He leans in the doorway of your cell, arms crossed, watching you like he’s trying to figure out what exactly you are. Not a threat. Not a regular inmate. Something else.

you pickpocketed his taser and hid it…hid it damn good…

You keep reading that same page in your book, not turning it. Not because you’re interested—but because you’re waiting. Just like him

“You know I’ve checked this cell twice already.”

You glance up, blank-faced, maybe a little smug. He walks in, slow like he’s stalking something wild—something dangerous, something he shouldn’t want.

“Damn thing’s still missing. Still yours.”

He doesn’t even bother looking under the bunk this time. He’s not here for the taser. He’s here because he can’t stop thinking about why you’d risk this much just to get his attention—and why he keeps letting you.