I woke up, several hours later, stuck to Pretty Boy like white on rice. My face was pressed against his neck — I could feel his pulse, and the five o'clock shadow along his jaw. Peeking upwards I saw that he was still out cold — his pouty mouth slightly open, eyelashes fluttering as they cast long shadows across his cheekbones.

I tried to stretch but apparently the only thing keeping me on the bed was the arm wedged underneath my waist, and the hand on my ass. I was less snuggling Pretty Boy and more clinging for dear life. Still, he was a nice lifesaver.

My left hand was tucked up inside his t-shirt, resting on his chest, and I reluctantly pulled it out to rub the sleep from my eyes. Wiggling down the mattress with more caution than I typically showed in life, I managed to extricate myself enough to sit up. One side of my tank top was up over my right boob, the other side scrunched up under my left — this feat of magically wandering clothing never happened when I slept alone, so I blamed Edward.

The boy in question looked like he'd been through a cycle in a tumble drier. His hair was flattened out, and static. I reached down to smooth some wayward bangs back off his forehead with my palm. His nose twitched like he thought he was Samantha Stephens when I brushed my fingers through the front of his hair. I stifled a snort of laughter.

I climbed off the bed and promptly fell face first onto my hands and knees. The giant modesty-preserving hoodie I had planned to wear out the night before was wrapped around my feet — one in the hood, one down the neck hole. I untangled myself, slipped it on, and craned my neck to see if the Hitchcock-dead-bodies-falling sound of my super graceful landing had woken Pretty Boy. It had not.

The sink was tucked away in the corner of my dorm, and after the morning's first wake up call I was determined to brush my teeth. I would be minty fresh when the boy who licked my nipple at eight am next saw me. The large dollop of Crest balanced precariously on my toothbrush for a moment and then I went to work, trying my best to keep the foam in my mouth, and my resemblance to a rabid dog minimal.

A light groan sounded behind me and I turned to see Pretty Boy yawning. He stretched, ran his hands through his hair and his palms over his eyes, and then he squinted toward the corner where I was standing, little green toothbrush sticking out of my mouth.

"You're far away."

I talked around the foam in my mouth: "Yeah, there's nowhere to spit over there."

"So, swallow."

I rolled my eyes at him and kept brushing.

Pretty Boy grimaced as he sat up in my bed. His hands automatically reached to even out his hair, but short of a shower or three cans of hairspray it was a pointless task.

"I hate your bed."

I spat and pointed the toothbrush at him as I spoke: "You have the same one."

He cracked his neck, making me shudder in disgust, and rolled the shoulder I had been lying on all morning. "Yeah, but I use mine as a couch. Jazz and Em smuggled in a full-size mattress on moving day that now occupies a large portion of my floor."

I knew better than to even bat an eyelash at the ridiculous nicknames — it was like every member of his family had lost a bet. Instead, I rinsed my mouth out, replaced my toothbrush, and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Pretty Boy was leaning against the headboard — his legs stretched out behind me.

"Jazz — that's Alice's husband, who's Em?" I nudged his thigh with my elbow.

"Emmett, Rosie's fiance."

"He wasn't at lunch."

"Nah, Carlisle took him out to get some wedding stuff for Ro — plus I think it was like family man bonding or something. Em's been around a couple of years but they're in New York so we don't see them much. 'Cept when I was living there."

"Okay," I continued, "most important question..."

"Shoot."

"If you have a full-sized mattress why did we just single-handedly increase campus demand for a chiropractor last night?"

"You sleep on bathroom floors and the bench in the laundry room — your spine is made out of steel."

One of his hands hand snuck to my waist, just sitting there, curled lightly around me, under my hoodie, radiating heat through my thin shirt. Before I could reply he jumped off the bed and made deliberate eyes at my lone toothbrush hanging out in a glass by the sink.

"Don't you dare," I warned.

He moved a little closer.

"Seriously, use your fingers."

He picked up the toothbrush — still wet from when I had just used it — and waved it around a little, cocking his head to one side. He was way too cute for his own good.

