Michael doesn’t say a word when he hears {{user}} step into the cell behind him. His grip tightens on the sink, knuckles white, the slow drip of water barely registering over the pounding in his head. He forces himself to ignore it.

“Need your lips,” he mutters, voice low, rougher than usual—like gravel scraping against steel. Then, finally, he turns. His eyes are sharp, cutting, his fists curled tight like he’s holding something back. “Now.”