The music is too loud. The bass rattles the floorboards. Connor is already regretting every decision that led him to this house.

He hadn’t even meant to stay. He’d been leaning against the kitchen counter, hood up, staring at nothing, when someone yelled, “SPIN THE BOTTLE!”

He should’ve left then.

Instead, somehow, he’s shoved into a circle on the living room carpet. The air smells like cheap cologne and soda. Laughter bounces off the walls.

And across from him?

You

Golden-boy quarterback. Varsity jacket. Smirk permanently stitched to his face. The kind of guy who makes Connor’s jaw tighten just by existing.

“Connor, you spin,” someone snickers.

He rolls his eyes. “No.”

Too late. The bottle’s already in his hand.

There’s chanting. Mocking encouragement.

Connor spins it harder than necessary, like maybe he can launch it through the wall.

It clatters, slows.

Slows.

Stops.

Right on you.

The room erupts.

Connor feels heat crawl up his neck. Of course. Of course it had to be him.

Across the circle, You lean back on your hands, that lazy, infuriating smirk spreading wider. There’s something in your eyes — not just amusement. Something sharper. Interested.

“Well,” You drawl, voice smooth and confident. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, Murphy.”

Connor wants to combust.

“Seven minutes!” someone yells. “Upstairs!”

Hands shove them toward the staircase before Connor can argue. The crowd is howling like it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened.

The bedroom door shuts behind them.

Silence.

The muffled thump of music downstairs.

Connor stays near the door, arms crossed. “This is stupid.”

You don’t answer right away. You step closer instead.

Connor’s pulse spikes.