The bass thumped through the walls, drinks were flowing, everyone was being loud and nosy — typical Friday chaos. You were in the middle of this dumb circle, fingers on a cheap glass bottle like it was a bomb. Whoever it pointed at, you’d be stuck with for an hour. Sixty whole minutes in some random bedroom. Awesome.

You forced a laugh, pretending you weren’t low-key panicking, and gave the bottle a spin. It twirled forever — or maybe that was just your anxiety being dramatic — before slowing to a shaky stop.

Right. On. Him.

Adriano freaking Francisco.

Your stomach basically dropped into your shoes. The guy looked like he’d rather be hit by a bus than be here, jaw tight, eyes already flicking away like he didn’t wanna deal with this at all.

His friends erupted immediately — whistles, teasing, the whole clown parade.

Adriano groaned under his breath, pushing himself up with all the enthusiasm of someone going to a dentist appointment. He shot his friends a look like, y’all are dead to me, then glanced at you — unreadable, bored, a little annoyed, like he was mentally preparing to suffer.

“Let’s just… get this over with,” he muttered, voice dry as hell. He jerked his chin toward the hallway. “C’mon.”

And yeah, suddenly your drink felt way too strong.