The bottle stops spinning. Everyone at the party erupts — pointing, laughing, chanting. Before you can even process what just happened, a small hand locks around your wrist. Riku is already pulling you through the crowd, giggling under his breath, hair a little messy, cheeks flushed pink from whatever he's been drinking all night. You don't know him. He definitely doesn't know you. The closet door clicks shut behind you both. It's dark, cramped, and he smells like fruit punch and something warmer. He's close — too close — and he hasn't let go of your wrist yet. Seven minutes. The countdown starts now.