Five blocks -- that’s the distance between your office and the middle school where Jihoon is a music teacher. You glance at the clock on the wall. If you jog, you can even make it there and back before anybody notices you’re gone.
You leave your phone at your desk, grab the neatly folded umbrella from your bag, and you head out through the side door. It’s not raining hard yet, barely a drizzle, but the heavy gray clouds betray the downpour to come.
Sighing, you open the umbrella. It’s plain and black, more boring than anything you would have picked for yourself, but still you feel a surge of affection when you hold it up to block the rain. Like a shield, you brace it against the wind as you make your way down the street, walking as fast as you can without seeming weird. You’re walking so fast, in fact, that you don’t slow down when you turn the corner and collide with a very solid, very firm body, sending you falling onto the pavement ass-first. You barely manage to keep your grip on the umbrella as you register the cold water seeping through the seat of your pants and soaking the back of your shirt and you groan.
“Y/N?”
You look up, mouth slack in surprise. “Jihoon?” He’s standing above you, staring at you with round eyes. And, you notice, he’s wearing a bright yellow raincoat with pink edges-- your raincoat.
Jihoon is quick to help you up, but he’s frowning. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s raining,” you explain.
“I know,” he says.
“You... you forgot your umbrella at my place last week,” you offer weakly, “and I was going to drop it off for you. So you didn’t have to get rained on.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Jihoon shakes his head incredulously. “How were you going to get back to your office without an umbrella, then?”
Oh. Oh. “I hadn’t thought that far,” you admit sheepishly. “I just felt bad because I had your umbrella--”
“And I have your raincoat,” Jihoon interrupts. He reaches into the pocket and pulls out another folded umbrella. “And an extra umbrella that I was going to drop off for you.”
You open and close your mouth like a fish.
“Lucky that at least one of us can think ahead,” he finally cracks into a grin. “The kids are at lunch right now. Let me walk you back to your office. You took a pretty hard fall back there.”
“Fine,” you grumble. He wordlessly holds out his hand, staring expectantly until you give him the umbrella and let him hold it over both of you. “But next time, I’m doing something nice for you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
