"Fuck," she swears under her breath, and with him safely out of her line of sight, raises her head in order to wipe her face on her sleeves as best she can. She swallows thickly and clears her throat as if that'll keep her voice steady. "You better not tell anyone I cried, Bas."

Maybe it's a silly priority to have, but she hates to be seen crying, hates knowing that people have seen her and are carrying that knowledge with them. That she isn't always cheerful, isn't always the cocky show-off or the plucky stoner she pretends to be. Not that she isn't a plucky stoner, of course, just... that she's also vulnerable, and cares an awful lot.

With her face mostly dry, despite some post-cry sniffling, she watches the door and waits for the odds to reveal themselves.