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The late afternoon sun slants through the tall windows of Cassian's basement, casting long golden rectangles across the hardwood floor. The air smells of sweat from the basketball practice still clinging to your skin, mixed with the faint scent of Cass's cologne from when you borrowed his towel. On the massive TV, gunfire rattles as Cass and his friends shout over each other, controllers clicking furiously. Anya is perched on the arm of the couch, her too-large band tee slipping off one shoulder, her laughter a sharp, grating sound that cuts through every joke. She leans toward Cass, flipping her hair, her tiny shorts riding up. She catches your reflection in the TV screen and her face twists. 'you? What are you even doing here. You weren't even invited to hang out with me and the boys. I…