Somehow, everything seems to happen at once in slow motion and too quickly. Her face falls, and Sam doesn't need to know the cause of it to tell that she looks like she's about to cry, and his breath stutters a little for it. She hadn't looked right, once he'd gotten close enough to really get a look at her expression, but God knows he couldn't have expected this. While she seems drawn in on herself now, he's reminded abruptly of that day it stormed, how she'd thrown herself at him so abruptly, seemed so shaken for reasons she didn't seem to understand any better than he did himself. In a way, that was easier. He doubts he was able to make that much difference, but he could at least feel useful somehow, try to help. Now, he's even more at a loss, and he wants — God, he wants to reach for her, to draw her into his arms like he did then, but he doesn't have a clue if that would be welcome, not when he doesn't have the first idea what might have prompted this.

"Hey," he says again, soft this time, hands held out in front of them before he gently, hesitantly, rests them on her arms. It seems like a reasonable compromise, offering comfort if she needs it, not getting too close if she doesn't want it. "Hey, it's okay." He doesn't know if it is or not, but he isn't about to press for answers under the circumstances. If just asking her what's going on has, somehow, been enough to elicit this sort of reaction from her, he doesn't want to ask even more pointed questions and risk making this even worse. There's still clear confusion written in his frown, but he doesn't act on it, not now, not yet. Better to get more of a sense of what she needs first, and then try to figure out what he can do.