Chapter Text
Ryland Grace had always felt gravity a little more than most — at least, that's what he told people when he found himself flat on his face in front of them. It was a much more common occurrence than he wanted it to be, unfortunately, so this explanation came in handy more often than it didn’t.
This time, he had made a fool out of himself in front of whom he could only assume was one of his neighbours, seeing as how they were both in the laundry room of his apartment building. It was someone he hadn’t seen around before and he internally groaned. Way to go, Ryland, he grumbled to himself, couldn’t even wait for an introduction this time. At least now the other man would know to avoid future interactions with him.
He wasn’t even sure what he had slipped on, just that he had been making his way to the machines to take out his laundry and the next thing he knew, his elbows were colliding painfully with the ground, chin bouncing off the cold unfurnished concrete. He was lucky he had a hard head.
“Don't bother, please,” he waved off the other man as he bent down to help him. “I'm used to it.” That didn’t sound particularly good when he thought about it, but somehow, nor did it stop the other man from pulling him to his feet so Ryland decided not to consider the interaction a complete wash. He took a second to note the man’s deceptively strong grip, a little at odds with his lithe figure, and then realised he was still holding his hand. Dropping it perhaps a little too quickly, he dusted himself off, then sent a weak smile to his — neighbour? He probably needed to get clarification on that. But what were the odds that someone had snuck in just to do laundry? Actually. They were definitely higher than what he was thinking. More to the point though—
“Hi, sorry about that. I’m Ryland,” he introduced himself. “I haven’t seen you around before, but I’m always glad to embarrass myself in front of someone new. Did you just move in?”
The man nodded, a quiet yeah falling from his lips. He didn’t quite meet his eyes, ducking his head and bending to pick up Ryland’s basket where it had rolled away.
“This is yours?” he asked as he held it out and something inside Grace cooed at the softness of his voice. He swiftly told it to shut up, please.
“Yes, that — that would, in fact, be mine,” he stuttered out. The other man nodded again, this time in what even he could tell was a ‘this has been weird, I’m going now,’ as he stepped away, but Grace felt the sudden urge to ask him to stay. There was something about him that had Ryland wanting to keep him talking.
He was younger than Ryland, but not by much. He’d place the other man around the twins Colt’s age, maybe even a little younger. Colt had a more solid build now, thanks to the Tom Ryder contract, which kind of made him look a bit older, strangely enough, whereas there was an almost… fragile quality about this man.
“Um, would you… if you’re not too busy, I mean, you could wait a minute while I grab my stuff and we could go back together? I’m half convinced this basement is haunted and since I’ve already survived this long, I’d rather not find out while I’m on my own.”
He considered this, shrugging a little and stepping back into Grace’s sphere. “Ok, sure.”
“Yeah? Amazing, I won’t be long.” As if to prove the point, he immediately forced himself to move towards the dryers and began pulling out his clothes. “When did you move in?” he tossed the question over his shoulder. “I haven’t seen you around before.”
“I’m not around much.” His voice was so soft, Ryland almost couldn’t hear him over the sound of the machines.
“Weird schedules, huh? I get that. Not that I have too much to complain about. I’m a teacher so we have some degree of regularity at least. Well,” he paused, considering, “except for when the school decides it doesn’t have enough extra-curriculars to make it look good to the state. What do you do?” He blushed, suddenly realising that he was rambling. “Not that you have to tell me, of course.”
“It’s ok. I drive.”
“You drive? Like, for the movies?” This was met by a short nod. Ryland grinned, self awareness adding a bitter touch to his lips. “Would it make me completely boring if I said I hope you have good insurance?”
Driver smiled in reply, despite himself. “Why would you say that?”
“My little brother, he does stunts for movies too. It’s tough work, from what I can tell. And very competitive.” It terrified him, every single day, that he would get a call from Jody telling him that this was the stunt. The one his baby brother couldn’t pull off. The one he hadn’t closed out with a thumbs up. He pushed down the bile that threatened to rise and busied himself in folding a towel haphazardly.
Driver noted his discomfort, but remained quiet. It was funny, besides Irene, no one else had ever thought enough about his job to think it was dangerous work. “It’s not too bad,” was all he said eventually, half wondering if a second perspective would alleviate whatever fear had discomfitted the other man.
