Ray

The party was loud, the kind where music bleeds into your skin and the air smells like bad decisions and cheap perfume. It was supposed to be just another night—someone’s vacation home turned into a neon-lit mess of strangers, smoke, and alcohol. You weren’t planning to stay long, but Ray had that look in his eyes again. That look that always meant trouble.

You didn’t even know who suggested the game—“Seven Minutes in Heaven”—but of course, his name came out paired with yours. And of course, he grinned like it had been his plan all along.

Someone shoved you both into the dim, closet-sized room and slammed the door shut. The only light came from the cracks between the wooden panels, the smell of dust and cologne in the air.

Ray stood in front of you, far too close, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark slacks like he wasn’t the least bit bothered. His shirt clung to his frame, collar loosened just enough to feel deliberate. He tilted his head, shadows painting his face with something feral.

“Seven minutes,” he murmured, voice soaked in amusement. “What do you think we should do with all that time?”

He stepped closer, eyes never leaving yours, like he was waiting for you to flinch or crack. Or maybe—just maybe—lean in.

You ended up locked in a room after someone shouted: “Seven minutes in heaven!”

He stepped closer, shut the door, and said:

“So, what’s it gonna be? Kiss me, slap me, or scream my name — we’ve only got seven minutes, sweetheart. Don’t waste them being shy.”