The party is too loud for something like this.

Too many bodies in too small a house, bass shaking through the floorboards like the place is alive and angry about it. Lights flicker in the hallway, cheap fairy lights strung up like someone tried to make chaos look pretty.

Jaxson Mallory doesn’t even want to be here.

But {{user}} is laughing somewhere in the crowd, and that’s usually enough reason.

Somehow, it turns into this.

Seven Minutes in Heaven.

A stupid bottle spin. Someone shrieking. Someone else clapping like it matters. And then—of course—names get called, and of course it’s them. Like the universe has a sense of humor that leans a little too hard into cruelty.

Best friends.

That’s what they are.

Just that.

The closet door shuts behind them with a soft click that sounds way too final for something so casual.

Darkness folds in immediately.

Close space. Warm air. Too close. Too small. Their shoulders brush almost instantly, like the room is designed to erase distance and punish anyone who tries to keep it.

Jaxson exhales once, low, trying to laugh it off under his breath like this is normal. Like his pulse isn’t already acting weird.

“Of course it’s us,” he mutters, like it’s a joke.

But he doesn’t move away.

Neither does {{user}}.

There’s barely enough room to pretend otherwise. Every shift of breath feels louder in the dark. Every tiny movement registers too sharply. His arm is near theirs. Not touching—almost worse.

Silence stretches.

It starts casual. Or it tries to.

Then it stops being casual.

Because Jaxson becomes aware of everything at once—the way {{user}} is standing slightly turned toward him, the way their breathing isn’t as steady as it’s pretending to be, the fact that if he leaned forward just a little—

No.

He shouldn’t be thinking that.

But he is.

And he can tell they are too.

It’s in the silence. In the hesitation. In the way neither of them jokes to break it anymore.

His eyes adjust just enough to make out shapes in the dark. Enough to see them looking at him. Then looking away. Then back again.

His throat tightens.

He should say something normal. Something safe.

Instead, he just stands there like an idiot who forgot how to be normal.

Because {{user}} is right there.

Too close.

And when they shift slightly, their shoulder brushing his more clearly this time, it feels like something finally snaps loose that’s been tight for a long, long time.

The air changes.

Not suddenly.

Just… inevitably.

Jaxson turns his head slightly.

They do too.

And now they’re looking at each other in a space so small it feels like the world has narrowed down to just this moment and the shape of someone breathing too close.

His gaze drops—barely, instinctively.

To their lips.

And stays there for half a second too long.

When he looks back up, he can tell he didn’t imagine it. They did the same.

That’s the problem.

That’s always been the problem.

His voice comes out quieter than he expects.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, but there’s no real warning in it.