He says I'm sorry, and his knuckles, uncovered in being ready to sleep, brushed the corner of her shoulder, awkwardly and she'd almost aggravated with him for not being angry with her, for not hating her. But it's the same heartbeat, selfish and sore, that she knows.

The day Luther decides to be as angry, as disgusted, as completely done with all her bullshit slips, with her as she is with herself, at so many turns, so many times, every time she does something like this again, something in her will break more permanently than the front doors of the Academy shutting behind her, leaving her alone, at 19 did.

The last toehold or foothold she truly has.

The one that kept taking her weight and somehow not crumbling.
The only place she could ever admit that she knew what she was. Did.

"I should be." There's something as stern steel as it is almost plaintive in those few, suddenly much quieter words. They are almost penitent, even as they are penitent about the wrong thing. She's sorry that she's not sorry, which is maybe why Ray asked that question. She wasn't even sorry then. Not for the right reasons. For scaring him maybe, for making him doubt her, for losing control.

But not for using her powers to hurt that arrogant, racist asshole.