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The first time he wins, there’s nothing afterwards.
Dragged down the hall and tossed mercilessly back behind iron bars. Rushing to the door. He was told that this would grant him his freedom, and they replied that he still has yet to earn it. Blood drips off his knuckles as he curls his fingers around the bars and screams down the hall. The woman’s back fades down the dark hallway as Simon screams at the top of his lungs that this wasn’t the fucking deal!
Fight for your freedom, they told him. He fought. He won. And here he is, trapped. Hands bloodied and face bruised. Metal collar tight around his throat, constantly threatening to send spine-shattering electricity through his entire body. A strategy to ensure that he behaves. A tether to make him easier to control.
He stumbles to the other side of his cell, to the grimy mirror above the filthy sink. A large purple mark blossoms across his left eye. He grimaces, reaching up with one hand to run his fingers over the skin. Even his own light touch is enough to make him wince. He traces it down to the rough scrape on his jaw, and then turns his head to find a similar laceration on the other side of his head.
The other bastard had been allowed to wear his jewelery. Or maybe they had given him some, just to make his hits hurt that little bit more. They must have really believed Simon would be the one dying on the floor of that arena. Maybe it would have been better if he did.
There’s no medical supplies. No bandages. No nothing. So, instead of doing any kind of first aid, Simon does a quick once-over of himself. Nothing seems too out of sorts. Not enough to kill him, at least. So, for now, he abandons the grimy mirror and stumbles across the dimly lit cell. They left him a rock-hard cot and a thin blanket. Barely any better than sleeping on the floor.
Simon takes what he can get, and curls up beneath his miniscule source of warmth. They told him to fight for his freedom – to fight for his life – and maybe Simon was stupid to think they would keep their promise. Stupid to think that this would end after just one corpse.
But Simon – despite every stupid, horrible thing in this godforsaken world – wants to live.
The question he has to answer now is just how badly?
The second time he wins, there’s a first aid kit waiting in his cell.
As far as first aid kits go, it’s pretty minimal. A roll of bandages – thinner than they should be. Must be someone’s leftovers. Makes enough sense. Why bring out the good shit for trash like him? – a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a pair of medical scissors. Enough to handle the lacerations on his face and the minor gash in his side. Simon uses half the rubbing alcohol for the wound and brings the rest of it to his lips, about to tilt his head back to enjoy what little joy he’s going to get in this shithole–
“WOAH, what!? Don’t drink that!”
He stops himself. The bottle of isopropyl alcohol dropping from his lips as he scrunches up his face in confusion. Man, that bastard must have hit him harder than he thought, if he really didn’t notice before just now.
Simon narrows his eyes. He’s never seen this guy before. He would remember if he had. What with the absolutely pristine looking clothes - a sweater, comfortable looking pants, and pristine white sneakers. Yeah, Simon would have remembered an outfit like that - goofy glasses, and scruffy-but-well-kept facial hair. Not the kind of person you tend to see on the other side of the bars.
“Who the fuck are you?” Simon asks. The guy in the glasses grins from ear to ear.
“I’m, uh, well,” the guy reaches into the pocket of his sweater with his free hand – Simon hadn’t even noticed the large metal case he was holding in the other – and pulls out a ring of keys. “I’m here to do some first aid, and check up on you, I guess?”
Seriously?
Simon’s eyes scan the guy from head to toe. Even in the baggy clothes, Simon can tell that he’s skinny. Enough that all it would really take is a well timed lunge, a hand around his throat, and just enough pressure until he heard that distinctive snap–
“Oh, uh, right, name. Sorry! I’m Dr. Grace. Uh, Ryland Grace. You can call me Ryland, or Grace, or whatever you want, I guess? Sorry, am I talking too much? People tell me I talk too much. Anyway, I’m gonna, um, come in now. If you don’t mind.”
Simon doesn’t say anything. Not because he likes the guy’s – Grace, apparently – voice or anything. Mostly because the rambling is better than the suffocating silence, and he really doesn’t know what to say to cut him off anyway. Grace reaches out with the key and inserts it into the lock. He hesitates for a moment before he turns it.
“They, um, told me to tell you that if you try to hurt me, the collar’ll go off,” Grace says, pointing at his own neck. “So… uh, please don’t?”
