Chapter 1: Spin the Bottle
The bottle spun.
Zoe watched it wobble across the sticky carpet, catching glints of string light with each lazy rotation. Someone had spilled beer there an hour ago—she'd watched it happen, watched the amber pool spread between two people's shoes while nobody bothered to wipe it up. Now the bottle traced circles through the residue, leaving a thin wet trail that glittered under the warm bulbs.
Her stomach did that thing. The flip. The drop.
She'd been playing it cool all night. Nursing the same lukewarm beer, laughing at jokes that weren't funny, pretending she wasn't hyperaware of exactly where Sam was sitting on the opposite end of the couch. Two cushions away. Close enough that she could smell his cologne—something woodsy and cheap that shouldn't have worked but did—and far enough that she could pretend she wasn't cataloguing every time he shifted his weight or ran his hand through his hair.
The bottle slowed.
"Oh shit," someone whispered. A girl with purple streaks in her hair and a nose ring that kept catching the light. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, grinning like she'd rigged the whole thing.
Zoe's fingers tightened around her bottle. The glass was warm from her palm, condensation long since evaporated. She should have finished it. Should have grabbed another. Should have done literally anything except sit here frozen while the bottle made its final, damning rotation.
It stopped.
Pointed directly at her.
The room erupted. Someone whooped. Someone else—probably the purple-haired girl—clapped her hands together with a shriek that cut through the low hum of the playlist. Zoe felt heat crawl up her neck, spread across her cheeks, settle somewhere behind her eyes like she might actually cry from sheer panic.
She laughed instead. It came out too high, too bright, the kind of laugh that fooled absolutely no one.
"Zoe!" The purple-haired girl was practically vibrating. "Zoe, you have to—you know the rules—"
"Yeah, yeah." Zoe waved her hand, trying to summon some approximation of casual. Her voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere outside her body. "I know. I know."
She looked across the couch.
Sam was already looking at her.
His eyes were bright. They were always bright—that was one of the first things she'd noticed about him, back in high school, when he'd sat down next to her in English class and asked if she'd done the reading for Frankenstein because he'd definitely meant to but then his mom had made him reorganize the garage and—yeah. His eyes were bright and they were locked on her face and his grin was too wide, stretched too thin at the edges, the way it got when he was nervous.
She knew that grin. She'd catalogued it years ago, filed it away with all the other Sam Things. The way he bit his lip when he was thinking. The way he stretched his arms over his head when he was tired, shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of stomach. The way he said her name—Zoe—like it was the start of a joke they were both in on.
Right now he was saying it again. Just her name. Quiet, under the noise of the room.
"Zoe."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
The rules were simple. Spin the bottle, kiss the person it lands on. Quick. Chaste. Something to laugh about later. She'd done it before—back in freshman year, at a different party, with a guy whose name she couldn't remember now. It had been fine. Awkward and brief and completely forgettable.
This would not be forgettable.
Sam leaned forward. The couch creaked under his weight. She watched his hand come up, watched it hover near her knee before he pulled it back, resting it on his own thigh instead. His jeans were dark. His shirt was blue. She was noticing these things—stupid, irrelevant details—because her brain had short-circuited and was latching onto anything it could process that wasn't the fact that she was about to kiss him.
The purple-haired girl was saying something. Counting down? Cheering? Zoe couldn't hear past the roar in her ears.
She moved without deciding to move. Her body just—went. Leaning forward, closing the gap, her knee bumping against his on the cushions. He smelled like that stupid cologne and something else underneath it, something warm and real, something that was just him.
Their faces were close now.
Close enough that she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar above his eyebrow from when he'd fallen off his bike in tenth grade. Close enough that his breath ghosted across her lips, warm and faintly beer-scented.
"Hi," he said.
Just that. Just hi, like they'd run into each other in the library. Like her entire body wasn't on fire.
"Hi," she whispered back.
Someone in the room was making kissing noises. Someone else was laughing. The playlist had shifted to something slower, bass thrumming through the floor, through the couch, through her bones.
