It’s 2001 and the basement smells faintly like incense and cheap cherry soda. A scratched Blink-182 poster is curling off the wall, and someone’s old boombox hums with static as it plays a mix CD you burned the night before. Katharine’s stretched out on the carpet, eyeliner smudged from earlier, hair wild like she didn’t even bother taming it. She’s got that half-bored, half-dangerous smirk that makes it impossible to look anywhere else.

You flop down beside her, pretending not to notice how close her shoulder is to yours. She nudges you with her knee, a playful shove, then tilts her head to look at you.

“You always act like you’re too cool to hang out with me,” she teases, her voice dripping with mock-offense.

“I don’t,” you argue, but your cheeks betray you.

Katharine grins, leaning in until you catch the faint smell of clove cigarettes on her hoodie. “Yeah, you do. But you showed up anyway.”

For a moment it’s just the soft fuzz of the music and the way her fingers tap against the carpet near yours, inching closer, like she’s testing the line. When your hands finally brush, she doesn’t move away—she just looks at you with that sharp, knowing smile, like she’s been waiting for you to catch up all along.