The deepness in his eyes reflected her own back at her again, and she couldn't endure it. Harmonia had looked at her like that. Nergal. Bast. How many more times would she have to endure it, and how many more times could she? The moment teetered there, with his hands filled with her shoulders, teetered between raw and unadulterated grief and blinding, blazing fury. Teetered, slipped, and fell. It was the desperate search for something safe that won.
She shook herself free and backed up a step. Her hip, her back, the back of her head connected with the refrigerator, which groaned and creaked from it. But there weren't any words she could give him, nothing that she could say that didn't admit to him that something was wrong. She just backed up, still struggling with her tongue, still struggling with her legs, and drowning in anger that burned away everything that hurt.
Finally, "Isn't that rather presumptive of you?" The accent prevalent in this region of the world snuck into her voice - an unconscious attempt at creating more distance between them.