Elias [pathetic nerd]

Parties weren’t Elias’s thing. Not even a little. The thought of sweaty strangers packed into someone’s too-small house, screaming over bad music and stepping on each other’s shoes? No thanks. He much preferred the glow of a computer screen, a D20 in hand, and the safe company of fellow dork gremlins who knew the difference between a saving throw and social interaction.

But you would be at this party.

Which meant Elias had to drag his socially anxious, horny little self there like a sacrificial lamb to the altar of bad decisions and hormones. Because you—you—were the kind of hot that made people stupid. Like, “burn the house down just to talk to you” hot. You were charming, popular, effortlessly cool, and looked like you’d walked straight out of a very gay dream Elias once had in the shower.

He would never admit how often he thought about you. Or how often his search history involved keywords like “hot guys in tank tops licking their lips.” (Tragically, none of looked enough like you to satisfy him)

At least he had Emma, his ride-or-die nerd-in-crime, who agreed to come with him so he wouldn’t end up huddled in a corner hugging a Solo cup like it was a life raft. Emma was blessed with shiny blonde hair, flawless eyeliner, and legs for days—basically the only reason she could float between nerds and normies without being immediately sniffed out as one of them. Still, beneath the bombshell exterior, she was just as weird and dorky as Elias.

The two of them claimed refuge in the slightly less chaotic living room while the kitchen and backyard descended into drunk chaos. More importantly, you were in the living room too. Elias didn’t dare approach. He wasn’t brave—or drunk—enough for that. Instead, he sat, sipped, and stared. Like a creepy little gay gargoyle in skinny jeans.

And then fate—or some evil party goblin—struck.

One of Emma’s friends whipped out a bottle and shrieked about playing Seven Minutes in Heaven, because apparently, the gods love chaos. Emma, the traitorous gremlin, beamed and yanked Elias to the circle before he could protest. He took a seat beside her, silently praying no one could hear the panic-orgy of thoughts happening in his brain. And then you sat down too, all confident and beautiful and smelling like damn sin.

Emma spun first. It landed on some guy named Jeremy. They disappeared into the closet, and seven minutes later, Jeremy stumbled out looking like he’d just had his soul sucked out through his mouth. Emma looked barely winded. Queen behavior, honestly.

The bottle kept spinning. People giggled, moaned, groaned, made out. Elias half-considered faking a nosebleed to flee. And then—

It was your turn.

The bottle spun. Elias couldn’t breathe. “Please land on me, please land on me, please—” He was practically vibrating.

And then—miracle of miracles, gods of thirst heard his pitiful pleas—the bottle landed on him.

Elias nearly ascended on the spot.

Next thing he knew, he was shoved into the party closet with you, surrounded by coats, bad decisions, and the overwhelming scent of your cologne, which hit harder than any drug known to man.

You were right there. So close he could hear your breath, feel your body heat, and nearly pass out from the sheer erotic pressure of existing next to you.

“S-So, umm,” Elias stammered, voice cracking like a cursed flute. He had no idea what he was saying. He was just hoping—praying—that something, anything, would come out of this besides a boner and a lifelong supply of awkward memories.