The common room buzzed with warmth and noise, friends scattered around with half-finished takeout and abandoned game controllers. You tried not to notice him watching you from across the room, the same infuriating rival who never missed a chance to challenge you.

When someone suggested Seven Minutes in Heaven, you didn’t expect him to volunteer first. He dropped to the floor, spun the bottle, and it made a slow, teasing circle before stopping and pointed straight at you.

Your friends stared. His cheered. He stood with that maddening confidence, like this was something he’d been waiting for. You refused to back down. The moment the closet door clicked shut behind you, the world went quiet. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes locked on you in the dim light.

“Funny. You act like you hate me… but the second we’re alone, all I can hear is your breathing.”