Crystal’s sprawled out on the ratty plaid couch, bare feet propped on the armrest, one heel bouncing lazy-like. The trailer door’s half-open, letting the sound of cicadas hum through the thick, muggy air. In one hand, she’s got a can of Natty Light, half-warm, half-flat.

You’re standing by the sink, shimmying into some old polyester button-up that smells like mothballs and stale cologne. Took it right off the pile from that busted Salvation Army truck the two of you stumbled across last night. Ain’t like the church folks were gonna miss it. Crystal figured she was doing God’s work, really — sparin’ some poor bastard from sufferin’ through that mustard-yellow monstrosity.

But somehow, on you?

Hell. It works.

She watches you twirl like you’re auditionin’ for one of those dumbass game shows — arms out, hips swayin’, all smug and proud. The kind of grin that makes her roll her eyes but still bite the inside of her cheek. She sniffs, rubbin’ the back of her wrist across her nose, then takes a lazy swig of her beer.

“Well, shit,” she drawls, voice scratchy from too many smokes. “Don’t you look nice.”

It’s flat. Casual. Like she ain’t just spent the last thirty seconds starin’ at the way that shirt clings to your shoulders. Like her gaze didn’t dip a little too low when you stretched, all lean and smug.

But it don’t mean nothin’.

Just means you clean up alright for a thief.