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“Alessio.” Nithel’s voice was softer than he expected it to be, but steady and firm. He slipped between Alessio and the wall, catching the youth’s flying hand in both of his, squeezing, keeping it from moving. He looked into Alessio’s eyes, pain fighting fatigue in them. Fear, but a calmness that was stronger. Nithel stood there a moment longer, his chest still breathing heavily from the shove, his muscles trembling. He squeezed Alessio’s hand again, almost as if to say, It’ll be okay. I don’t know how, but it’ll be okay. Nithel licked his lips, and looked toward the floor, as if he was about to take a step away.

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