The sound of the running water very nearly muffles the sound of the knock on the door altogether - but not quite. Beckett's in the middle of testing the bathwater's temperature with a bare foot when she catches it - these days, she's all too prepared to hear each and every creak and clatter in her apartment - and draws her robe tight around her frame, securing her hair against the back of her head with a clip. Her movement towards the front door is only briefly halted as she downs the remaining contents inside the small tumbler in her hand; she sets the empty glass down on the kitchen counter with a hollow sound and continues on her way, shuffling slow to peer through the eyehole.

Castle's face looms, misshapen and disproportionately represented in the small, warped lens, and she sighs, resting her forehead against the door around the same time that her hand automatically clasps the knob. With a twist, she pulls it open just enough to peer around through the open slit of space. Her cheeks are pale despite the attempts to drink some color into them, her eyes dull, her shoulders weighed down with an invisible tension. She licks her lips, tasting vodka.

"What do you want, Castle?"