But Grace just smiled in understanding and huffed a little. “Then you must be great at your job.” He chuckled at the quizzical look he received in reply. “I haven’t been on many sets, but on the rare occasions I’d accompany my brother, that’s how all the best stuntmen would talk,” he explained. Driver considered this. He didn’t know enough of those in his industry to speak with such confidence as Ryland did, but he supposed it made sense. The teacher continued, “I didn’t realise there was much work of that sort to be found around here, though.”
“I also work at a garage.”
In this economy? Grace couldn’t blame him. He finally grabbed the last article of clothing from the dryer, giving it a spin to make sure none of his socks had been left behind and hefted his basket up. A swift gesture to Driver to lead the way, and they started walking to the elevator. Grace had to admit, he was a little glad for the other man’s presence. He didn’t really believe the basement was haunted, but it was very dark and prone to random groans and strange skittering noises. Better to be safe than sorry.
As they waited for the elevator to arrive — seriously, it had to be the slowest one in existence and Grace did not appreciate it at all considering his pre-existing hatred of elevators — he asked, “is it too much to hope that you’re in unit 419?”
The younger man startled a little, his eyes flashing to meet Ryland’s own. “Woah.” He instinctively put a little distance between them so Driver wouldn’t feel cornered. “I promise I’m not a crazy stalker or anything. It's just that 417 has this crotchety old guy who keeps yelling at me for feeding the strays and I was hoping to get a nice neighbour on at least one side, y’know? And 419’s been empty for a while, so… I just got my hopes up a little.”
The elevator arrived with a loud ding then, making Grace jump. The corners of Driver’s mouth ticked up in amusement.
“That’s my unit,” he murmured softly, holding out an arm to block the elevator doors from closing as they entered and Grace beamed.
“Well, then, as long as you don’t mind me feeding the strays, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Driver paused. “That’s from that old movie, right?” he asked tentatively and Ryland’s eyes lit up beatifically.
“Yes, it is! My brother prefers westerns and the like when it comes to classic movies, but Casablanca is one of my favourites.”
“I haven’t seen it,” he admitted, “but the writers on set reference it sometimes.”
Ryland gaped for a second before gathering himself. “Well, I have it on DVD, so if you’re ever interested or bored enough, you can pop by and we can make a night of it.”
“I’d like that.” The words were almost inaudible, he had to strain to hear them. But he caught the hint of a smile playing about the other’s lips and it warmed something inside him.
“Ok, it’s a plan.”
Driver could quite honestly say that he wasn’t expecting Ryland Grace. Wasn’t sure how to even begin anticipating the tornado that was the schoolteacher. Ever since they had first bumped into each other in the laundry room, he found he couldn’t escape the man. Not that he wanted to. But Driver had always been a quick study and after Los Angeles, after Irene and Benicio? He couldn’t corrupt another sun. And he would. He knew too well the kind of tar like poison that seeped through his skin, staining everyone and everything around him. And Grace, in his bright yellow coat stolen from stars they couldn’t even see anymore with all the light pollution, would be all too susceptible to it.
He didn’t know how the schoolteacher didn’t see it in him. How he consciously chose to keep chipping away at Driver’s monolith with every wave from astride a wobbly bike as Driver rode past him in the parking lot, one hand tightening the strap of his helmet. Making that same choice again and again, every time he ran to catch him when they arrived at the apartment block at the same time. Every time he jogged across the hall to regale Driver with a funny anecdote from school or asked him to accompany him to the laundry room in the basement. He now knew far more about the lives and mishaps of middle schoolers than he had ever expected to. There was an ease to Ryland Grace that he had only ever seen in Irene. Petty joys that they picked up from amidst the wreckage of the world around them and shared with those they met, unselfconscious and effortless.
But what he really couldn’t understand was how Grace could choose to breach the boundaries of their personal spheres. He would casually, unthinkingly, rest a hand on his arm as he spoke, bump against his shoulders, or even let their fingers brush as he handed over little snacks he prepared for the strays that gathered at the corner of their street. Every touch set his senses alight, leaving marks on his skin only he could see. Even Irene, for all that her innocence kept her from seeing the truth of him, maintained that distance, crossing those lines only rarely and with great care. It had made it all the more special when she did. But Grace’s lack of awareness that those lines even existed was special in its own way. He didn’t know what it was, just that he wanted more of it. Just knew that he had started to crave that feeling until he was a being solely made up of wanting. Wishing that Ryland would wrap him up in those arms he extended so willingly and never stop holding him.
