He goes immediately motionless — still, stock-still like a deer in the headlights, and she sees that questioning flicker race through his expression and the slight rise of an eyebrow, his emotions ever an open book when they give him away — before he consciously sets that reaction aside, loosens back into movement, and goes to obey.

It's to not wake up the others, he tells himself. Diego's room is right on the other side of that wall. They'd done this so many times when they were younger, carving out these small moments of privacy in hushed voices and whispers and muffled laughter and huddling under the blankets, lights out. The two cans and string draped between the windows.

So Luther presses the door shut with one hand, palm resting against it for a heartbeat longer than necessary, before he turns back. Turns his attention back to his glass of whiskey, and he's glad for that distraction, too, and for something to do with his hands. He's still standing next to the bed, looming too much, too conspicuously near the center of the room. He is just too tall.