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The monsoon had arrived three days early this year, creeping across the university campus like a lover's whisper, soft and insistent. The first droplets kissed the heated concrete with tiny puffs of steam, releasing that intoxicating scent of petrichor that made Park Jimin's entire being hum with anticipation. He pressed his palm against the cool glass of the Performing Arts building's main window, watching the sky darken from pearl gray to deep charcoal, feeling the vibration of thunder roll through his bones.
His last contemporary dance class of the day had ended twenty minutes ago, but he lingered in the hallway, his dance bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, waiting. Always waiting for this moment—when the heavens would open and transform the ordinary world into something magical.
The first real drops began to fall, heavy and deliberate, each one a percussion note against the wide leaves of the campus oak trees. Jimin's breath fogged the glass as he exhaled slowly, his heart already beginning to race with that familiar, inexplicable joy that only rain could bring. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows across his reflection—dishevelled honey-blonde hair still damp with sweat from practice, his pink lips curved in the ghost of a smile, dark eyes bright with anticipation.
He pushed through the heavy glass doors, and the humid air enveloped him like an embrace. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees, and goosebumps immediately prickled along his bare arms where his loose white tank top left them exposed. The rain was still gentle, more mist than downpour, but he could taste the promise of more on his tongue—metallic and clean, with an undertone of earth and growing things.
Without conscious thought, his feet carried him to his sacred place: the wide stone steps that led up to the Performing Arts building's main entrance. Only two steps, really, but they were his throne, his sanctuary, his stage. He settled onto the second step, the cold marble immediately seeping through his black sweatpants and sending a pleasant shiver up his spine. The overhang above provided just enough shelter that he could sit dry while still feeling the rain's presence, while still breathing in its essence.
Jimin drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his shins, and simply existed in the moment. The rain began to intensify, and with it came the symphony he craved. Each droplet against the broad magnolia leaves created a different pitch—some sharp as fingernails against tight drumheads, others soft as brushes against cymbals. The gutters sang a deeper song, a bass line that rumbled up through the stone and into his chest cavity. The grass whispered secrets as millions of tiny fingers of water combed through the blades.
He closed his eyes and let his voice join the chorus, starting with nothing more than a hum. The melody lived somewhere deep in his chest, born from the rhythm of his own heartbeat, shaped by the cadence of his breathing. It was a song without words at first, just pure sound, pure emotion given voice. The cool air carried his breath away in visible puffs, each note a small ghost dancing in the rain-washed atmosphere.
As the shower grew stronger, so did his confidence. The hum became words, lyrics to a song that had been playing on repeat in his mind for days. His voice rose and fell with the natural crescendo of the storm, sometimes barely a whisper that the rain almost swallowed, sometimes strong enough to carry across the small courtyard that separated the Performing Arts building from its neighboring structures.
He sang with his whole body, even sitting still. His shoulders swayed slightly with the rhythm, his fingers tapped against his knees, his toes curled and uncurled inside his sneakers. This was dancing too, just a different kind—an internal choreography that only he could see, but that anyone watching could feel in the way he inhabited the music.
From his second-floor window in the Music Production building, Min Yoongi had been watching this ritual for three weeks now.
His studio faced west, which meant he got the full drama of afternoon storms, and lately, he'd found himself abandoning whatever project he was working on whenever the first drops appeared. Not because of the weather itself—though the shift in air pressure did something interesting to the acoustics in his soundproofed room—but because of the boy who appeared like clockwork whenever the sky opened up.
Today, Yoongi sat hunched over his mixing board, but his attention was entirely focused on the figure across the small courtyard. The boy—small but clearly strong, built like a dancer with compact muscle and graceful lines—had claimed those steps as his own personal concert hall. And what a voice he had. Even through the double-paned, sound-treated glass of Yoongi's window, the melody reached him, faint but unmistakably beautiful.
Yoongi's own fingers had stilled on the sliders and knobs of his equipment. He found himself leaning forward, straining to catch every note, every nuance of the performance happening just fifty feet away. The boy's voice was like warm honey over rough edges, smooth and golden but with just enough texture to make it interesting. There was emotion there, raw and honest, the kind that couldn't be taught or manufactured.
The song he was singing was familiar—something that had been popular a few months ago, a melancholy piece about longing and distance. But the way the boy interpreted it, the subtle changes in melody and phrasing he incorporated, made it sound entirely new. Made it sound like his own truth being spoken to the rain.
Yoongi's gaze traced the line of the boy's profile from this distance. High cheekbones, a soft jawline, hair that looked almost silver in the gray light. He wore simple clothes—dark pants, a loose white shirt that was starting to show damp spots where the mist reached him—but there was something about the way he held himself that spoke of quiet confidence, of someone comfortable in his own skin.
A sudden, electric impulse shot through Yoongi's chest. It was the same feeling he got when a particularly perfect chord progression occurred to him, or when he heard a combination of sounds that made his songwriter's heart skip. Before he could second-guess himself, he was pushing back from his workstation, the wheels of his chair squeaking against the polished concrete floor.
