Chapter Text
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The bus rattled gently, like it was humming to itself as it glided along the wet evening streets of Seoul. The windows were slightly fogged from the contrast between the early spring chill outside and the soft, recycled warmth inside. Jungkook sat near the back, slouched into the corner seat with his head tilted towards the glass. His earbuds were snug and the bass from the song thudded lightly in his chest, Lo-fi, not too sad, not too happy. Just soft. The kind of music that let him be quiet with his thoughts without making him feel too alone.
The world outside was painted in the hues of a dusky pink and warm orange, traffic lights glowing like melted candy, streetlamps flickering gold against puddles. People in coats bustled by, umbrellas like blooming flowers, some struggling to close them as they boarded buses or ducked into shops. There was that distinct city scent in the air, slightly metallic from the rain, mixed with roasted sweet potatoes from a cart nearby and the comforting mustiness of people coming in from the cold.
It had been a long day. Jungkook’s part-time job at the bookstore had stretched beyond his usual hours and the soles of his sneakers were soaked from a misstep into a deceptively deep puddle. But he didn’t mind much. He liked the quiet that came after the work, when he could listen to music and pretend he was in a music video.
He was just about to pull out his phone and scroll for a new track when the bus jerked to a stop. The brakes let out a long, mechanical sigh. And then… something strange.
A face.
Right outside his window.
Framed by the misty glass and city lights, there stood a boy, gorgeous in a way that made Jungkook blink twice. He had a honey-toned complexion and hair the colour of dark cinnamon, a little tousled from the rain. His cheeks were pink from the cold, lips a little chapped and he had these bright, crescent eyes that seemed to crinkle naturally, like he smiled a lot. A soft beige scarf was wrapped around his neck, matching the oversized oatmeal-coloured coat he wore, collar slightly flipped from the wind. His trousers were cropped just above the ankle, revealing white socks and pristine trainers. There was something effortlessly lovely about him, like he wasn’t trying, but the universe had put extra care into his design.
The boy caught Jungkook staring and instead of looking away, leaned slightly forward with a curious grin. Then he pointed to his own ear, white earbuds peeking out and mouthed through the glass,
“What are you listening to?”
Jungkook blinked. Once. Twice. His heart stuttered in that annoying, fluttery way it sometimes did when the world turned cinematic without warning. Then, without thinking too much (because thinking would lead to overthinking and that would lead to disaster), he turned his phone so the screen faced the window. Spotify open. Song still playing.
The boy’s eyes widened almost instantly.
Then, just as quickly, he fumbled in his pocket and retrieved his own phone, tapping rapidly until, yes, he held it up too.
Same song. Same artist. Same album cover glowing faintly through the drizzle.
They both burst out laughing in their own little worlds, the sound silent to each other but perfectly understood. And then, as if something clicked, like a puzzle piece, like a door opening, the boy sprinted up the bus steps.
He asked something to the driver. The driver waved a hand. The boy turned and looked around, eyes scanning, until they landed right on Jungkook. Without hesitation, he walked down the aisle and plopped down beside him.
There were other seats. Empty ones. But he didn’t choose them.
“Elbows brushing,” Jungkook would later say to Taehyung, recounting this moment like it was folklore. “I swear I could feel the static.”
“I’m Jimin,” the boy said then, slightly breathless, voice smooth and gentle, cheeks still flushed from the cold. “You’ve got good taste in music.”
Jungkook laughed, a little nervous. “Jungkook.”
They shook hands like that. On a half-empty bus on a rainy Thursday evening.
And then they talked. About the artist. About the lyrics. About how strange and funny the coincidence was. But somehow it didn’t stop there. The conversation turned to other music. Then favourite cafés. Favourite books. Jimin’s disastrous attempt at baking cinnamon rolls last week. Jungkook’s fear of frogs. Jimin’s dancing. Jungkook’s sketchbook. Laughter bounced softly between them, each little story making them lean closer, shoulders brushing now and then, smiles slipping more easily into silence and back again.
By the time Jungkook’s stop came, he almost forgot to get off.
“Wait, this is mine-” he said suddenly, jolting to his feet.
Jimin looked surprised, then a little disappointed. “Oh.”
Jungkook hesitated. “Maybe… I’ll see you around?”
Jimin bit his lip and nodded. “Yeah. Hope so.”
The doors closed behind him and the bus pulled away. He stood on the pavement, watching the red taillights disappear, heart still stammering like it hadn’t caught up yet. He didn’t even realise he was grinning.
That was five years ago.
A meeting made of music and fogged windows and rain-warmed air. They found each other again not long after. The same bus route. The same time. Two weeks later. After that, it was coffee meetups. Late night calls. Housewarming parties. Jimin dragging Jungkook to dance classes and Jungkook pretending to hate it (but not really). And eventually… the softest kind of friendship. The kind that made other people squint at them and ask, “Are you sure you’re not dating?”
They weren’t.
But Jungkook had a crush. A big, fat, starry-eyed, chest-clenching, can’t-look-directly-at-him crush. It didn’t take him long to figure it out. Maybe three weeks in. A little after Jimin had messily cut fruit for him and left all the best slices.
But he hadn’t said it. Still hasn’t.
Because Jimin is Jimin. Warm, open-hearted, easy to laugh and easy to miss when he’s gone. And Jungkook… he’s just a little afraid that saying something out loud would crack the gentle rhythm of what they already had.
But it was there. Every time he lingered a little too long during a hug. Every time he found himself doodling the curve of Jimin’s smile in his notebook. Every time he watched him dance, unthinking and free.
Five years.
One bus ride.
Same song.
And still…he hadn’t said a word.
But that would start to change soon.
And not in the way he expected.
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