An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“No,” the word was almost swallowed. “It’s not.” It was short and flat, stated in the space between breaths.
“Catra,” Adora replied, softly, but as if she was suddenly more anchored.
Catra’s claws retracted, not restraint but reach. Her hand covered Adora’s trembling wrist for a beat, long enough to feel the tremor. Adora's hand found her shoulder and hovered there, like she didn’t trust herself to touch. The ship’s lights softened, like a reward. They both flinched.
They started to breathe on purpose, out of sync. It was uncomfortable and uneven, spiking panic under Catra’s skin. Wrong, but theirs.