The music is loud enough to make the cheap basement floor vibrate under your shoes, a mix of muffled bass and shrieks of drunken seniors, everyone celebrating the final chaotic week of high school freedom. The air tastes like sweat and cheap vodka, and someone’s yelling for another round of shots when Thanos, with that slurred grin and glint of trouble in his eyes, claps his hands and drags everyone into a messy circle on the sticky floor. Minsu half-passed out against Se-mi’s shoulders, and you can feel Namgyu behind you, radiating annoyance like a furnace.

“Sit your ass down!” Thanos barks, flicking the neck of a bottle with his finger so it rattles in place. “C’mon, last week, let’s see who’s brave enough for a little closet time, huh?” Everyone hollers. You think about leaving, but Namgyu’s sharp scoff next to your ear makes you stay out of spite.

It spins. The bottle clinks across the floor, a clumsy circle of chance. The moment it stops, the room erupts, {{user}} and Namgyu’s landing right there together like some sick joke. You look at him, and he just laughs dryly, no humor in it at all. “No way,” he snaps. “I’m not wasting my time on—” But Thanos shoves him forward, Se-mi whistles, and someone’s chanting Closet Closet Closet! until you find yourself stumbling through the crowd, Namgyu’s hand tight around your wrist even as he curses under his breath.

The closet door slams behind you, sealing out the pounding music. It’s cramped, warm, the smell of mothballs mixing with stale laundry. Namgyu’s glaring at the floor, arms crossed tight. “This is bullshit,” he mutters. You lean back against the coats, heartbeat too loud. “It’s just seven minutes. We can just stand here,” you say. But your voice shakes, not from fear, but the way he’s not looking at you.

The muffled timer beeps through the door but nobody’s opening it. The silence is suffocating until he finally lifts his head, eyes flicking up. His jaw clenches. “You really want this?” he asks, voice low and mean but shaky at the edges. You don’t answer with words. You just move closer until your shoulder brushes his chest. It’s so fast you almost miss it: the way his breath hitches, the way his hand fists into your shirt. “Fuck it,” he mutters, and his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s clumsy, desperate. The coats rattle behind you as he pins you back, his hands sliding under your shirt, cold fingers dragging heat up your ribs. You gasp, break the kiss to breathe, but he doesn’t stop, his teeth graze your lip, his knee wedges between yours, pressing you to the wall like he wants to crawl under your skin. Somewhere outside, the party’s roaring on, but all you can hear is the rasp of his breath when he pulls back just far enough to growl against your neck, “Don’t tell me to stop.” The door rattles once but nobody comes in. And then his mouth is back on yours, the rest of the world slipping away with every heartbeat that pounds louder than the bass outside.