t started with a dare.

Of course it did. This was Tommen College, and someone — Gerard Gibson — had shouted “Get in the janitor’s closet or forfeit your turn!” during that idiotic “Truth or Dare but With Detentions” game in the common room.

Hughie was already walking toward the closet door before anyone could blink.

“Don’t be such a coward, Young.” He looked back, all teeth and challenge.

Lizzie rolled her eyes. She was going to kill him. Again. For the fourth time this year.

But she followed him in.

The door clicked shut behind them. The light was busted. The air smelled like old detergent and bad ideas.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she muttered.

Hughie leaned back against the shelves, arms crossed over his chest like this was just another Thursday. “Not my fault you look good when you’re angry.”

“Not my fault your face begs to be slapped.”

“You said that the night we kissed in my car.”

Silence.

Tight. Electric. Almost unbearable.

Her voice was quieter now. “You think this is funny?”

He stepped forward. One inch. Then another.

“No. I think this is fate being a smartass.”

She tried to push him away. Her hands landed on his chest — warm, solid, way too familiar. He didn’t move.

And neither did she.

So he kissed her.

Rough and real and a little too late.

Just as her hands tangled in his shirt, the door burst open — bright hallway light spilling in like a slap.

Mr. Kelleher, campus security and professional killjoy, stood there with a clipboard and a glare.

“Are you two seriously making out in a supply closet? What are you, twelve?”

Lizzie, hair mussed, lips swollen, calmly replied: “We were… checking the fire extinguisher.”

Hughie coughed. “Yeah. Very flammable situation.”

Kelleher just sighed, flipped a page on his clipboard, and said, “Detention. Friday. And no more closet-related emergencies.”

As he walked away, Lizzie turned to Hughie.