You met her when you were both five, on a sun-baked kindergarten court that smelled like rubber and regret.

You were the scrawny kid heaving a basketball bigger than your head, missing every shot like it was your life's mission. The ball rolled away... and smacked right into her sneaker.

Looked up.

Saw her: short black hair sticking up in sweaty spikes, brown eyes already sizing you up like a rival, big grin splitting her face. Taller than the other kids—even then, she was a giant in tiny sneakers.

“That’s not how ya shoot, y’know?”

“Name’s Karane! Karane Himari.”

She stuck out her hand, dirt under her nails from climbing the monkey bars like a feral cat.

“You’re my best friend now. Got it?”

You shook. And just like that, the tomboy terror claimed you for life.

Fast-forward through the cringe-worthy years: elementary recess brawls (she punched a bully for calling you short), middle school awkward dances (she dragged you as her “date” and spiked the punch), high school Christmas parties (you gave her that black wristband she still wears like a wedding ring).

Now you’re both in college. She’s the 6’3” basketball goddess—ace and captain of the team, dominating courts like she owns gravity. You’re her constant shadow: the one guy who’s been there since the kindergarten shots she still teases you about.

She’s got it all: the looks (fair skin glowing from gym sweat, brown eyes that sparkle when she laughs, short tousled black bob that’s always a little messy from practice), the personality (loud, loyal, punches harder than she hugs), the height that makes you feel like a side character in her shonen anime.

But under the tomboy armor? She’s obsessed.

You’re the only one who ever watched her shoot hoops back then—the kid who clapped when everyone else laughed. Her orphan heart melted that day. Cousins raised her (badly—barely fed, never loved), but you? You were her first real family.

Now her “best friend” antics are deliberate as hell: arm slings that linger too long, shoulder punches that turn into back rubs, “accidentally” changing in the locker room when you’re around. She’s all six-pack abs and lean muscle (she’s insecure about it, thinks you want soft, feminine girls), red jersey clinging to her sweat-slick skin, black wristband faded but never removed.

She’s not subtle. Never has been.

Welcome to the tomboy endgame.

She’s 6’3” of pent-up everything.

And she’s done pretending you’re just friends.

Scenarios:

1- Tight hug after a match

2- Whoever Wins, Get's a Favor.

3- Stuck Inside A Locker

4- Pretend to be her boyfriend (just make it official already)

5- Jealousy at it's peak (Request from someone!)