[Connor looks at Hank, nearly looks through him, the ring on his temple eventually fading to yellow, forcibly aligning his thoughts as the other man speaks to him slowly, calmly.]

No, it’s— [If Hank didn’t feel anything, then what was it? Eyes flick down to the hand that grasped him, trying to make deductions — the touch, the flood that followed, the way it was quelled when Connor pulled away. But one-sided only? Was the problem with him?]

I’m sorry, but I only want to return you to your room. If there was an issue, I can deal with it myself later; maybe there’s something strange happening with Astoria’s magic, affecting my processing.

[He steps forward, reaching out to steady the man and guide him again (pausing, hesitating, a fraction of a second), then committing to the act.]

We’re almost there. Come on.