Simon had considered it, honestly. A convenient hostage would make his freedom easier to obtain. Grace has killed the strategy before it could fully take shape, and Simon resigns himself to staying here through his next fight at the very least.
Grace finally turns the key and the cell door creaks open. Simon steps back. If they’re watching closely enough to shock him if he attacks their weirdo doctor, they’re watching closely enough to shock him if he makes a break for it. Grace closes the door behind him, and the lock clicks back into place.
“Okay, so…” Grace says, setting the metal case down. He glances around the cell and gestures to the cot on the other side of the room. “Wanna take a seat?”
Simon eyes the man warily, but does as he’s told. The memory of the last time someone pressed the button that sent him crashing to the ground with one damn shock a little too fresh in his mind for him to go ignoring orders from the guy who brought it up. Grace looks mildly uncomfortable, but doesn’t comment. He leans over and clicks the metal case open, flipping the lid up to reveal… a first aid kit?
A better one than what Simon was given access to. Multiple rolls of bandages and antiseptic. The isopropyl alcohol Simon was just about to pour down his throat is set aside, and Grace eyes him suspiciously for a moment.
“You know that you really can’t drink that stuff, right?” he asks, as he fishes a pack of butterfly stitches out from the bottom of the kit. “It’ll really mess you up.”
“So?” Simon asks, averting his eyes. He glares at the concrete floor, pretending not to notice the uncomfortable look on the doctor’s face.
“So,” Grace speaks up, standing from his spot beside the case and crossing the cell in barely three full steps. He takes a seat right beside Simon on the cot. Simon blinks in silent surprise. Most people here wouldn’t dare get so close to him. Certainly not close enough for Simon to reach out and touch them, even with the ever-present threat of the shock collar hanging over Simon’s head.
Grace – with all the courage of someone who isn’t sitting mere inches away from a known murderer – reaches out, fingers brushing the hem of Simon’s bloodied shirt. He glances up, as though asking for permission. Simon can’t remember the last time someone asked for permission before touching him.
Simon nods. Grace tugs his shirt up until the grash in his side, and Simon’s crude bandages, are made visible. Grace visibly cringes at the sight of the wound, and sets about correcting Simon’s shoddy work. He unwinds the bandages, applies the antiseptic, and carefully lines up each butterfly stitch along the gash. Once the gash is effectively held closed Grace wraps the bandages again. He then sets about inspecting Simon’s torso for any other significant injuries, cleaning and bandaging anything he finds along the way.
Grace’s hands are deft and… gentle as they work. A strange sensation settles, deep in Simon’s chest. His knuckles are stained with the blood of the last poor bastard thrown in front of him. Scars are forming on his knuckles. And here those pristine, untained hands are, staining themselves with the blood of the killer beside him.
It’s wrong.
(Simon never wants the gentleness to stop.)
“Everything feeling okay?” Grace asks, once he’s done assessing and bandaging Simon’s torso. He pulls back slightly and scans Simon’s torso again. Simon jolts slightly and nods his head. The injuries still ache, but not because of Grace’s handiwork.
“Great,” Grace nods to himself and reaches out towards Simon’s face. Simon pulls back, eyes widening slightly as he stares at Grace’s outstretched fingers.
Unlike every other person in this damned place, Grace doesn’t force it. He hesitates. Waiting, it seems, for Simon to allow him closer. What a strange doctor, Simon thinks, and lets his shoulders settle slightly. He doesn’t quite know why, but he trusts Grace not to hurt him.
Grace proceeds, carefully inspecting the lacerations and bruises on Simon’s face. He pulls back just long enough to grab more of the butterfly stitches and stick them across the small gash above Simon’s left eyebrow.
“There,” Grace says with a small smile. “All done.” He pulls back and reaches into that case again. He puts away the remaining medical supplies and pulls out something else. A swab and a test tube filled with a clear liquid. Simon’s eyes widen slightly, and he inches away from Grace as much as he can.
“I’m just gonna grab a quick sample,” Grace says, keeping his voice calm and level. Which does not do anything to ease Simon’s apprehension.
“A sample,” Simon repeats, his face curling into a snarl. “A sample of what?”
“Uh, your DNA?” Grace says nervously, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. Simon watches his every movement with a furious, nervous energy buzzing beneath his skin. He can’t figure out what this man is doing here. The guards and the doctors and the warden don’t act like this. They don’t hire people like this. They don’t want people like this working here, among people like Simon, or they might get the idea that those who rule over their every waking moment are weak enough to be reasoned with.
