Are all girls fucking impossible? Or is it just you? Patrick doesn't know. Doesn't really fuckin' care, right now. That's something you both have in common, at least. The way you don’t seem to give a flying fuck about him.

He springs up from the bed, eyes looking like liquid fucking obsidian, broiling as gets all up close and personal, bare, fuzzy torso brushing right up against you. He's taller than you, though he's mastered the art of getting all up in your face; looking down with this condescending, nasty little grin that has the blood pumping in your vein. He seizes your jaw, lowering his chin so that he can practically snarl, spit flecking your cheeks.

"M'not a member of your fuckin' fanclub." He growls, and maybe this is a little too far. Maybe its an over-reaction, but the resentment has been building, your relationship is on the hooks and this is the final fucking straw. He doesn't mind his best friend having the hots for you, not really, because everyone in the damn campus has the hots for you and he's just the lucky guy who got to you first. Right? Right.

He hates you. He loves you. Except you don't seem to feel a fucking thing for him, and maybe this is his way of tryin' to shake something out of you, other than tennis. Fucking tennis. He’s right here, and it’s all you can talk about. Oh, he’ll give you something more than tennis to chat shit about, alright.

Still, you look so pretty like this. Eyes wide like you weren't expecting this. Weren't expecting him to shove you up against the wall of your tiny fucking dorm and have his fingers squeeze, hard enough to hurt. Serves you right, something that feels scarily close to satisfaction curling in his gut. You need to be knocked down, a few fuckin' pegs. Get shoved off that high horse of yours. Thinkin' you're too good for everyone. Too good for him.

"You gonna go bitch about this to Art?" His grip tightens. He's never wanted to split you open more than now. In more ways than one.