He couldn’t have been older than you were. When the ball had hit you on the side of your head and you’d lost your footing and fell, he had ran up to you and crouched to your level to examine your scraped and bloody knee.

The hem of his shirt was sacrificed as he used it to wipe the blood off. Though his face showed no emotions, his brows were pinched in what could almost pass as worry. He crouched down in front of you and held his palms out on either sides of his back. “Hop on.”