He's quiet for a long time after she says it, and Abby can tell she fucked up. She should have told him something personal. That's obviously what he was after, she should have told him about the colourful jungle her dad painted for her on the wall of her bedroom when she was a kid. She should have told him he put music on while he was working because he didn't like looking at reports in silence: Bach, Wagner, Debussy. There's still time, but it feels like her throat has closed up. She stares at him, her skin hurting. Teeth aching. If he tells her no, that's it. It will be all her fault.

Her eyes feel hot when he looks at her and she bites the inside of her cheek so hard to try and keep from crying. Relief nearly knocks her legs out from underneath of her.

She nods, quick and hard. "I will," she whispers, "I'll listen. I promise."

Anything, anything. She needs to do this, or she'll never be okay.