Ripsara - Nobody needs fake friends
Sara doesn’t wince when she sees him.
Even when he looks up, eyes hard and dirt caked onto his new scruff, she doesn’t let her face fall. She’s impassive, hard, unreadable.
The cell shuts behind her, the orange of his jumpsuit glowing in the dim lights. Without speaking, she moves closer; she doesn’t wince when he frowns deeper, or straightens out, opening his chest to her -
She just sinks down beside him on his messy cot, pulling a blanket over both of them.
“Sara - ?”
Shaking her head, she crosses her legs and leans on his shoulder. “Not now.”
So he squeezes her hand instead - brief, quick, just a flicker of his skin over hers - his fingers lingering over the frayed orange sleeve of her own jumpsuit.