"If I was in your head, you'd know." Clipped, and a little wounded, and - dammit, no, they aren't fighting while they stroll around a sex-fuelled dystopia.

She speeds up to match his stride, then reaches for his hand. That should be - passable, right? Friends hold hands. It's not sexual. (Never mind the jolt that goes through her at the contact, the reminder that she's still thrumming with desire that isn't...well, wasn't hers. Now it's all tangled up.)

It doesn't help that their cuffs clink against each other, black and red and gold.

Softer, and carefully steady, "Last memory of me, please."