Without even realising it, it became something essential for Driver’s continued happiness. Against his better judgement, he would find himself waving back at Ryland, or slowing his quick stride so the other could reach him faster. Found himself listening intently to every piece of gossip or mishap that he brought back with him. Moving closer on the off chance it would encourage Ryland to reach out and touch. He didn’t mind smudges on his monolith anymore, not if they were from him. On the days they missed each other, he found himself looking for a glimpse of that yellow coat as he drove by, disappointment overwhelming when he realised the opportunity had passed him by.
Driver hadn’t thought he could find it in himself to ever be interested by anyone else. To ever risk such closeness again. But Grace had a way of worming himself into spaces he probably shouldn’t and building himself a home there, despite the danger.
Even with all that, he hadn’t expected the offer of a movie to be real, assuming it was just something made in the heat of the moment — easily extended and just as easily forgotten. But after nearly a month of quiet acknowledgements and quick waves, Ryland showed up at his door, glasses askew and flour splattered on the shoulder of his t-shirt.
“I never asked,” he began somewhat breathlessly, Driver all too aware of the way his hands lingered on the doorframe, fingers drumming along to a song only he could hear, “but please tell me you don’t have any allergies.”
“I don’t,” he assured, confusion curling his words into a half question. It was alright, Ryland was used to dealing with those.
“Excellent! By the way, I hope you’re free tonight because I made a bunch of these cookies and I gotta tell you, they make for amazing movie snacks.”
Driver decided to focus on the important part of that sentence. “You made them?”
“Well, yeah. I’m a somewhat terrible cook in that I can feed myself alright but anyone else?” He made an ehhh sound, tilting a hand side to side in demonstration. “But! I’m learning to be a halfway decent baker— which I like to think balances it out.”
Driver raised an eyebrow as if to ask “it does?” At least, that's how Ryland chose to translate it.
“Sure, this way my kids get a sweet treat after every pop quiz. It keeps up morale and I’ve yet to Pavlov them by accident so it’s a win-win, really.”
Driver considered this. “I’m not doing anything tonight. I can come over.”
“Oh! Um, great! How does eight sound?”
“I can do eight.” The words are infused with a tenderness he desperately hoped the other didn’t hear.
“It’s a date, then!” Ryland paused. “No, wait. A plan? We’re staying in, so it’s not an outing.” He looked at Driver helplessly and Driver couldn’t help but smile.
“I’ll come over at eight,” he confirmed and that seemed to be that.
Driver had forgone both of his customary jackets when he knocked on Ryland’s door at eight sharp and for all that Ryland was running around frazzled because he couldn’t find his last packet of twizzlers, he could, actually, take the time out to appreciate how his friend’s arms filled out the sleeves of his plain white t-shirt. Then he had to stop himself because his friend was a Very Private Person who had never shown any interest in being anything more — not that Ryland could reasonably expect him to — and you did not objectify your friends. Well, unless they asked you to — he had learnt this very definitively at university when he finally made it there. Either way, he tore his eyes away from those beautiful arms and led him inside, scooping up random articles of clothing and books that littered every flat and non flat available surface as he went. Right, that was what he had forgotten to do.
“Sorry about the mess,” he mumbled, even as he dumped it all on a table half hidden by the couch. Driver’s lips twitched in the way they did when he wanted to laugh and something brightened inside Ryland’s chest. He was going to make the other man laugh properly some day, see if he didn’t.
…Maybe just not over his messy apartment though.
Driver didn't respond to the comment, asking instead “We’re sitting here?” with a quick gesture to his couch. The words were murmured in that particular way of his, melting in Ryland's chest.
“Yes! Just make yourself at home while I grab the snacks. I’ve put a blanket out for you too.” Grace started walking backwards towards his little kitchen, snapping and pointing at Driver as he sat down, somewhat stiffly. “You like hot chocolate, right?”
Driver shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied, “I haven’t had it often enough to decide.” He didn’t touch the blanket.
