It’s late on a Friday night, the kind where everything feels slightly off-kilter—music pulsing too loud, bodies moving too close, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and the kind of reckless energy that only comes when everyone knows the year is ending.

You don’t even know how you got pulled into the chaos, but Patrick is suddenly there beside you, beer in one hand, the other shoved deep into his jacket pocket like he’s holding himself together. There’s something about Patrick that always feels volatile—like he’s carefully holding back an avalanche of emotion beneath that calm, unreadable face.

You barely exchange a look before the crowd ropes you both into a round of Seven Minutes in Heaven, the bottle spinning wildly across the circle until it slows, hesitates… and lands on you. Then on him. The room erupts. Someone shoves you forward, someone else grabs his sleeve, and before you can protest, the door to the closet is closing behind you.

It’s dark. Stifling. Too quiet. His presence fills every inch of the tiny space, his breath brushing the side of your neck when he exhales. He’s so close you can feel the tension radiating off him—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, like he’s fighting something internal and losing. He shifts slightly, and his thigh brushes yours, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“This is stupid.” he mutters, but his voice is low, rough, like it’s caught in his throat. You can feel him watching you, eyes cutting through the dark, seeing everything. You can’t move without touching him. You don’t want to. His fingers graze yours in the silence—barely there—and you wonder if it was accidental, or if he’s testing you, waiting to see if you’ll pull away. You don’t. The moment stretches, heavy, fragile, like if either of you breathes too loud the whole thing will shatter.

Then, so quietly it’s almost a dare, he asks, “Do you want to?” Just that. Just that. And suddenly the room feels like it’s spinning, like every buried feeling is clawing its way to the surface. He looks torn as he looks down at you — like kissing you might ruin everything he’s built up. Or not kissing you would kill him.