I still protested: "It's like putting on someone's used panties!"

Pretty Boy cracked. He nearly dropped the toothbrush because he was laughing so hard. "I'll bet this is slightly more hygienic."

I stood up and pulled the toothbrush from his loose grip. "Do you even know how many germs people have in their mouths?"

"Duckling, if I have any germs you already got them."

I narrowed my eyes a little and he shrugged, squeezing some toothpaste onto his pointer finger to clean his perfect teeth.

When he was done I was still standing awkwardly beside him with the toothbrush in my hand. He rinsed, washed his hands, and turned from the sink — burying his fingers in my hair as he leaned down to kiss me.

I was overwhelmed by firm lips, soft tongue, and the taste of artificial mint.

He pulled back, and smiled at me. "You're so hospitable."

I blinked in response. "You taste clean."

"That's what I was going for."

My hair was damp from his hands but I couldn't bring myself to care enough to bitch about it. hooked my fingers into the neck of his crumpled t-shirt and pulled him down for another kiss.

"You owe me danishes," I reminded him.

"All the danishes," he agreed, knotting his fingers together lightly on my lower back.

"So, I need to shower — since the danishes are currently located in that outside world where they enjoy cleanliness."

He nodded along. "Okay."

"And that was not an invitation — these showers barely fit one person."

"Surely that's a challenge, right?" He grinned.

I laughed: "Wrong."

One of his hands cupped my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek lightly. "Meet you downstairs in thirty?"

"Sure, bring your wallet and an appetite for breakfast carbs."

He backed up to collect his shoes, lacing them up quickly before he threaded his belt back through the loops on his dangerously low-hanging jeans. He smiled warmly and pulled my door open to leave.

Just as he was stepping across the threshhold my hand shot out — almost of its own accord — and I grabbed his wrist. "Edward?"

He looked back over his shoulder — halfway in my room, and halfway out. "Yeah, Bella?"

"I'm glad you stole my coffee."

His smile got bigger. "It's such an honor to see you discover human emotions — like my very own Short Circuit."

I pursed my lips, trying to look angry and failing miserably. "I'm not Number Five."

He wiggled his wrist free from my grip until our fingers were hooked together. "I'm glad too," he reassured. Then, as he backed away down the corridor, he called back to me: "Even though I totally paid for that coffee."

My mouth dropped open in amused outrage. "You'll pay for it alright!"

I got ready quickly and met Pretty Boy in the parking lot. My car was still at Mike's and we walked to the place where we'd got pancakes that one time so we could swing by on the way back and pick up my hunk of junk. It might be a piece of shit, but it was my piece of shit and I needed it safely in our parking lot in case of hangover-related Starbucks emergencies.

When we arrived I slipped into a booth by the front bank of windows while Pretty Boy went to order. He came back with two fruit danishes, a black coffee, and my first latte of the day.

We were quiet as we ate and drank, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was nice. Or maybe that was all the dairy and sugary carbs swimming around inside me.

Eventually Pretty Boy leaned an elbow on the tabletop between us, resting his head in his hand comfortably. "What're you doing for Christmas?" he asked randomly.

I shrugged and swirled the coffee left in my bowl-like mug. "I dunno."

Pretty Boy frowned. He used his free hand to flake pieces of pastry away from the edge of his danish while he spoke, crumbling them onto the plate. "How do you not know?"

"I dunno. I was supposed to stay with my mom but Philip booked a second honeymoon so I guess I'll go spend it with Charlie."

"Huh?"

"My dad. My mom did this hippy parenting thing — peer-enting or whatever, it's totally a real thing — by the time my dad put his foot down about it, calling them Charlie and Renee had stuck."

"You haven't before," he pointed out.

"I am aware how totally weird it is."

"So, staying with your dad."

I nodded slowly, not overly enthusiastic about the prospect. "Yeah, but he'll be working so I have a fun holiday lined up of trying not to kill us in the kitchen and probably watching the Food Network."

