Her own hand has found purchase on his sleeve, not quite shrinking up to his side, but certainly flinching closer as every near miss, until there are fine fibres in the air instead of shards. Benji is breathing shallow in short bursts of steam, but panic has finally started ebbing away, with fear on its tail. Fingertips to her mouth, her posture straightens some as she watches things disintegrate, that grip gentling on Wolfgang's arm before falling away completely.

She's still drained pale enough to make traces of makeup and freckles stand out sharply, eyes wide. The ashy remains of the thrown furniture cling to their clothing and air, and particles whorl through it as she gives an exhale of sharper relief.

The implications, of course, of all he just achieved aren't lost on her. It's why she isn't speaking right away.