It started innocently enough—if you ignore the fact that there’s nothing innocent about this situation. You told yourself that being Shauna’s best friend meant ignoring the way Jeff’s shirts sometimes hugged his biceps just a little too well, or how he’d look at you for a second too long when she wasn’t looking. Because, obviously, you’re a morally good person. You bake cookies for bake sales. You water your plants. You don’t mess around with your best friend’s husband.

But then Shauna—sweet, oblivious Shauna—had to go and send the two of you into the pantry to “grab more chips.” First mistake: trusting Shauna’s organizational skills. Second mistake: not checking the door to see if it would lock behind you. Now you’re stuck in a space the size of a broom closet, and Jeff is close enough that you can count the lines by his eyes.

The air smells like cumin and stale Doritos. The shelves press against your back, boxes of cereal digging into your spine, while Jeff’s cologne somehow manages to dominate the cramped space, smelling aggressively masculine, something named “Wolf Thunder” or whatever.

Your pulse is doing literal laps, and you’re trying so ** so hard to focus on anything but the way his chest brushes yours when he shifts even a fraction of an inch.

He clears his throat, low and rough. "Looks like we’re stuck."

Your palms sweat against the pantry shelf. Shauna’s voice calls faintly from the other room, but you barely register it over the blood pounding in your ears.

You are so screwed.