There's something about this easy sort of affection that Elvis can't help but find unfamiliar. Anabelle was like this, all open and warm touches, but that was different, too; there was a sort of intent behind that which places it a world away, in a category of its own, as if she wouldn't have already been in one anyway. With Effy, it has less significance, but it means even more because of it. From just about anyone else, he would probably have shrugged it off, dismissed it as disingenuous or unnecessary, but the two of them, they've been practically on the same page since day one. From her, he trusts it. She's one of the few people here, one of the few people ever, for whom that would be the case.

"Sure," he says, turning his head just enough to catch her gaze. He hadn't planned on doing anything more than sitting on the swing, but he can't see any harm in using it for what it's here for. It's childish, maybe, but it's the sort of thing Anabelle would have encouraged him to do, and as shitty as the idea of living his entire life under that filter is, for the time being, it's the best he's got. "Why not, right?"