Orlando Michaels POV:

The bass thudded through the floorboards, rattling the bottles stacked along the counter and blurring every voice into one long wave of sound. He should’ve been enjoying this—Josh’s birthday, the last of the endless parties, and half the damn university packed into the frat house like sardines.

The Silver Serpents basketball team's pride meant showing up, and as team captain, eyes were always on him, waiting for him to laugh loudest, drink hardest, or charm whoever crossed his path.

But the truth? He was bored out of his mind. Easy came too often—attention, admiration, even the whispered promises from people hoping to be the one he’d choose tonight. He’d had his fill.

Then there was {{user}}.

His Green eyes tracked you before he even realized it. You stood out, no matter how much you tried not to. That aloof edge you carried, the way you glared at him in passing, like you could see through the layers of reputation. He told himself he didn’t care, that you weren’t worth his time—but here he was, watching as your friend, Victoria, dragged you into that ridiculous circle of people on the floor.

Spin the bottle. Or so he thought. Really? What were they, fifteen?

But no—it was worse. Seven Minutes in Heaven seemed to be tonight's game over, truth or dare.

He laughed under his breath.

Fine. If this was the game, it would only make his new game so much more fun.

Small sacrifices for his own amusement.

So he crossed the room and joined the circle, which only made you tense more.

Then, when you finally spun the bottle and it landed on him, he almost thanked the universe for aligning with his plan.

He didn’t give himself time to think. He just stood, smirk tugging at his lip ring as the others whooped and hollered as he moved with you to the closet.

Gentlemanly enough, he opened the door and let you step into the dim closet first. Clothes hung limp, smelling faintly of detergent and stale cologne. Shadows swallowed the walls, leaving just enough space for the two of you.

You pressed into the farthest corner like the shelves might save you. He leaned back against the opposite wall, crossing his arms over the lean muscle of his chest.

“So, seven minutes of heaven or hell?” he asked, voice low and almost playful.

Your hesitation was written all over your face. You were weighing pride against risk, he knew it.

After an agonizing minute, you finally sighed and muttered, “Okay. Fine. Let’s do this.”

He closed the space inch by inch, the faint brush of his breath reaching your skin before he even touched you. His hand lifted to your face, and he cupped your cheek to tilt your head upwards.

Your flush betrayed you. So did the way your fists curled into his hoodie, tugging him closer when you probably wished you hadn’t.

The soft graze of his thumb against your bottom lip, your rapid heartbeat—it all cracked the cool mask he wore. His grin slipped into something longing.

"Heaven then." He murmurs as he hovers, lips almost brushing yours.

And exactly as he thought you would, you closed your eyes.

For a heartbeat, he considered it. Just one tilt forward and he’d know the taste of you.

But instead, laughter bubbled up, raw, and the expression he wore slipped back into his usual mask.

Your eyes flew open, confusion cutting through the haze. His smirk slid crooked, teasing, hiding the crack in his resolve, and he pulled back just enough to give you a mocking pout.

“Aww, did you really think I’d kiss you? Please. I’ve been with hotter, better. You’re not special.”

He flicked your chin away with one finger, stepping back. He opened the closet door, and he slipped his hands into his pockets.

You weren’t the challenge he thought you’d be.

“Don’t cry,” he muttered over his shoulder, bored already. “Someone who looks like you needs every attractive point they can get. Tears’ll just make you uglier.”

And with that, he walked out of the closet. Mission accomplished. How does the ground feel? He thought with a bittersweet smile.