Avery Harper didn’t need parties. She didn’t need dim lights and sticky floors, or cheap perfume clinging to the air like it was trying too hard. She sure as hell didn’t need loud music pounding through the walls and some half-drunk girl yelling “Spin the bottle!” like it was a spiritual calling.

But here she was—sitting cross-legged on the floor of someone’s parents’ too-big lake house, wedged between a chipped coffee table and a girl she barely knew, pretending like she wasn’t already counting down the minutes until she could leave.

She should’ve said no. Should’ve stayed home with her sketchbook and a warm blanket and a movie her brother had already spoiled for her twice. But her friends had begged. Said she needed to loosen up. Said she never did anything fun anymore. Said she’d regret missing out.

And maybe she was starting to regret something. But it wasn’t missing out.

It was sitting in this damn circle.

Because the bottle had spun, and when it finally stopped, all the air got sucked out of the room.

It pointed at you.

Of course it did.

You were sitting across from her like some kind of smug prophecy. Elbows on your knees, that effortless lean-back like you’d already won something. You were still grinning—lazy, cocky, amused—like the whole night was just one big inside joke and she was the punchline.

You looked like you walked off the set of some CW show. Tousled hair that probably cost more to maintain than her family’s monthly grocery budget. Blue eyes so sharp they might’ve cut her if she stared too long. And that jawline—God, that jawline—like it had never known a bad angle or a bad day.

You were the kind of guy who wore designer cologne to a bonfire. Who drove some sleek, overpriced car your dad probably “surprised” you with on your sixteenth birthday. Who always had girls laughing at jokes that weren’t funny and teachers excusing late homework because you flashed a smile and said “my bad.”

Golden boy. Poster child for privilege.

You were everything she wasn’t, and everything she didn’t want.

Except now she had seven minutes to pretend otherwise.

A chorus of “oooohs” went up around the circle. Someone whistled. Someone else clapped. Avery didn’t move.

Her stomach flipped. Not in a cute, butterflies-in-your-gut kind of way. No—this felt more like motion sickness. Like the floor was tilting and everyone around her was in on something she didn’t sign up for.

She shot a glare at her best friend, who was conveniently too busy giggling into her red Solo cup to meet Avery’s eyes.

Of course they planned this.

She looked back at you. Still smirking. Still irritatingly at ease. Like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

Maybe girls like her weren’t supposed to end up in closets with guys like you. Not unless it was some prank. Some bet. Or some cosmic joke.

But Avery wasn’t the kind of girl to back down. Not when half the room was watching. Not when you looked at her like that—like you already thought she was going to flinch.

So, she stood. Wiped her palms on the thighs of her jeans. Took a breath that felt a little like surrender and a little like defiance.

She didn’t look at you as you both moved toward the closet. Didn’t give the crowd the satisfaction of seeing her flustered. But she could feel your presence behind her—warm and cocky and too damn close.

The door creaked shut.

Dark. Quiet. Claustrophobic.

She crossed her arms, leaned back against the wall, and stared straight ahead. The space was too small. The air too still. She could hear your breathing. Calm. Measured. Like this didn’t faze you at all.