Pretty Boy followed me back upstairs with my blanket balled around his hands. Sporadically he would swat me with it. Unsurprisingly this led to more than a few responses which could be deemed inappropriate. What I found inappropriate was the fact that the raggedy elastic in my yoga pants was half-way to giving up, and Edward's blanket-based harassment was hurrying it toward the light. I glared at the few people we passed on the way to my room. They seemed overtly interested in what I hoped was Edward's face rather than my miniature break-down. It was college after all, surely there was something more exciting than a Freshman napping in the laundry room — that was my story, I was sticking to it, it was warm in there goddammit.

"You're gonna make some rich, old, hag very happy as her cabana boy," I snapped, as he whipped the corner of the blanket at my ass again. "We just need to get you a towel and some short-shorts."

"Don't need a towel," he replied smugly.

I stopped, turned on my heel, and grabbed a fistful of blanket, pulling it from his grasp. The blanket was much larger than I remembered and Pretty Boy put up a half-assed fight with me for it. Finally, after an ungraceful tug-o-war, he released it and I wrapped it around myself, throwing the outside corner over my shoulder with an exaggerated flourish. "Mine." I narrowed my eyes in emphasis.

"I would have never guessed you're an only child."

I rolled my eyes in response to his sarcasm, and leaned against my dorm room door to fish the key out of my slipper boot. Some idiot thought it would be a fabulous idea to build the place with doors which automatically locked when they closed. Great for preventing petty theft. Great for skyrocketing the number of drunk-slash-high kids locked out of their rooms after a munchies run to the vending machines. Pretty Boy leaned against the wall opposite my door and watched me with amusement. Smug bastard. Eventually, I gave up my futile task and pulled the boot off my foot altogether — shaking it upside-down until my key thunked out onto the floor.

"That's where you chose to keep your room key?"

I shrugged while twisting the key in the lock. "Told you, I'm not wearing a bra. I don't have any pockets."

"The fact that bra came up before pockets doesn't even surprise me."

"Hey, it's a time honored classic. Money, keys, Kleenex, condoms — you can store 'em all. One time I kept my cell phone in there but it fell out every time I leaned over."

I stumbled into my room — still wearing only one slipper — and threw the keys onto the middle of my bed. Pretty Boy flopped straight down on his back across Jenna's.

"Why do you even have two beds in here?"

"Told you — my 'roomie' has a townie boyfriend with a black AMEX."

"Lucky Roomie."

"Don't even, I've seen your car."

"Grad present."

"Oh yeah, cause you didn't have a car the second you turned sixteen."

He rolled onto his side to face me, propping up his head with one hand. "Actually, I got my car before I turned sixteen. Rosalie found this awesome vintage — fixed it up."

"You drove a classic car in high school? You douche!"

"I said I had the car, not that I drove it."

I raised my eyebrows expectantly.

He tried very hard not to laugh as he admitted: "I had another car for school."

I scrunched up my face. "Richie Rich."

"I wish I had a McDonald's in my house."

"I can't believe you've seen that movie."

"I can't believe you referenced that movie," he parried back.

"Whatever, I could have been referencing the comic book."

"Oh, Duckling, that would have been geekier."

"Why do you have an insurmountable need to be an asshole?"

Pretty Boy flopped back onto his back and closed his eyes. "You bring out the best in me?"

I flipped him the bird while his eyes were closed, and turned toward my closet for a more company-appropriate outfit. I seriously doubted the rest of the world (except maybe Mike — who would probably write about it in his diary in gold pen and cursive) wanted to see my bulls-eye nips making a break for the outside world through my over-washed Target-from-three-years-ago tank.

I looked over to where Pretty Boy lay on the spare bed: all long, spidery limbs, lean, and beautiful, and making my stomach flip like a pancake — hot and sticky sweet. He seemed completely oblivious to the minor stroke I was having (completed with small drool-puddle at the corner of my mouth) as he stretched.

I kicked off the one slipper I still has on my foot and dropped the key-holder next to it on the floor. I waited for a sign of life from the painfully gorgeous boy reclining in my room, but got none. I sat on the edge of the bed and nudged him with my elbow — he ignored me. I nudged harder; his lips curled slightly, but his eyes remained closed, and he continued to ignore me.

"Hey."

He replied casually as though I hadn't just been assaulting him: "Yeah?"

"Where are we going? I don't know what to wear."

"A bra would be a good start."

"Ha ha. What else? Come on, MC, help me out."

"Not those ratty pants?"

"I thought you weren't usually a dick?"

"But sometimes I'm a dick," he replied. His eyes were still closed and every now and then he would move slightly, sinking comfortably into the mattress. It made me want to lay on top of him and take a nap. I managed to quell the impulse... just. "It's for your own good," he continued, "those pants are hideous."

"They're yoga pants; they're not a fashion-statement, Klepto."

"Whatever, like you do yoga."

"I can get my legs behind my head."

He shifted almost Pavlovian-ly at the mention of my gymnastic abilities. Which was actually true, but only because my legs are slightly too long for my body, and not because I've actually exercised at any point in my life thus far. Thanks, genetics! I'm so pale they won't let me give blood, but at least one day — when I'm not the biggest virgin in the world — bedtime'll be a riot.

"So can half the local strip-club, but it doesn't mean they know their downward facing dog from their lotus."

"I'll bet they're pretty comfortable with their downward facing dog."

"Zing," he drawled.

"Seriously, Edward, where are we going?"

He propped himself up on his elbows and finally opened his eyes. "Movie?"

"No. Everything's shit right now. I'm not seeing anything about the apocalypse or in CGI."

"You don't like Toy Story?"

"Oh God, dude, you have too many sisters."

"Whatev, Duckie."

"No. No. I am not Molly Ringwald's sexually-repressed friend. No — line drawn."

"You're fucking insane," he said warmly.

I crossed my arms over my chest, trying not to let his expression warm me up. "Movies out, try again."

"Drive around?"

"Waste of gas. No point unless you're parentally-oppressed and need an hour unsupervised to cop a feel."

His brow furrowed. "You don't like driving just to... drive?"

"No, Duluoz. Beat America this is not. Try again."

"Party?"

I couldn't immediately think of a reason why that was a terrible suggestion. I knew for a fact that Mike and his football buds were throwing an off-campus kegger that night; I would usually be going anyway. Plus, Pretty Boy could be my anti-Mike insurance. It was almost too perfect — except of course the fact that Pretty Boy was... a pretty boy. A nineteen-year-old college guy with the face of a really, really good baby prostitute from Europe or something who — when endowed with liquor — would probably ditch me for all the drunken, sloppy sluts rubbing all over his thighs.

"What's happening?" he asked. "You look like you're having a seizure. Should I roll you on your side so you don't choke on your own vomit?"

I snapped my mouth shut. "Sorry, just struck dumb by the surprise of you actually possessing a good idea."

"You're embarrassing me with all this affection."

"Suck it up, and get the fuck out. I only have two hours to get ready and you need to change your shirt."

"This is a good shirt."

"Yeah, white's really good for beer stains. It'll be like a tasty wet t-shirt comp."

"Touche." He stood then, sighing exaggeratedly as he swung his feet onto the floor. He ruffled my hair as he passed. "Later, Duckie."

I didn't even have a shoe to throw at him as he quickly made for the door.

AN: You guys are spectacular. Thank you to every single person who reviewed — you really made my week. Thank you to all who're still reading, and a special thanks to those who recc'd this story. I'm so glad you're all taking it in the light-hearted spirit it was intended.