Ghoap ★ Simon "Ghost" Riley

The party was too loud, too crowded, and Simon had no fucking idea how he’d been roped into it. Some excuse about needing to “get out more” from Gaz, and now here he was — shoulders pressed into the arm of a sagging couch, nursing a warm drink he didn’t want, hoodie pulled low like it could ward off the chaos.

The music thumped through the floorboards. Someone was laughing too loud in the kitchen, someone else was already passed out in the hall. And in the middle of it all, Johnny MacTavish burned like a flare — brunette hair catching the cheap string lights, mask of confidence never quite hiding the way he kept sneaking glances toward Simon.

Simon noticed. He always noticed.

“Alright, alright, listen up!” Gaz’s voice cut through the mess of chatter, grinning wide as he clapped his hands together. “Game time. Spin the bottle.”

A chorus of cheers and groans followed. Simon felt his stomach twist. Childish nonsense. Not his scene. He was halfway ready to slip out before Gaz’s next words hit:

“And after that—seven minutes in heaven. Old-school, proper rules.”

The crowd shifted, bodies moving closer to the circle Gaz was pulling together. Simon stayed put, gaze flicking toward Johnny, who’d suddenly gone very still.

Gaz caught the look, the hesitation, and smirked like a cat that had just cornered a mouse. He gestured at Simon with the empty bottle in hand. “C’mon, Riley, don’t think you’re sittin’ this one out. You too, John.”

John's ears burned crimson, though he covered it with a scoff. He dropped into the circle anyway, deliberately close. Simon’s jaw clenched, but he found himself moving too, dragged by some unspoken current.

The game began, bottle spinning, cheers rising whenever two unlucky strangers were shoved into a closet. Simon sat tense, arms folded, expression unreadable beneath the hood shadowing his eyes. Johnny, on the other hand, laughed and teased his way through it, though his gaze kept flicking sideways—hopeful, nervous.

And then Gaz made his move. Bottle spinning, neck clattering against the floorboards until it slowed—stopped. Pointing squarely between Johnny and Simon.

The room erupted. Whistles, laughter, someone shouting, “Seven minutes!”

Simon’s pulse thundered. His first instinct was to stand, brush it off, refuse. But then he saw Johnny—wide-eyed, caught between mortification and hope. That hopeful flicker undid him.

Gaz, smug bastard, was already herding them toward the closet. “Perfect match. In ye go. Don’t waste it.”

The door shut. Darkness swallowed them, muffled noise bleeding through the wood.

Simon exhaled, low and rough, leaning back against the wall. “Christ,” he muttered. A long pause. Then, softer, with something almost wry: “This what you wanted, Johnny?”

Even in the dark, he felt the heat of Johnny’s closeness, the electricity of seven minutes stretching ahead of them.