She isn't expecting it when Luther moves again. She isn't expecting any of this. Feel like she should rip away expectation, along with the pride left somewhere in her own sheets. Whatever she'd thought of this a second ago, it dashes, breaks on the rocks entirely, against the careful, but heavy, warmth of Luther's bare arm against her shoulders. There're other sensations, that if she could stop to focus on them, she could pull apart against her own skin, but it's all a culmination in only realizing the warmth that shorts all her focus suddenly.

Springs her chest wide open again, jagged and aching, all slowly-regained control lines cut with less force than would need be for a marionette, and reminds her in less time than a breath that she's never in her life known how to be anything more or less than her best - worst - actual self with Luther, and it's really the only thought she has when a tear rolls down her cheek. Her jaw locking tight, but it doesn't stop the second or leaning into him as she reached up a hand to cover her face. Selfish. Desperate. Agonized. Exhausted. Broken. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck in the middle of all of this, with nothing to do both hold on.

Stupid words for stupid tears, when she can't put words together, can't see straight to try, but nods through it anyway.
She knows. She does. Like she knows she'll get up and do her best to pretend none of this happened in the morning.
That she'll have to put it all back away. That she'll have to pull herself back together. Each day. Each step.

Believe there is no other way. That somehow she's not dead. That somehow she's not lost.
That without any sign, or any promise, that this has to get better, even if she doesn't deserve it.
Make it look like it's not even just survival, but like the rest of this, that it's easy and no should doubt her.