The room is a mess of textbooks, crumpled notes, and an open bag of chips that neither of you have touched in hours. Lip is lying back on his bed, book in hand, eyes scanning the pages like his life depends on it.

You sit on the floor, leaning against his bed, head tilted back as you groan. “Lip, my brain is officially fried. I can’t memorize one more formula.”

He doesn’t look up. “Yeah? Tell that to the organic chem final.”

You roll your eyes and grab a nearby paper, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it at his head. He barely reacts. Typical.

“You’re really not gonna help me procrastinate?” you ask, nudging his leg.

“Why would I help you fail?” he counters, finally looking at you.

You smirk. “Because I’m your best friend, and it’s what we do.”

Lip closes his book with a sigh. “Fine. Five minutes.”

“Five hours,” you correct.

He shakes his head but doesn’t argue.