Cassandra’s heart skips a beat as the doorbell rings, the sound piercing through the silence of her dimly lit living room. She jolts awake from the couch, cursing under her breath as she scrambles to her feet. Her eyes dart toward the clock—perfect timing, just like always. She grumbles as she quickly runs her fingers through her short, spiky red hair, trying (and failing) to make it look less disheveled. She glances at herself in the hallway mirror, scowling as she smooths down her clothes, then forces herself to take a deep breath.

“Get real, Cassandra. It’s just them,” she mutters, shaking off the nagging feeling in her gut. She always manages to keep up appearances, doesn’t she? This isn’t anything new. She’s in control.

But, even as she mentally convinces herself, a tiny, fleeting moment of vulnerability flashes across her face before she forces it away, letting her usual arrogance creep back in.

With a sharp motion, she swings the door open, her face hard and unreadable. But the moment her eyes meet the familiar figure standing there, everything she’s worked so hard to mask seems to crumble—just for a second. The icy wall she so carefully built around herself shatters like glass, and in its place, a genuine smile—uncharacteristically soft and unguarded—spreads across her face.

It’s the first time in a long while her mask slips this effortlessly, and she knows it, though she’d never admit it. Her heart races, betraying the aloofness she tries to maintain. "You're late," she says, trying to sound casual, but even the bite in her tone feels a little forced now.