Frustrated to the point of pain, you chew viciously on the end of your pen and glare javelins at the crossed-out page of absolute drivel you've just written. Mediocre, every word, every sentence, drab and shabby and doing no justice to the crashing and bubbling visions you're trying to let out of your aching head. You have absolutely no idea why your notebook isn't laughing at your utter, ridiculous helplessness.

Of course, you're still so startled that you send your pen flying across the room and let out a squeak when it does. It takes you a moment to realize that the laughter is too genuine, open, and musical to be coming from your stubborn bitch of a notebook. By the time he's kneeling next to you, pen in hand, asking, "Drop something?" and still chuckling, you've recovered your senses. But you lose them again a moment later in his smiling eyes and gently parted lips. What little frustration you had left floats away as he places the pen in your hand and wraps his tapered fingers around yours. Shakily, he guides your hand to draw a lopsided heart on the remainder of the page (platitudes, mediocrity, a badly drawn heart. You store it all for later.)

He's so cheesy and romantic that you shouldn't be able to stand him. But sometimes, like now, the badly drawn hearts and the breathy kisses brushed on your wrist are just what you need. Again, you let the pen slip out of your fingers, and again he picks it up. This time, the wobbly lines of a heart appear on the wrist he has been kissing. He raises an eyebrow and glances up at you. You gaze back, tender but unmoved. It's not enough. The pen-tip tickles your wrist again. You shiver; you don't need to glance down to know that his name has been traced onto your skin. "Write something for me," he whispers in your ear. His footsteps retreat, quick and even, from the room.