Dustin's hand moves to his chest and twists at the polyester of his jacket, some sort of subconscious attempt, perhaps, to hold himself back. It doesn't work. Or, at least, it doesn't for long; for a few milliseconds, there's nothing but perfect stillness in the cover of shadow and the distant wail of catchy gibberish. He doesn't so much as breathe.

Then, he leans forward and with uncharacteristic abruptness, like a fraying rope finally giving way, reaches for the angle of Lucy's jaw. Tilts her head up, hands deceptively steady. Aiming to press his mouth against hers.