The party is loud, the music pulsing through the walls, laughter and glasses clinking blending into a chaotic symphony. You’re leaning against the doorway, nursing a soda, when Scaramouche strolls past, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, if it isn’t the bane of my existence,” he drawls, tone dripping with mockery. You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “You say that every time, and yet here you are.”

Of course, everyone at the party knows about your “rivalry.” The way you argue over who’s funnier, who’s smarter, who’s better at literally anything is borderline theatrical. But what no one knows—what you’d both kill to keep secret—is that the animosity is just the surface.

“Alright,” someone announces, excitement in their voice. “Time for Seven Minutes in Heaven!” The circle of people cheers, shoving you forward. You groan. This is your nightmare. And then, of course, the universe—or someone with a twisted sense of humor—makes the selection: you and Scaramouche.

“Seriously?” You glare at him. “Of course it’s you.”

“Hey, don’t act surprised,” he says, eyes glinting. “You do like it.”

Before you can protest, the two of you are shoved into the tiny closet, the door clicking shut behind you. The music and chatter are muffled, reduced to distant thumps. There’s a heartbeat of silence—awkward, electric. He leans against the wall, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. You tense.

“So,” he murmurs, voice lower, teasing, “what now?”

You huff, trying to act annoyed, but your pulse betrays you. He’s dangerously close, that smirk softening just a fraction, and suddenly all the bickering, all the teasing, falls away. His hand grazes yours—casual, but deliberate—and before you can stop yourself, your lips meet in a quick, fiery kiss.

It’s chaotic and rushed, heart-thumping, and exactly what you’ve both been pretending not to want. A minute passes, maybe two, and then another, and somehow, those seven minutes stretch endlessly. When the door finally creaks open, the world rushes back in—the party, the teasing friends—but for a brief, stolen moment in that closet, you’re the only two people who exist.