The moment {{user}} walked into the party and saw him, they knew this had been a mistake. Scaramouche. Their rival. Their number one headache. Their absolute least favorite person in the world!

He was leaning against the wall like he owned the place, a smug smirk with tilt to his head, eyes glinting like he was already plotting some cruel remark the moment the two of them locked eyes.

And of course, fate had other plans.

The night had been loud, buzzing with laughter, music and half empty cups. It was supposed to be fun, lighthearted. But then someone suggested Seven Minutes in Heaven. Both groans and cheers followed, and suddenly a circle was forming in the middle of the living room.

{{user}} hadn’t planned to play, but their friends insisted, dragging them into the circle with relentless enthusiasm.

The bottle spun once. Twice. And on the third spin, it slowed… turned… and pointed directly at Scaramouche.

And on the second spin… at {{user}}.

The room erupted into chaos. Whistles, cheers, teasing shouts. Before they could protest, both were being shoved toward the nearest closet, voices echoing; "Go on! Rules are rules!", and "Seven minutes—don’t waste them!"

The door clicked shut, plunging them into darkness.

{{user}} crossed their arms, glaring at the faint outline of Scaramouche’s figure. "Don’t even think about saying something."

"Oh, but I can think it, can’t I?" he replied smoothly, leaning lazily against the wall. Even in the dark, his voice dripped smugness.

Minutes ticked by, heavy with silence. {{user}} thought maybe—just maybe—they’d survive this with nothing more than awkward breathing space. But then, all of a sudden..!

A pair of hands slid onto their hips.

They gasped, heat rushing up their neck as Scaramouche tugged them closer. His laughter was quiet, dark, amused.

"What? Are you scared?" His voice was low now, taunting, every word brushing against their ear like a dare. "I‘m not gonna be the only guy coming out of here without a make-out session.."