He's wondering. He's sitting and wondering and yes, worrying. There's a lot to worry about. He betrayed her; he hadn't planned for--anything that happened that night to go that way, but it had, it did, and it scared him -- and in a fool moment, he made a terrible decision.

But the moment she puts her hand in his he relaxes just a fraction, and sighs.

"Royally screwed the pooch on this one," he says, sighing-- breath hitching with pain, coughing with it, before it steadies out. "You should-- get some rest. You are a sight for sore eyes, but-- you haven't taken care of yourself in the last... six days, I assume?"