He would stand it. Of course he would, to a point: she has every right to do so, and he's sure each and every insult and criticism would be both creative and accurate, save one.

Between one breath of her anger and the next, perhaps that heaviness she's noticed matters a little less, for she does hesitate. There is so much she doesn't know: between them, about him, and not all of it confined to that small space of time, those pockets in which they knew each other; trusted themselves and each other enough to do so.

What he feels for Caroline is a link, a rope which ties him to what it is to care unheeded and to want without shame, and even now he feels it, whether she is cognizant of it or not. He exhales and glances away, the sound heavy even compared to the strength of her accusation. There is a tremble to it; a spark of agitation at his own inability darkens his eyes. It's fallible, the forcefulness of his reply. It falters. "While I'm certain you have a list not unlike many I've heard before-"

He steps forward to sets his phone and drink on the table if only to take the time to gather himself. To search for the righteousness he cannot fake nor does he wants to. He breathes shakily again, his eyes lifting; it is honest and beseeching, the look in his gaze. His words, an admission. "From you."