9:33℠
ilithified:
It goes without saying that he slept like shit, and when he’s woken by the grating buzz of phone on bedside table he takes one look at the window-shade lit up by bright morning sunlight and groans. Some day he’ll be able to sleep in til noon, and on that day he’ll know what it’s like to be fully rested for once. Today he accepts his fate, sits up, and checks the phone.
He doesn’t know that number. And it sets him ticking down a list of possibilities in his head – a customer? They’d know to be more subtle, and find him at night. Ksung? It’s another number he has saved, but just how often do mob bosses change phones anyway? He knows better than to write off the possibility of Sunggyu doing anything, no matter how bizarre or illogical it may seem, and it’s the realization that if he doesn’t come down Sunggyu will find a way up that finally gets him dressed and out the door.
Heading down the last flight of stairs, he looks for a sign of who awaits him, but out the glass of the building’s main door all he can see is pedestrians passing by. It’s only once he’s out on the sidewalk that he spots her, and it stops him dead. He’s glad it’s not Sunggyu, but that’s about all he can say.
“You stalking me now?” He’s half-joking, but serious enough. “Look, it’s not that I’m not flattered, I just think there are about a thousand ways you could be spending your time that don’t involve being a pain in my ass.”
A few minutes pass without word from Sungjoon, and she’s almost slightly worried that he isn’t going to show. She knows that he’s home - he doesn’t seem like the type to get up early and leave the house before the break of dawn - so he might be choosing to ignore the commands of an unknown number.
She shuffles around a small inventory, hugs two cardboard cups between her arm and her ribs, and checks her phone one more time to make sure she hasn’t missed anything from her companion. Nothing. A quiet click of annoyance escapes.
She takes a sip from one of the drinks and as the liquid scalds her tongue, she sees a familiar face swing out the door.
He doesn’t smile, but that’s expected. Who would smile when they learn of the tick that has latched on to them? She’s come to accept this part as necessary.
“The courthouse isn’t too far, if you’d like to get a restraining order.” She slides her cellphone back into a pocket and uses the newly-freed hand to offer him the cup without a lipstick stain. “I’ll even call you a cab, if you want. But something tells me that’s not how you want to spend your day.”
Neither is this, but she doesn’t mention that part.
“Coffee, black. Never asked how you take it, my bad.” He looks like the type that would enjoy something so bitter. “Appears you need it, though; you don’t look like the freshest flower in the room. Also my fault, so my apologies. How much sleep did you get?”
He’s not dirty, just disheveled. The morning has not been kind to him, and it looks like sleep still hangs over him like a robe. The phrase “too early for this” comes to mind as a comparison. She almost feels bad for waking him.
It might be better to save “sorry” for what’s going to happen later, though.
