It’s a regular Monday morning. The kind where your alarm betrayed you, your coffee spilled, and your hair has a mind of its own. You’re sprinting like your life depends on it, weaving through sleepy commuters and school kids, your breath short, bag slipping off your shoulder.

You see the bus waiting at the curb—your salvation—and push yourself harder.

Just as the doors start to close, you leap up the steps, hair a mess, pulse racing. You fumble for your card and tap it against the scanner.

Declined.

You freeze.

Your heart sinks. Right—you forgot to reload your fare.

You glance up at the driver, your eyes wide, silently pleading. He doesn’t budge. A tight shake of the head.

You exhale sharply, embarrassment prickling at your skin as people behind you shift impatiently. You mutter an awkward apology and turn to leave.

Then—thud.

You walk straight into someone.

“Sorry,” you mumble, not fully looking up, more focused on disappearing from the moment.

But he doesn’t move.

He steps past you, silent, his scent—clean, woodsy—lingering for a second too long. Then he faces the driver and, without saying a single word, taps his own card a second time.

Two beeps.

He turns slightly, handing you the extra ticket.

And then—just like that—he walks to the back of the bus, slipping into a seat like nothing happened.

You’re frozen.

Mouth parted slightly. A blush creeps up your neck.

You finally look at him.

Tall, lean build. Tousled dark hair he pushes back with his fingers. Warm olive skin under the morning light, jawline sharp and proud. One earthy brown eye. One pale green.

That gaze. You’ve never seen him before, but somehow… he feels unforgettable.

You sit across from him, stealing glances.

He notices. Smirks.

Then he leans back, headphones in, as if he didn’t just save your whole morning.