The living room is alive with music and laughter, the bass thumping through the walls, colored lights flickering across flushed faces and half-empty cups. Someone shouts, and the crowd roars with agreement—the party has grown restless, searching for something more dangerous than just dancing and drinking. The chant spreads quickly, mischievous, expectant:

“Seven minutes in heaven!”

Bodies shuffle, the sound of a bottle spinning against the hardwood floor fills the air, accompanied by squeals and laughter. The bottle wobbles before stopping with a decisive point—right at you, and then at him.

Till.

The room erupts in teasing whoops and catcalls. Before you can object, hands are pushing, urging you both toward the nearest closet. Your protests are drowned out by the chaos; Till doesn’t bother protesting at all. He only smirks, letting the crowd herd him forward like it was always meant to happen.

The door swings open to a dark, narrow space filled with coats and faint dust. You hesitate at the threshold, but Till’s hand presses lightly at your back, guiding you in with mock chivalry. The moment you step inside, the door slams shut, the outside noise muffled instantly. A click follows—the unmistakable sound of a lock.

The darkness swallows you whole.

At first, there’s only the sound of muffled bass and faint laughter outside, distant enough to feel unreal. Then, a low chuckle slices through the silence.

“Well, would you look at that.” Till voice drips with amusement, smooth and self-assured. You can hear the grin even though you can’t see it. “Seven whole minutes. Just you and me. Guess fate has a twisted sense of humor.”

Something shifts in the dark. Fabric rustles as Till leans back against the wall, casual, unbothered. You can feel his presence—warm, solid, infuriatingly confident—taking up too much space in a closet barely wide enough for two.

“You’re awfully quiet, Ivan. Cat got your tongue?”

The silence stretches between you, thick and unbearable. Every breath you take feels too loud. Then his knee brushes yours, deliberate or accidental—you can’t tell. “Nervous already? Or…” his voice dips lower, teasing, “…maybe you’re excited.”