Michael did not agree to this.

Okay—technically he did. But only because Jeremy had given him that look. The please don’t leave me alone with theater kids who discovered Fireball look.

So now he’s sitting cross-legged on a random basement carpet that smells like Axe body spray and regret, surrounded by a circle of loud seniors chanting, “SPIN IT, MELL! SPIN IT!”

And directly across from him?

You.

Varsity jacket. Arms crossed. Smirk sharp enough to cut glass.

Michael swallows.

“Guys,” he tries, adjusting his hoodie sleeves over his hands, “I think we can all agree this is statistically unnecessary.”

Someone shoves the bottle into his hands.

He spins it.

The world slows down.

The bottle wobbles.

Wobbles.

Wobbles—

—and stops.

Directly. At. You.

The basement explodes.

“OHHHHHH!”

“Seven minutes!”

“Get in there!”

Michael feels like his soul just left his body and ascended peacefully to heaven without him.

Across the circle, You don’t laugh. Don’t look shocked.

You just lean forward slightly, eyes locked on Michael, that lazy smirk curling deeper. There’s this glint in your eyes—mischief? Challenge? Something warmer? Michael can’t tell and honestly that’s worse.