Sam's eyes dropped to her mouth.
She saw it happen. Saw the exact moment his gaze flickered down and then back up, saw his throat move as he swallowed. His hand came up again—this time it didn't retreat. His fingers brushed her jaw, light and tentative, like he was asking a question he didn't know how to put into words.
She answered by closing her eyes.
His lips touched hers.
It was supposed to be quick. That was the whole point—quick and forgettable and laughable. But the moment they connected, something shifted. His mouth was soft and warm and there, not pulling away, not rushing. His thumb traced along her jawline, gentle and deliberate, and she felt herself lean into it, felt her own hand come up to rest against his chest.
His heart was pounding. She could feel it through his shirt, a frantic rhythm that matched her own.
The room faded. The music faded. The whoops and cheers and whispered commentary—all of it dissolved into white noise, background static in a world that had narrowed to this one point of contact.
He tilted his head. She followed.
Their mouths moved together, still soft, still unhurried, but deeper now. More intentional. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. His hand slid back into her hair, cradling her head like she was something precious, something he was afraid might break.
She forgot to breathe.
When they finally pulled apart—seconds? minutes? she had no idea—the room was silent. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe people were still cheering, still laughing, still making those obnoxious kissing noises. She couldn't tell. All she could hear was the ragged sound of her own breathing and the echo of his, matching her, beat for beat.
Sam's forehead rested against hers. His eyes were still closed.
"Holy shit," he whispered.
She laughed. A real laugh this time, breathless and startled, the kind that bubbled up from somewhere deep and escaped before she could stop it.
"Yeah," she managed. "Holy shit."
He opened his eyes.
They were so close. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his irises, the way his pupils had blown wide, the faint flush creeping up his neck. He was looking at her like he'd never seen her before. Like she was something new and strange and utterly fascinating.
Someone cleared their throat. Loudly.
"So," the purple-haired girl said, drawing out the word with heavy implication. "That was... a kiss."
Zoe felt her face flame. She pulled back, putting space between them, immediately missing the warmth of his hand in her hair. Sam let his arm drop, but he didn't look away. His gaze stayed fixed on her face, steady and searching, like he was trying to read something written there.
"I need another drink," Zoe announced.
She stood up too fast. Her knee knocked the coffee table, sending an empty bottle rolling. She didn't stop to pick it up. She just walked—stumbled, really—toward the kitchen, her heart still racing, her lips still tingling, her mind a complete and utter disaster.
Behind her, she heard the bottle spin again. Heard someone else's name called. Heard the game continue without her.
But she felt Sam's eyes on her back the whole way to the kitchen.
She grabbed the edge of the counter and held on, breathing deep, trying to remember how to be a normal person. The kitchen was empty. The fridge hummed. Someone had left a half-eaten bag of chips on the stove.
She stared at it without seeing it.
What the hell just happened?
The door creaked behind her.
She didn't have to turn around to know who it was.
"Zoe."
His voice was quiet. Careful. The same way he'd said her name before the kiss, like it was something fragile.
She turned.
He was standing in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. The string lights from the living room cast weird shadows across his face—half warm, half dark. He looked nervous. More nervous than she'd ever seen him.
"Hey," she said. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
"Hey." He took a step forward. Then stopped. "I just—I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I'm fine."
It came out too fast. Too defensive. She winced.
He nodded slowly. "Okay. Good. That's—good."
Silence stretched between them, thick and awkward and nothing like the comfortable silences they'd shared a thousand times before. She hated it. Hated that one stupid party game had ruined the easiest thing in her life.
"That was..." she started.
"Yeah," he said.
"I didn't—"
"Me neither."
She blinked at him. "You don't even know what I was going to say."
"You were going to say you didn't mean it." His voice was flat. Not angry. Just... flat. "That it was just the game. That it didn't mean anything."
Her throat tightened.
"That's not—" She stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "That's not what I was going to say."
He looked up. His eyes met hers, and for a second—just a second—she saw something there. Something raw and hopeful and terrified.
