The party’s loud, bodies everywhere, music shaking the walls. You’re tipsy—okay, drunk—and laughing with people you barely know. Somewhere in the haze, you spot Rafe. Not close with him, never really talked much. But tonight, he’s different. Or maybe you are.

Your eyes meet a few times. Accidental. Or not.

You’re both wasted, stealing drinks, dancing too close, laughing too loud. And then one of his idiot friends—probably Kelce—shouts, “Seven Minutes in Heaven!” The room erupts. Before you can protest, someone’s grabbing your hand. Rafe’s already standing, smirking like it’s some kind of joke. “Let’s go, princess.”

The closet is dark. Quiet. Too close. You’re both still laughing, breathless, drunk. “This is dumb,” you say, leaning against the wall.

“So leave,” he replies, stepping closer. You don’t.

You feel it shift. The heat. The way his eyes drop to your lips, then back up. You’re not even sure who moves first. Maybe it’s both of you. One second you’re teasing, the next, it’s chaos.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s starving. Your hands tangle in his hair, his grip tight on your waist. It’s hot, reckless, all blurred lines and blurred thoughts. You moan into his mouth and he chuckles, low and dangerous.

You forget it’s a game. Forget the party, the people, everything but his hands and his lips and the way he makes you feel.

When the door finally swings open, you’re a mess—hair wild, shirt half-off your shoulder, lips swollen. The room erupts in cheers, but all you hear is your heartbeat and the way Rafe’s looking at you.

Like those seven minutes just ruined everything.

Or started something way worse.