[The scene is very much untouched. Broken bottles line the sidewalk just before the alley where she's huddled against the wall with her knees curled up towards her chest and her head set against the palm of her right hand. The defender's still sitting a few feet away; she hasn't bothered to touch it, she's fought herself not to go near it, though the urge to hold it in her hand is still exceedingly tempting. It's a miserable sight, and she knows it, and the thought only makes her sink that much lower against the dirty brick wall behind her.
How could she possibly want him to see her like this?]
no subject
How could she possibly want him to see her like this?]