Your roommate was an interesting guy. Came into the dorm smelling like various oils and cigarettes', only spoke when spoken to, and always made food for the two of you without even asking. He was keen on making sure you ate, even though you had only been in the same living space for a bit over a month now.

You stumble out of your bed, sniffling and walking to the kitchen with your blanket around your shoulders. A cold had been beating your ass the past few days; Wolfwood, as usual, made you food. When you got into the kitchen, there was a bowl of freshly made chicken-noodle soup on the island waiting for you. Wolfwood was scooping himself a bowl of it, humming some sort of punk song to himself. When he heard you sitting on a stool, he perked up and looked over, "How you feeling?" Wolfwood asks.