The party started bleeding out the second someone yelled “COPS!”.

Like a spell breaking — glitter gone, haze lifted, seventeen no longer invincible. Screams, glass shattering, bodies pushing past each other. Flashlights slicing through the dark like judgment.

You hadn’t planned to end the night in a closet. Not like this. Not with him.

Now you’re shoulder to shoulder with Thomas Kub, pressed between winter coats and a busted vacuum that smells like dust. His breathing’s shallow, chest tight, eyes wide in the dark like a kid bracing for an ass whooping.

Your knee knocks his. You don’t move.

Outside — footsteps, doors slamming, voices yelling “go, go, go.” You wonder if your friends left. You could’ve too. But you didn’t.

You stayed. With him.

Silence stretches. Then:

“You good?” he whispers.

You nod, then remember he can’t see. “Yeah.”

He shifts. You catch his scent — cheap vodka, citrus, perfume that definitely isn’t his.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he mutters.

“The party?”

“Yeah. No. I don’t know. I just wanted it to be good.”

“It was,” you say. And you mean it.

He laughs under his breath, nervous. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I know.”

There’s a pause. The air is thick. You can feel the tension radiating off him.

“You smell nice,” he says suddenly, then cringes. “… That sounded way less creepy in my head.”

You blink. “Okay…”

“No, I mean—like, not in a weird way. Just… like your shampoo or perfume or whatever. It’s good. Comforting, I guess.”

You almost smile.

“You’re kinda bold for a guy hiding in a closet,” you tease.

“I’m drunk,” he says. “And probably about to get arrested.”

Footsteps overhead. You both freeze. His fingers brush yours. He doesn’t move. Neither do you.

Then, quietly:

“I like you,” he says. Fast. Honest. “I know I’m not… I just—if we don’t make it out of here, I wanted to say it.”

“You’re not dying,” you whisper.

“I might die from embarrassment.”

You laugh — too loud. You clamp your hand over your mouth. He chuckles too, like he can’t believe you didn’t shut him down.

Then: a flashlight cuts across the hallway. Boots. A radio. You stop breathing.

The light fades. The sound passes.

You both exhale in relief.

“Shit,” he whispers.

“Too close.”

Still, neither of you moves.

“If we do get arrested,” he says softly, “can I at least say you were the hottest thing to ever happen to my birthday?”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t let go of his hand.

The house creaks. Silence returns.

Still no knock. Still no voice calling you out.

You’re stuck. Together. With nowhere to go but here.