Allison doesn't flinch back or move when Luther finally starts shouting back. When she can watch that thing in his eyes that she could point to, knowns by sight, but could never name. Is too big, too complicated, too untouchable. Even by her.

(It's there still. The way he'd jerked away from realizing she was touching his hand. The way he'd grabbed her by the wrist and held her away. From him. From the topic. How they still barely can talk about it, barely touch, and nearly never casually, and mostly only in the worst of the worst moments this place can throw at them. It's never been something she could push. She knew that.)

But apparently letting random strangers into that part of him was fine, and letting who the hell even knows get the right to pull him apart like a puzzle and design him anew however they felt he was supposed to be was fine, too. She hates it. She hates all of this.

But she hates nothing so much as the sucker punch of four words in there.
The way everything else becomes a background hum, louder, but blown apart.
Everything tightens, and maybe even far more worrisome than it had gotten to.

You're still yourself.
You haven't stopped being yourself.

Not even their asshole father could take that from him.