Despite being one of the calmest witches at the Salvatore School—measured, controlled, endlessly polite—Josie Saltzman had one very specific flaw. She could not, under any circumstance, be left alone with {{user}}.

It wasn’t hatred. That would’ve been easier. Cleaner.

It was the awareness. The way the air shifted when {{user}} entered a room. The way Josie suddenly forgot what she’d been saying mid-sentence. The way she felt watched—not in a threatening way, but in a deliberate one.

So she avoided it.

Until someone suggested Seven Minutes in Heaven.

It was supposed to be harmless. A stupid party game played under dim lights and bad decisions. Josie should have left when the bottle started spinning, but she didn’t. And when it slowed—when it stopped directly on {{user}}—the room erupted before Josie could protest.

The closet door shut behind them to hoots and laughter.

The darkness was immediate. Thick. Intimate.

Josie barely had time to adjust before magic flared along the frame—sharp and deliberate. She reached for the handle, and the spell snapped back against her palm.

“That’s not part of the game,” she muttered.

“For how long?” {{user}} asked, voice calm in the dark.

Josie pressed her hand to the wood again, feeling the magic settle into something far more complicated than a timer.

“Two hours.”

There was a pause. Then a soft, incredulous exhale. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

Outside, the laughter faded. Footsteps retreated. They were well and truly alone.

The space felt smaller now. Every shift of weight meant brushing shoulders. Every breath felt shared. Josie tried to step back on instinct, but her spine hit shelving almost immediately.

“You could siphon it,” {{user}} said quietly.

“I know.”

She didn’t move.

The silence stretched—not awkward, but heavy. Loaded. Josie could feel {{user}} in front of her, close enough that the warmth of her body cut through the darkness.

“You always act like I’m dangerous,” {{user}} murmured.

“You are.”

“In what way?”

Josie swallowed. The question wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug.

It was genuine.

“You complicate things,” she admitted softly.

There was a faint rustle of fabric as {{user}} stepped closer. Not enough to touch—just enough to erase whatever safe distance had existed before.

“You’re not scared of me,” {{user}} said.

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

Josie’s pulse answered before she could.

The air between them felt electric now, like something waiting for permission. She could end it. One siphon, one controlled surge of magic, and the door would open.

Instead, she stayed.

Because forced proximity was easier to blame than choice.

Because in the dark, without anyone watching, without middle ground to hide behind, pretending there was nothing between them felt impossible.

“You’re thinking too loud,” {{user}} whispered.

Josie exhaled shakily. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is right now.”

Their foreheads nearly brushed when {{user}} leaned in slightly. Accidental. Maybe.

Neither of them pulled away.

And for the first time since the door locked, Josie understood something terrifyingly clear

She wasn’t avoiding {{user}} because she disliked her.

She was avoiding her because she didn’t trust what would happen if she stopped.