You’re the girl everyone knows. Confident. Effortlessly popular. When you walk down the halls, eyes follow you. Compliments trail behind you like perfume. Every guy wants your attention, and every girl secretly watches to see what you’ll wear next.

Rafe Cameron? He’s the opposite. Quiet. Reserved. Always hanging behind Sarah or tucked in a hoodie with earbuds in, scribbling something in a notebook no one ever sees. He’s the guy no one really notices—except you do, sometimes. In the middle of the chaos, he’s still.

You don’t talk. You’ve never had a reason to.

Until that night.

Sarah throws a party. “Just a small one,” she says, but it’s still loud music and soft lights and the smell of too much perfume and cologne mixing in the air. You’re there, naturally. So are a few others. Close friends. People who matter. And Rafe—awkward and uncomfortable—gets dragged in by Sarah, who insists he needs to have more fun.

You’re already curled up on the floor with a soda in your hand when someone suggests Seven Minutes in Heaven. Laughter echoes around the room. You smirk, playing along because this is your scene. You’re good at this game. People hope the bottle lands on you.

And then it does.

But it doesn’t land on one of the usual suspects.

It lands on Rafe.

The room goes quiet for a second. He freezes, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights, and you can almost hear his heart pounding even from across the circle.

“Closet,” someone calls out, nudging him.

You stand first, confident, graceful. You flash him a small, amused smile. He stands slowly, hesitantly. You can feel the tension radiating off him as he follows you into the small, dark closet.

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

You stand across from each other, barely a breath apart. It’s cramped, and it smells like old coats and someone’s cologne. He’s so still, as if moving might break the whole moment.

You lean back against the wall, your voice soft.

“You okay?”

He nods, barely.

“You ever done this before?” you ask, teasing, but not unkind.

He shakes his head.

You tilt your head, curious now. “Ever been kissed before?”

There’s a beat.

Then, quiet. “No.”

That single word is all it takes. You don’t laugh. You don’t tease. You step closer.

“Do you want to?”

His eyes search yours. There’s fear in them. Uncertainty. But something else too. Hope.

He nods.

You lean in slowly, carefully. You give him time to pull away—but he doesn’t. Your lips brush his, soft and tentative. His breath catches. You kiss him gently, just once, before pulling back. His eyes are wide, stunned. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything.

So you kiss him again. Slower this time. More sure.

And he kisses you back.

The closet is still dark, still small.

But now it feels like the only place in the world.