His fist is leaden.

Knuckles strike wood. It's too loud, too heavy. The sound deafens, drowning out the night, and yet her footfalls cannot go unmissed.

They're soft, muted by the thick socks she likes to wear.

He swallows, debates running. But the sharp click of a latch cuts through the hush, and suddenly, he can't move and can't look away.

Can't escape.

Time stands still. The knob turns, and a slow, unhurried push opens the door a crack, its agonizing creak sticking in his ears.

Blue peeks up at him.

Breathe. "Mik—"

The door slams in his face.