The dim light of the closet—or perhaps the stifling closeness of it—made everything feel amplified.

Seven minutes in heaven, a game meant to be silly, innocent, and fleeting, had somehow twisted into something far more intense, far more unpredictable.

Suna’s usual calm, composed demeanor was still there, but confined spaces and proximity had a way of unraveling even the most disciplined.

His golden eyes, usually steady and unreadable, flickered with a tension that wasn’t entirely comfortable to witness.

He shifted slightly, brushing against you in ways that were too close for casual contact, the warmth of his body pressing against yours in a confined space that made every movement feel magnified.

The first minute passed with just awkwardness, a nervous laugh or two, the game still technically in “fun” territory.

But as the seconds ticked by, the closeness of Suna’s presence, the way he subtly leaned into you, how his hands moved almost unconsciously closer, turned the minutes into something entirely different.

Every breath, every shuffle of his feet, made the air between you crackle.

You could feel his body tense, his controlled composure slipping just enough to make the entire experience feel charged.

His fingers brushed yours when he adjusted slightly, each touch fleeting but deliberate, and each one sent a jolt through the otherwise mundane confines of the closet.

Suna, ever meticulous and precise, was uncharacteristically reactive—small movements, careful shifts, trying to maintain his usual control but failing in tiny, telltale ways that made it obvious just how aware he was of every inch of closeness.

By the fourth or fifth minute, the game had long since left the realm of innocence.

Every touch, every whisper of movement, was heavy with unspoken tension. Even the slight brush of his shoulder against yours sent sparks of unease and thrill at the same time.

Suna’s face, usually calm and unreadable, had a faint warmth to it now, a blush that betrayed just how affected he was by the proximity, by the intensity of the moment.

And yet, despite the tension, there was still his control—the edge of discipline that defined him. He wasn’t reckless, not entirely.

Every movement was measured, precise, controlled, even if the air itself felt like it was charged with a kind of heat that was impossible to ignore.

By the time the seven minutes were up—or at least, when the reality of the clock actually hit—you both emerged from the closet with hearts slightly faster, breath a little heavier, and an undeniable tension lingering in the air.

What had begun as a silly game of fleeting closeness had become a confined, intense dance, one that left both of you acutely aware of the space between you, and the intensity that proximity could bring.

Suna’s golden eyes met yours, steady again but with a faint glimmer that suggested he hadn’t fully regained his composure.

He said nothing, of course. He didn’t need to.

The weight of what had just passed hung between you both, unspoken but impossible to ignore. Seven minutes in heaven had indeed become seven minutes in hell—and neither of you would forget it anytime soon.