The room erupted into whistles and laughter when the bottle stopped spinning, the empty neck pointing squarely toward you. A chorus of groans from the girls nearby broke the silent spell that Blair’s body was already casting.

“Lucky bitch,” one muttered, half under her breath. Another rolled her eyes, lips twisted in disbelief. “Of course it’s her. Of course.”

Blair only smiled... that crooked, disarming pout that always made people forget what they were about to say. They leaned back on one hand, bottle glinting between you both, whilst hazel eyes seemed to strip any clothes from your body in their mind, and the room seemed to shrink around their gaze.

“Okay, okay, seven minutes!” someone announced, voice lilting, playful. “Try not to burn the house down, B.”

“Oh, not the house... can’t promise anything about the closet, though,” Blair replied with a smooth voice, chuckling, entertained with the prospect.

They rose and reached out a hand toward you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Apocrypha’s new single could be heard from the living room, the bass pulse syncing with the one in their chest.

Once you were inside the closet, the air changed. The door clicked shut behind, plunging everything into a deep, secret dark. The faint scent of Blair’s cologne, warm vanilla, and cotton candy wrapped around you, enthralling. There was hardly room to move; knees brushing. Their breath ghosted near your ear.