He pulls his own helmet free as Benedict seats himself, content to remain at a distance— looming beside the doorway as a cautious measure, should someone decide to wander nearby at this early hour, however unlikely.

The noise he makes is an unhappy one. A throaty little sound that only winds up as a meager mmph, his eyeline lowering by degrees.

“Not well.”

Which is putting it lightly, considering how vividly they’d argued for a short, volatile period of time. In hindsight, even after all they’ve been through since, he still does not understand it. “She seemed claimed by malcontent. Quick to provocation, though it was she who bid me remove my helm to begin with.”

Fearful, anxious— those aspects of it he keeps to himself, as he’d not dare to speak of her vulnerability to another without consent. Not even Benedict.