"Ugh, God, I absolutely detest Mondays." I rasped to myself. That's right, blame it on the day of the week. My inner battle told me. I was trudging into the school, late.

As per usual.

It was finals week (Yummy, no?) and I had spent the whole night cramming. Yes, me. Cramming. I am notorious for acing all tests without studying, gaining the hatred of the brains as well as the druggies. I had very few friends as a result of this, but I figured once I was accepted into NYU, others would too. But these were finals, and I wanted at least a 3.7 GPA by the end of my sophomore year.

I heard the warning bell ring, almost as if it were directed towards me, indicating I would be late to first hour if I didn't hurry my ass up. The halls were almost barren, I could see it through the open doors leading into my purgatory. It was boiling hot, unnaturally hot, and I had actually worn a (Drumroll, please.) skirt. This would be a shocker to all who saw me today, seeing as I wear pants every single day. I was pulling it down to an acceptable length, balancing my books and eating a granola bar ("For strength!" My mother chirped as we were running to the car, further delaying the amazing race.) when it happened. I trampled my way through the entrance when my body slammed full-force (My fault, but who's keeping track?) into someone.

"Sweet Jesus!" I screamed, all my books (And my damn granola bar.) spilling everywhere. I uttered an obscenity before shoving all my books in a pile, trying to get them all in my arms again. It never occurred to me to look up to see what caused this train-wreck. (Again, my fault, but I don't care, I'm telling this story.) As I stood, my eyes met deep hazel and a head of blond hair.

"Hallelujah..." I muttered, dropping my poor, defenseless books, yet again.

"God!--Fucking!--" I bent down, hoping my face would cool by the time I stood. I put it all in a neat pile and rose, to this time meet an asinine smirk.

"Oh, no. You will not smirk at me, Mr. I-Bump-Into-Girls-Because-I'm-A-Senior-And-I-Can."

"Actually, I'm a junio--"

"No. I'm ranting. You don't interrupt me while I'm ranting." His smirk grew, leaning against the cool brick of our high school, crossing his arms, and waiting for what was sure to come.

"I don't even know you're name, but you bumped into me. So I want an apology." Silence. "I'm waiting." Silence. "What are you doing?!" He was staring at me.

"I thought I wasn't supposed to talk."

"No. I said don't interrupt me, that's common courtesy. Do you speak when addressed to? If not, I think you're mother needs to teach you a thing or two about conversing with others, eh?" He glared at me.

"You bumped into me." Oh, no. He did not just say that. I smacked his arm, surprised to feel a rock hard bicep. He didn't do as much as flinch. I scoffed.

"Whatever. You can pretend you're all strong," I enunciated to "o" in strong and held it out an insanely long time while making strange hand gestures that would look like I was saying it was raining if someone was simply passing by. "And manly," I held out the "a" just to be a bitch because I could tell it annoyed the crap out of him. "But I can tell it's all a show. You really watch The OC when no one's around, don't lie. And I also know you cried when Marissa died. So don't try to hide." The final bell rang, but neither of us made a move to go.

"You done?" I nodded, wanting to know what he'd say. I was met with silence.

"Aren't you going to say something?"

"Well, I was going to say you look hot when you're flustered, but I knew I'd be met with another smack and I'm afraid you'll say I watch Gossip Girl next." I glared, long and hard, wanting so hard to smack him.

"You do not. Call. Me. Hot."

"You have some serious rhyming skills." I couldn't hold back this time, I let my hand do its thing. This time, he caught my wrist, being prepared and brought my body so close to his it was touching. I tried squirming away, but a) he was too strong and b) he smelled too good to think straight.

"How about you stop trying to hurt me and start putting this sexual tension that's been building since we touched to rest?" I opened my mouth to protest about it's apparent one-sided aspect and his being an egotistical prat, but his mouth covered mine before I could get a word in edge-wise. I squirmed again, putting up a fight about it, but I knew it was true, my inner battle was screaming it; he was one hell of a kisser. I decided it was too much useless effort to try to get away, so I waited until he stopped planting feverish kisses on my mouth. His eyes opened and I could read them like a book, as if I'd known him since birth.

Lust.

And that sent my emotions to a crash landing. I slammed my face full-force into his and he turned around, pushing me again the brick wall of the school, his arms snaking around my waist. Our kisses were hot, passionate and urgent, as if were the last time we would ever see each other, when in reality, it was the first. Neither of us even knew each other's names. And that bothered me. I pulled away, breathing heavily.

"Name." I gasped.

"What?"

"Nameā€¦Tell me your name."

"Michaels. Luca Michaels."

"Well, Michaels Luca Michaels, meet Kate Prince; your new sexual tension reliever."

"I'm thinking Princess. You don't look anything like a boy." I shook my head.

"Just kiss me."

"Well, if you insist." He deadpanned, sarcastically, covering my mouth with his, heatedly.