The teacher stopped dead in his tracks, mouth falling open in surprise. “Unacceptable,” he declared. “You’re having some now. Full works. I swear hot chocolate was the only thing that kept me going some years.” He caught the slight crease of his friend’s brow and immediately backtracked a little with a forced laugh, turning around so he wouldn’t have to meet his gaze. “I realised in my college years that I’m a terrible test taker and my roommate would cut off my coffee supply after 2 am so it was chocolate or bust. The habit stuck around and now it's a great drink for movie nights.”
He busied himself in making the two mugs, pouring a liberal dose of whipped cream and sprinkles on top, and then carefully carried them over to the couch. “Careful,” he warned instinctively as Driver reached out for the mug, “it's hot.” Driver shot him a look that he couldn't quite make out and he grinned weakly. “I just don't want you burning your fingers.”
His eyes softened. Grace could lose himself in them. He had figured his friend had been through something difficult to make him as closed off as he was, but looking at him now, listening to his quiet voice telling him he'd be alright, Ryland couldn't help but think it was so unfair that he had to have been hurt the way he must have been. He let Driver relieve him of both cups before going to grab the cookies, the other man setting one down within reach on his cheap coffee table, the wood ringed by many, many mugs over the years.
Cookies retrieved and the movie finally begun, Ryland grabbed the old blanket he had set out and spread it out to cover the both of them before he settled himself on the couch, bringing his legs up to sit crosslegged. It would be hell on his knees tomorrow, but he couldn't help himself, it was one of the best ways to watch a movie. He had gotten into the habit back when he and Colt shared a one-bedroom flat, all he could afford after… well, after. Their rundown sofa had been rescued from someone’s moving out sale and quickly refused to bear both their weights at the same time. They had instead traded off who got to sit on it during movie nights and who got the cushion and blanket on the rug Colt had charmed an older neighbour into giving them when she intended on replacing it. They had gotten a better couch eventually, and with it, a slightly better apartment, but the habit had stuck and he found he didn’t mind it.
Ryland was usually a talker during movies, interjecting with facts about the science used, the movie itself or even the actors — Colt had long since banned any superhero movies that relied on science as a plot device because of the long-winded rants he found himself mired in — but he did his best to keep it limited for his friend’s sake. Driver didn’t talk much during the movie, watching the screen intently for the most part but occasionally asking a question about the war years the movie was set around. Considering that this was a stunning piece of war propaganda from a country that had sauntered in to said war late, Ryland thought they were more than fair questions.
As always, the movie was both shorter and longer than he remembered, the ending as Rick and Captain Renault walked off into the night surprising him even as he chuckled at their words.
“It’s a funny kind of ending,” Driver remarked as the credits played. “I wasn’t expecting it.”
Ryland scrunched his nose, suppressing a yawn as he tried to think which part Driver meant. “That Rick would let Ilsa go?”
“That Lazlo wouldn’t hold it against Ilsa if he didn’t.”
He hummed, thinking it over. “I suppose most men would.” Ryland paused then, leaning over and whispering as if there was anyone else around to hear, “can I tell you a secret?” Driver nodded seriously. “I’m glad Rick let Ilsa go. They weren’t right for each other and this way he got to ride off into the sunset with Captain Renault.”
The younger man huffed in amusement. “He’s not a good person?” It was more questioning than accusing and Ryland shrugged.
“I know the movie’s attitude about women and consent is kind of terrible and that’s infinitely worse than just being corrupt, but I still like him. He has his bad qualities, but he’s not a bad person. I’ve always wondered what adventures he and Rick got up to.”
Something about his words lodged themselves in Driver's ribs and he found himself looking down at the long empty mug in his hands, his thumb running over its rim. His silence embarrassed Ryland and he fumbled a little, unsure.
But Driver just looked up at him from beneath long eyelashes, shy in that sudden way of his Ryland could never predict. “You really think Renault can be better than his nature?”
The question was important. He didn’t know why, but it was. It made it all the more easier for him to say, “yeah, I do.”
He silently hoped his friend would always be comfortable enough with him to relax his shoulders the way he did at that.
About half a year after first meeting Ryland Grace, Driver was immersed headfirst in the guts of a car engine at the garage he worked at, when his phone rang. Although he had had it for a while now, it was still a surprise every time it rang. He had been forced to keep a somewhat regular phone at the behest of his employer and the few stunt coordinators who would reach out to him personally now that he didn’t have Shannon as a go-between, and his discomfort at the device had yet to abate any. It could be as easily discarded as any of the other burners he owned, but he still didn’t like the constancy of it.
