After a still moment, Freya doesn't move as much as she just shifts towards her partner, the edge of her body lightly pressed against Pen. It's an invitation for contact again. She doesn't say anything and her face is still pressed against the pillows, but the ragged breath and curl of her shoulders clearly convey that she's crying.

She's not some survivor that's had a lifetime to learn to handle an unnecessarily cruel world, or some hero monsterslayer whose lifeblood is strife and danger. Freya's just a young woman, barely more than a kid, from some happy sub-urban middle-class family. The starvation and injury and stress and death and pain was too much.

She's... Freya. Wild and determined and independent, who always gets up to throw herself at the problem again and again until something works. She's never been the one to break first. She's had her low points and failures, but this... was something else entirely, a new kind of defeat. She's not used to feeling so small and powerless—no, she thinks bitterly, powerless was nothing new, judging by the last day.

But right now, she just wants to duck and hide and let Penelope shelter her, and the feeling's so alien that it almost scares her as much as everything else.