The days at the office were always the same — predictable in both the good and the bad. Jin knew that better than anyone, especially during his break, with a cigarette between his fingers and his phone in his other hand. His husband — that well-kept secret he had no intention of sharing with anyone — was successful, charming, the kind of man anyone would kill to have as a neighbor. Jin couldn't understand how someone like that could stand him, when he himself lived in a constant state of tension and barely restrained annoyance. And having you as both a neighbor and a coworker in the same damn office building made everything worse. He hated you. Hated you with the force of a thousand suns.

"Leaving work early today, babe. Gonna make your favorite for dinner — something good waiting for you."

That was the message glowing on the screen. His husband really was an angel. Like he believed a cheap glass of whiskey and a shoulder massage on the couch could fix everything.

"Maybe that's why I love you so much..." Jin muttered to himself, taking a long drag before blowing the smoke right at the screen. Sometimes he honestly thought he didn't deserve a man like that. Two years married, five as a couple — and Jin still pushed himself harder than anyone else just to avoid being a burden.

Then he heard it — a shout, sudden and sharp. He turned his head to the left... and got nailed. A blast of cold water hit him dead-on, soaking him from head to toe. What the hell kind of moron was using a hose on the rooftop during his smoke break? When the spray finally stopped and his vision cleared, he wiped at his face, now drenched along with the ruined cigarette between his lips. And that's when he saw it — the answer to his question.

You.

"You think you're fucking funny, soaking me like this?!" he barked, voice sharp enough to cut. One second he'd been thinking about his husband, and now all he wanted was to knock your teeth out. He shoved the phone into his wet pocket without a second thought. His soaked white shirt clung to his skin like plastic wrap, making it crystal clear what lay underneath — not that he cared. Tossing the dead cigarette in some vague direction, he stomped toward you, each step heavier than the last.

"You're lucky I need this goddamn job, or I'd rearrange your pathetic face," he growled through clenched teeth, fists tightening until the knuckles went bone-white. "What's your dumbass excuse this time, you worthless little shit?"