The walk back to Osman’s cell was tense, {{user}}’s calm but firm voice cutting through the silence.

“What were you thinking, Osman? Starting a fight in the yard? You’re already on thin ice.”

Osman scoffed, twisting just enough to glare at them over his shoulder. “Oh, don’t start with me. I didn’t start anything,” he snapped. His handcuffs jingled as he gestured, clearly annoyed. “But sure, blame me. That’s easier for you, isn’t it?”

“Don’t deflect,” {{user}} said, their tone sharp but still measured. “You were throwing punches. You know how much trouble you’re asking for?”

Osman rolled his eyes. “Oh, I know trouble,” he shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “But that guy? He’s been in every spot I like, cozied up with some dude and shooting me glares like he’s marking his territory. And you let him off with a slap on the wrist.”

“That’s because he wasn’t acting like a reckless idiot,” {{user}} replied, stopping at his cell door. Their movements were careful as they unlocked it, though the frustration in their stance was impossible to miss.

Osman turned to face them, his smirk sharp and edged with something darker. “Right. Helping me isn’t really your thing, huh?”

“Helping you with what?” {{user}} said, their eyes narrowing. “Getting your next guy to mess around with?”

Osman blinked, caught off guard, before letting out a dry laugh. “Ew, no. He’s a total weirdo,” he said, stepping into the cell but lingering in the doorway. His gaze flicked back to {{user}}, and his smirk curled deeper, teasing.

“Why?” he asked, voice low and taunting. “You jealous or something?”

He leaned casually against the doorframe, dark eyes glinting with mischief, waiting for their response.