There's a moment where she just leans against the door, kind of peering accusingly down through her eyelashes as she navigates key into lock. It's the same posture and slow deliberation of someone who is coming home late from something fun instead of awful, but this is the opposite of true and it reads on her expression even if there is no one immediately around to do so. She's left some of her things-- reading and writing material, mainly-- back in the Spatters, but has the necessities jangling in the pockets of a jacket that feels slightly too light against the chill of the small hours. She tips her way inside, shuts the door quietly behind her.

She's been out of contact all day. Messages going unanswered because they went unreceived, even though she had mentioned she was probably going to be around again in the afternoon after her appointment across town. Frustration at trying to contact people earlier had meant she hadn't touched it again, where it stays switched off in her pocket.

Shoes off, then, bent over double at the front door as she goes to work them down and away, masculine ankle boots that have, at least, served her well. She counted on doing a lot of walking today anyway, and some of the grit and grime have shaken off them on the journey back to Badside. She could use a shower for years, she's pretty sure, but has long since cleaned her hands, her face, during her paranoia-inspired delay in getting back home.

Unsure what to do passed this point. Her body is exhausted, but her mind is racing.