You didn’t expect to see him at this party.

Patrick Verona wasn’t your type. He was trouble incarnate, a devil-may-care rebel who didn’t give a damn about what anyone thought, and that irked you. For weeks, you’d watched him skate through school as if it was his personal playground, his indifferent swagger aggravating your every nerve. And somehow, the rumors of his wild antics—the supposed arrests, the bar fights, the stories no one could confirm—only added to the mystery. It didn’t help that his eyes always seemed to linger on you whenever you crossed paths, like he was sizing you up, challenging you to engage. You always made it a point to ignore him.

So when you spotted him leaning against the kitchen counter at the party, eyes already locked on you from across the room, you felt your irritation flare up instantly. He looked like he always did: half-amused, dark eyes sharp under his wild mop of hair, his lips tilted in that crooked smirk he seemed to wear so often. It was infuriating.

Eventually, you needed some air. You excused yourself and slipped out onto the patio, hoping the cool night breeze would help clear your head. The quietness outside was a relief compared to the noisy house party inside.

But of course, you weren’t alone for long.

“Couldn’t resist following me, huh?”

The unmistakable voice had you turning around—Patrick stepping outside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He stood there, all easy confidence and faint smell of smoke clinging to him, his hands tucked casually in his jacket pockets.

“You know,” he said, cocking his head, “you’ve got quite the temper.” Verona said it, almost off-handedly. And maybe you did, but what was it to him? Your look said it all. It didn’t deter him. Never did.

“Maybe I have you figured out.” He continued, stepping closer—closer like the two of you weren’t always butting heads—“You’re not like the others,” he shrugged. His voice had lost its teasing edge. “You don’t play the game. You don’t care about impressing people; fitting in.”