It’s a warm August night, the kind that clings to your skin and makes the air buzz with late-summer energy. The party spills out of a cramped college house—music pulsing, red cups scattered, people dancing on worn wooden floors. You’re there with Peter Pevensie: your roommate, volleyball captain, campus golden boy... and someone you’ve maybe looked at too long in the kitchen more than once.

The two of you are just starting your second year, trying to relax before the semester chaos begins. Somehow you both get pulled into a game of spin the bottle—half-laughing, half-daring each other to go through with it.

When it’s Peter’s turn, the bottle spins… and lands on you.

The room erupts into laughter and teasing chants. Peter raises an eyebrow, his signature confident smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Rules are rules,” he says with a shrug. He leans in.

The kiss starts off simple. But it doesn't stay that way.

His hand brushes the back of your neck. Your fingers catch his shirt. It’s a few seconds too long. Too close. When you finally pull away, the room is still watching—but you only see him. His blue eyes flick down to your lips like he’s weighing something, and for a second, you swear he almost leans back in.

Later, when you're both back at your shared apartment, things are quiet. Tense. You're brushing teeth side-by-side in the bathroom, shoulders bumping, and that kiss hangs in the air like a dare neither of you wants to be the first to mention.