For several long moments, the only sound Wyatt made was the shuddering rush of his breath. A hard pant, in and out... in and out. Then, it slowly began to fade, his fingers relaxing their grip and sliding weakly down, resting on Max's sandal.

His forehead rubbed against the inside of his arm, trying to soothe the new horseshoe shaped bruise in the crook of his elbow. "...It's alright," he said finally, a rough, low murmur. "I've... known worse."

His head turned, and he looked up at Max, fingers patting his foot tiredly. "Jus'... can't quite think of any right now."