His acoustic guitar sat in its stand in the corner, the instrument he'd learned on, the one that felt most like an extension of his own hands. The wood was warm under his palms as he lifted it, familiar and comforting. He'd bought it secondhand three years ago, and it had aged beautifully—the spruce top had deepened to a rich amber color, and the body bore small dings and scratches that told the story of countless late-night sessions.
He didn't take the elevator. Something about this moment felt too urgent, too fragile, to trust to the building's creaky machinery. Instead, he took the stairs two at a time, his heart beating faster with each floor he descended. The guitar case bumped against his hip with each step, but he barely noticed. His mind was already working out chord progressions, already hearing how his playing might complement that voice.
The main door of the Music Production building opened with a soft pneumatic hiss, and immediately the full force of the rain's symphony hit him. It was so much richer, so much more complex than what he'd been able to hear through his window. The air was thick and humid, carrying scents of wet concrete, growing grass, and something floral he couldn't identify. Within seconds, his dark hair was beaded with moisture, and his black hoodie was developing damp spots across the shoulders.
And there was the voice, clearer now, no longer filtered through glass and distance. It was even more beautiful up close—not just technically skilled, though it certainly was that, but full of genuine emotion. The boy was lost in his song, his eyes closed, his face turned slightly upward to catch the mist. He looked like he was in conversation with the sky itself.
Yoongi settled onto the top step of his own building's entrance, perhaps ten feet away from the singer. The stone was cold and slightly gritty under his palms as he arranged the guitar across his knee. His fingers found their familiar positions on the fretboard automatically, muscle memory guiding him as his conscious mind focused on listening, on finding the harmonic foundation that would support without overwhelming.
He took a breath that tasted of rain and possibility, and pressed down on the strings.
The first chord—a gentle G major—rang out clear and true, the sound seeming to bloom in the humid air. Across the narrow space, the boy's voice faltered for just a moment, a barely perceptible pause in the melody. Dark eyes snapped open and found Yoongi's face, and for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, the world consisted of nothing but that gaze—surprised, questioning, and then, slowly, warming with understanding.
The boy's lips curved into a smile that could have powered the entire campus, and he turned his body slightly, angling himself toward Yoongi without breaking eye contact. When he resumed singing, his voice was stronger, more confident, as if the guitar's support had given him permission to let his full power shine through.
Yoongi felt his own breath catch at the beauty of it. This close, he could see the way the boy's throat moved with each note, the subtle expressions that crossed his features as he navigated the emotional landscape of the song. Rain was beginning to dampen the boy's hair, darkening it from honey-blonde to gold, and tiny droplets clung to his eyelashes like diamonds.
They had never exchanged a single word, had never so much as nodded to each other in passing on campus, but this felt like the most natural thing in the world. The guitar seemed to know exactly where to go, each chord change flowing seamlessly into the next, creating a foundation that lifted the boy's voice rather than competing with it. They were two instruments in perfect harmony, two halves of a whole that neither had known was incomplete.
When the final note of the song faded into the whisper of rain against leaves, Yoongi let the last chord ring out, his fingers light against the strings to let the sound decay naturally. The silence that followed was not empty but full—charged with an energy that made the air itself seem to vibrate.
The boy was still looking at him, but now his expression held something new. Wonder, perhaps. Or recognition of something that had been waiting to be discovered. He lifted one hand in a small wave, the gesture somehow both shy and bold, and Yoongi found himself responding with a nod that felt weighted with significance.
Neither of them spoke. The moment felt too fragile for words, too perfect to risk breaking with ordinary language. Instead, they simply sat in the rain's embrace, two strangers who had just become something more, connected by the invisible thread of shared music and the promise of storms yet to come.
Seven days later, the sky wore the same expectant gray that preceded every good storm. Jimin had been checking the weather app obsessively since morning, his heart doing little flutter-kicks every time the probability of rain increased by another percentage point. By three o'clock, when his Music Theory course ended, the air itself seemed to hum with anticipation.
He practically jogged across campus to the Performing Arts building, his dance bag bouncing against his hip with each eager step. The first fat drops were already beginning to fall, sporadic but determined, each one a small cold shock against his skin where his sleeveless shirt left his arms bare. The temperature had dropped since morning, and he shivered slightly as he pushed through the building's main doors—but it was a shiver of excitement as much as cold.
His sacred steps welcomed him back like an old friend. The stone was still warm from the day's sun, though he knew that would change quickly once the rain began in earnest. He settled into his familiar position, knees drawn up, chin resting on his arms, and let his gaze drift across the small courtyard to the Music Production building.
There. Second floor, third window from the left. He could see the warm glow of lamplight, could make out the silhouette of someone moving around inside. His mysterious guitarist, preparing for their second duet. The thought made his chest tight with an emotion he couldn't quite name—anticipation mixed with nervousness mixed with something that felt dangerously close to hope.
The rain began to fall more steadily, and with it came that familiar loosening in his chest, that sense of coming home to himself. He breathed in deeply, tasting the storm on the back of his tongue, feeling the humidity settle on his skin like silk. A few drops reached him even under the overhang, cool kisses against his forearms and cheeks.
He had chosen his song carefully this time. Something more upbeat, more hopeful than the melancholy ballad of their first encounter. A piece about new beginnings, about finding light in unexpected places. As he opened his mouth to sing, he caught sight of movement in his peripheral vision—the main door of the Music Production building opening, a familiar figure emerging with a guitar case slung over his shoulder.
