Either she had done something wrong or Mr. Prewett regretted his actions, Malou determined as he started to pace in the middle of the parlor. Unsure if she could remain standing on her own too legs, Malou found herself leaning back against the closed door, trying not to over think this. Mr. Prewett was doing his fair share of thinking, she could tell. For the first time in Malou's life she found she'd rather be feeling than thinking.

Ought she say something? Perhaps she should, after all the whole thing was her fault. She stepped away from the door, at the same time as he pinned her with a gaze. "Forgive you?" Malou's soft voice asked, surprised. "It's my fault." And she didn't regret it, she realized her chin jutting slightly forward in a mark of her stubbornness. "There's nothing to forgive, Mr. Prewett." It was the closest she could get to the truth without making a complete fool of herself. As much as she had hated his presence in the center of the room, away from her, now it was a boon, it gave her a moment to collect herself, to realize that she didn't regret the risk she had taken. Then she took a breathe, reminding herself that this was Mr. Prewett, the same man who had healed her wounds, who had saved her, who had let her ramble about music, who had held her so tenderly, and admitted, "I don't regret it. My only regret is if you do, and if you do, I am the one who must apologize." Her cheeks were warm, her chest flushed, her ears likely red as well, but she held on to the magic of that moment, trying not to let it slip away as it had begun to do with each step of his across the carpet. She had known, had understood, in that moment, she didn't want to let that slip away lost in a flood of doubts and concerns.