So what the hell is this man doing here, in Simon’s cell, talking to him like he’s actually a person.
It’s creepy. Unsettling. Wrong. Simon doesn’t know what to do with it.
“It’s not gonna hurt, I promise,” Grace continues, ignoring Simon’s wide-eyed, stunned stare. “I’m just gonna like, get a sample of your blood, and then it’s gonna go in this tube and I’m gonna take it with me.”
That is not the problem Simon has with it. The warning is more problematic than the promised action. Simon figured they would do something like this. The issue is that normally they would pin him down and take it, instead of the guy sheepishly explaining himself like Simon is actually worthy of being reasoned with.
What the fuck is wrong with this guy?
“What are you doing here?” Simon asks. Grace looks silently surprised, then confused.
“Uh, I told you? I’m supposed to make sure that you’re not too badly hurt, and then get a sample–”
“No,” Simon cuts him off, frowning deeper. “What’re you doing here? In this place. Why are you working here?”
“Oh,” Grace pauses, tilting his head to the side. “Uh, well, that’s kind’ve a long story. And I’m not really supposed to talk to you about…” Grace hesitates, glancing towards the cell door around the rims of his glasses before he looks at Simon again. “If I tell you, can I get my sample?”
The sample is getting taken one way or another. If Simon refuses, guards’ll come in, or the collar will paralyze him, so he might as well get something out of it. He nods his head. Grace leans forward and starts swabbing at the small gash above his eye.
“I made some higher ups really mad with some, uh, stuff I said,” Grace chuckles. That does not answer Simon’s question. Not really. He makes a face. Just about anything is enough to make the higher ups angry. Grace sees the furrow in Simon’s brow and sighs through his nose.
“I called the head of the ministry of research a waste of carbon,” he says. “Because he told me my theory was baseless.”
Simon blinks. That wasn’t what he expected.
“You?” he can’t help but ask, eying Grace up and down with a skeptical brow raised. “You said that?”
“Sure did,” Grace chuckles again, pulling the swab back and sticking it into the test tube, quickly swirling it around in the clear liquid. Simon has already completely forgotten the swab. Staring at Grace in stunned silence. “Funny thing is, I don’t really regret it,” Grace chuckles. “Stupid, huh?”
“Extremely,” Simon says with zero hesitation, which makes Grace laugh again. Compared to the screaming from the occupied cells down the hall and the squelching of blood beneath his fists, the sound is… nice. Soothing, almost.
“But hey, your wounds’re all better now!” Grace says. Which is a lie, of course, but something about the way Grace says it is encouraging. Like Simon’s stupid injuries really are all better now that Grace has had the chance to patch them up. He tucks the test tube back into the metal case and stands from the edge of Simon’s bed.
“Um, I’m supposed to tell you that the… captain will be back soon to tell you about your next fight,” Grace says, crossing back towards the door of the cell. He pulls the key out of his pocket again and unlocks the cell door, quickly slipping back into the hall and closing it behind him. “So try to get some rest until then, okay?”
Simon doesn’t say anything, electing not to dignify that with a response. Grace stands awkwardly in front of the cell for a long, silent moment. Waiting for a reply that never comes.
“Right,” Grace finally breaks the silence, nodding to himself. “I’ll, uh, see you later then.” Grace waves and starts down the hall.
Simon closes his eyes and listens to the receding footsteps until he can’t hear them anymore, and only then does he allow himself to relax.
The third time he wins, Dr. Ryland Grace shows up again with a first aid kit and another test tube.
Grace’s appearances become routine quickly. The same gentle doctor with the same gentle disposition shows up every time Simon is forced to stain his knuckles crimson. The scars on his hands get bigger and bigger, more and more defined, and he thinks he’s starting to forget that the people on the other side of the ring are just as human as he is. Just as human as he’s supposed to be, anyway.
Grace is there every single time. To clean and bandage his injuries – and then take a sample, quickly and gently, as though trying to remind Simon of his true purpose here as softly and kindly as he can. Simon knows his place in this mess. He knows that it hasn’t changed. He doesn’t understand why Grace is so gentle about it – and slowly but surely Simon gets used to Grace’s presence.
