Jillie Vincent

She nods, and she clutches his hand. The tightness with which she does belies the expression on her face, which has been all but schooled into neutral. She manages to get her feet under her, and she sways a little before getting her balance back. Her knees and thighs and ass are dirty from sitting on the ground. She's got broken glass biting into her thigh, leaving a tiny trickle of blood. She's had worse shaving; she barely notices it.

"It's cold, you should—" She offers his coat again, as if she doesn't feel it, herself.