You hated Sam Tyson. Tall, muscular, filthy rich — and he knew it. Every smirk he threw your way in class felt like a personal insult.

At a friend’s house party, the worst happened. Someone shouted, “Seven minutes in heaven!” and before you could protest, a group of hands shoved you into the closet… with him.

You pressed your back against the wall, glaring. “Don’t look at me,” you snapped.

Sam just leaned closer, smirk playing on his lips. “Relax, princess. I’m not dying to kiss you either.”

The silence was suffocating. You could hear his slow breathing in the dark, smell the faint cologne clinging to his hoodie. Seconds stretched into forever.

“Why are you even here?” you asked, desperate to fill the quiet.

“Same reason you are,” he said, voice low. “Peer pressure and bad luck.”