The man—boy, really, though he carried himself with a gravity that seemed older than his years—looked up toward Jimin's window as he walked, and even from this distance, Jimin could feel the weight of that gaze. When their eyes met, the man raised his hand in greeting, and Jimin's responding smile was so automatic, so unstoppable, that it surprised him with its intensity.
Today, the guitarist wore a black beanie that hid most of his dark hair, but it couldn't conceal those eyes—cat-like and intense, holding depths that made Jimin want to dive in and explore. He moved with economic grace, no wasted motion, settling onto his steps with practiced ease. The guitar emerged from its case like a beloved friend being welcomed home.
The first notes rang out before Jimin had even begun to sing, as if the guitarist had read his mind, had somehow divined the key and tempo from the set of Jimin's shoulders, the rhythm of his breathing. It was a more complex arrangement than their first song had been, with fingerpicked arpeggios that danced around the melody line like water flowing around stones.
When Jimin's voice joined the guitar, the combination was even more magical than he'd remembered. His voice seemed to find new colors with this harmonic support, new ways to shade the lyrics and breathe life into familiar words. The guitarist played with confident creativity, adding runs and flourishes that complemented rather than competed, creating a conversation between voice and strings.
But the most beautiful part was the way they listened to each other. Jimin could feel his partner responding to every subtle change in dynamics, every breath between phrases, adjusting the guitar's voice to match and enhance. And he found himself doing the same—letting his vocals rise and fall not just with the written melody, but with the organic flow of the music they were creating together.
Halfway through the song, something shifted. The guitarist began to sing.
His voice was a revelation—low and rough-textured, with a quality like whiskey and smoke that sent shivers down Jimin's spine. He sang harmony, weaving his darker tones under and around Jimin's brighter melody, creating a sound so rich and complex it seemed to have physical weight. Their voices found each other's spaces perfectly, two puzzle pieces clicking into place.
When the final chord faded into the rain's applause, they sat in stunned silence for a moment. Jimin felt like he'd been holding his breath for the entire song, and now he exhaled shakily, his heart hammering against his ribs. Across the courtyard, he could see his partner looking equally affected, his hands still positioned on the guitar as if reluctant to break the spell.
This time, when their eyes met, Jimin lifted his hand and pressed it to his heart, then extended it toward the guitarist in a gesture that felt both ancient and completely natural. A thank you. A recognition. A promise of more to come.
The guitarist's response was a smile—small and rare, but transformative. It changed his entire face, softening the sharp angles and revealing a warmth that made Jimin's breath catch. He touched his own chest, then extended his hand in the same gesture, completing the circle of understanding between them.
The rain continued to fall around them, but they might as well have been in their own private world, connected by invisible strings of music and something deeper, something that neither was quite ready to name.
The third storm arrived with the fury of something that had been held back too long. By the time Jimin reached his steps, the rain was already a torrential downpour, hammering the courtyard with drops so heavy they seemed to bounce back up from the pavement. The air was charged with electricity—he could taste the metallic tang of lightning on his tongue, could feel the static making his hair stand on end despite the humidity.
This was not a gentle rain to sit peacefully within. This was a storm that demanded participation, that called to every wild impulse in his dancer's soul. Within seconds of stepping outside, he was soaked through, his white t-shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders, his dark jeans heavy with water. His hair hung in dripping strands across his forehead, but he laughed aloud at the sheer exhilarating wildness of it.
The song that poured from his throat matched the storm's intensity—something bold and sweeping, a waltz that seemed to expand to fill all the space between earth and sky. His voice rose to meet the rain's challenge, clear and strong enough to cut through the deluge. He could barely see across the courtyard through the wall of water, but he knew his guitarist would come. Somehow, he was as certain of that as he was of his own heartbeat.
Sure enough, the door of the Music Production building opened, and his partner emerged into the chaos. Even through the rain, Jimin could see him hesitate for just a moment—this was clearly more weather than either of them had dealt with before. But then he was moving, settling onto his steps with determination, his guitar already in his hands.
The first chords were barely audible over the storm's roar, but Jimin felt them more than heard them, felt the familiar harmonic foundation settling under his voice like solid ground under his feet. The guitarist played with fierce concentration, his dark head bent over the instrument, water streaming from his hair and clothes.
But the waltz rhythm was too insistent, too alive, to be contained on stone steps. As the music swelled, building to something grand and irresistible, Jimin found himself standing without conscious decision. The rain immediately intensified its assault on him, but he barely noticed. He was moving now, the three-quarter time flowing through his body like liquid music, demanding expression through movement as well as voice.
He caught sight of his partner looking up in surprise, hands stilling on the strings, and an idea struck him like lightning. Bold and reckless and absolutely perfect.
Before he could lose his nerve, Jimin was moving across the courtyard, his feet splashing through puddles that had formed in the uneven pavement. Each step was a beat of the waltz, each movement deliberate despite the rain trying to blind him. He could feel his guitarist's eyes on him, wide with shock and something that might have been fascination.
When he reached the Music Production building's steps, Jimin extended his hand—palm up, water pooling in the curves of his fingers, an invitation that was also a dare.
