I kind of liked the dress. [ the smirk spreads slowly across his face as he makes it a show of leering at her bare legs. it's not her, though. even though the years have changed her, clarisse la rue is still as tough as the day he last remembers ever taking her on. she's calloused and rough, fit for combat boots and pants, not that of a pretty dress she feels she needs to shed the moment she can. but he breaks his stare with a laugh. his fingers continue to play with the edge of the shirt absently. ]

[ it's not lost on him what she says. she hasn't said for when he takes her home — there's still a barrier there, he thinks, a wall she's constructed to not let him in. it's fine — luke expects nothing from this, except he expects everything simultaneously. her taking home his shirt means something. luke doesn't have much to his apartment — it's barely lived in as it is — but he knows the same can't be said for clarisse's. he wonders what it looks like, if it's as rough as her, or if it's bright pink and girly, like the woman she's trying to force her shape into being. let me take it, she says, not when you take me. she doesn't trust him — and why would she? a tumble in the sheets doesn't immediately build a bridge of trusting the other to not let the other fall. ]

[ despite the disappointment that settles in his chest like rocks, luke keeps smirking, mirth in his gaze. ] But I seriously doubt Manhattan's capable of handling another storm brought on by a demigod. [ one that's definitely less destructive than the one brought by his hand, but he thinks clarisse knows what he's implying without him needing to say it. it's not something he wants to say, anyway, in fear of shifting the mood into a dangerous alleyway where they're no end in sight. ] If you're going to go out with just that on, I might have to take it back.