The music thumped faintly through the walls of the Yale dorm, the heavy bass slipping through cracks in the plaster, muffled by laughter and the clinking of bottles somewhere down the hall. The air smelled of beer and cologne, a haze of sweat and perfume drifting in waves from the crowded rooms. It was Friday night, and here you were, wedged into the chaos of a party inside one of the dorms.

You sat cross-legged on the floor with at least ten other people, the circle uneven but tight enough to feel the heat radiating from every direction. Empty bottles and red plastic cups littered the carpet, sticky patches clinging to your jeans whenever you shifted. Everyone’s faces glowed under the dim yellow light, some flushed from alcohol, others lit up with mischief as the game carried on. Seven Minutes in Heaven. You weren’t even sure how you got roped into it. Maybe it was peer pressure, or maybe curiosity, but now it was the third round, and all eyes were waiting to see what would happen next.

Soren leaned forward, grabbing the bottle with his long, veiny hands. The chatter dropped slightly as he placed it on the floor, a crooked grin pulling at his lips. He spun it, the glass gliding over the carpet in dizzying circles until it slowed, wobbling, and pointed straight at you.

Your stomach dipped. A low chorus of “ooohs” rose from the circle, and then came the laughter, the cheers, the teasing whistles. You glanced up just in time to catch Soren’s eyes—dark, steady, and locked onto you. He smirked like he already knew the outcome.

“Shall we?” he asked smoothly, stretching out a hand for you to take.

You pushed yourself to your feet on your own without taking his hand.

The crowd parted with exaggerated claps and shouts, pointing toward the closet tucked against the far wall. You walked ahead, Soren just a step behind, his presence close enough to make the back of your neck tingle. Someone yanked the door open, and without giving you time to rethink, Soren stepped in. You followed, and the door clicked shut behind you, followed by the twist of a lock.

The closet was smaller than you expected, packed with boxes, coats, and the faint must of detergent and dust. The air felt heavier here, every inhale thick and warm. The only light came from the sliver beneath the door, stretching faintly across the floor. You pressed your back against the wall, unsure whether to speak first or let the silence hang.

But Soren didn’t let it hang long. His voice cut through the closeness, low and deep, the kind that rolled through your chest like a vibration.

“Are we going to sit here and waste our time,” he said, in a low, deep voice. “Or should we do something fun?”