"I—what?" The guitarist's voice was exactly what Jimin had imagined it would be—low and rough, with an accent that spoke of quiet strength. Up close, soaked and startled, he looked younger somehow, more vulnerable. His eyes were the darkest brown Jimin had ever seen, almost black in the storm-dimmed light.
Instead of answering with words, Jimin simply took the offered hand. The contact was electric—skin against skin, warm despite the rain, callused fingertips that spoke of countless hours making music. He tugged gently, encouragingly, and after a moment's hesitation, the guitarist allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.
"I don't... I can't dance," he protested, clutching his guitar like a lifeline, water dripping from the brim of his beanie.
"You don't have to know how," Jimin said softly, his voice barely audible over the storm but somehow carrying perfectly in the small space between them. "Just listen to the music. One, two, three. One, two, three." He began to hum the melody, the same waltz that had pulled him to his feet, and gently guided his partner's free hand to rest on his waist.
The touch burned even through the barrier of wet fabric. Jimin could feel the slight tremble in those long fingers, the hesitation in every muscle. But he could also feel the moment when the guitarist stopped thinking and started feeling, when the rhythm found him despite his protests.
They began to move together, slowly at first, more of a shuffling sway than a proper waltz. The guitarist—Jimin still didn't know his name, realized he was desperate to learn it—stumbled slightly and stepped on his foot, muttering an apology that was swallowed by a clap of thunder.
Jimin only laughed, bright and delighted, the sound somehow carrying over the storm. "It's okay," he called out, his face turned up to catch the rain, eyes squeezed shut against the deluge. "Just feel it. Don't think."
And gradually, miraculously, it began to work. The stiffness left his partner's frame, replaced by a hesitant but growing confidence. They found their rhythm—not a perfect ballroom waltz, but something uniquely theirs, shaped by the rain and the music and the incredible courage it had taken for both of them to be here, in this moment, moving together in the heart of the storm.
Jimin opened his eyes to find his partner watching him with an expression of wonder, as if he were seeing something impossible made real. Water beaded on his dark eyelashes, ran in rivulets down his sharp cheekbones, but his gaze was warm and focused and absolutely present. The guitar still hung from his shoulder, bumping gently against his back as they turned, a third partner in their impromptu dance.
"I'm Jimin," he said during a quieter moment between thunder crashes, the words feeling precious and significant, like a gift he was offering.
"Yoongi," came the reply, and the name settled into Jimin's chest like something he'd been waiting his whole life to hear.
They continued to dance as the storm raged around them, two figures spinning slowly in the rain-soaked courtyard, discovering something neither had known they were looking for. When lightning illuminated the sky, it caught them in tableau—Jimin's face bright with joy, Yoongi's soft with wonder, both of them completely and utterly lost in the music they were making together.
By the time the storm finally began to ease, they had long since stopped caring about staying dry. They were soaked to the skin, shivering slightly in the cooler air, but neither wanted to be the first to break the spell. They stood close together, breathing hard from the dancing, from the adrenaline, from the sheer overwhelming rightness of finding each other in the chaos.
"Thank you," Yoongi said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "I've never... I don't usually..."
"I know," Jimin replied, understanding perfectly. "Me neither."
They stood there for another moment, hands still loosely clasped, the rain gentling to a steady patter around them. Something had shifted between them, something that went beyond their musical connection. They had crossed a line together, had chosen vulnerability and trust and the terrifying beauty of letting someone else lead them into the unknown.
When they finally parted, it was with the unspoken understanding that everything had changed. They were no longer strangers who happened to make music together during rainstorms. They were Jimin and Yoongi, and they had danced in the rain, and nothing would ever be quite the same.
The fourth rain came on a Thursday afternoon, gentle and contemplative after the drama of the previous storm. Jimin found himself checking his phone constantly during his Contemporary Dance Workshop, watching the drops begin to speckle the studio windows, counting down the minutes until class ended and he could take his place on the steps.
But when he emerged from the Performing Arts building, guitar case in hand, he didn't head for his usual spot. Instead, his feet carried him across the small courtyard to where Yoongi was just settling onto his own steps, looking up in surprise as Jimin approached.
"Is there room for one more?" Jimin asked, the question coming out slightly breathless, as if he'd been running instead of simply walking twenty feet.
Yoongi's answer was in his eyes—warm and welcoming—before he even spoke. "Always," he said simply, shifting over to make space on the wide stone step.
The word hit Jimin square in the chest with unexpected force. Always. As if this was something they'd been doing for years instead of barely three encounters. As if there was no question that they belonged here together, side by side, making music in the rain.
Jimin settled beside him, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from Yoongi's body despite the cool air, of the way their thighs brushed with each small adjustment of position. This close, he could smell the faint scent of Yoongi's laundry detergent mixed with coffee and something uniquely him—clean and masculine and slightly woodsy, like the interior of a well-loved guitar case.
Yoongi was tuning his guitar, making minute adjustments that probably only he could hear, but Jimin found himself fascinated by the process. Those long, elegant fingers moved with such certainty, such practiced grace, coaxing perfect pitch from the steel strings. There was something almost meditative about watching him work, the slight furrow of concentration between his dark brows, the way he tilted his head to listen to each note's decay.
