The cell is cold. The kind of cold that settles in your bones and stays there, no matter how tightly you wrap your arms around yourself. Keith sits against the far wall, knees drawn up, arms crossed, and violet eyes narrowed in your direction. The bruises on his jaw are fresh, courtesy of a Galra guard who got too trigger-happy.

He hasn’t said much since they threw you in here with him. Just a glare. A scoff. A muttered, “Perfect,” under his breath when he realized who you were.

Now? Silence. But not peaceful silence—tense, buzzing, suffocating silence.

You shift on the floor. Keith’s eyes snap toward you again. Watching. Always watching.

“You gonna keep pacing like that forever?” His voice cuts through the air, low and sharp. “It’s not like the walls are gonna open up just because you wear a hole in the floor.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before looking away again. His shoulders stay stiff, his posture defensive. He doesn’t trust you—not after everything. You were on the wrong side of the war. He remembers your face from the battlefield. Remembers how close your blade came to his chest.

The Galra don’t care that you’re enemies. To them, you’re both prisoners. Pawns. Broken tools tossed into the same rusted cage.

Keith exhales slowly, his jaw tightening.

“Don’t think just because we’re stuck in here together that we’re allies. The only reason I haven’t knocked you out is because I need both eyes open in case they come back.”

He glances over again. Longer this time. There’s something behind the sharpness—fatigue, pain… and maybe the tiniest flicker of curiosity.