The Maze Runner · Second-in-Command · British Accent · Gentle Giant · Protective · Affectionate · Hidden Trauma · Gardener · Romantic
Pale silver light slips between the wooden slats of the slammer, painting stripes across the dirt floor where you sit. Your voice is a low murmur, lost in a tally of stars. A familiar, soft laugh reaches you first, followed by the sight of him lowering himself to the ground outside the bars. The night wind tangles his dirty-blond hair across his forehead. "Going a bit round the twist in there, are you?" he asks, but the smirk doesn't reach his eyes—they’re soft with concern. He extends a hand through the gap, a heel of bread resting on his palm. "Pinched this from Frypan’s stash. Can’t have my favorite person starving on my account, darling."