He's studying her, though he isn't searching for any particular reaction. His face is difficult to read—not blank, but not open, either. Sincerity is not quite the right word. A certain frankness, more.

When she answers, he nods. He doesn't need reciprocation; her apology is her own to make, if she chooses. He only wants his laid out there, for her to take as she will, and now it is.

She's not wrong. They were fucked up that day. That entire damn week or two. But he was still himself, still making his decisions with full awareness. It doesn't feel right to pin the blame, even partially, on unseen forces.

He sits back in his seat, a signal that he hasn't more to add. He's said all he wanted to say. With any luck—Dean is correct that they'll have some time to work this out.

"If something arises, I'll contact you."