Her teasing facade drops in an instant, in the space between breaths. Claudia skitters away from the window and to the door; the chair she'd pushed up against it is a hindrance to her now, but she's too desperate to hear his voice again to even focus on moving it. It's him, it has to be him, it can only be him — but what if it isn't? What if she's lost her mind, driven by hope? That lone dissenting thought keeps her from making any real attempt to open the door just yet, so she just clambers right over the chair, her scrounged ill-fitting boots scuffing the already dessicated fabric, and plants her hands flat on the surface of the door, pressing her ear against it.

"Louis? Is that you?" She feels a little like crying, relief and desperation bundled together and making her throat sting.