Wyatt hovers by the door, eyes to the floor by the coat rack as if it's the most intriguing thing in the world. He could go outside, get some fresh air, get some damn space; Paul's moving around in the background, in the kitchen that isn't covered in guts or brains or bone, and before he knows it, Wyatt's eyes are tracking him instead. It's the eyebrow that gets him moving, rubbing a hand across his mouth as if it's the only thing keeping the pressure in.

It doesn't help. Halfway to the couch his face twists, and those baby blues well up with silent tears.

He sits down heavily, shaking his head. Sorry. Sorry.