A hug is the last thing he'd expected, but he doesn't pull away either. Up close, it is easier to feel her breathing and try to wrestle his own into following, her arms a warm solid anchor to reality despite the fear sweeping him away.

It will be several long minutes before he begins to calm, the metal fingers of his left hand twisted tightly into the fabric of her shirt as if it will keep him rooted. It takes effort to let go, something he cannot blame on the prosthesis, and Thor swipes at his cheek to dry the dampness. "I'm sorry," he whispers.