Synopsis: y/n takes the 9.05 bus, harry loves a lime bike
a/n: you know the bit at the end of coming up roses where he’s like ‘La la la la la la’ that’s kind of the vibe I was going for with this. Also sorry for any mistakes, I wrote this originally in my notes app on a bus no less!
Y/N caught the bus at exactly 9:05 every morning to get to her job at the art museum in the city centre.
Of course, there were other ways she could get to work.
A car — except she couldn’t drive.
A bike — except she still hadn’t quite mastered riding one without the overwhelming fear of immediately falling off.
A tram — except she was convinced she would miss her stop and have to leap off while it was still moving like some dramatic action scene straight out of Divergent.
So, really, the bus seemed like the most sensible option. It required no jumping, no balancing, and absolutely no activities that might end in injury.
Not many people enjoyed taking the bus. They were cramped and slow and often extremely late — or sometimes didn’t appear at all.
There was something so… comforting about buses.
You saw little acts of kindness on them. People shuffling over so strangers could sit down, someone helping an elderly passenger with their bags, the driver waiting a few extra seconds for someone running down the street.
And from the window you could see everything — cute houses tucked down narrow streets, corner shops just opening for the day, big open fields basking in the morning light.
If she were being honest, Y/N was also a little bit nosey.
She loved people-watching.
Everyone seemed to get the same bus every morning. After a while you started to recognise faces. The woman who always sat near the front with a travel mug. The student who slept against the window. The man who listened to music so loudly you could hear it through his headphones.
Or at least, she knew where they usually sat.
Someone new was on the bus.
He looked maybe a little older than her, brown curls peeking out from beneath a woolly hat and a coat that seemed far too smart to ever touch the questionable fabric of the bus seats. He smiled warmly at the driver — a dimple appearing in his cheek — and then gave small polite smiles to the passengers he passed while searching for somewhere to sit.
Eventually his gaze landed on the empty seat beside Y/N.
Well… empty except for her bag.
“Is it okay if I sit there?”
Y/N looked up at him, momentarily frozen. His voice sounded warm, like honey and milk and cinnamon and the feeling of pulling on a thick wool jumper in winter.
“O-oh! Of course,” she fumbled quickly, grabbing her bag and clutching it against her chest.
He sat down carefully beside her.
That’s when she noticed the cast on his arm.
“What happened to your arm?” she asked, unable to stop herself, immediately realising she might sound a bit too forward.
He frowned, glancing down like he’d almost forgotten about it.
“Oh — I fell off a Lime bike.”
“Hm,” Y/N hummed. “That is exactly why I don’t ride Lime bikes. Or any bikes, actually.”
“I’ve been riding them for ages,” he said. “First time I’ve ever managed to injure myself.”
She gave him a doubtful look.
“You should try it sometime,” he added. “They’re actually pretty fun.”
“I don’t know…” Y/N murmured. “They seem rather dangerous.”
He tilted his head, smiling.
“Maybe another day then?”
The bus lurched forward, the engine grumbling and the two of them swaying in their seats.
Y/N clutched the metal bar in front of her while he steadied himself easily with his good hand.
“I promise I’m usually better at staying upright,” he said, nodding toward his cast.
“That’s reassuring,” she replied, trying not to laugh.
They sat in comfortable silence, the bus turning through familiar streets. Y/N watched the houses slide past the window the same way they always did, but somehow everything felt… brighter.
She had become very aware of the stranger beside her and how he smelled faintly of fresh laundry and winter air.
“You take this bus often?” he asked after a moment.
“Every day,” she said quickly. “Nine-oh-five. It’s very reliable.”
“Well… reliably late,” she corrected.
That made him laugh again, his shoulders moving and his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“I just moved here,” he explained. “Still figuring out the routes.”
“Oh.” Y/N straightened, suddenly feeling oddly important. “Where are you headed?”
“The city centre,” he said. “There’s a building there I’m supposed to start working in today.”
He glanced out the window like he might somehow see it from several miles away.
“I think so?” he said. “The one with the big glass entrance and the statue outside that kind of looks like it’s melting.”
“That’s my museum,” she exclaimed.
His head turned so fast his woolly hat nearly slipped off.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Well— not run it or anything. I work in the archive department. Mostly paperwork and trying not to accidentally touch anything worth millions.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“Well then I’m glad I sat here.”
“Because you can stop me from accidentally touching anything worth millions.”
Y/N laughed softly, pressing her lips together.
The bus slowed at a stoplight, sunlight spilling through the window across his curls.
“I’m Harry, by the way,” he said.
He repeated her name, testing how it sounded.
“Nice to meet you, Y/N-who-rides-the-very-reliable-bus.”
“Nice to meet you too, Harry-who-falls-off-bikes.”
He smiled again, that same dimple appearing.
And for the first time in all the mornings she’d taken the 9:05 bus, Y/N found herself hoping—really hoping—that he would take it again tomorrow.
“So if you don’t ride bikes,” he said, “and you won’t take the tram… what do you do if the bus doesn’t show up?”
He laughed again, her cheeks warming.
“No emergency backup plan?”
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “once I considered walking. But then I realised it would take almost an hour and I’d probably get distracted by a bakery and never make it to work.”
The bus bumped over a pothole, and they both shifted in their seats.
Y/N glanced sideways at him. Now that she was looking properly, she noticed small details she hadn’t before. A tiny paint stain near the cuff of his coat. A faint scar across one knuckle. The way he tapped his shoe lightly against the floor.
