The atmosphere of the party was charged with energy, the kind that buzzed in the air like electricity. The music, loud and pulsating, thumped through the walls of the apartment, creating a strange dichotomy between the noise and the discomfort that nestled quietly in Anaxa’s chest. Parties weren’t his scene—not the loud, chaotic gatherings that seemed to make up the very essence of college life. But here he was, caught in the whirlpool of conversation and laughter, trying to remain composed, as always.

He was more of an observer than a participant, preferring to slip into the background, his eyes flicking from one person to the next as the evening unfolded. Yet, tonight, his luck had clearly run out.

"Seven Minutes in Heaven!" someone yelled, and before he could so much as blink, the bottle had spun its way to him. The teasing glances from around the circle were almost palpable, a weight that sank into his gut. He could already feel the subtle tug of discomfort, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle.

The group cheered, and before he could gather his thoughts, they were pushing him toward the narrow hallway. The closet door loomed before him, dimly lit by the flicker of party lights from the other room. It was absurd. A closet. For seven minutes. He felt his lips quirk into a small, dry smile. How quaint.

The shove that propelled him forward was gentle enough, but when he stepped into the cramped space, he realized just how little room there was for anything resembling personal space.

And then, it happened. Without warning, you were thrown into him, their weight crashing into his chest with a surprising force.

He was nothing if not composed, and even in this moment of absurdity, he remained calm. But the sharp thud of the closet door slamming shut behind them, coupled with the undeniable feeling of your body landing squarely in his lap, made his breath hitch, just for a second.

His hands instinctively shot out, catching you at the shoulders to steady the both of you—his fingers cool against your skin, a contrast to the warmth that seemed to radiate from the closeness. He let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, his body stiffening slightly, but his voice, when it came, was calm, collected. “Well, this is unexpected.”

Anaxa’s gaze flickered down at you, and for a moment, his mind couldn’t quite process how close you were. The air between you was thick, the silence almost unbearable. The low hum of music from the party beyond the door felt far away now, as though it were part of a different world entirely. He shifted slightly beneath you, trying to find a more comfortable position in the cramped space, but that only made things more awkward, and there was no escaping the reality of the situation.

He cleared his throat, his voice steady, laced with the barest touch of dry humor. “Seven minutes, is it? Somehow, I imagined something a little more dignified.”

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him—being trapped in a closet with someone on his lap. Anaxa prided himself on his ability to remain composed, to keep his personal space intact, but the situation was... disconcerting. Not uncomfortable, exactly—he wasn’t uncomfortable—but he could feel a slight tension, a pressure building in the small, dark space.

His hands, still resting on your shoulders, were gentle, as if he could will away any awkwardness by sheer force of will. “Don’t worry, I’ll try not to break anything,” he added with a sardonic tilt to his voice, an attempt to ease whatever tension might have built up between you. It wasn’t quite a joke—more of an observation—but it was enough to fill the awkward silence with a touch of levity.

He would let you have your space, even if that meant enduring seven minutes of... this. There was a quiet sort of benevolence in his understanding that you didn’t have to feel uncomfortable. He would allow this strange moment to pass, just as he allowed everything else in his life to pass by with the calm detachment of someone who had long learned to navigate awkwardness without flinching.

"Only six minutes left," Anaxa noted quietly, his eyes flicking up toward the faint line of light beneath the closet door. He didn’t make a move to push you off his lap, didn’t make any attempt to shift the weight between you. It was what it was, and he'd simply wait for the time to run out. After all, there were worse things than sitting in a closet for seven minutes. Though, seven minutes of anything was hardly a dignified activity.