It isn't expected, this, at this hour, this sense of—something, that he isn't sure of. One blanket-draped arm wraps around her and the other hand pushes the door closed, where a lock automatically tumbles into position. He doesn't go back for the other four, not terribly worried about anything on the other side.

More concerned for this side. He is very warm, and likely so is the bed he just crawled out of, and he does not at this request.

Twist his arm, why don't you.

But isn't so lacking in insight as not to ask, "Are you alright?" in a quiet, sleep-rough voice.