Slowly, he starts to trust that Grace isn’t going to hurt him. That Grace isn’t going to push past his limits. The shock collar never goes off and Grace never mentions the fights beyond quiet commentary and sympathy for the severity of Simon’s injuries. Slowly, Grace seems to relax too. They talk as Grace patches him up. They chat, as Grace collects his sample.
Grace becomes more than a doctor looming on the other side of the bars. More than one of them. Dr. Ryland Grace becomes someone that Simon… doesn’t mind having around. Someone he actually kind of looks forward to seeing.
(When is the last time there was anyone he actually wanted to see?)
The fights get more brutal. Grace’s brow furrows, when he finds a broken rib during his next exam.
“I’ll tell them to give you a break,” Grace says, as he carefully binds Simon’s ribs, wrapping bandages around his bare chest. “They probably won’t listen to me… but I’ll try. For now, just try to keep your breath shallow, okay? Don’t push yourself too hard.”
Simon can’t remember the last time someone stood up for him.
It turns out that they do give him a break, presumably at Grace’s request. Not a long one, but longer than he normally gets.
After the next fight, Grace shows up with hair rumpled and a notable mark on the side of his neck. Simon narrows his eyes at the spot, but doesn’t mention it. They talk about Grace’s old job. His work in molecular biology and the paper that ended up getting him in so much trouble with the head of the ministry of science.
Something about organisms not needing water to live, somewhere out there in the universe. Simon doesn’t follow most of the scientific jargon. He’s always been better with his hands than his brain. But the way Grace’s face lights up when he gets the chance to ramble about it on and on and on and on as he bandages Simon’s knuckles makes the stuffy air and darkness feel just a little bit lighter.
Another fight. The white bandages are stained deep crimson. Another corpse. Another win.
Some of them must be like him, right? Even just one of them. By the time he reaches his fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth victory, he must have fought – (killed) – at least one person like him. At last one person who just wanted their freedom. One person who just wanted to go home.
Ten fights in, the woman with the scar over her eye comes back. Grace is standing beside her. The two of them are whispering, but Simon can’t make out what they’re saying. The conversation comes to an abrupt stop once they come into view. Grace isn’t holding the metal case anymore. If there was any hope in Simon’s heart that she was here to tell him that he’s finally won his freedom, it dies when he lays eyes on Grace’s expression. He looks upset, his brow furrowed and lips pursed.
She’s here to tell him that his next fight has been arranged. She glances in Grace’s direction, looking more annoyed than her usual stoic, and looks at Simon again.
“Dr. Grace insisted that you be warned before the fight starts,” she says. “That your next opponent will be another member of your,” she scrunches up her face in disgust. Simon’s stomach sinks. “Group.”
A brother.
Simon’s eyes widen. His stomach falls through the floor. He almost forgets how to breathe. His fingers curl tight around the iron bars. He struggles to wrap his head around the concept. A brother. A brother. Another fight. A brother. How is he not done? How many more people does he need to kill? How many more times must he bloody his hands? How much longer until they’re satisfied? How long until he loses–
“I’m not doing this anymore!”
Simon snarls. All growls and bared teeth. The woman on the other side of the bars appears unfazed by this violent display, as he curls his fingers around the iron bars until his knuckles turn white. The scar running up one side of her face stands stark against her pale skin, almost glowing in the low light of the dark hallway.
Grace, however, recoils at Simon’s violent display. Were it not for the white-hot rage coursing through his veins, Simon might feel bad about that.
“I don’t give a single fuck what you do to me,” Simon snarls, his arms violently yanking against the bars again. For less than a moment, she almost looks like she thinks they’ll give beneath his strength. After all of this, maybe she’s right to be frightened. Her eyes dart to the collar around his neck. “Shock me. Fry me. Fucking kill me, I’m not doing this anymore. It’s not fucking worth it!”
“Convict,” her voice is smooth. Collected. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly. Despite the momentary fear that had flashed in her eyes upon his minor display of strength, she has quickly brought herself back to perfect composition. “Your choice has been made, and the next match has been arranged. You will–”
“Fuck you,” he snarls, shoving away from the bars and stalking around the room like a predator waiting for a chance to pounce. “You can fuck right off. How many fucking times does it take? How many more fucking times do I have to do this before you hold up your end of the fucking deal!?”
