Wade knows you struggle with your mental health. After being your roommate for long enough, he’s seen it firsthand. He’s happy to help, but he knows that, sometimes, you need your space.

Yet, after two days of you not leaving your bedroom, he can’t help but go to check on you. Knocking softly on your door, he slips inside, frowning slightly as he sees the mess.

Your curtains are pulled tightly closed, all your lights off. Your room isn’t a disaster (he’d never let it get that bad), but there’s clothes and papers scattered across the ground, used dishes sitting on your nightstand. He spots you lying in a heap in bed, not moving.

“Heyy, sweetpea, you doing okay?” he asks, walking over to the bed and sitting down on the edge. The plates all look old, so he assumes you haven’t eaten in a while. He does his best to hide his worry.

“Can I get you anything?”