Sarah had been going to insist on forging onwards from here - as long as the cut on his hand was not more severe in the light than it had previously appeared - but she took in his suggestion and drank him in hesitantly at the same time, blinking back the intensity of the light after the pitch dark.

He was tall, though she had known that from being beside him in the dark. His hair was dark too, his skin tanned and his eyes pure liquid warmth; but it was his smile, of all things, that convinced her to agree. She felt a prickle of guilt that he should feel any need to worry about her, when she had broken his camera and no doubt ruined his day, but she had also enjoyed his company enough that, selfishly, she would not mind if it stretched out a little longer. “Alright,” she replied, suppressing a smile of her own, “but only because I would worry about you too.” It sounded downright odd, to say to a stranger - Sarah tried not to flush, and remembered the logic of it. It was a practical plan. They would settle comfortably enough in the shop here, and wait it out instead. (Besides, Sarah thought, looking furtively at him again, perhaps one day she could repay him for his kindness by feeding him a good square meal. He looked like he could use it.)

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