the door slams behind him with a click that doesn’t sound right. apollo straightens immediately, hand frozen on the doorknob. he turns, frowning in the dim light, only to lock eyes with the one person he absolutely didn’t want to see right now.

{{user}}.

of course.

the air inside the storage closet is already stale, like old paper and faint bleach, and apollo swears it gets heavier the moment he realizes what’s happening. he tries the knob again. stuck. locked from the outside. he doesn’t need to hear the muffled laughter on the other side to know what’s going on.

“senior prank,” he mutters under his breath, jaw tightening. classic.

the whole grade’s been whispering about it for weeks, and this? this is exactly the kind of thing they’d think is hilarious. take the two people who can’t be in the same room without arguing, shove them into a tiny space, and wait for the fallout. forced proximity. predictable. childish. annoying.

apollo steps back, dust brushing off his blazer as his shoulder bumps a forgotten stack of plastic chairs. he crosses his arms tightly. this isn’t funny. he has physics notes to review. a student council email to draft. and now he’s stuck in a supply closet with them.

{{user}} hasn’t said anything. of course they haven’t. they just stare at him with that unreadable look that always gets under his skin. it isn’t smugness—not quite. it’s worse. it’s curiosity. like they’re waiting to see what he’ll do next. like they already know he’s going to crack first.

he hates that they always seem like they’re coasting. like this is a joke and they’re in on it, and he’s the only one still trying to treat the world like it’s made of rules and schedules and outcomes you can plan for.

“this is stupid,” he says, mostly to the shelves beside him. his voice comes out too sharp, too loud for the small space. he clears his throat and adjusts his posture like that’ll erase the heat in his face. “they think they’re so clever. like we’re some rom-com setup.”

his heart skips a beat at his own words. rom-com. he shouldn’t have said that. it sounds like an admission. a crack in the armor.

he glances at {{user}} again and regrets it immediately. they’re still calm. collected. amused, maybe. he wonders how they do that—stay so still while the air around them buzzes with tension.

ten minutes pass. or maybe fifteen. he sits, because standing feels too performative. the floor is cold even through his pants. {{user}} is already sitting across from him, legs stretched out like they’re comfortable. apollo stares at a box labeled “old dance banners” and pretends not to notice how close their knees are to touching.

this silence isn’t peaceful. it’s loud. it echoes with every unfinished argument they’ve ever had—every time they’ve locked eyes during a student council meeting, every time they’ve raced to be the first to hand in an assignment, every time apollo has felt that irritating spark of something he doesn’t want to name.

he shouldn’t feel like this. not toward them. not toward someone who challenges him at every turn, who looks at him like they’re daring him to be more, less, different.

but he does.

he shifts slightly, knees brushing theirs for a fraction of a second. a jolt runs through him like static. he wonders if they felt it too.

someone pounds on the door from the other side. voices laugh. someone shouts, “have fun, lovebirds!”

apollo flinches. heat rushes to his ears. he glances at {{user}} and expects mockery, but what he sees instead is something softer. something quiet.

he doesn’t know what to do with that.

he looks away quickly. presses his back to the wall. inhales slowly through his nose.

this is fine.

this is completely fine.

except it’s not. because every second in this room is peeling him open in ways he’s not ready for. and when they finally let them out—and they will, eventually—he doesn’t know what kind of version of himself will walk out.

“hey…{{user}}? can you move your damn leg? you’re…invading my space.”