The hairs on the back of his neck raise up at her words. And without wasting any precious time questioning it, he jerks bodily to the right and just barely dodges a chair that clatters closely into his field of vision and past it again.

"Good," he encourages tersely, since her situational awareness doesn't seem to be too terrible. And if he seems a little curt with his words, it's because he's trying not to trip up. Both physically and verbally - it seems better to offer words of encouragement than let loose with a volley of age-inappropriate cursing, and he's this close to accidentally verbalizing his internal monologue.

Oh God-Emperor, they're so close to the door! And those chairs are snapping right at his heels like a pack of starving tyranids. There's a heart-stopping lurch as he stumbles for just one moment, but he rights himself just in time. And just like that, they're through. A hundred and fifty kilograms worth of muscular Official Commissarial Hero just barely avoids crashing into the people outside, and he dumps her out of his arms in a hurry to try and slam the door behind them closed.