Those words burrow deep; they settle around his heart like a clenched fist, a lead weight in his stomach that robs him of the rest of his breath. The promise, the insinuation, the confession, the ask. Luther goes still for a second as those words land, pulling away just enough to look at her. There's a shiver of anticipation coiling tight in his abdomen. He's perhaps looking a little unexpectedly somber now, because that Ever had the sound to it of—

(He thinks, suddenly, of pinky promises. His finger hooked around hers before they were even teens.)

"Never," Luther says, agreeing. Promising. And so rather than stop, he moves downwards and rucks up some of the fabric of her shirt, rolling it up her midriff with his hands. Other people, with enough impatient hastiness, could've ripped off each others' clothes by now and been well on their way — but even after so long, after twenty years of waiting, Luther is still slow and exploratory while his mouth takes his hand's place and he presses a kiss to the curve of Allison's hip, her stomach, the arch of her ribs. Each glimpse of more exposed skin from her remains a terrifying revelation, a miracle, one he presses his lips to as if he has to memorise every inch of her this way, commit it to memory, map her with his fingertips like Braille and never forget a single minute of this.