He helps. Not relax, not comfort to the point which she's no longer terrified and angry, but he helps. He has her back, he can catch her (metaphorically, she's not planning on swooning with tension, that shit only works in plays and novels and never for the likes of her anyway). And he's here, with her. Safe and whole and breathing.

Kate doesn't verbally reply, but at the not-quite-a-kiss, she leans back into him. A little. She's too keyed up to do much more, too aware of how huddling into Benedict would give her an impression of helplessness.

But he helps, and she reaches up to gently squeeze the hand on her shoulder to tell him so.