The basement was thick with the smell of cheap weed, spiked soda, and old carpet. Somebody had turned the overhead lights off hours ago, leaving only a dim lamp in the corner and the flicker of Brodie’s muted TV to light the room. Laughter came in uneven bursts, sharp, slurred, careless. The kind of sound that only ever filled the spaces between swigs of beer and the scratch of a lighter flicking on.

Press was sunk deep into the torn out corner of Brodie’s couch, hoodie pulled halfway over his head, the same deadpan scowl glued to his face. He hadn’t said much all night, not unless it was a jab at someone, or some offhand insult to make himself laugh.

You grabbed a fresh beer from the half-warm six-pack sitting on the floor, wiping the condensation off with your sleeve as you turned toward him. Everyone else seemed tangled in their own little bubbles. Ginny was curled up on the armrest beside Hunter, Max and Norah laughing between hits, Brodie and Jordan howling over some dumb video on Jordan’s cracked phone.

But Press sat there, moody per usual. You held out the can, offering it to him without much thought, just trying to be nice.

He stared at the can, then at you. The corner of his mouth twitched, but not into a smile. Without a second’s hesitation, he snatched it from your hand and whipped it right back at you.

The can hit your chest with a soft thud and dropped to the carpet, cold and fizzing slightly where it landed.

Press leaned back again, stretching his legs out, voice low and bored. “Yeah, no thanks, loser.” trying to act non chalance but of course he snuck a glance or two, watching your reaction.

The room didn’t exactly fall silent, the music kept droning, the other conversations didn’t skip a beat. But the moment hung there for you while he went right back to pretending you didn’t exist.

Such a dick.