When she turns he tenses, straightening up and taking half a step from the wall, but he doesn't want to come closer if that's going to make it worse. Seeing her crying out on the street was bad enough, he can't take it being his fault, even in part. In fairness, he understands, he doesn't blame her. But he hates watching it. It's not about whether she's weak or strong or whether she's the woman he wants to be; he just hates seeing her hurt. Even if he'd turned away from her in the aftermath of her confession, even if he wanted nothing to do with her (and that's far from true; he just needs time, perspective), he wouldn't want her hurting.

"Don't say sorry," he murmurs, low and gravelly, as gentle as he can be. He can't tell her it's all right, there's too much here to pick through and some of it isn't so easy to forgive.