Worry she does, to such an extent she's been cycling through waiting on the porch itself in addition to right behind the door. Tablet in hand, she's halfway through sending her third message in as many minutes when the knock sounds. Nearly throws the thing in her haste to throw the door open. He's one of very few constants, here and in life, and it's jarring when he errs.

The expression is no comfort. Her concerned expression holds fast.

"Are you okay? What happened-?"