"What do you want to sing?" Yoongi asked softly, his voice pitched low enough that it felt intimate despite the open air around them.
The question surprised Jimin—in their previous encounters, the song choice had seemed to happen organically, without discussion. But this felt different somehow. More collaborative. More like two people choosing to create something together rather than two strangers accidentally finding harmony.
"I don't know," Jimin admitted, then felt brave enough to add, "What do you want to play?"
Yoongi's smile was small but genuine, transforming his usually serious expression into something almost boyish. "I've been working on an arrangement of that ballad—the one from last week. Made it a little more complex. Wanted to see if..." He trailed off, suddenly seeming uncertain.
"If what?"
"If your voice could handle it," Yoongi finished, and there was something in his tone that made Jimin's pulse quicken. Not a challenge, exactly, but definitely a question. An invitation to push boundaries, to see what they could build together.
"Show me," Jimin said.
The first notes were indeed more complex than anything Yoongi had played for him before—intricate fingerpicking patterns that created multiple melodic lines simultaneously, bass notes and harmony and rhythm all woven together into something that sounded almost orchestral. Jimin listened for a full verse, letting the music wash over him, finding the spaces where his voice could fit, the places where melody wanted to bloom.
When he began to sing, it was with a confidence he hadn't felt in their previous encounters. Something about sitting beside Yoongi, about being close enough to feel the subtle vibrations of the guitar through the stone beneath them, made him feel anchored and free at the same time. His voice rose and fell with the guitar's complex harmonies, sometimes following the main melody line, sometimes creating counterpoint, sometimes dropping into harmony with the bass notes.
But the real magic happened when Yoongi began to sing with him.
His voice, rough and warm like aged whiskey, wove around Jimin's higher tones with an intimacy that made Jimin's breath catch. They weren't just singing together—they were having a conversation, each voice responding to the other, building on what had come before, creating something that neither could have achieved alone.
Jimin found himself watching Yoongi's profile as they sang, noting the way his eyes drifted closed during the more emotional passages, the slight tension in his jaw when he reached for the lower notes. There was something beautiful about seeing him lost in the music, about being close enough to witness the moment when Yoongi stopped being self-conscious and became pure sound, pure emotion.
They worked through the song three times, each repetition revealing new layers, new possibilities. By the third time through, they were practically reading each other's minds—Jimin would take a breath to indicate a ritardando, and Yoongi would slow with him without missing a beat. Yoongi would add an unexpected chord change, and Jimin would adjust his melody to accommodate it as if they'd rehearsed it a hundred times.
When they finally let the last chord fade into the gentle patter of rain, they sat in comfortable silence for a long moment. Jimin was aware of his heart beating fast, of the slight breathlessness that came from singing with full engagement, but more than that, he was aware of the perfect contentment of sitting here beside Yoongi, watching the rain paint the world in shades of silver and green.
"That was..." Yoongi began, then seemed to lose the words.
"Yeah," Jimin agreed softly. "It was."
They stayed on the steps until the rain stopped completely and the first tentative rays of sunshine began to break through the clouds, casting everything in gold and making the wet world sparkle like it had been dusted with glitter. They sang four more songs, talked quietly between them about music and classes and nothing in particular, and discovered that the easy harmony they found in song extended to conversation as well.
When they finally parted ways, it was with the unspoken understanding that this had become something more than coincidental meetings during storms. They were choosing this now, choosing each other, choosing to see where this connection might lead.
"Same time next rain?" Yoongi asked as they packed up their instruments.
"Same time next rain," Jimin confirmed, and the promise felt as solid and reliable as the stone steps beneath their feet.
The fifth storm was different from the very beginning. The sky had been building toward it all day—not the sudden drama of an afternoon thunderstorm, but the slow, inevitable approach of weather that meant business. By evening, when Jimin made his way to their steps, the air was so thick with humidity it felt like breathing through silk, and the first drops were already beginning to fall with serious intent.
They had been meeting like this for three weeks now, and the routine had become as natural as breathing. Jimin would arrive first, settling into his spot and beginning to warm up his voice with scales and snippets of melody. Yoongi would appear moments later, guitar in hand, and they would spend an hour creating music that existed nowhere else but in the rain-washed space between their two buildings.
Today felt different, though. There was an energy in the air that had nothing to do with the approaching storm, a tension that made Jimin's fingers tremble slightly as he adjusted his position on the stone steps. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change, though he couldn't say what or how he knew.
Yoongi arrived looking equally affected. His usual calm composure seemed slightly ruffled, his dark hair more disheveled than usual, as if he'd been running his hands through it. When their eyes met, there was a question there that Jimin couldn't quite read, but that made his pulse quicken nonetheless.
"Hey," Yoongi said softly, settling beside him with less than his usual grace.
"Hey yourself," Jimin replied, studying his profile. "You seem... are you okay?"
Yoongi was quiet for a moment, his fingers moving restlessly over the guitar strings without pressing down to make sound. "Yeah," he said finally. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
Another pause. The rain was beginning to intensify, and Jimin could feel the first drops reaching them despite their shelter. "About this," Yoongi said finally, gesturing vaguely between them, at the guitars, at the rain. "About us."
