Ford went stiff at the contact, brief as it was. Had Fisk done that on purpose? It was too much to be a coincidence, after Ford had just had the same thought. Could Fisk tell what he was thinking? Was his expression or his body language giving him away and making it that obvious that he was preoccupied with something much more tantalizing and exciting than a collapsed roof?

He pulled his hand away and forced his eyes elsewhere. He could collect his letters, that's what he could do. They'd all tumbled out of his hand when Fisk had pushed him, and now they were mostly soaked. He could see ink leaking through some of the parchment already. That was almost a relief — it was a good excuse not to stick around and wait for the post office worker to return.

"And I ought to go home, I suppose — that's it for these letters." He started to rise on his own before he realized Fisk had extended a hand (since he had been so pointedly not looking at him). He looked at it for half a second, debating whether or not he wanted to touch the other man again... but he didn't want to be rude. Reluctantly, Ford grabbed his hand and climbed to his feet.