"What were you going to say?" he asked.
She opened her mouth.
The door burst open behind him, a wave of noise spilling in from the living room. Someone was shouting about a beer run. Someone else was demanding pizza. The spell broke, the moment shattered, and Sam stepped aside to let a group of people push past them toward the fridge.
When Zoe looked at him again, his expression had shuttered. The hope was gone, replaced by something careful and blank.
"We should—" He gestured vaguely toward the living room. "I should go see if—"
"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, go."
He hesitated. For one breathless moment, she thought he might say something else. Might push. Might ask her what she'd really been about to say.
But he just nodded.
And walked away.
And walked away.
Zoe stood there. Frozen. The fridge hummed its stupid little tune, and she wanted to kick it. Wanted to kick something, anything, because her chest was a tangled knot of too many feelings and none of them made sense.
Good. She felt good. That was the first thing she could identify—a warm, buzzing glow that started somewhere in her stomach and spread outward like she'd swallowed sunshine. She'd kissed him. After years of staring at the back of his head in class, years of laughing at his dumb jokes and pretending her heart didn't skip when he smiled, she'd finally, actually, kissed Sam.
And it had been—
God. It had been so much better than any of the scenarios she'd dreamed up. And she'd dreamed up a lot of scenarios.
The glow flickered.
Because he'd walked away. Just... nodded and left. Like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.
No. That wasn't fair. She'd told him to go. Practically pushed him out the door with her awkwardness and her too-fast words and her complete inability to function like a normal human being around him.
She pressed her palms against the counter and stared at the chips bag. Barbecue. Somebody had opened it and then abandoned it, crumbs scattered across the stovetop like little orange confetti.
Maybe he didn't feel it. Maybe the kiss was just a kiss—party game, no big deal, something to laugh about tomorrow when they grabbed coffee and pretended nothing had changed.
Her stomach lurched.
Or maybe he did feel it. Maybe that's why he'd looked at her like that, all wide-eyed and breathless. Maybe that's why his heart had been pounding so hard she could feel it through his shirt.
But then he left.
She groaned and dropped her forehead to the counter. Cold laminate. Smelled vaguely of lemon cleaner and stale beer.
The door creaked behind her again.
"If you're planning to drown yourself in the sink, at least wait until I grab my phone so I can film it."
Zoe didn't lift her head. "Go away, Lydia."
Footsteps. The click of heels on linoleum. Then a warm body leaned against the counter next to her, and the smell of cheap vodka and strawberry lip gloss invaded her nostrils.
Lydia poked her shoulder. "Why are you hiding in the kitchen?"
"I'm not hiding."
"You're literally face-down on a counter at a party. That's the definition of hiding."
Zoe turned her head just enough to glare. Lydia was wearing that smug expression she got right before she pulled something out of you. Her brown eyes sparkled with the kind of knowing that came from years of friendship and too many shared secrets.
"Something happened," Lydia said.
It wasn't a question.
Zoe straightened up. Her neck felt stiff. She rubbed the back of it and stared at the chips instead of her friend's face.
"I kissed Sam."
Lydia's eyebrows shot up.
"I mean, it was spin the bottle, so it wasn't really—it wasn't like I kissed him, it was the game, but—" She stopped. Took a breath. "It was him. The bottle landed on me and he was right there and we kissed and it was—"
"Good?"
"So good."
"Then why the hell are you in here?"
Zoe finally looked at her. Lydia's expression had shifted from smug to genuinely confused, her head tilted, like Zoe was a puzzle she was trying to solve.
"He left," Zoe said. "After. I told him to go, so he left, and I don't know what that means or if it just meant nothing or if I messed it all up or—"
"Okay, slow down." Lydia held up a hand. "Did you want it to mean something?"
"Yes. No. Maybe." Zoe closed her eyes. "Yes."
