[ Krouse has heard Noelle cry in every way a person can cry - stifled whimpers, howling grief, these heartbroken, wracking sobs - but he's never felt it. He's never been able to hold her through it, anchoring the unsteady rhythm of her hitching chest inside the circle of his arms as her tears soak into his hair.

He's wanted this. He would have done it any time she asked, pushing through the curdling clot of his fear for her sake, and to hell with the consequences. So hearing her say that she should've let him should be some kind of vindication, however bittersweet, that he wasn't wrong for wanting it.

Krouse shakes his head blindly, stomach twisting up with a spurt of acidic guilt. ]

Why would you have told me? [ He murmurs, thickly. ] I didn't - I didn't let you tell me. I didn't let you tell me anything.

[ He'd thought he did. He'd sat there with her as she ran through every ugly thought and every awful feeling, soaking them up like penance, and he'd taken every word to heart. But he hadn't let himself understand. Maybe he couldn't have understood until he was the one locked up in a room he couldn't get out of, with nothing but his monstrosity to keep him company, every eye turned on him full of revulsion he could feel even when he couldn't see it. But that'd just be another excuse, and he's past making excuses to her. ]

I should've listened to you. [ He says, even quieter, a broken and too-late confession. ] I'm so sorry, No'. I fucked up. I fucked everything up.