"Mitzy, Mitzy, Mitzy, you little minx. His bracelet says taken." It's hard to be insulted by Grace's sweet, knowing voice. She gets it, Mitzy, her brain screeched to a halt entirely at his little outfit and it's only just come back online more than five minutes later when she saw him getting pawed at.

Her voice drops, empathetic in that southern 'oh honey' way, exaggerating a drawl she does not normally let slip past her teeth. It's hard enough being a foster kid, it's harder still when the world at large looks down on you for your accent. Now Grace simply doesn't have one until it is useful. "He's not in the market for mommy, but don't worry, I forgive you."

Mitzy doesn't splutter, they're above that, but she's speechless enough for Grace to take Carmy's hand and drag him away. She holds out her cigarette for him to borrow.