It's hard to see her like this, but he reluctantly lets go of her arm when she jumps. He needs to learn boundaries or something (not in this lifetime.) Of course she's shaken up, this isn't the third time a house has fallen down on her head. It is for him, and it sucks, but it's old hat. He's good to go.

"I think I saw it downstairs," he recalls gently, nodding for her to go ahead of him. If she can just keep it together until they get to the car, he can take care of the rest. He wants to take care of this; and take care of her. It's something he hasn't really ever felt, but it's almost like an imperative he can't deny, like something he needs to do, for both of them.