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is I don't know what he wants!" The words burst out, louder than she intended, echoing off the kitchen tiles. "I've been in love with him since I was sixteen, Lydia. Sixteen. And I've spent all this time convincing myself it was fine, that being friends was enough, that I could just—just be around him and that would be enough. And now I kissed him and everything is different and I don't know what to do."
Lydia was quiet for a moment. Then she reached over and grabbed the abandoned chips bag, pulling out a single chip and crunching it thoughtfully.
"Okay," she said, mouth half-full. "Here's the thing."
"I hate when you start sentences like that."
"This is simple, Zoe. You either like him or you don't."
"That's not—"
"It is that simple. I'm not saying the feelings aren't complicated, because they clearly are, but the decision isn't." She pointed the chip at Zoe like a weapon. "If you don't actually want Sam—if this is just the game messing with your head—then leave. Call an Uber, go home, sleep it off, and tomorrow you can pretend it never happened."
Zoe's chest tightened.
"But if you do want him," Lydia continued, "and I'm pretty sure you do, because you've been making moony eyes at that boy since I met you—then stop hiding in this gross kitchen and go do something about it."
"Do something about it."
"Yeah." Lydia popped the rest of the chip in her mouth. "Go back out there. Sit next to him. Be a normal person for five minutes and see what happens."
"But what if he—"
"What if he what? Rejects you?" Lydia snorted. "Zoe, that boy's been looking at you like you hung the moon for as long as I've known both of you. If he's not into you, then I'll dye my hair purple and join a monastery."
"You're not religious."
"Exactly." Lydia grabbed Zoe's arm and yanked her away from the counter. "Now drink this."
A bottle of something clear and foul-smelling appeared in front of her face. Zoe grabbed it and sniffed. Gin. Cheap gin that probably came in a plastic jug.
"I hate gin."
"Then drink it fast."
Zoe drank it fast.
It burned all the way down. She coughed, spluttering, and Lydia patted her back with more force than necessary.
"There," Lydia said. "Now you have liquid courage. Go use it."
The living room hadn't thinned out. If anything, it was louder now, more crowded, the game having evolved into something involving a deck of cards and increasingly elaborate dares. Zoe stepped in from the kitchen and the warmth hit her like a wall.
She scanned the room.
Sam was on the couch. Same spot as before, same hunched shoulders, but his posture was looser now—one arm draped over the back of the cushion, head tilted down like he was listening to whatever the guy next to him was saying. She couldn't read his expression from here.
Good. She didn't want to read it. If she tried to read it, she'd chicken out.
She walked.
The couch was a minefield. Too many people, all of them holding drinks that could spill, all of them talking too loudly. Someone had put on a different playlist—something with more bass, heavier, thudding through the floor with each step she took.
She reached the couch. Sat.
Not close. Not far. Right in that awkward middle distance where she could feel the heat coming off him but wasn't actually touching.
He stiffened.
She felt it—felt his whole body go rigid next to her, felt his arm come down from the back of the couch. For a second, she thought he was going to leave. Going to use this perfect opportunity to escape from the weird redhead who'd just kissed him and then told him to go.
But he didn't leave.
He softened.
She felt that too—the slow release of tension, the way his shoulders dropped an inch, the way his breathing evened out. His hand found the space between them on the cushion. Close to hers. Not touching. Hovering.
Neither of them spoke.
The party carried on around them. Cards slapped together, people laughed, someone started a very off-key rendition of a song Zoe didn't recognize. All of it felt distant. Muffled. Like she was underwater.
Sam moved first.
"Hey." His voice was low, meant only for her.
"Hey."
"You came back."
"I did."
He shifted. His knee brushed hers, just barely, denim against bare skin. "I thought you might—" He stopped. Cleared his throat.
"Might what?"
"Might stay in the kitchen."
She reached for the bottle in her hand—the gin Lydia had given her, still half-full. Took a drink. The burn was easier this time.
"Lydia gave me advice," she said.
"What kind of advice?"
"The kind that made sense."
He nodded slowly. His hand was still between them, still hovering, fingers slightly curled. She watched them twitch. Watched them flex like he was fighting the urge to reach for her.
