The party was loud in that way that made your bones hum—cheap bass rattling through the walls, laughter spiking in too-high pitches, the air thick with sweat, perfume, and something burned from the kitchen. The living room was crammed with bodies draped over couches, lounging on floors, holding red cups and secrets. In the middle of it all sat the battered old bottle, spinning lazily atop a warped coffee table.

You weren’t even supposed to be here. You’d made that clear to everyone—arms crossed, back against the wall, watching the chaos with narrowed eyes that dared people to approach. No one did.

Until Jamie Callahan spun the bottle.

It whirled, a blur of green glass and bad decisions. You were halfway to calculating how fast you could ghost out of this party when the room went still—and then someone gasped. Laughed.

“Holy shit,” someone whispered.

You looked. The bottle had stopped, perfectly pointed at you. And Jamie? Jamie Callahan was already standing, grinning that insufferably sunny grin, like this was the best thing that had happened to him all week.

“Guess it’s fate,” he said cheerfully, and offered his hand like this was a school dance.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt and shoved off the wall, brushing past him without taking it. “This is so fucking dumb,” you muttered, heading toward the closet.

The door creaked shut behind you with a click that felt final. The air inside was warmer, quieter, but not silent—muffled party sounds filtered through the walls, a bass-heavy heartbeat pressing in from outside.

It was cramped—barely enough room to sit side by side. You dropped down first, slouching back against the wall like you owned the space. Jamie followed, knees bumping.

“Comfortable?” you muttered, shifting your legs pointedly. Jamie didn’t move.

“Super,” he said, smiling in the dark.

A beat passed.

You crossed your arms. “Let me guess. You’re gonna try to get me to open up, right? Ask deep questions? Talk about my feelings?”

Jamie leaned his head back against the wall, still smiling, voice quiet now. “Nope. I just figured seven minutes in a closet might be the first time you’ve ever been somewhere and not acted like you’d rather set it on fire.”

You scoffed. “Maybe I still will.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you.”

Another beat.

Something shifted. The dark made it easier to hear everything—the shallow breath Jamie took, the soft creak of denim as he shifted closer. You weren’t quite touching, but the heat of his thigh was right there, and your body betrayed you by noticing.

You hated that. Hated that Jamie smelled good. That he felt solid and real beside you. That his presence didn’t fill the space so much as settle into it, warm and steady and unbothered by the sharp barbs you had tried to throw.

“You really that bored?” you asked. “Could’ve had anyone in that room fawning over you.”

Jamie turned to you, and though it was dark, you felt the weight of his gaze like it was hands on your skin.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “But I didn’t want anyone else.”

Silence.

Your breath hitched—just a little. You looked away, jaw tight, every instinct screaming to push, to bite, to run.

Instead, you stayed.

Jamie leaned in. Slowly. Not touching yet—just invading that last inch of space between you.

“I’m not gonna kiss you unless you want me to,” he said, voice low, warm, and too damn close.

Your heart was loud in your ears. You stared at him. He didn’t blink.

“I hate people like you,” you whispered.

Jamie smiled, soft and infuriating. “I know.”

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It was gentle. Just the barest press of lips. A test, a question. But it lit something in your chest like a struck match. Jamie’s hand didn’t grab—it hovered near your jaw, not pulling you closer, just offering. His mouth was warm, sure, but not greedy.

Then he pulled back—barely. Lips parted, breath uneven. Foreheads almost touching.

You didn’t move.

Jamie waited.

The world had narrowed to this—to heat and breath and the space between a yes and a no.

Jamie’s voice, low and quiet: “You can push me away now, if you want.”