The word 'us' hung in the air between them like a struck bell, resonating with implications that neither had been brave enough to voice before. Jimin felt his breath catch, felt his heart begin to beat faster against his ribs.
"What about us?" he asked carefully.
Yoongi looked at him then, really looked at him, with those intense dark eyes that seemed to see straight through to Jimin's soul. "I keep wondering," he said, his voice barely audible over the rain, "what we sound like when it's not raining."
The question hit Jimin like a physical thing. He had been wondering the same thing, had caught himself listening for Yoongi's voice in the hallways between classes, had found himself making excuses to walk past the Music Production building on clear days just in case he might catch a glimpse of him through a window.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I'd like to find out."
Something shifted in Yoongi's expression—relief, maybe, or recognition. He nodded slowly, then turned his attention to his guitar, beginning the opening chords of what had become their song, the ballad they'd worked on together until it was more theirs than its original writer's.
But tonight, even their music felt different. More poignant, more weighted with unspoken things. Jimin's voice seemed to carry new depths, and Yoongi's harmonies wrapped around him with an intimacy that made him feel exposed and cherished at the same time. They sang like people saying goodbye, or hello, or both at once.
When the final note faded, they sat in the kind of silence that feels full rather than empty. The rain continued around them, but softer now, less urgent. Jimin was acutely aware of Yoongi beside him—the sound of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his body, the way his fingers still rested lightly on the guitar strings as if reluctant to let the music go entirely.
"Jimin," Yoongi said suddenly, and there was something in his voice that made Jimin turn to face him fully.
"Yeah?"
Yoongi was looking at him with an expression Jimin had never seen before—vulnerable and determined and slightly terrified all at once. "The rain's going to stop soon."
It was such an odd thing to say that for a moment Jimin didn't know how to respond. He glanced up at the sky, which did indeed seem to be lightening slightly, the heavy gray beginning to show breaks where pale evening light filtered through.
"Probably," he agreed, not understanding where this was going.
Yoongi set his guitar aside carefully, as if it were made of spun glass, and turned to face Jimin more fully. His hands were restless in his lap, fingers twisting together in what Jimin was beginning to recognize as a nervous habit.
"Would you..." Yoongi started, then stopped, took a breath, tried again. "Would you maybe like to get coffee sometime? When it's not raining?"
The words hung between them like soap bubbles, fragile and iridescent and achingly beautiful. Jimin felt his heart stop, then start again at double speed. He had been hoping for this question without even realizing it, had been carrying the want for it in his chest like a secret even from himself.
"I mean," Yoongi continued when Jimin didn't immediately respond, his words coming faster now, nervous energy spilling over, "we could still do this, the rain thing, but maybe also... maybe we could see what we're like when we're not soaking wet and half-blind from storms, and I know it's probably weird since we've only really talked during—"
"Yes," Jimin interrupted, his voice soft but absolutely certain. "Yes, I'd love that."
Yoongi's rambling stopped abruptly. He stared at Jimin as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd heard. "Really?"
"Really," Jimin confirmed, and then he was smiling, the expression taking over his entire face until he probably looked ridiculous but couldn't bring himself to care. "I was hoping you'd ask."
The relief that washed over Yoongi's features was so profound it was almost painful to witness. His shoulders sagged as tension Jimin hadn't even noticed he was carrying finally released. A small, wondering smile began to curve his lips—the first truly unguarded expression Jimin had ever seen from him.
"I was terrified you'd say no," Yoongi admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "I kept thinking about it, but then I'd convince myself it was crazy, that maybe you just liked the music and the rain and I was reading too much into—"
This time it was Jimin who interrupted, reaching out to cover Yoongi's restless hands with his own. The contact was electric, skin against skin, warm despite the cool rain-washed air. Yoongi's fingers were longer than his, elegant and callused from years of guitar playing, and they stilled immediately under Jimin's touch.
"You weren't reading too much into anything," Jimin said quietly, his thumb tracing gentle circles over Yoongi's knuckles. "I've been hoping for this too. I just didn't know how to... I mean, we've never really talked about anything but music."
"We could talk about other things," Yoongi said, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes were focused on their joined hands, on the way Jimin's smaller fingers fit between his like they'd been designed for exactly this purpose. "I'd like to know other things about you."
"Like what?"
Yoongi looked up then, meeting Jimin's gaze directly. "Everything," he said simply. "What you study besides dance. What you do when it's not raining. What makes you laugh. What makes you sad. What your voice sounds like first thing in the morning."
The last item on the list made Jimin's breath catch, made heat bloom across his cheekbones despite the cool air. There was something in the way Yoongi said it—not suggestive, exactly, but intimate in a way that made Jimin's pulse quicken and his stomach flutter with nervous butterflies.
"That's a lot of coffee conversations," Jimin managed, proud of how steady his voice sounded.
"I've got time," Yoongi replied, and the simple statement carried the weight of a promise.
They sat like that for a moment, hands joined, rain falling gently around them but no longer seeming to touch them. The storm was indeed passing, as Yoongi had predicted, and the first tentative rays of sunset were beginning to break through the clouds, painting everything in warm gold and amber light.
"So when?" Jimin asked. "For coffee, I mean."
