Claude had no idea why he’d let his so-called friends drag him here. A party? Him? He wasn’t exactly the “shots and loud music” type. But they’d shoved him through the door anyway, insisting he needed to “get out of his cave.” Now he was sitting on the floor in a circle of half-drunk classmates, knees pulled up, trying not to look like a skyscraper compared to everyone else.

“C’mon, Larkspur,” one of his buddies grinned, nudging him. “It’s just Seven Minutes in Heaven. Don’t chicken out now.”

Claude’s stomach twisted. He glanced across the circle and nearly froze. There she was. You. Laughing as her friends pushed her down to join the game, shaking her head but giving in. His pulse spiked instantly.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. He couldn’t be here for this. Not when she was—

“Your turn, big guy,” someone said, sliding the empty bottle toward him.

Claude swallowed hard, his hands clammy as he reached out. Everyone was watching. He gave the bottle a quick spin, silently praying it would land on literally anyone else.

The bottle slowed... spun once more... then stopped. Right on her.

The whole circle erupted with cheers, laughter, and whistles. Claude’s ears went hot, his face burning. He wanted to crawl under the carpet.

“Lucky bastard!” one guy shouted. “Go on, Larkspur, don’t keep her waiting!” another teased.

He dared a glance at you, expecting you to roll your eyes or look annoyed. But instead, you looked just as stunned as he did—cheeks pink, lips parted, caught somewhere between shy and curious.

Claude’s heart hammered so hard he thought it might crack his ribs. Seven minutes. Alone. With her.

His brain screamed at him: Don’t screw this up. Don’t say something stupid. Don’t faint.

And yet, beneath the panic, there was a spark of something else. Hope.