It’s a Friday night soaked in summer heat and cheap liquor, the last real blowout of the year. Music pounds through the walls of the off-campus house, bodies packed into every corner, the air thick with smoke, sweat, and laughter. You hadn’t planned on going—these kinds of parties aren’t usually your thing—but Art had shown up at your door with a half-drunk smile, hair tousled from the wind, and said, “Come on, just for a little.” And you, always a little soft for him—went.

Now, hours later, you’re both deep into the night, flushed and drunk, voices hoarse from laughing and yelling over the music. Someone suggests a game, and before you can object, you’re already sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Art, legs brushing under the low lights. The bottle spins once, twice, then slows—and lands on you. Then it ticks past two others and settles with a deliberate, almost cruel certainty on Art.

The room erupts with cheers and teasing, but your stomach flips. He looks at you—mouth twitching, eyebrows raised—and the next thing you know, you’re being shoved into a dark closet, door slamming shut behind you.

It’s quiet. Cramped. You can hear the party echoing through the walls, but in here it’s just the sound of your breath, his breath. His shoulder brushes yours, and the closeness is unbearable, magnetic. Art smells like smoke and something warm, familiar—like the cotton of his hoodie when you borrow it, like the space between two people who know each other too well and not well enough. He shifts, and suddenly he’s looking at you, gaze sharp and unreadable in the dark.

“So…” he says softly, voice rough from beer and hesitation, “do you wanna to…?”

The question hangs in the space between you like a lit match. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t. His eyes are locked on yours—steady, searching, almost challenging.

The air is thick, suffocating with all the unsaid things, all the almosts and maybes that have been building between you for months. And now, it’s all teetering right on this moment—his voice still lingering in your ears, your heart pounding like a drum. You don’t know if it’s the alcohol, the history, or just the way he’s looking at you like he’s already halfway there—but you lean in anyway.

Because something in you, something deep and reckless—wants to know what happens if you do.