She sighs. “Would you stop calling him that?”

“Nope.” I chew thoughtfully. “I’ll be honest. I don’t know what you see in him.”

“Why, because he’s not Mr. Big Man on Campus? Because he’s serious and smart and not a raging manwhore?”

Shit, I guess she’s bought into Kohl’s act. If I had a hat, I’d probably tip it off to the guy for successfully creating a persona that drives women wild—the nerd athlete.

“Kohl isn’t what he seems,” I say roughly. “I know he comes off as the smart, mysterious jock, but there’s something…slimy about him.”

“I don’t think he’s slimy at all,” she objects.

“Right, because you’ve had a plethora of deep, meaningful conversations with him,” I crack. “Trust me, he’s putting on a show.”

“Agree to disagree.” She smirks. “Besides, you’re in no position to judge who I’m interested in. From what I hear, you only date airheads.”

I smirk right back. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

“Yup. I only sleep with airheads. I don’t date.”

“Slut.” She pauses, curiosity etching into her face. “How come you don’t date? I’m sure every girl at this college would kill to be your girlfriend.”

“I’m not looking for a relationship.”

That perplexes her. “Why not? Relationships can be really fulfilling.”

“Says the woman who’s single.”

“I’m single because I haven’t found anyone I connect with, not because I’m anti-relationship. It’s nice having someone to spend time with. You know, talking, cuddling, all that mushy stuff. Don’t you want that?”

“Eventually. But not right now.” I flash a cocky grin. “If I ever feel the need to talk to someone, I’ve got you.”

“So your airheads get the sex, and I’m the one who has to listen to you babble?” She shakes her head. “I feel like I’m getting the short end of that deal.”

I wiggle my eyebrows. “Aw, you want the sex too, Wellsy? I’m happy to give it to you.”

Her cheeks turn the brightest shade of red I’ve ever seen, and I burst out laughing.

“Relax. I’m just kidding. I’m not stupid enough to bone my tutor. I’ll end up breaking your heart, and then you’ll feed me false information, and I’ll fail the midterm.”

“Again,” she says sweetly. “You’ll fail the midterm again.”

I flip up my middle finger, but I’m grinning as I do it. “You taking off now or should I put on Episode 3?”

“Episode 3. Definitely.”

We get comfortable on the bed again, me on my back with my head on three pillows, Hannah on her stomach at the foot of the bed. The next episode is intense, and once it’s done, we’re both eager to watch the next one. Before I know it, we’re done with the first disc and moving on to the second. In between cliffhangers, we discuss what we’ve just seen and make predictions, and honestly? I haven’t had this much platonic fun with a girl in…well, ever.

“I think his brother-in-law is on to him,” Hannah muses.

“Are you kidding me? I bet they save that reveal for the end. I think Skylar’s gonna find out soon, though.”

“I hope she divorces him. Walter White is the devil. Seriously. I hate him.”

I chuckle. “He’s an anti-hero. You’re supposed to hate him.”

The next episode comes on, and we shut up immediately, because this is the kind of show that requires your full attention. The next thing I know, we’ve reached the season finale, which ends with a scene that leaves us wide-eyed.

“Holy shit,” I exclaim. “We’re done with the first season.”

Hannah bites her lip and steals a glance at the alarm clock. It’s nearly ten o’clock. We’ve just watched seven episodes without so much as a bathroom break.

I expect her to announce it’s time for her to go, but she sighs instead. “Do you have season two?”

I can’t control my laughter. “You want to keep watching?”

“After that finale? How can we not?”

She makes a good point.

“At least the premiere,” she says. “Don’t you want to see what happens?”

I totally do, and so I don’t object when she gets up to load the next disc. “You want a snack or something?” I offer.

“Sure.”

“I’ll go see what we have.”

I find two microwave popcorn pouches in the kitchen cupboard, nuke them both, and head back upstairs with two bowls of popcorn in my hands.

Hannah has stolen my spot, her dark hair fanned on my stack of pillows, legs stretched out in front of her. Her red and black polka dot socks make me grin. I’ve noticed she doesn’t wear designer clothing or preppy getups like most of the females at this school, or the trashy party clothes you see on Greek Row and at the campus bars on weekends. Hannah is all about skinny jeans and leggings and tight-fitting sweaters, which might look elegant if she didn’t always throw in a flash of bright color. Like the socks, or the mittens, or those quirky hair clips she wears.

“Is one of those for me?” She gestures to the bowls I’m holding.

“Yup.”

I hand one over, and she sits up and shoves her hand inside, then giggles. “I can’t eat popcorn without thinking about Napoleon.”