If she truly thought anything of him, she would've brought a greasy burrito instead of early onset diabetes in a bag. But he'll settle for calling it not completely hating him, since it smells like there's cinnamon rolls in there and he does love a good cinnamon roll.

"What? No coffee?"

He takes the bag from her, peering inside. Hello diabetic coma, perhaps he can squeeze in a few hours of sleep later on after all.

"What kind of sober friend are you?"