There's a part of her, a part that she's not proud of, that for a moment wishes that this sudden sense of control would give. Then she'd have an excuse. He attacked first, her snapping after that would be believable and not really her fault.

But no. Despite feeling the tug to chase him, as his back turns. Despite the low, rumbling growl as she watches him go. She's in control.

She waits until he's long out of sight to whirl around and slam her fist so hard into the wall it dents. She presses her forehead against the warped metal and covers her face with her hands to muffle a frustrated noise, before turning around and sinking to the ground.

God fucking dammit. What a prick.