“You’re very observant,” he stated.
“You noticed my arm immediately.”
“Oh,” she said quickly. “Sorry if that was rude.”
“No, not rude,” he said. “Just observant.”
He looked delighted by that.
“Yes. Everyone on this bus has a routine.”
“You’re new,” she said. “You haven’t developed one yet.”
“Well, I guess I’ll have to keep taking this bus so you can study my habits.”
Her stomach did a small, confusing flip.
“Purely for research purposes,” he added innocently.
It turned out Harry did keep taking the bus.
The next morning he appeared again at 9:05, sliding into the seat beside her as if it had quietly become his.
And then the morning after that.
Sometimes they talked the entire ride. Sometimes they just sat comfortably beside each other, pointing out odd houses or laughing when the bus driver braked too suddenly.
Y/N learned that Harry worked in exhibition design at the museum. He helped build the displays and install artwork.
Harry learned that Y/N could talk passionately for ten straight minutes about archival paper.
“It's important paper,” she defended.
The bus slowed to a stop outside the museum, and they both stood at the same time. Somehow this had also become routine.
Working on opposite sides of the building all day.
Meeting again for the 5:20 bus home.
Except that afternoon, when they stepped outside toward the bus stop, something was wrong.
The electronic sign above the shelter flashed a message.
She checked the bus app on her phone. The little bus icon that normally crawled along the route was gone entirely.
He leaned closer to look at her phone.
“Roadworks,” he read. “Route suspended until tomorrow.”
Y/N stared at the empty street, a pout forming on her lips that made him bite back a grin.
“But… the bus runs every day.”
“Well,” Harry said gently, “apparently not today.”
“I knew this day would come.”
“Yes. This is exactly the kind of situation I’ve been mentally preparing for.”
Y/N glanced down the street, as if a bus might suddenly appear out of guilt.
“So,” Harry said slowly, “we have options.”
“You know my tram stance.”
“Right. No action-movie exits.”
He gestured across the street.
Y/N didn’t even have to look to know what he meant.
The bright green bikes were lined up along the pavement where they were waiting for her.
She folded her arms immediately.
“You didn’t even consider it.”
“I considered it and rejected it.”
“You said maybe another day.”
“Well I’ll say it again today if that means anything.”
Harry stepped closer to the bikes anyway, unlocking one.
“You don’t have to ride the whole way,” he said. “Just try it.”
“I’m not sure how I can trust you when you literally broke your arm.”
Harry scoffs, “Unrelated incident.”
She looked between him and the bike.
Then back at the empty road where her bus should have been.
“Don’t make a big deal about it.”
“Okay, don’t worry, I’ll make a teeny, tiny deal about it.”
He held the bike steady while she climbed on, gripping the handlebars.
“I hate this already,” she muttered.
“Okay,” he said patiently, standing beside her. “Feet on the ground. Good.”
“I feel like a baby deer.”
“Now just push the pedal slowly.”
“You’re holding the bike?”
The bike rolled forward an inch.
She laughed nervously as the bike wobbled down the pavement, Harry jogging beside her with one hand on the seat.
After a few seconds, she glanced behind her.
Harry was a few steps back.
Harry was jumping up and down, the bottom of his jumper rising where she could see a tattoo of a two fern leaves.
She rolled to a shaky stop, jumping off and staring at him.
“I don’t want to do it anymore.”
Harry stopped, “What? How are we meant to get home?”
“I can sit on the back.” She motioned to the little seat on the back.
Harry cycled them both back to Y/N’s block of flats. By the time they arrived, the sun had set and it was dark. They stood under the light of the lamppost. The lime bike parked up next to them.
“I’m glad I rode a bike, but I don’t think I’ll do it again,” she said.
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“You’re very good at reframing things.”
“It’s one of my talents.”
A small breeze lifted a strand of hair across Y/N’s face.
Harry noticed. He almost reached out to move it, then seemed to stop himself.
And suddenly the air between them felt… different.
He was still smiling, but softer now. Less joking.
The woolly hat was a little crooked from when he’d run beside the bike. His curls stuck out messily underneath it. His coat sleeve hung loosely around the cast on his arm.
And that stupid dimple appeared again when he caught her staring.
“You’re observing again.”
“I never said you weren’t.”
She shifted, rocking back on her heels.
“You know,” she said, “you’re very patient.”
“I like teaching people things.”
“You teach people how to ride bikes often?”
She laughed under her breath.
Harry looked like he might say something.
Y/N tilted her head, studying him the way she studied people on the bus.
And then, very casually, she asked—
“Do you want to kiss me?”
“Sorry,” he said, half-laughing. “Did you just—”
“You asked that very calmly.”
“I like direct communication.”
He looked at her trying to figure out if she was joking.
“I only ask because I would very much so like to kiss you.”
Then he smiled, a little softer this time.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
He stepped closer. Enough that she could see the tiny freckles across the bridge of his nose.
“Just so we’re clear,” he murmured, “this is happening because you successfully rode a bike.”
And then he leaned down and kissed her.
It was warm and gentle and slightly clumsy in the way first kisses sometimes are.
When they pulled apart, Y/N looked up at him.
She pretended to think about it.
“Actually,” she corrected, “that was very nice.”
His dimple appeared again.
She glanced at the bike beside them.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “learning to ride a bike might be the best decision I’ve made this year.”
“Do you want to ride home together again?”
“Absolutely not.” Y/N huffed.
“Can I come inside your flat then?”
Y/N didn’t hesitate, “Absolutely.”
