There may be no such thing as a good witch in a horror story, but when her hand encroaches back into his space again there is less of a sense of his cringing from it. Surprise not withstanding, he's genre savvy enough to get how this works. The walk back to the shelter of the settlement isn't so short or pleasant that he's going to refuse a boon.

Or maybe Wake holds still for it because of the thing he's seen in her face that he recognizes but can't yet name. It isn't exhaustion. It's something more frenetic than that. A wire stripped of its coating, with no way of knowing whether its live or not just by looking at it. He's seen that look before. He's felt it, at least.

"You probably will." It's inevitable. That's how this works. In the meantime—

"Thanks," he says, plucking absently at the rain resistant coat. "For the umbrella." As far as moments of levity goes, it's not his best work. But from the sound of things, he's going to have plenty of time to refine the dialogue.

He hefts the lantern then. Gives her a nod in place of a goodbye or goodnight. Sidestepping out beyond the edge of her magic and back into the sharpened cold of the rain makes for a bitter reality check.