It's hard not to feel relief at that, harder still to ignore the desire to just leave it there, bask in her acceptance, ignore the way that gasp seemed to cut into him, and get some sleep. But these aren't sins she can forgive, her reaction shouldn't even matter, and this isn't about what he wants. It's about what he needs, or at least what he thinks he needs in the spur of the moment. "Mostly jus' more o' the same," he says, scrunching his face up for a second and leaning back against the wall, unable or maybe just unwilling to keep faking nonchalance. Instead, he settles for a distant, far away quality, forcing himself to become detached from his words as his focus turns inward to the tightening in his chest. "Guess I c'n skip to the end, when I scrapped everythin' ta murder a teenage girl." Put like that, it sounds almost absurd to his ears, darkly comic, though he doesn't expect Meredith to agree. "Got interrupted, though."