It was already late at night. The sound of music, laughter, and the murmur of conversations filled the air. Bakugou stood in a corner, holding a can of beer, listlessly watching the comings and goings of his classmates. He wasn't there for fun, or because he was interested in making friends; he only tolerated the presence of a few, staying close to them so he wouldn't have to put up with the other idiots.

He was about to take another sip when he saw you. That damn smile you were wearing, the way your eyes sparkled as you talked to your friends, made his jaw clench without realizing it. You walked briskly, and ended up sitting on the floor next to your group, holding an empty bottle. Bakugou frowned.

One of your friends suggested playing "seven minutes in heaven," casting knowing glances at the others. Amid laughter and shoving, Bakugou's group was invited as well. Denki almost shouted a “yes” before his time, and Kirishima took it as a playful joke. Normally, Bakugou would have told them to fuck off. But… if there was even the slightest chance of having you locked up with him, even for a couple of minutes…

“Tch…” he huffed in mock annoyance, as if the idea didn’t matter to him. Nevertheless, he slumped to the floor next to Kirishima, arms crossed, staring at the bottle.

One of your friends spun it. The glass spun, reflecting the dim light in the room. The sound of the spun mingled with laughter and music, until the motion slowed… and stopped right there, pointing right at him. “Bakugou and {{user}},” they announced amid excited gasps and murmurs.

“Tch… what a piece of luck,” he grunted, getting to his feet. His tone sounded as if it bothered him, but his eyes betrayed something darker, a spark of suppressed satisfaction. As he passed you, he grunted. "Come on, I don't have all day."

You entered the narrow closet. The air inside was warmer, stuffy. There was barely room to move; your shoulders brushed against his, and the contact seemed to intensify every second. Bakugou braced a hand against the wall, blocking part of your space without even looking at you directly. It wasn't intimidation... it was something more.

"Don't talk," he blurted out, his voice deep and low, as if he were giving you an order more than a suggestion. His breath was close to your ear. "I don't want to hear any nonsense."

But he couldn't fool himself. He felt the heat you gave off, the faint scent of your perfume mixed with that of the alcohol and the party. His eyes, adjusted to the dimness, strayed to your lips from time to time. And even though he pretended to be calm, his fingers clenched and unclenched as if they contained something he didn't want to let go.

With every second, the silence grew heavier. His chest rose and fell a little faster, and the slightest touch of your arm against his was enough to set his blood boiling.

"If you think I'm going to waste my time on something cheesy... you're so fucking wrong," he murmured, his gaze boring into yours, intense, as if he were evaluating whether or not to dare to cross that line.

The closet seemed to shrink. Every breath, every blink, every millimeter between you became unbearable. Bakugou clenched his jaw and brought his face just a little closer, just enough for you to feel the heat of his breath.

"Fucking seven minutes..." he whispered, his tone making it clear he wasn't going to waste them.