Iman stares at him as he talks, his intent slowly unfolding, horror coming into her expression just as slowly, just as slowly transitioning to anger. She can't believe it - won't believe it, that he'd say these things to her, mean them, expect her to accept them. The compliment is nothing, an insulting scrape on top of the rest of it. She pulls her hand into a fist, unaware of how it mirrors his. She barely notices she's shaking.

"Fuck you," she whispers, incredulous. She stabs that finger right back, advancing a step into his space. "Fuck you. Don't you fucking tell me what to do. Don't you dare."

She turns sharply, forcibly pushing herself away from him, pressing her hands to her face. Of course, she should have anticipated this melodramatic self-sacrificing holy bullshit from him, she absolutely should have.

"I don't run," she spits, acidic, shooting a dark look back over her shoulder. "You think I'm just gonna let them - you think that wouldn't tear me up inside, you-" She cuts herself off again with a shuddering intake of breath. She's more emotional than she would have expected, but of course if anyone can get her to this point it's this asshole.

"We went in together," she says, barely sustaining composure. "We go down together, or not at all. That's how it is. You should have known that."

Would he have left her?

She knows he wouldn't.

What the fuck gives him the right to expect that of her.