She's having the same thought, eyes lidding halfway like she expects him to make a move. Her breathing goes shallow, and when it becomes clear he isn't moving she starts pulling away measure by measure. It physically hurts to be apart from him, but she tries not to note it -- it isn't like they have time for that fuck before you die stuff, right? "Good." It's softer than her last declaration, but no less meaningful. It's a verbal acceptance of whatever comes next. Now she knows he'll at least have to think about her before martyring himself, not that it made a difference before. She can still hope, and for someone who's seen a myriad of fucked up shit, she still has quite a lot of it.

"I guess I'm gonna go. Let you get back to... punching stuff." Her eyes flick to the door and then back to him, her hand drawing back down his arm reluctantly and deliberately slow. It's clear in her body language she doesn't want to go.