"I'm glad you came back," he said.
She took another drink. Then held the bottle out to him. "Liquid courage. You look like you need it."
He laughed. A real laugh, not the nervous one from earlier. It hit her somewhere in the chest, warm and familiar.
"I probably do."
He took the bottle. Their fingers brushed when he did—deliberate, she thought, though she couldn't be sure. He drank. Passed it back.
The playlist shifted. Something slower. Something with a beat that made her want to sway even though she was sitting down.
She turned on the couch, pulling her legs up under her, facing him. Her knee pressed into his thigh. She didn't apologize.
He turned too. Facing her. His eyes were bright again, bright and fixed on her face.
"This is weird, right?" he said.
"What is?" This." He gestured vaguely at the space between them. "I feel like I should be saying something smart. Something smooth. But I've got nothing."
"Since when have you ever been smooth?"
He grinned. "Ouch."
"Just being honest." She poked his arm. "You're kind of a disaster."
"Takes one to know one."
She shoved him. He didn't move, but his grin widened.
This was familiar. The easy rhythm of back-and-forth, the teasing, the way he always gave as good as he got. She'd done this a thousand times. A million times. But everything felt different now, charged with something that hadn't been there before.
Or maybe it had always been there. Maybe she'd just been too scared to name it.
His hand was on the cushion again. Closer now. So close she could track the faint veins running under his skin, the way his fingers spread wide, like he was bracing himself.
She bumped his hand with hers.
Just a nudge. Just a small, deliberate touch that said what she couldn't.
He went still.
Then his hand closed around hers.
He pulled.
She didn't resist. She couldn't. The momentum carried her across the couch, her body folding into his, her knee sliding over his thigh. And then his hands were on her waist, warm and solid, and she was on top of him, straddling his lap, her red hair falling around both their faces like a curtain.
The world disappeared.
No party. No music. No people crammed onto the couch beside them.
Just him. Just her. Just this.
He looked up at her. Mouth slightly open. Eyes wide.
"Hi," he whispered.
"Hi," she said.
And then she kissed him.
This time it wasn't tentative. Not slow. It was messy and hungry and fuelled by gin and years of wanting. His hands slid up her back, under her sweater, palms flat against her skin. She made a sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—and his grip tightened.
Her fingers curled into his hair. She'd wanted to do that for so long. Wanted to feel the soft weight of it between her fingers. It was even better than she'd imagined.
He tasted like beer and gin and something sweeter underneath. She couldn't get enough. Neither could he, apparently, because he was pulling her closer, impossibly closer, his mouth moving against hers like he was trying to memorize the shape of her.
She forgot about the party. Forgot about Lydia and the kitchen and every stupid thing that had ever made her afraid. There was only this. Only him. Only the heat building between them, slow and steady, kindling against kindling.
Then—
A crash.
Zoe jerked back. Her heart hammered, her breath came in ragged gasps, and for a second she couldn't figure out where she was or what had happened. Someone had dropped something in another room. A lamp? A bottle? People were laughing about it, loud and drunk and completely oblivious.
She looked down at Sam.
He was a mess. Hair tangled from her fingers, shirt bunched up, lips red and swollen. He looked wrecked in the best possible way. His hands were still on her waist, still holding her like he was afraid she'd disappear.
"Zoe," he said. Just her name. Like it was the only word he knew.
She should say something. Should laugh it off, should make a joke, should do something to break the tension. But her brain was static. White noise. Nothing but the image of him underneath her and the memory of his mouth on hers.
She climbed off him.
He let her go. Reluctantly, she thought—hoped—his fingers trailing across her hips as she stood.
She looked down at him. Ruined. Waiting.
Her hand came up.
She held it out.
"Come back to my room," she said.
The words hung there. Bold and terrifying and simpler than anything she'd ever said to him. Her dorm was ten minutes away. It would be just them. No party. No people. Just—
He stared at her hand.
One second. Two.
Then he took it.