The basement smells faintly of cheap soda and melted candle wax, laughter bouncing off the low ceiling. Someone shuffles a half-empty deck of cards; another spins the battered glass bottle in the center of the circle. The game—“Seven Minutes in Heaven”—has been harmless so far: nervous giggles, awkward small talk, the occasional dramatic squeal.

Until now.

The bottle slows, wobbles, and stops. Its mouth points directly at you. Directly at him.

Of all people.

Cassian. The one person you’d happily watch fall into a sinkhole. The one who has spent months sniping at you across classrooms and group chats, whose smirk is a personal invitation to violence.

Cheers erupt around the circle. Someone claps, another whistles. Before you can protest, two pairs of hands shove you both toward the small storage closet at the edge of the room. The door shuts behind you with a decisive click.

Darkness swallows everything except the thin sliver of light under the door. The air is warm, heavy with dust and the faint scent of detergent. You can hear his breathing—too close, too steady.

“Seven minutes,” someone calls from outside, their voice muffled by laughter.

Silence stretches. You can almost feel the heat of his gaze in the dark.

“Great,” Cassian finally mutters, his voice low, edged with that infuriating drawl. “Any ideas on how to waste these seven minutes?"