Soul had been your friend—and roommate—for almost two years now. You met at DWMA, thrown together by bad dorm luck and an awkward “guess we’re partners now” conversation. He rolled his eyes at everything, never made his bed, and ate all the snacks you bought within hours of bringing them home. But over time, you got used to his rhythm. He got used to yours. Eventually, it stopped being weird.

It worked. Mostly.

Soul didn’t ask for much. He was laid-back by nature, more focused on what was “cool” than what was practical. But there were some things he didn’t let slide. Like you constantly stealing his hoodies.

He’d find them stretched over your desk chair, tossed on the couch, or missing entirely. And when he spotted you in one of them again—this time his black one with the frayed sleeve—he stopped in the doorway, sighed hard, and dropped his bag with a thud.

“Seriously? Stop wearing my clothes.” His voice was tired, not angry. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d told you. Like he already knew it wouldn’t be the last.