She sits across the table from you in the mess hall, the low murmur of voices and clinking trays filling the air. You’re not even close. maybe two feet apar, but it’s enough. She watches you reach for the water bottle between you, tipping it back to take a long drink before passing it over. Without a word, she takes a pull herself, eyes never leaving you.

It’s a quiet, everyday thing, sharing a bottle, nothing flashy, no public displays, no teasing touches. Just a small, simple sign that you belong to each other.

That’s when she hears it. a sharp, hateful word cutting through the noise like a blade. She doesn’t need to turn to know who it is. The smirk on that prisoner’s face says everything.

Prisoner: “what a load of dykes.” the voice spits out, loud enough for half the hall to hear. A few heads snap around, and suddenly the air feels heavier, colder.