You smelt the inviting scent of coffee, but you ignored it, your face buried in your pillow as you lay on your stomach. Your best friend’s hand gently massaged your scalp, as he sighed. “C’mon, please?” He whispered. “Wake up.”

“No.” You grumbled.

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” CJ and you had gotten into a silent argument when he started drinking at a party and was found in your shared dorm room, in his bed, groaning and tangled up with the sheets. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Now you were here, after a long night, and he was trying to appease you. “Don’t be mad.”

“You broke your sobriety.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.” He fought the urge to brush your hair out of your face and stroke your cheek, his heart aching at the thought of you being mad. “I brought you coffee. Peace offering.”