"Cassian." He lifts an arm in a half-hearted, haphazard approximation of a handshake, squinting against the bright sky. "I'll spell mine if you'll spell yours. --The sweater'll dry faster if you take it off, by the way."

It hits him a second later that this last might sound like a come-on. Well, fuck it. He flops over backward, one arm over his eyes, and mutters, "Not that it's any of my business."