Allison knows it's the wrong words even as soon as she's hit send. Because they were too rash. Because it mattered too much. Because it's joke. Exaggeration. Or it's not. It's really, really not, and she just told him to shut up after the first thing he said once she'd asked why he hadn't, because she couldn't handle it.

If she could have chosen worse words, she's not sure they exist. And she gets what she absolutely deserves from them, when Luther reaches up a hand and rubs at his face, looking away from her, and there are the words that basically are the door slamming.

No. No, don't shut me out now.

Instinct wars with panic with fear of what he could do (has done) if she lets it end here. If she's not allowed to know, not allowed to hear, if he thinks she refused him at the first thing he threw out, no matter how potentially bitingly, bitterly, hyperbolic. Where he might go. What he might do. Who. How. How bad.

She can't stop the race of her heart, or her thoughts.

There's no putting it all together.
It just keeps coming. In new message pings.

and then,

I'm sorry.

and then, even as she's stepping closer, and she wants to reach out, her hands even float for second, too smart even for the desperation chasing movement, wanting, needing, but remembering all too well, what too much is, especially at too far past unwanted already,

Talk to me

and then,

please