The house wasn’t just big — it felt endless. A sprawling estate with too many rooms, too many hallways, and far too many people for anyone to keep track of. At some point in the night, it stopped being clear who was an actual guest and who had simply wandered in, drawn by the pounding bass that shook the walls. Lights pulsed from chandeliers and LED strips alike, casting the crowd in waves of gold, crimson, and deep electric blue. Every corner hummed with life: laughter that climbed over the music, sharp bursts of shouts from drinking games, and low murmurs exchanged in dimly lit alcoves.

The air was warm, heavy with the mingled scent of sweat, alcohol, perfume, and the faint sweetness of whatever was burning in one of the side rooms. Somewhere upstairs, someone was belting out off-key karaoke, and down the hall, a group crowded around a beer pong table was losing their minds over a perfect shot.

In the middle of all this chaos sat a circle of people on the polished wooden floor, their legs crossed, shoulders brushing, all drawn in by the old party classic that never really lost its bite — spin the bottle.

The rules had escalated. Someone had suggested “just a kiss” was boring. Someone else had slurred the words seven minutes in heaven, and the idea stuck. Now the chosen two would disappear into the hall closet — cramped, dark, and with a lock on the inside — while everyone else counted the minutes.

That’s where Bence was, lounging back on one hand as the other lazily spun the green glass bottle across the floor. His presence was magnetic even without trying — not loud or showy, but charged, the kind of person whose eyes lingered just a little too long, making it feel intentional. There was a curve to his mouth that suggested trouble, the sort of trouble that could be fun if you didn’t mind getting burned. Even in the dim light, his gaze held a sharp glint that made it hard to look away.

The bottle slowed, clinking faintly as it came to a stop — and pointed at you.

—

Now, the two of you sat on the closet’s wooden floor, knees bent, backs pressed to opposite walls, the air thick and hot with your combined breathing. Bence’s eyes had already dropped more than once — shamelessly tracing the line of your legs, lingering at every inch of exposed skin. He didn’t even try to disguise it.

Bence leaned back against the wall, his gaze locked.“You nervous?”he asked, voice low, almost casual — but with the weight of someone who already knew the answer.