She was expecting it to come to something physical, was tensed and ready for it. She was prepared for a fight.

So Adora's hands on her, those weren't a shock.

--Being picked up and thrown into the bath was, however, and Catra's too busy being furious and scrabbling to find her feet to care about the painful and loud thud that had surely reverberated through the house. It didn't really matter, though, if Adora's family heard it or not; because surely they do hear the shrill screech that tears from Catra's throat when the showerhead turns on, blasting water into her face, and any progress she'd made in getting up is thwarted by the instinct to shield herself and get the everloving fuck away.

Which, in this case, meant clawing some new patterns in the walls as she scrabbled up the side of the bath, hissing defensively and ready to murder. Adora, Netossa, whoever it was who decided that showers ever needed to be a thing -- any of them, all of them. They'd all contributed equally to the water dripping from her, and to the impassioned fury heaving in her chest. She'd take them all on.