"You are the fucking worst," Aisha snarls, half on top of him, barely balancing, not caring at all. "How could you? How could you, you stupid fucking shit, you never think—"

Her other hand is a fist, slamming into his chest with everything she has once, twice, curling into his shirt and tethering her to him. She takes his jaw in her hand, too rough and too tight. His heartbeat rushes to greet her fingertips, and for a moment, it's all she can do not to drown in it. Her insults die; her mouth moves soundlessly. Her nails dig into the crisscrossing of scars.

When she speaks again, the anger in her voice is hollow. Her palm pushes against his chest, feeling the thud through the fabric.

"How could you?"