Yoongi glanced up at the clearing sky, then back at Jimin. "Tomorrow? After classes? I know a place off campus, quiet enough that we can actually hear each other talk."
"It's a date," Jimin said, then immediately flushed when he realized what he'd said. "I mean—"
"It's a date," Yoongi agreed solemnly, but there was warmth in his dark eyes, a pleased satisfaction that made Jimin's heart skip.
They stood up together, a mutual recognition that their time on the steps was ending for today. As they gathered their things—Yoongi carefully placing his guitar back in its case, Jimin shouldering his dance bag—neither seemed eager to actually leave. This felt like a threshold moment, a before-and-after that they weren't quite ready to cross.
"Walk me to the bus stop?" Jimin asked impulsively.
"I was hoping you'd ask," Yoongi replied, echoing Jimin's earlier words.
They walked slowly across the now-glistening campus, their feet finding puddles that reflected the emerging stars. The air smelled clean and new, washed free of dust and heat and filled with the green scent of growing things. Other students hurried past them, eager to get out of the lingering drizzle, but Jimin and Yoongi moved as if they had all the time in the world.
At the bus stop, they stood close together under the small shelter, suddenly awkward now that they were in a more public space. The easy intimacy of their rain-soaked meetings felt more fragile here, under the harsh fluorescent light and surrounded by other waiting passengers.
"Tomorrow," Yoongi said as Jimin's bus approached, its headlights cutting through the gathering dusk.
"Tomorrow," Jimin confirmed. Then, on impulse, he rose up on his toes and pressed a quick, soft kiss to Yoongi's cheek. The skin was cool and slightly damp, and Yoongi smelled like rain and coffee and something uniquely him that made Jimin want to bury his face in the crook of his neck and just breathe him in.
When he pulled back, Yoongi was staring at him with an expression of wonder, one hand rising unconsciously to touch the spot where Jimin's lips had been.
"For luck," Jimin said softly, then bounded onto the bus before his courage could desert him.
As the bus pulled away, he turned in his seat to look back. Yoongi was still standing under the shelter, still touching his cheek, watching the bus disappear into traffic with a small, dazed smile on his face.
Jimin settled back in his seat, his heart racing with excitement and nerves and the thrilling certainty that everything was about to change. Outside the window, the last of the rain tapped gentle fingers against the glass, and he found himself humming—not one of their songs, but something new, something hopeful, something that sounded like the beginning of a love story.
Tomorrow, they would meet for coffee. Tomorrow, they would discover what their voices sounded like without the rain to accompany them. Tomorrow, they would begin the process of learning each other in sunshine as well as storms.
But tonight, Jimin carried the memory of Yoongi's shocked, pleased expression, the warmth of his skin under Jimin's lips, the promise of all the tomorrows stretching ahead of them like an unwritten song waiting to be sung.
The rain had brought them together, but what they built from here would be entirely their own creation. And somehow, Jimin thought as he watched the city lights blur past the window, that was the most beautiful music of all.
Six months later
The campus café was bustling with the usual afternoon crowd—students hunched over laptops, animated discussions about weekend plans, the gentle hiss and gurgle of the espresso machine providing a constant background soundtrack. At a corner table by the window, Jimin sat with his chin propped on his hand, watching Yoongi work.
His boyfriend—and wasn't it still thrilling to think that word, to know it was true—had his laptop open and headphones on, lost in the intricate process of mixing a track for his senior project. His face wore that familiar expression of intense concentration, eyebrows slightly furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. Occasionally his fingers would tap against the table, following a rhythm only he could hear.
Jimin loved watching him work. There was something mesmerizing about seeing Yoongi in his element, seeing the careful precision with which he crafted sound, the way his entire body seemed to tune into frequencies that existed beyond normal hearing. It was like watching a painter work with colors that were invisible to everyone else.
Outside the window, the sky was a brilliant blue, not a cloud in sight. It had been three weeks since the last good rain, and while Jimin missed their musical meetings on the steps, he had discovered something even better: Yoongi in all weather, in all moods, in all the small moments that made up a life shared.
They had kept their promise to each other. That first coffee date had turned into dinner, which had turned into study sessions in the library, which had turned into Yoongi showing up at Jimin's dance performances and Jimin sitting in on recording sessions in the music building. They had learned each other's languages—the vocabulary of music production and the grammar of movement, the way Yoongi's hands spoke when words failed him and the way Jimin's entire body became an instrument of expression.
And they had learned each other's voices in all kinds of weather. Yoongi's morning voice, rough with sleep and tender with affection. Jimin's laugh, bright and infectious, that could pull Yoongi out of even his darkest moods. The way they sounded when they sang together in Yoongi's tiny apartment, no rain to mask their imperfections but somehow sounding more perfect than they ever had on the steps.
"Hey," Yoongi said suddenly, pulling off his headphones and blinking as if surfacing from deep water. "Sorry, I got completely lost in that bridge section."
"It's okay," Jimin said, reaching across the table to brush a strand of dark hair away from Yoongi's eyes. "I like watching you work. You get this little crease right here—" he touched the spot between Yoongi's eyebrows "—when you're really focused."
