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    Summary

    Maybe Grace notices his hesitation, because he reaches up to cup his cheek with his hand. His blue eyes — not the buzzing, neon cyan of the advertising signboards scattered around the city, shimmering holographic illusions selling dreams to the damned, but the colour of what K imagines to be the gentle blue of a summer sky: the kind that people whisper used to be the norm, before they choked the air with smog and ash — are kind. His palm is so warm without the usual thin barrier of his medical latex gloves — K can't help the way he leans into his touch, like a sunflower turning its face towards the sun, a stray dog seeking comfort from the first kind hand that feeds it.

    It's okay, K, Grace says soothingly. I'm here. Don't be afraid; take as much from me as you need.

    How do you teach a man who has only ever been taken from, how to take?

    The answer: slowly. Fortunately, Grace is a dedicated teacher.

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