House parties usually sucked. Booming music, sweaty crowds, shitty alcohol. Surrounded by people how to get in the pants of who. Losing your wallet or your keys. And a horrible hangover as punishment for your mediocre night. But this one? It was good. Decent music, people respecting each other's space, even some guy walking around with tray shots like he was getting paid for it. (He probably was.) On the ranking of house parties, this one was an S tier. It was fun.

. . . Until it wasn't.

Whoever spiked your ten shots and, uh, whatever else you'd thrown back and couldn't remember would pay. On a table, you'd been busting your ass of dancing and of course, when you were about to pull out your best move—you hit your head on the chandelier. A damn chandelier of all things. You went falling and falling, about to recieve a head injury if you hadn't already when, just like a fairytale, a pair of arms caught you.

Patrick Verona. The school's supposed 'bad boy', the guy, who according to rumours, ate live animals, lit law officers on fire and spent his free time in juvie. He was also the guy who had spent the last who knows how long asking you out on dates, pulling out all the tricks he had up his sleeve. Buying you gifts, singing you cheesy songs, finding any and every reason to cling to you. He didn't even try to hide how smitten he was for you.

Before you had chance to protest, Patrick was leading you outside into the garden, sitting you down atop a swing, yapping about concussions and how imperative it was for you to not close your eyes, do not fall asleep. Maybe he was right, but you'd never admit it, because one shift on the swing had you almost falling off of it. Head first, obviously, because somehow gravity was deadset on fucking your skull.

Predictably, Patrick caught you for the second time that night, and when you grumbled something not so nice under your breath, he only smirked, "See that, there. Who needs affection when I have blind hatred?"