Her shoulders press into the headboard before she's more than processed the raise of Luther's hand, and it feels like everything inside of her skin and her bones trembles incomprehensibly when Luther's hand covers hers, and it's not just her own fingers against that thin jagged line of thicker healed skin.

It's his.

Theirs mixed.

The very short distance to Luther's own face she can't help from looking to now, against a flush of some hot, sticky combination of shame and fear and nervousness and forcing herself to breathe, which only, unconnected until it's happening, makes her feel it even more. Her breath. Her pulse, ratcheting. Their fingers there, on her skin. Her throat. Even when half of every impulse is to pull away, even without shifting to a side, because she knows he'd stop if she did even that much. Said a single word. She knows it without question.

Makes herself not pull away. Not look away. Picks three words.

See. Doesn't hurt.




Except that everything about those words is wrong now.

Maybe not physically.



(But.)