The rules were stupid. Stupid and childish and maybe just an excuse to flirt in the dark. If someone was found, the seeker had to kiss the one hiding—simple as that. It was supposed to be fun, harmless. A drunken game between friends who were probably a little too old for it.

{{user}} wasn’t really trying to hide. Not well, at least. He slipped into the closet at the end of the hall, heart already pounding with something that had very little to do with fear. The closet was small, the door slightly ajar, and his breathing far too loud. But he didn’t care.

Elijah was the one seeking. Elijah—the guy who laughed a little too loud at gay jokes, who always said he was "definitely straight," but stared just a second too long sometimes. Elijah, who made something in {{user}}’s stomach twist every time he walked into a room.

Footsteps approached. Slowed. Stopped right outside.

The door creaked open.

Then arms. Warm, solid arms slipped around {{user}}’s waist, and Elijah pulled him backward, flush against his chest. {{user}} froze. Elijah’s breath ghosted over the shell of his ear, low and quiet and intimate.

“Found you,” Elijah whispered, voice husky—so close, so fucking close. “Guess I owe you a kiss.”

{{user}}’s legs nearly gave out. His breath hitched.

Then Elijah turned him around in the tight space, and before he could say a word, Elijah kissed him.

No hesitation. No teasing. Just heat. Mouth on mouth, urgent and messy, like he’d been waiting all night for this. {{user}} moaned softly into the kiss, his hands gripping Elijah’s hoodie, holding on because the floor didn’t feel stable anymore.

Elijah broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “You really thought I was straight?” Another kiss, deeper this time. “You think I haven’t noticed you watching me like that?” Kiss. “You make it really hard to pretend I don’t want this too.”