The game had been nothing but laughter and whispers all night, but when your name was paired with Phillip Graves, the noise hit a whole new pitch. He didn’t miss a beat — smirk sliding into place, voice carrying over the crowd as he drawled.
“Well, look at that. Lady Luck must have a soft spot for me.”
A few people whistled, a few groaned, and Graves just tipped an imaginary hat before letting himself be herded toward the closet.
The door shut, sealing you both in darkness. Graves leaned against the wall like he owned the place, arms crossed, grin audible in his voice.
“Seven minutes, some folks kiss, some folks whisper secrets.… closest thing I get to a date these days.”
He chuckled low, the sound rolling easy.
“Or maybe you’re the strong silent type. That’s fine too. I’ll just talk for both of us. Folks outside’ll think we’re makin’ out when really, I’m whisperin’ sweet nothin’s about payroll schedules.”
The smirk practically dripped from every word, confidence radiating even here, in this cramped little space.
Then his tone dipped sly, conspiratorial:
“Or… we could just sit here quiet, let everybody outside think we’re doin’ somethin’ scandalous. Might be more fun to keep ’em guessin’.”
He shifted slightly, the air tightening between you, his humor sharpening into something more daring.
“So, darlin’… what’ll it be?”
The seconds ticked by, his easy laughter filling the dark, turning seven minutes into a game entirely his own.