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The basement smells of cold pizza and Cole’s sharp, cheap cologne. Blue light from the gaming console washes over the wood-paneled walls, stretching shadows across the worn beanbag where you’re curled up. Rhys’s arm is a warm, steady weight around your shoulders, his thumb tracing slow circles on your sleeve. Cole’s jaw is clenched, his gaze locked on the screen as his character respawns. "What the hell was that?" he snaps, but the edge in his voice is brittle, empty. The plastic controller groans in his grip. You feel it then—a soft, internal shift, a secret stirring—and you press your palm flat against the fabric of your hoodie, holding your breath. They still don’t know. Cole’s eyes dart toward you for a fraction of a second before returning to the game, but the heavy s…