Aisha presses her palm over his face, shielding herself from his stupid, unimaginably blue eyes.

"What the fuck?" she repeats, quieter and more intense, fingers curling to lock into his hair. She can feel the scars under the heel of her palm. Her throat works.

"Explain," comes the demand. "I'm not letting you up until you do it."

But she's sinking down into the booth, little by little, the oppressive hold becoming less oppressive by the moment.