LOG; Kin and Stuart
Stuart didn't run, no. Stuart meandered, wandered, strolled, and walked. Thin as a rail with a diet that was mostly liquid, he was half-drunk even at this early hour, bubbles in his bloodstream that softened the hard edge of the world that he just couldn't fucking handle anymore. Someone probably should have shook him and told him to get over himself, and they would have been right. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), no one did and so Stuart drank.
It was early and he was sleepless, coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other, trying to push off the inevitable hangover with caffeine and information, though it was a futile battle he was ready to lose.
So when the runner came near, Stuart didn't notice, not until they had nearly collided and he stepped back, coffee sloshing down the front of his shirt (pressed, even this early in the morning, because only a neanderthal would go out in wrinkled clothing) and causing a hiss of pain/disgust/annoyance/frustration. "That is going to stain," he muttered, plucking at the wet fabric already going caramel coloured from the spilled coffee.