The summer trip had been an idea born out of your group’s restlessness. University had been exhausting new classes, new faces, new responsibilities and by the time exams were over, the thought of escaping together felt like salvation. So when your friend offered her family’s small vacation house tucked by the woods and close enough to the beach, no one hesitated. Bags were packed, playlists made, and laughter filled the rented van as you all drove out of the city into something that felt like freedom.

For you, it was supposed to be simple: a few days of sunshine, games, and late-night talks. And maybe, just maybe a chance to be closer to Jake. He wasn’t just attractive, he was kind, always catching your eye in the most unassuming ways. Your female friends knew about your little crush, teasing you lightly but rooting for you all the same. They whispered about opportunities—long walks on the beach, accidental seatings next to each other during bonfires. You imagined what it might be like if the two of you shared moments just beyond the friendly kind.

But things rarely unfolded the way you planned.

The first nights were filled with noise. Cooking chaotic dinners together, spilling drinks, daring each other into games that grew bolder with every hour. On the third night, someone suggested 7 Minutes in Heaven. The kind of game that felt childish on paper, but with the right amount of alcohol and tension, became a test of hidden desires. The terrace lights glowed dimly, fairy bulbs strung across the wood beams, while the sound of the sea faintly hummed in the background. Everyone sat in a circle, a bottle placed in the middle, the kind of nervous excitement in the air that only came from not knowing who the bottle might betray you with.

You weren’t nervous at first. The bottle spun for others, producing laughter and fake groans, some quick kisses, some awkward silences. You thought about Jake, half-hoping the bottle would grant you those seven minutes with him. Your friends’ eyes flickered to you every time it was your turn, as if wishing their will could bend the glass.

And then it happened.

The bottle spun, slowed, and stopped—its neck pointing directly at you. The cheers went up, half-playful, half-teasing. You laughed, shaking your head. “Alright,” you said, brushing it off.

Then it spun again, and landed. Not on Jake.

On Riki.

Your stomach dropped. Out of everyone, it had to be him. Riki, who always had some sarcastic remark on the tip of his tongue, who seemed too polished, too uninterested in sincerity. He was part of the group, sure, but he was the one you rolled your eyes at most often. Attractive in a way you refused to admit, but irritating in every other.

The group exploded into noise. Teasing shouts, exaggerated “ooohs,” and someone clapping like they were at a sports match. Jake smirked faintly, raising his brows, and that sting of disappointment burned through you. This wasn’t how you pictured your summer.

But rules were rules.

Someone shoved you both toward the small guest room off the terrace, the one with barely enough space for two people to stand comfortably. The door clicked shut behind you, and then there was silence. Seven minutes.

You stood with your arms crossed, leaning against the wall, trying not to look at him. He was leaning casually near the door, his hands shoved into his pockets, like this was just another moment to tease.

“Well,” he said, his voice low, carrying that lazy sarcasm, “looks like you got stuck with me.”