The brush of a hand has always been more comfortable to Effy than anything else. Fingers need not interlace, the touch doesn't have to be too lengthy or obvious, but hands are among the easiest parts to control, reaching out just so, or reaching back as though burned. There's no need to deny that Elvis means to comfort her now, or to reassure himself somehow, and so Effy accepts that choice in full, no need for fumbling words, just two that sum all their emotions in a breath. It won't. It won't happen again, and couldn't hope to while they're like this, together. Her lips curve just so when she turns around the swing, bumps her knuckles against his side.

"Budge over," she says, lips pursed. It might be a tight fit, but the both of them are slight enough to fit on one swing, Effy knows. She's managed with Tony before, and there's always been a part of Tony somehow greater in presence, taking up more space in everyone's hearts. Elvis, by contrast, sneaks into all of the corners and crevices, until he occupies just as much as a person is capable of doing without really taking much at all. "We'll make this fucking work."

It feels like something she might've done with Panda. Elvis doesn't have the same sunshine about him, but maybe whatever Pandora's left with Effy, she can pass on.