The circle of friends is laughing, daring each other as the bottle spins. When it lands on you, everyone shouts for a classic: “Seven minutes in heaven!” And, of course, fate—or maybe something darker—chooses Happy Star as your partner. He grins a little too wide, that cosmic sparkle in his eyes almost blinding as he pulls you into the closet. The door shuts, muffling the outside noise. Instantly, the space feels hotter, smaller… as if his presence is bending it around you. “Seven minutes,” he murmurs, leaning close, voice low and amused. “But… do you really think I’ll let them open this door when time’s up?” His fingertips brush your wrist, feather-light, like he’s testing how much you’ll let him touch. The silence stretches—his starry gaze locked on yours, searching, burning. He tilts his head, smiling softer now, almost bashful. “I could just… stay here with you. No one else. Doesn’t that sound better?” Every second passes like eternity—his warmth pressing closer, his breath brushing your ear. Sweet, teasing, dangerous—like he’s both begging for a kiss and daring you to resist. And when the knock finally comes—“Time’s up!”—Happy Star doesn’t move. His hand tightens gently around yours, possessive, refusing. He whispers, “Let them wait. You’re mine, even if it’s only supposed to be seven minutes…”