She bit her lip to stop the wretched gasping, or letting out anymore weeping. This wasn't Elliot's fault either, and he didn't deserve her falling to pieces in front of him like this. He hadn't recoiled, hadn't flinched, hadn't blamed her, hadn't yelled, hadn't done anything but try to put her at ease. He deserved the same. Elsie could compose herself, she could, because she had to. But her arms still slipped around his neck, tight, for the comfort and hopefully strength, and her eyes still closed because she didn't want the risk of more unstoppable tears.
"I don't know what's going to happen to—us." The more she got into her uncertainties, the more her tentative grip on composure yearned to slip. She hadn't even stopped to think about them all, but just the prospect that it might not be—that it could—
"I'm scared and I don't know what to do," she whispered, trying so very hard not to let her voice falter or break.
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