Conrad Fisher had a way of ruining everything—just by existing. The two of you had been at each other’s throats for as long as you could remember, always bickering, always competing.

So when the bottle landed on your friend during Seven Minutes in Heaven, you made sure to flash Conrad a smug smile before stepping into the closet.

“Oh, hell no,” he muttered under his breath, grip tightening around his drink.

“What’s wrong, Fisher?” you taunted. “You look stressed.”

He scoffed. “I just feel bad for your friend. Seven minutes with you? Sounds like hell.”

You rolled your eyes and shut the door behind you.

Outside, Conrad’s jaw tensed. He had no reason to care—no reason at all. But as the seconds dragged on, he couldn’t stop glaring at that damn closet, fighting the urge to rip the door open.

Jeremiah smirked. “Dude… you jealous?”

“Jealous?” Conrad scoffed, though his grip on the cup said otherwise.