( no, she doesn't sound sorry. alina recognizes the strained, brittle quality to grace's voice for what it is: a woman precariously close to a breaking point, like a creaking floorboard finally ready to collapse beneath the weight it's endured. panic embeds its claws in alina's throat, slowly making the climb up her esophagus, if only because she can hear herself echoed in it — gritted teeth to keep the tears at bay, saving her weakness for empty rooms and closed doors, where no one could peck at her open wounds.

grace is easy prey for these vultures, if she shows them they've drawn blood with their little games.

she expects nails in her skin for the trouble. expects to be swiped at by grace's claws out of some misplaced fight-or-flight instinct, a stressed animal that can't recognize it's being saved. still, she settles her (unbound) hand atop grace's, squeezes once. their shoulders brush as they lean in, alina's voice dropping into a low hush. )

Don't let them see they've gotten under your skin. They're cruel enough to delight in tormenting you.

( pointedly, her eyes refuse to linger on the flushed-pink tip of grace's nose, the ruddiness of her cheeks. it feels too much like peeking through a window grace hadn't meant to leave drawn open, a peeping tom on her vulnerabilities. )

Come on. ( her hand drops, awkwardly, back to her side. ) We'll find you a drink to make being stuck with me more tolerable.