It is completely and profoundly unfair that stringing the words I'm fine, fuck off together seems currently beyond her capability; she's trying, but the words aren't really there and she splays her fingers, pressing the palms of her trembling hands to her mouth. There's a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and she feels light-headed, which could be blood loss as much as anything else; that's probably bad, like mix-and-match sexual fetishes, those two probably don't really go together.

Salt tears mix with the tang of blood in her mouth and she tracks his movement over her fingertips, thinking about bolting on legs that probably can't reliably carry her across the room.