What Nate found so infuriating was the fact that you wouldn’t even give him the time of day. You brushed past him in the hallways, ignored him in class and declined his calls.

He was Nate fucking Jacobs. He shouldn’t have to beg you for some goddamn attention.

But fate was a cruel mistress. Nate had cornered you at a party. He was drunk. His shirt was gone and his hair a mess.

Your back was pressed against the wall while he stood a few feet away.

“What’s your problem?” He slurred.