She slides down the other side of the door, the sound scraping like sandpaper over wood, and her soft thud echoes back at him.

"I'm an idiot."

Dragging a hand down his face, he turns his lips toward the door. "You are not."

"Yes, I am." Her head knocks back, the sound hollow and yet heavy, and she sniffles. "Because I'm still going to let you in—"

His breath seizes in his chest.

"—even though I shouldn't."

There is silence and then shuddering tears.

"And I hate myself for that."

Before he can remember to inhale, the door cracks open.