Dustin moves away, and Lucy stares into the dark space where he stood. She can still feel his touch against the skin of her thighs, where the night air pricks them with cold.

Nevertheless, she refuses to turn and look at him now that he's next to her. Such an act would be in violation of unspoken rules: ones she could break if she wanted, which makes them half-agreeable to follow. It's a balance.

"You know what I'll say," Lucy murmurs, picking at fishnet gaps with singular focus. Her fingernails are chipped, a little too long. "You should do whatever you want."