#witchinghovr

Woobin's daily cup of coffee--or four--is never usually placed on hold. It's become a ritual for him; two cups in the morning before he leaves for work, and a cup on his breaks at the cafe near his clinic. The quaint shop is often void of large crowds, and while smoking is not allowed within the four walls, he finds solace in the serene atmosphere.

But today he's only had three cups, and he can feel his mind begin to shut down. His last break had been consumed with a rather lengthy phone call to a recovering patient, and he hadn't managed to even make his way out of his office during the whole break. His nerves are bringing painful tenseness to his shoulders, and he can't help but grumble to himself as he puffs on his cigarette, feet carrying him to the coffee shop ten minutes before his shift ends because fuck the sniveling, infectious breeding grounds--he needs his coffee.

The cigarette is briefly pinched between his fingers before it's flicked to the street upon arrival, and he opens the door determinedly, sharp movements looking almost slightly crazed. His heavy steps bring him to the front of the counter, and while he does well in keeping his words from being shouted, there's a slight bite in his tone. "The usual. Coffee, black. Hurry, it's an emergency."