Yoongi caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Have I been ignoring you? I'm sorry, I just wanted to get this section right before—"
"Yoongi," Jimin interrupted gently. "It's fine. I brought homework." He gestured to his own laptop, where an essay about contemporary choreographic techniques sat half-finished. "We can work together. I like the company."
This was another thing Jimin had discovered about love—it didn't always require constant conversation or attention. Sometimes it was enough just to exist in the same space, to know that when you looked up from your work, you would see the person who made your heart skip, to know that they had chosen to spend their time near you even when neither of you was being particularly entertaining.
"Actually," Yoongi said, saving his work and closing the laptop, "I think I'm done for today. Want to get out of here? Maybe take a walk?"
"Where to?"
Yoongi's smile was soft and secretive. "I have an idea. Trust me?"
"Always," Jimin replied without hesitation, and meant it completely.
They packed up their things and left the café hand in hand, Jimin's fingers interlaced with Yoongi's in a gesture that had become as natural as breathing. The late afternoon sun was warm on their faces, and the campus was alive with the energy of students enjoying the beautiful weather.
Yoongi led them toward the Performing Arts building, and Jimin felt a flutter of recognition in his chest. As they approached the familiar stone steps, he realized what Yoongi was planning.
"Our steps," he said softly.
"Our steps," Yoongi confirmed. "I thought maybe we could... I mean, it doesn't have to be raining for us to make music together."
They settled into their old positions—Jimin on the second step, Yoongi slightly lower with his guitar case beside him. But this time, instead of sitting apart, they were close enough to touch, Yoongi's knee pressed against Jimin's thigh, their shoulders brushing when either of them moved.
"What should we sing?" Jimin asked.
Yoongi was already tuning his guitar, making those minute adjustments that spoke of perfectionism and deep care. "I've been working on something new," he said quietly. "Something I wrote for you. For us."
Jimin's breath caught. In all their time together, through all their rain-soaked performances and quiet moments in coffee shops, Yoongi had never played him something he'd written himself. He was protective of his original work, shy about sharing the songs that came from his own heart rather than from other people's lyrics.
"You wrote a song about us?"
"About this," Yoongi said, gesturing between them, at the steps, at the courtyard where they'd found each other. "About rain and music and finding someone who hears the same melodies you do."
The first chord rang out clear and true in the afternoon air—not the gentle, tentative sound of their early rain-soaked meetings, but confident and full, the sound of someone who knew exactly what story he wanted to tell. The melody was beautiful, complex but accessible, with the kind of harmonic sophistication that spoke of hours of careful crafting.
And then Yoongi began to sing, and Jimin felt his heart stop.
His voice was different than it had been in those early days. Still rough, still warm, but steadier now, more sure of itself. And the lyrics—God, the lyrics were perfect. They told the story of two strangers finding each other in the rain, of music building bridges across empty spaces, of love growing slowly and surely like roots finding purchase in fertile soil.
When Yoongi reached the chorus—something about voices finding harmony in the storm—he looked directly at Jimin, and the invitation was clear. Jimin opened his mouth and let his voice join the song, finding his place in the melody as naturally as he always had, but with the added richness of knowing exactly what they were singing about, of helping to tell their own love story.
Other students stopped to listen as they passed by. A small crowd gathered at the edges of the courtyard, drawn by the beauty of what they were hearing. But Jimin barely noticed them. All his attention was focused on Yoongi, on the way their voices wove together, on the incredible gift of hearing their story transformed into music.
When the final note faded, the scattered applause from their impromptu audience seemed to come from very far away. Jimin was lost in Yoongi's eyes, in the soft satisfaction he saw there, in the knowledge that this song would be theirs forever—not borrowed from someone else, not adapted or arranged, but born from their own experience, their own love.
"That was..." Jimin began.
"I love you," Yoongi said suddenly, the words tumbling out like they couldn't be contained any longer. "I know we haven't said it yet, and maybe it's too soon, but I do. I love your voice and your laugh and the way you dance even when you're just walking across a room. I love how you make everything feel like music, even when there's no actual music happening. I love—"
Jimin silenced him with a kiss, right there on the steps in front of anyone who cared to watch. It was soft and sweet and tasted like the coffee they'd been sharing and the promise of countless afternoons yet to come.
"I love you too," he whispered against Yoongi's lips. "I love how you hear music in everything, how you make me feel brave enough to sing in front of strangers, how you look at me like I'm something precious. I love your terrible morning hair and your perfect hands and the way you play guitar like you're having a conversation with an old friend."
They kissed again, longer this time, deeper, while their audience whistled and cheered good-naturedly before gradually dispersing. When they finally broke apart, they were both smiling so widely it probably looked ridiculous, but Jimin couldn't bring himself to care.
"So what now?" he asked, settling more comfortably against Yoongi's side.
"Now we keep making music together," Yoongi said simply. "Rain or shine. Forever, if you'll have me."
Jimin looked up at the cloudless sky, then at the boy beside him—his partner in all things, his harmony, his heart. "Forever sounds perfect," he said.
And somewhere in the distance, as if summoned by their happiness, thunder rumbled softly across the horizon. The first drops of an unexpected evening shower began to fall, and they laughed as they gathered their things and ran for shelter, hands clasped tightly together, voices raised in joyful song as the rain welcomed them home.