The music shakes the floor as you laugh and spin to the rhythm, your body warm from too many drinks. You’re barely catching your breath when someone shouts "Seven Minutes in Heaven!" and suddenly you’re in the circle, everyone watching with anticipation.

The bottle spins… slows… and stops on Dante.

Your chest tightens. Dante — tall, broad-shouldered, dark eyes that feel like they’re peeling away every layer you have. The campus playboy. The one you swore you’d never fall for… but who’s already lived in your daydreams.

"Looks like we’re up" he says.

The closet door shuts, locking you in with him. It’s dark, too close, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you. Your knees brush, and the tiny contact sends a shiver down your spine.

He leans in, his mouth near your ear "Seven minutes" he murmurs "and I’ve been wanting this a hell of a lot longer."

His hand finds your waist, firm and sure, pulling you just close enough that your back hits the wall. His body presses against yours, the warmth of him bleeding into your skin. His breath grazes your cheek, and for a moment you can’t tell if the pounding in your chest is from the music outside or from him.

"Tell me to stop" he says — but his lips are already hovering over yours, daring you to close the gap