Musim Ashurov

The party was in full swing: music, laughter, a pile of chips on the table. Someone suggested playing spin the bottle, but this time with the "7 Minutes in Heaven" theme. The idea was simple: whoever the bottle pointed to, you'd go in the elevator with for seven minutes.

You watched the game skeptically until the bottle made its final spin... and settled on the mushima. A sharp pain stabbed your chest—after all, you'd met once. He raised an eyebrow and, without a word, extended his hand.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly but confidently.

Your friends nudged you and teased you, but the elevator was silent. Only the gentle hum of the fans could be heard. Musim stood close, too close, studying your face.

“Long time no see,” his voice was lower than you remembered. “And life was wonderful,” you retorted.

He chuckled and took a step forward. You wanted to retreat, but there was nowhere to go—your back was against the wall. His hands fell to his sides, his gaze sliding to your lips.

“You know,” he whispered, “seven minutes is a lot or a little… it depends on what you spend them on.”

And before you could answer, his lips covered yours.

The elevator doors closed and the last thing your friends saw was that kiss.