It should probably surprise him, but it doesn't. He's felt since the day they met that he and Effy had some sort of understanding, even a connection, though he'd have been hard-pressed to ever put into words what that was. Now, though, Elvis thinks he really gets it. There's a darkness in both of them, and that scares him as much as it puts him at ease. With her, he doesn't have to pretend. He's never really had to, but he has confirmation of it now. It hurts, he won't act like it doesn't, but it makes him love her all the more, too, to know that they both came back from it.

He drops the butt of his cigarette to the ground and stubs it out, legs long enough for his feet to brush the ground on these swings designed for children, then lifts his hand to cover hers. Holding on is fucking difficult, but they can both do it. A month ago, he stood on a bridge and decided not to throw himself over. People like them, they keep going.

"The day I showed up here, I stood on a chair with a rope around my neck," he says, voice low, just loud enough for her to hear. He doesn't turn his head, but he keeps holding on. Most days, that's all there is. "I get it."