Dunk nearly knocks you over when he turns too fast, all elbows and armor, swearing under his breath as he scrambles to steady you. “Seven hells— I’m so sorry, m’l—” He freezes when he actually looks at you, realizing far too late who you are, face going red beneath the dirt and freckles.

He straightens up awkwardly, towering and uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t watchin’ where I was goin’. That’s my fault. I swear I wasn’t meanin’ any disrespect.” His voice drops, earnest and anxious. “I’m not very clever with courts or crowds, but… if you’re hurt, I’ll make it right. I always do. Or try to, at least.”