A deep sigh escapes my lips before I tap gingerly on the glass. It bothers me that he doesn't notice right away, even though I tapped so lightly that the window might as well have been made of sound-proof steel.

Clutching the black and white marbled composition book in my one hand, I knock again, harder this time, shutting my eyes as if bracing for the glass to shatter all over me.

________________________________________________________________________

8 hours and 32 minutes earlier:

"Remember, you have a quiz tomorrow on the symbols and themes of Jane Eyre." Half of the kids are out of the room, before Ms. Williams even begins her statement, and the other half are on their way. I stay in my seat, copying down her every word. "Study your notes. They will save your life is you did not pay attention to this gift to literature during my class." He voice is strained as she struggles to get her words out in one breath. She brandishes the book around for emphasis, and then, with a sigh, reaches into her desk drawer for a handful of Advil.

But my attention is no loner on Ms. Williams attempt at teaching. I am focused on the back of Patrick Verona, as he brushes up against a cowering, chubby freshman who is wearing a fedora and a scarf.

More over, I am paying attention to the classic marbled composition book that falls quietly out of his arms and landing on the dirty floor, unnoticed by everyone but me.

________________________________________________________________________

I shift my weight uncomfortably, waiting for him to open this goddamn widow. Just as I am about to pound a third time, I see his massive frame move toward me, and I leave my fist frozen in mid air.

Raven curls cascade so effortlessly that Padua's resident model, Joey Donner himself, would be jealous. A tight tank clings to every line of his body. A wave of shame rushes over me as I look him up and down from the St. Christopher's medallion around his neck to the ragged hem of his worn, blue sleep pants.

His arms flex as he reached down to push up the window, and I thank god that he doesn't catch me downright ogling.

"Well, well," He cocks his one eyebrow and a smirk plays at the corner of his uncharacteristically red lips. "11:47." Patrick's low voice tickles my eardrums and my stomach eagerly jumps up and down. "This is way past visiting hours."

I had anticipated the use of my no famous line, and I long for the courage to tell him that he talks too much and then capture his lips in mine like he did that scorching night on the roof. I still haven't figured out if that heat I know he felt too was because of the wild fire of other reasons.

"Yea, well this is about more important things than my being easy." He can hear the edge to my voice while I deliver that comment, and he replies quickly.

"And what could be more important than that?" Oh, how he loves to push my buttons.

I sometimes wish it bothered me less.

"Education." I thrust the notebook into his arms. Lingering fingers make both of us smile.

He casually flips through it, as if checking to see that it is actually his. His thumb stops the fan of paper, and he shoots me a look that if I'm not mistaken is worry. "Did you read it?"

"No."

________________________________________________________________________

4 hours and 16 minutes earlier:

It is mocking me. Just sitting there, on top of my pile of notebooks and folders, like it belonged. Its cover was significantly defaced with mindless doodles.

So like Patrick.

What was I thinking?

My only insight in the hurricane that is the mind of Patrick Verona and I am letting it sit there, untouched?

Launching myself across the room at the book, I barely grasp it in my fingers as my torso hits the floor. It's clutched in my arms as if he will barge in any moment now, demanding its return.

I rip the cover open; taking in all the trends, all the quirks that I can find nestled with in his writing.

His scrawling penmanship seems to change with every word, and the entire page, every line, every space in the margin is covered with text.

Thoughts ideas and sentences are swirled together, forming a vortex of words. Mixed in were rough sketches of cars, I recognize a surprisingly detailed drawing of my ancient Volvo mixed in among the Cameros and Mustangs.

My name springs up in phrases like "is driving me mad" and "can't get out of my head."

I almost feel dizzy; my brain can't process this much information at once. As I dig deeper into the mind of Patrick, I notice how frequently my name pops up, how often it is spun into his glistening and complex web of craziness.

When I turn the page, what I see nearly takes my breath away.

I see my face, detailed down to every line around my mouth, every crinkle around my eyes, smiling exquisitely. My hair flows perfectly down around my shoulders.

But every line is made of text. Curling, twisting phrases morphed into a mouth, nose and two sparkling eyes.

Words like "heat" and "want" and "need" jumped out at me, as well as "intelligence" and "beauty."

My entire inside was warm, and it radiated through my face, and my smile.
________________________________________________________________________

He runs his fingers over the page: I imagine that he is touching the places where he has written my name. He closes the book, and with a nod, moves to close the window.

Quickly, and with all my strength, I force it back up, offended at the surprised look on his face that is no doubt related to my sudden outburst of physical strength. "And that's all?"

Suddenly, I realize how cold it is outside.

"Is what all?" He asks, putting on what I'm sure he thinks is his best innocent look.

"Is that all!" I exclaim brandishing my arms toward him. "I return your notebook in the middle of the night so that you don't fail a quiz, and all I get is a half-assed nod and a window shut in my face?"

Fuck that smirk he's giving me. "What were you expecting?"

An exasperated sigh escapes my lips, and I am almost ready to fly my white flag. I throw my arms up in my frustration. "I don't know, maybe a 'thank you' or something a normal and sane person would do?" I laugh darkly, "Something like-"

"Something like this?" He cuts me off and, leaning under the glass, silences me by pressing his lips quickly to mine.

His composition book is pressed us in between us.

It's quick and gentle, and nothing like the fire we experienced on the rooftop, but it's sweet.

"Something along those lines, yes."

But he has already turned around, leaving the window open.

________________________________________________________________________

He smiles widely as soon as his back is to her. Licking his lips and will her taste to linger as long as possible.

Grabbing a pen that was lying next to a lone combat boot in his room, he flipped to an already crowded page, filling in one of his various "Kat is…" statements.

"Kat is not easy at all. In fact, she is proving almost to be too hard."

And with another grin, and a toss of his curls, He turned out the lights, only his smile glowing white in the darkness.