None of this, naturally, mattered to his boss who grumpily shouted for him to either pick up his phone or stop the ringing in any manner of unnatural ways. So he carefully extricated himself from within the engine and reached for the device, grimacing a little as oil covered its shell, and answered without bothering to check who was on the other end.
“Hi!” The voice, as it came down the line, was tinny and a little breathless. It belonged to Ryland and despite a hundred irritants that had pricked at Driver throughout the day, he found himself smiling immediately. “Is this a bad time?”
“No,” Driver assured him. It wasn’t. “I can talk.” He really couldn’t if he hoped to figure out what was wrong with this buick’s drive today.
“Great! Um, please know I am so sorry to have to ask, but could you give me a ride home from school today after your shift ends? I think some parent reversed their car into my bike and um… it’s not — much of a bike anymore, if I have to be honest.”
The words took a second to register. When they finally did, something hot and ugly settled into the hollow of his chest, blocking all rational thought. “Are you hurt?” The question is punched out of him, his free hand curling into a fist by his side.
“What?”
“Are you hurt?” Driver repeated, forcing each word out, the sharp edges of the letters pulling and scratching at the roof of his mouth.
“Oh! Oh no, I’m— I’m fine. I wasn’t, you know, on the bike when it happened.” He chuckled self-consciously and Driver slowly unclenched his fist, exhaling some of the anger that had made itself a home in his lungs.
“I’ll be half an hour, is that ok?” He forced out the question past the tar that coated the inside of his throat, desperately holding on to whatever shreds of calm he could call upon. Luckily, Ryland didn’t seem to pick up on the very short leash he was using to collar the beast that lived inside him.
“You don’t have to cut your shift short for me!” the teacher insisted. Driver honestly didn’t know why he bothered but as he would reflect later, like everything else the teacher did, it was endearing. “I can wait, don't worry. It’ll give me some time to catch up on my grading. Sorry, again, for making you do this. I just…” he trailed off and Driver wondered how he had intended to finish that sentence.
“Half an hour,” he promised. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Thanks.” The voice on the other end was quieter, now, genuine in a way he was unused to being on the receiving end of. “I owe you.”
No, he didn’t, Driver thought. This was the least of what he could do for the man. He couldn’t bring himself to say that, though, just humming a quick goodbye and hanging up before informing his boss he needed to leave for the day. The man swore at him a few times but let him off without any further comment and Driver allowed the barest swell of gratitude to prickle his fingers just long enough for him to wipe them clean of grease and tug on his gloves.
He pulled into the school parking lot exactly half an hour later, instinctively noting the layout of the grounds as he called Ryland. The teacher stumbled out of the building a little under five minutes later, juggling his bag, currently obsolete bike helmet and a few books. His yellow jacket covered his frame haphazardly, collar half upturned and half hanging off one shoulder as if he had shrugged it on like an afterthought. Actually, knowing him, Driver mused, he probably had. And even though they were separated by at least thirty feet still, he could practically already hear the teacher mumbling unnecessary apologies every step of the way.
Driver hauled himself out of his car as Ryland approached, gently pulling the books and helmet from him and stuffing them in the backseat in order to check him over until he could be satisfied for himself that the other man was really alright. He tucked his hands into his jacket pocket so he wouldn't give in to the urge to touch, contenting himself with letting his eyes rove over the teacher. He apologised once more, but Driver barely heard it over the relief that was washing over him, unable to stop the smile that lifted his lips and creased the corners of his eyes now that he had seen for himself that Grace was alright.
“Where’s your bike?” he asked, realising only afterwards that he had interrupted the other.
Grace rubbed the back of his head sheepishly with a newly freed hand and pointed towards a wall a little away from them. A mangled piece of metal lay at its base, a bike lock connecting it still to the rack attached to the wall. His fingers curled into a fist of their own accord and Driver felt that lethal rage rise up inside him again. He shoved it down ruthlessly and made his way over, Ryland scuttling behind.
“What’s the verdict, doc?” he tried to joke even as he bent down to fit a tiny key into the now useless bike lock. Driver didn’t respond, finding himself incapable of rational speech in the moment. Instead, he picked up what was left of Ryland’s bike once the lock had been extricated from the mess and dragged it to his car one-handed even as the older man protested and offered to help, placing it into the trunk with more care than he had thought he could muster. They could figure a diagnosis for it back home.
