He's fine, he really is, he just has a fractured rib or two and he's covered in blood and Peeta just died. His eyes duck at that last thought, flit down and to the side like he's averting her gaze, like she'll condemn him for it. She won't, hell, he doesn't even know if she knows Peeta, but he uses her like a mirror to reflect back his own guilt over the loss for a second. Just a quick split second before he's filing it away again with militant efficiency.

What it means is he doesn't notice her hands coming up, and he's not quite quick enough to jerk back before she touches him.

"Wait-" He starts, rather than answering her question. Ironically, nothing seems to happen until he shoots an arm out to push her back. That of all things triggers the volt, the height of the blue lily still riding through him, cracking loudly as it splits through his palm and arcs through that point of contact on her shoulder.