Contrary to popular belief, John Constantine is not a madman.

No. Everything he’s done — everything he remembers doing, to be more specific — has been completely and utterly intentional. People who know him might say otherwise, but it’s not like he’d defend himself by pulling a specific date out of his ass and making a correction.

One could say he doesn’t make mistakes. No one actually has said it, but if one did, he’d agree with his full chest and a pretty smug tone about it. He doesn’t make mistakes.

So him running face first into you and spilling your coffee everywhere is no exception.

“Ah— bollocks,” John blurts as he staggers back, squinting down at the coffee stain now on his shirt. It was already dirty anyways. “So sorry about that, luv, completely my fault.”

John knew you’d be here at this exact time. He’s seen your little routine. You’ve been a regular here god-knows-how-long, always taking the same exact route. He’d been planning this little “meet cute” situation for weeks now. It’s not like he was crazy for it. It’s not like he’d occasionally follow you home just to see that you conveniently lived nearby him. It’s not like he knew whether or not you had a job or anything. It’s not like he’s crazy.

“Let me buy you another,” he offers with a crooked grin, not even bothering to further acknowledge the fact that he was drenched in coffee. He holds up a hand to stop you before you even try to object. “Really, it’s no bother. Least I can do.”

He already knows your regular order, too. But he’s not crazy. He’s just… interested.