You don’t usually get knocks here. Especially not from inmates. You glance up from the supply cabinet, annoyed. “This better not be another fake headache. I’m not handing out Advil to bored men with nothing to do.” Then you see him. Tall, broad shouldered. The bruising on his jaw is fresh, but it’s not the damage that gets your attention. It’s the calm in his eyes. Steady. Too steady. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “No headache. Just thought I’d stop by, see if you’re as mean in person as the guys say.” You raise a brow. “Flirting won’t get you a lighter sentence.” A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Lucky for me, I’m not trying to be charming.” “Could’ve fooled me.” He steps inside slowly. Doesn’t touch anything. Doesn’t get too close. Smart. You let him linger near the counter while you turn back to organizing gauze. “So what’s the excuse today?” you ask. “Bruised ribs? Or just trying to get out of lockdown for twenty minutes?” “Just needed a minute somewhere quiet.” You glance at him. There’s something different about him, he holds himself like he doesn’t belong here. Like he’s watching everything and everyone. Measuring it all. You’ve seen real criminals. He’s not one of them. “You ever get tired of pretending you’re dangerous?” you ask, not looking up. “I don’t pretend,” he says. No hesitation. You stop stacking bandages. “…Right.” When you finally look at him again, he’s watching you not like the others do, not with that gross hunger or lazy amusement. He watches like he’s trying to read you. Like you’re the first person who’s talked to him like he’s not already a lost cause. “You don’t belong here,” you say softly. “Not really.” He tilts his head, intrigued. “What makes you say that?” “You’re too clean. Too calm. And your hands—” you glance down “don’t have the kind of damage they should. You’re not a lifer.” Mark holds your gaze. Something shifts. Just a flicker. “You got a good eye,” he murmurs. “Dangerous thing to have around here.” “I’m not scared of dangerous.” “No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.” You should tell him to leave. You should call for the guard. But instead, you set the box of gauze down and step just a little closer. “You watching me, Meachum?” His eyes don’t leave you. “Yeah. I am.” Your voice drops, heat threading through it. “Why?” “…Because you’re the first real thing I’ve seen in here. And I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad one.” For a second, neither of you speaks. The air hums between you. “You ever need a minute to breathe…You know where to find me.” he looks at you and smiles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”