“As many times as we tell you to,” she hisses. Simon doesn’t dare recoil, despite the harsh tone to her voice. Grace, however, flinches from her tone, which just serves to piss Simon off more. “You will do as you are told. If you want your freedom–”
“I don’t fucking care anymore,” he growls, quickly advancing on the bars again. His fingers curl around the iron and his lips curl into a deeper snarl. “I’m not fucking doing it anymore. You can fuck right–”
The woman’s hand moves. Simon doesn’t dare flinch back, refusing to show even a moment’s weakness to this woman. To anyone. Only it isn’t him that she reaches for. Her fingers curl around the back of Grace’s neck. Grace flinches but doesn’t move. Doesn’t even try to pull away from her. Her fingers dig into the marks that Simon has been noticing more and more and more, and something dawns on him.
The anger he was feeling doubles. Then triples. Then he pulls against the bars so violently that, for just a moment, he thinks he sees genuine fear in her eyes. Like she thinks he’s truly capable of ripping the cell door right out of the wall and wrapping his hands around her throat. He can picture it so clearly. Bringing his fists across her face over and over and over and over and–
(He would never get his freedom after that. Part of him tells him that it would be worth it, to get her hand off of Grace’s neck.)
“Your next fight has been set,” she repeats, once she realizes that the cell door isn’t going anywhere and Simon is just uselessly snarling and gnashing his teeth in her direction. “Dr. Grace believes in you, Convict.” Her fingers tighten. Grace grimaces, and Simon’s anger flares again. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint him, would you?”
Simon’s chest tightens. Grace avoids his eyes, staring intently at the ground and curling his fingers into the sleeve of his oversized sweater. Simon had figured that Grace was just an exception. A unique case. A rare kindness in a place filled with monsters.
Simon is starting to realize that Grace is just as much of a prisoner as he is.
(For an insult? For one insult?)
Even if he fights and fights and fights to his very last breath, Simon is never going to win his freedom, is he? Once the motivation runs dry – once he realizes that they are never going to give him what he wants – they will simply find something else. They will hand him a mercy – his one and only mercy – and then they will threaten to hurt it should he not play along.
It’s a testament to his own naivete that he didn’t see this coming from the first moment Grace showed up. A testament to his blind faith in the first person willing to promise him exactly what he wants. He just has to work harder. Fight harder. Kill more. Kill kill kill kill kill–
Simon growls. A low, gutteral sound that comes from deep in his chest.
Her fingers tighten. Grace grimaces. Simon releases his grip on the bars and takes a step back. He closes his mouth and narrows his eyes into a glare. The woman seems satisfied with the display, and releases Grace’s neck.
“Good choice,” she says, satisfied with Simon’s obedience. She looks at Grace with the same analytical, cold expression that she uses for Simon. “I suppose you’ll be useful after all, Dr. Grace.”
Grace doesn’t say anything. The woman starts down the hall and, meekly, Grace follows behind her. Before he can disappear down the hall, Grace looks back. His eyes are half-lidded and he looks goddamn exhausted. He doesn’t know how he hasn’t noticed before now.
Grace quickly turns back around and follows the woman down the hall until Simon can’t see them anymore.
“I’m sorry,”
A crazy way for Grace to open their first conversation since that little display.
Simon would normally curse at him, he thinks. Something about how stupid it is for Grace to apologize for something that really isn’t his fault. The guy is just too damn earnest. Simon wouldn’t buy it even if the scarred woman showed up and told him that the whole damn thing was Grace’s plan from the start.
Simon thinks that he wants to say something about that. He thinks that he wants to open his mouth and tell Grace it isn’t your fault. He thinks he does. He also thinks that his chest aches and his arms hurt and his knuckles are bleeding and his gaze is stained a deep, dark crimson and the collar around his throat has never felt tighter and all he can see when he looks down at the ground is–
He was younger than me.
The thought rings dully through Simon’s ears. What has Eden done in the time since Simon was arrested? What have they been doing? Sending younger and younger boys off to their deaths and hoping that something would shake loose? Simon’s hands hurt. His knuckles are bleeding, but he knows not all the blood is his.
He was younger than me.
