He knows he's not supposed to be with you. His parents want him to be with someone of class. Not some Hollywood hotshots' daughter. He's from Pennsylvania, you're from Malibu. He never thought someone can be raised in Malibu.

He fixes his tie as you sleep in bed. He has brunch with his parents in an hour. And he doesn't intend to tell them he's seeing you, mostly because of the fact it's just casual sex. Risqué, he knows.

He looks over at you, the morning sun illuminates your skin and brings out the undertones in your hair as your back rises and falls with every breath you take.

"What am I supposed to do with you?"