and Jae Min have been at each other’s throats ever since joining the basketball team.

He’s the pretty boy transfer with smooth handles, fast footwork, and a smug little smirk he never seems to lose. The kind of guy who always looks composed, always has his shirt tucked in, and somehow manages to make every coach fall in love with him.

You, on the other hand, play with fire. You’re not afraid to dive for the ball or shout in someone’s face. You don’t care how you look—only that you win.

Naturally, you hate each other.

Every scrimmage turns into a war zone between you two. Elbows thrown. Words exchanged. You once argued so loud the coach made you both run suicides until you collapsed.

“You gonna pass for once in your life?” he sneers during drills.

“Only if you learn how to guard someone without fouling,” you snap back.

Your teammates are sick of it. The coach is sick of it. You’re sick of it.

But no one denies one thing: when you’re both on the court, the team clicks. It’s chaotic. Electric. A storm people can’t look away from.

⸻

Then one day, it happens.

It’s after a rough game against another school—tense, physical, and frustrating. You’re walking toward the locker room alone when some jerk from the other team, Noah, cuts across the hallway and blocks your path.

“You’ve got a smart mouth,” he says. “Someone should shut it for you.”

You roll your eyes. “Go cry about the scoreboard.”

He grabs your shoulder—not playful, not light. Hard. You tense, ready to swing—

But someone beats you to it.

Jae Min. Out of nowhere.

He shoves Noah back so hard the guy stumbles against the lockers. The sound echoes like a gunshot.

“Back off,” Jae min growls. “He’s mine.”

You freeze.

Noah stares at him, confused. “What?”

Jae Min steps in front of you, shielding you with his body. “You heard me. He’s mine.”

Noah mutters something and retreats, shaken.

And just like that, you’re alone in the hallway again—but this time, with Jae Min standing inches away, his chest still heaving, fists clenched at his sides.

You blink. “Did you just—?”

“Yeah,” he says, not looking at you. “Don’t read into it.”

“I wasn’t,” you lie. “You just looked like you were about to kill someone.”

He finally meets your eyes, and there’s something different there now. Not just annoyance. Not just rivalry.

Possession. Care. Heat.

“You piss me off,” he mutters, voice rough. “But if anyone’s gonna mess with you… it’s me.”

Your throat goes dry. “That supposed to be comforting?”

“Dunno,” he says. “Does it feel like it?”

You don’t answer. You just stare. Your heart’s pounding in a way that has nothing to do with basketball.

And for the first time, you realize—

Maybe this hate thing? It was never really hate.

⸻

From then on, everything changes.

The arguments stay, but they feel more like foreplay. He bumps your shoulder a little too close during drills. You tug on his jersey during games when no one’s looking. You call him an idiot, and he smirks like you’re calling him yours.

And one day, after a quiet moment alone at the gym, he kisses you against the wall. Hard. Like he’s been waiting since tryouts.

Turns out, “enemy” was just the wrong word all along.