[One eyebrow ticks up, suggesting that little bit of unintended innuendo wasn't lost on her, but she doesn't take offense. But that hesitance and flush is sweet, and she keeps her fingers where they are, the tips lightly tracing over the line of shoulder.]

I don't take well to crowds.

[Sad but true: she's simply not a people person. Rosalind hums softly as her fingers keep tracing him: closer towards his neck, towards the jutting bone of his clavicle, her touch more exploratory than anything else. There's a very small part of her staring in horror at the rest of her, because what is she doing, what the hell is she doing, this is a boy she barely knows (one night of curling up close aside) and she's feeling him up like she's a right to it--

But that's a very small part, emphatic but quiet, drowned out by this cove.]

. . . truthfully, Eggsy, I don't know. W-- I hadn't really thought that far, frankly, and most of the vague thoughts I had involved doing things now utterly inaccessible.

[It's a bit hard to visit New York in 1922 or Japan in the 80's when the whole world is destroyed.]

So I suppose for the first time in nearly two decades, I'm simply winging it.