Anne presses in close and he wraps his arms around her, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. In, out. Anne is here, and right now that's the only fact he can hold onto without feeling like he's sinking. They're both here huddled against the cold, against the strangeness of this place, and for a moment that's all that he can focus on: the weight of her against him, her hands clutching at his shirt as he tries to calm his turbulent thoughts.

"I don't—" His voice creaks under the strain. He stops and tries again. "I don't know."

After a few long moments, he realizes that the back of her coat isn't just cold, it's wet. She must have had a rougher entrance than he had, and he didn't know what had been happening to her on Rogers' ship. He realizes that he doesn't know now if she's injured or not. "Ahm—" He pulls away just a little bit, enough to tip his head to look at her face.

"We'll figure it out," he says with a confidence that he doesn't feel. His voice is clearer now, but his face betrays his worry and confusion. His brows are knitted, his jaw tense, his lips set into a tight line. "We're together. We can figure it out together." He runs his hands over her shoulders and down to her elbows, reassuring himself that she's still here, that she's still solid, that she doesn't seem injured. He takes a breath, squeezes his hands at her elbows. "Alright?"