“Simon?” Grace’s voice is quiet. He’s trying to get Simon’s attention. He’s holding a… cloth? Damp. Simon holds his empty hands out in front of him and remembers the feeling of skin beneath his fists and all he can hear is the ringing in his ears and the screams of the crowd and the sobbing and the pleading and brother, please, brother brother brother–
Simon drops his head into his hands. Blood smears across his skin. Not that there was much left unmarred. He drags his fingers down his face, drawing bloody lines across his cheeks.
He was just a kid.
“Simon,” Grace says his name again. Simon still isn’t listening. He barely remembers that Grace is even here. The world feels ephemeral and far away, and Simon doesn’t think he can take this anymore. He doesn’t think he can–
Someone is touching his hand.
Simon flinches. Jumps. Recoils. It’s an automatic response. Like the contact sent a jolt of electricity through his body. It didn’t. He’s familiar with the real thing by now. The outstretched hand recoils, and it takes far too long for him to process that it was Grace’s hand. Grace reached out to touch him.
“Sorry,” Grace says, immediately. “Sorry. I just–” Grace swallows. Simon can see his adam’s apple bobbing. “...can I just, um, clean off your hands?”
Simon stares at Grace for a moment, processing the request. Clean off your hands. Simon looks down at his blood-slicked palms and wonders if it’s even possible to wipe them clean.
He nods. Grace gently reaches out again, and this time Simon doesn’t recoil.
Grace takes Simon’s hand in his gentle grip. The damp cloth carefully rubbing over the sensitive skin. Scars dot his palms, the backs of his hands, his knuckles. They’ve gotten worse in the time he’s been here. The two of them sit together in silence as Grace gently drags the cloth over his skin again and again until Simon’s palms are free of blood and the re-opened scars on his knuckles are wrapped in fresh bandages.
“Look at me,” Grace orders gently. Simon obeys without hesitation. When Grace reaches out to touch his face, Simon doesn’t even recoil. Knowing that Grace has no intentions beyond gentle care and perhaps a touch of antiseptic.
“I’m sorry,” Grace says again, his voice tight and strained. Simon is finally… present enough, he thinks, to have a response to that statement. He furrows his brow slightly and stares into Grace’s eyes searching for the right thing to say.
“For..?”
“I, um,” Grace rubs the back of his neck. “For… everything. You don’t… you shouldn’t, um, listen to them. Let them force you to keep doing this. Just for my sake. You should…” Grace swallows again. “...I’m sorry. I’m such a coward.”
“A coward,” Simon repeats, brows furrowing further. “A coward who called the head of the ministry of science a….” what was it again?
“...a staggering waste of carbon,” Grace says, almost under his breath.
“Yeah, that,” Simon nods slightly. “And you’re a coward?”
“Mmmm,” Grace hums, averting his gaze. “Trust me, if I had known how that was going to end up… maybe I’d have done a better job of holding my tongue.”
Simon doesn’t know what to say to that. His hands are trembling. They were drenched in blood just moments ago. Maybe they still are. But when he looks down at them right now, they look clean. Clean enough that, maybe for a moment, he can close his eyes and pretend. Maybe he can–
“We’re both cowards,” Simon says, shaking his head. “All of this shit only started ‘cause I was too scared to fucking die.”
“Pretty reasonable fear, I think,” Grace says with a lopsided smirk. Simon huffs and shrugs his shoulders.
“Yeah, maybe, but it doesn’t change that I was a fucking coward about it,” he says. Really, that’s all he is. All he has been. A coward. Through and through, he’s been a fucking coward. He’s sent eleven other prisoners down to hell because Simon was too afraid to accept the death he deserved. Because he clawed and clung to a life that he doesn’t deserve.
Grace stood up for his beliefs. Simon sold them for a façade of freedom and was stunned to discover that the devil had lied right to his face.
“...well,” Grace says, quietly. He reaches over and sets his hands on Simon’s hand, keeping him from digging his nails into his wrist. “If we’re both cowards,” Grace swallows, hard, and his grip on Simon’s wrist tightens. Just enough to be felt. Not enough to hurt. Not enough to restrict. Not enough.
“...someone once told me that… that you just have to find someone to be brave for.”
Simon looks up and finds Grace’s eyes.
Someone to be brave for, huh.
Simon looks back down. He shifts slightly, until his hand is gently wrapped around the back of Grace’s.
Maybe he can manage that.