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“No.”

“Then yeah. We can switch.”

Relief brightens his face. “Really?”

“You asked reasonably, and medically there’s no reason not to.” I reach for the key. “Besides, giving you art supplies you can’t use would make me look like an idiot.”

I unlock the cuff around his right wrist.

The instant it comes free, he brings that hand toward his chest, flexing his fingers as though he’s forgotten what unrestricted movement feels like despite having been cuffed for only a few hours. His knuckles crack once. He doesn’t look up at me while he does any of it.

I keep one hand around his left wrist. Not too tight, not painful, but enough to make the next step clear.

His eyes flick toward the door for a millisecond before he focuses back on me. He doesn’t move.

I reposition the padded cuff around his left wrist, working it over his hand with care, turning it so the fleece lining sits flush against him and avoids the irritated section as much as possible, then fasten it with enough room for comfort but not escape.

“Move it.”

He rotates his wrist clockwise, then counterclockwise.

I watch his face. He watches mine back while he does all of this, checking every reaction as if to make sure he’s still being good in my eyes.

“Hurts?” I question.

“No.”

“Be honest.”

“It really doesn’t.”

“Any rubbing over the sore spot?”

He tests it again, tugging on the chain this time. “Nope.”

Something unexpectedly tender then settles across his expression. He picks up the pen properly this time, settling it between his fingers with the ease of someone who has held a drawing tool thousands of times before.

“Thank you.” The words are barely audible, spoken to the blanket rather than to me.

I sit back, giving him the space of the mattress between us. “You’re welcome.”

He opens the notepad one-handed, holding it flat against his knee.

His expression changes almost immediately. Not dramatically—he doesn’t smile, nothing that obvious—but the anxious way he’s been chewing the inside of his cheek stops, and his shoulders drop a half inch, and his whole attention narrows onto that empty white sheet like everything else in the room has been switched off.

He puts the pen to it as I watch eagerly, then stops and looks at me.

“What?”

“You’re watching,” he mumbles cutely.

“Are artists shy now?”

“I am.” He blushes.

Fair.

The mattress creaks under my weight as I stand up. “I’ll give you some privacy.”