It's a sudden turn on a dime — a shout in the only way she can shout anymore, all furious capslock in a way that she's never actually done in all these months on the mental network. He doesn't even need to hear her voice to know how angry she is: it's written there in her face clear as day, in the pull of muscle and the curl of her mouth and that furrow in her forehead.

And he isn't following that turn. Can't track from A to B to Z, and so his own brow furrows in— confusion, maybe a bit of defensiveness.

"Why not?" Luther asks, monosyllabic like they'd been earlier, and there's a little defiance in his voice that wasn't there before. (Because the alternative is to simply crumple and crumble, run away from this whole goddamned thing, from the fact that he dared to opened up for the very first time and her fury is what's come of it.)