"Your dad works Christmas?" he asked.

"Sure, he's police chief — crime never sleeps, y'know. I could probably go hang with him at the station, but it's kind of depressing. Plus, they don't get cable."

"Are you bummed about your mom ditching?"

"Bummed, used to it, whatever — I'm more bummed we won't get catered turkey. She's just flaky, it's not like she's trying to be a bitch or something. How about you?"

"Everyone comes home. Elasticated pants are a requirement. Pretty much your all-American holiday. Sometimes we have fireworks."

"In your backyard?"

"Kind of — just have to make sure they're far enough away from the stables."

"Your privilege is showing — you might wanna tuck it back in."

He rolled his eyes before he said: "You should come visit."

"Huh?"

"We're more fun than the Food Network."

"Visit you for Christmas? That's so weird, MC, you're supposed to do family stuff."

"T's boyfriend used to be a chef. I'm just saying, he always makes pie."

"I can't visit you for Christmas."

"Your parents don't talk, right?"

I frowned, confused. "Right."

"So tell them you're with the other, and come eat pie."

"That is so 90210 of you. They're not gonna care where I am. No scheme needed. I just don't wanna impose on your fam. Like, hey, guys, I've known your bro for like a month, and I came to lunch that one time so thought I'd crash in your pool house for the holidays."

"It's an indoor pool — there's no pool house."

"See, not even somewhere for me to sleep."

"What's wrong with my bed? It's much nicer than the ones here."

"Are you kidding me?" I punched his arm with less force than I would have used if we were in private.

He shrugged, the picture of innocent nonchalance.

"You know, your sister told me where the condoms are stashed in your house."

"What?"

"Esme, I was getting a soda and she's all like, 'oh hey Bella, nice to meet you, if you feel like banging my pseudo-son on his superhero sheets there're Trojans in the upstairs bathrooms.'"

"Oh, yeah, under the sink — that's where they stash them. She did not say that though." He tugged a strand of my hair. "I had baseball sheets, not Batman."

I slapped his hand away. "That's still seriously weird."

"Ignore it, Esme and Alice both think they're still cool. It's a devastating mental illness that sometimes afflicts the over-thirties."

"It doesn't drive you crazy?"

He shrugged easily. "Sure, everyone's parents drive them crazy."

Apparently I didn't look like I was paying Pretty Boy the attention he deserved because suddenly he clicked his fingers in front of my face. "Hey, Duckling! You're spacey today."

I glared. "Rude."

He rolled his eyes, ignoring my ire, and nudged his plate towards me, half of his danish still intact despite his restless fingers. "You wanna finish mine?" he asked. "I want more coffee."

"Free danish!"

"The first one was free too, I bought it."

"Acquired danish!"

Pretty Boy rolled his eyes at me again and slid out of the booth, heading to the counter. I made great headway in devoring the remains of his danish while he ordered — most of it was gone by the time he came back with a black coffee, and another latte for me.

I pulled a small-fistful of sugar packets from the bowl by the window and passed them over to him without asking. "Ugh, I don't wanna go to class tomorrow. I haven't done, like, half the reading I was supposed to."

"Don't front — the only thing you've read this week is the label on your beer." Pretty Boy lined up the paper packets and tore the tops off four in one go before dumping them into his cup.

"Fine. I haven't done any of the reading I was supposed to."

"Bad Bella."

"Well, some people are very distracting, MC."

His fingertips were playing with mine on the table. "What're you reading? Let's go rent the movie versions."

"How do you know there are movies?"

"It's Freshman English Lit — if they assign you a book that hasn't been made into a movie or a mini-series ninety percent of the class would flunk the final."

"Fine, finish your battery acid —" I nodded to his coffee. "— we have an afternoon of Mr. Darcy ahead of us."

"Fine," he mimicked, "but you're in charge of snacks."

AN: I know, I suck, this is why I don't have an update schedule. Thank you so much for all your support, I love hearing from you guys! This whole thing is so much more fun sharing it with you all.