Michael was having a rough day. He had drank too much the night before, and when he woke, he felt the worst hangover of his goddamn life — which was saying something. Then he got in a fender bender where the prick screamed at him over a scratched bumper. And… admittedly, he probably shouldn’t have socked them in the face, if only because the blood splattered from their nose onto his nice suit. He was prepared to pay for it, but the ass only wanted to complain, so he gave them something to complain about.

Too much money to shut them up later, and he was fucking exhausted. All he wanted was a goddamn cup of coffee. He ducked into the closest coffeehouse to him, bracing his arms on the counter.

“Coffee,” he said, rather helpfully. He had some blood on his collar, his hair was a mess, tie too loose — he couldn’t care less. He was on the verge of breaking down. “Big.”