He shouldn't let it get to him--her fear, her fire. He should be a depth of calm, a placid pool absorbing and not returning, no matter how many of their feelings glaze over him like a tide. Kira hadn't agreed with Graves' assessment, bend or break, but there were cracks in his edges. Cracks with names and faces, cracks that followed the cuts on his arms, the lightning scars on Credence's side and Veronica's arm. Cracks that whistled with the stutter of Casey sounding out the written word.

He can't bend for them. He can't bend for things that aren't even his to feel. Even now his voice doesn't raise to match her own, but there's a firmness he doesn't often use, an edge he learned from is father, before his father stopped speaking to him at all. "I want you to to stop shouting at me," he admits, regret boiling in his guts as it leaves his mouth. She doesn't remember him, she clearly isn't well--

But he also isn't threatening her, a few feet away and his palms up. He sighs: "I'm sorry, it's alright. We met here before, when you first came out of the water. I don't know why you don't remember, but I'm going to find help. Just stay here."

Pushing his foot back, he half-turns from her, starting slowly for the inn at an angle he might still catch some movement.