The room was buzzing with laughter and teenage chaos—classic house party energy. You hadn’t even wanted to come, but your best friend dragged you, promising he wouldn’t be there. Yet there Minho sat across the circle, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he’d rather be anywhere else too. The tension between you two wasn’t flirty. It was real. Ugly. Built from years of bitter competition, brutal arguments, and a mutual refusal to back down.

When the bottle landed on you, you held your breath. It spun again.

Minho.

The entire circle fell silent. “No way.” You muttered, already shaking your head.

Minho let out a dry laugh in disbelief and disgust. “I’d rather kiss a cactus.”