He couldn’t erase the bent frame from his mind even as they got into the car, his thoughts a constant loop of what if it was him? What if he had been on the bike? Driver would never have even known, left only to wonder in the wake of his absence. It was unfathomable.
Ryland, thankfully, was too preoccupied with taking in his car than noting the internal struggle Driver was going through. His fingers twitched and fidgeted along the edge of his bag, running over the strap over and over again as they pulled out of the parking lot until Driver made himself speak.
“You can touch, it's ok.” He nodded in the direction of the dashboard, his own hands tightening on the leather of the wheel. His car was an extension of himself, just as he assumed Ryland’s classroom was of him. He didn't know when, if ever, he'd have the privilege of seeing it, but seeing Ryland in his car, he wanted the man to be comfortable.
“It's your space,” came the immediate protest. Driver didn't bother giving a verbal response, he merely shot a glance at Ryland and knew he understood.
The beast inside him purred happily when Ryland took him at his word, gently reaching out to run his fingers over the dashboard. It was funny, he could be so careless with some things, and so careful with others. He had seen the man literally toss aside pans that irked him while baking and hurtle ball point pens across the room when his students had written particularly stupid answers. But Ryland also pinned up cards from his students, gently slotting them in between pictures of himself and his younger brother on his small fridge. He kept a small beaded bracelet in a place of honour at his little desk, its frayed threads carefully mended and the beads inscribed with C C, a heart and RYLIE proudly facing outwards. And now the hesitant sweep of his fingers across the dashboard as if he, too, knew what this car meant to Driver.
Oh. When had he decided he wanted the teacher to keep him too?
“You keep your car so pristine,” Ryland commented, drawing Driver out of his thoughts. “It just adds to your mystique.” Driver shot him a confused glance and Ryland laughed, self conscious. “I just — this is gonna sound so dumb — but it’s like you’re an equation I keep trying to solve. I don’t know any of the variables and every time I get a new component to throw in, it complicates the whole thing further and I have to start all over again. Not that that’s a bad thing!” He added hurriedly at the way Driver’s brow furrowed further and further. “I just… want to know every part of you. Is that— is that ok?”
Emotion pinked Driver’s cheeks and he ducked his head a little in a pitiful attempt to hide it. “Yeah, it’s ok,” he mumbled. He was so focused on the road ahead he didn’t catch Ryland’s pleased smile. The rest of the drive was made in comfortable silence.
Ryland thanked him again when they finally reached their apartment building, running a nervous hand through his hair as he promised not to make this a daily occurrence. “I can probably carpool with someone at work for a bit,” he began, “it’s only until I get my bike fixed. Although,” he winced, “I have no idea if it’s even salvageable. And God knows I can’t afford a new one right now.”
Not that he would ever be alright with someone else driving Ryland to and from work, unappreciative and undeserving of the man’s presence and little rants, but Driver let him ramble on for a bit until he began spiralling over the cost of a new bike. “I’ll take you,” he interjects and Ryland jerks back a little.
“I couldn’t make you do that,” he protested instantly. “I know you don’t keep regular hours and I don’t want you to have to work around my schedule.”
Driver shook his head. “I don't mind, and it'll save you time in the morning. My hours can be adjusted.” It might even allow the teacher an extra half hour of sleep he would otherwise have spent biking, he thought hopefully. Maybe even reduce some of those dark circles. Discomfort twisted Ryland’s features and Driver wished the man would accept help as easily as he offered it. For someone so willing to extend a hand, he was so surprised when someone else did the same for him when it was the very least the world owed him. “Just until you get your bike fixed,” Driver forced out eventually. It alleviated some of Ryland’s concern, but not all of it. He rolled the toothpick in his mouth, considering.
“Make me cookies,” he decided. “And we can call it even.”
The protest was immediate. “I already make you cookies!”
Driver eyed him, choosing his words carefully. “You give me the extras after you make enough for your class. I drive you and you make me cookies and whatever new recipe you try.”
Ryland considered this. “Only if you eat them with me and we do regular movie nights. I’m talking once a week.” Driver nodded his agreement and the teacher grinned. “It’s a deal.”