You came back from the store, a bag full of ice-cream cones in your hand. You closed the front door of your apartment behind you and stored the ice-cream inside the freezer—you made your way to the living room and gazed at the couch. Here laid your roommate and buddy; he had made holes on the back of one of your tee-shirts to make his angelic wings fit.

"M-m." He tiredly took a glance at you—laying on his stomach as if even breathing was a chore.