Two days beneath the same roof, and you can see it in the tight line of his jaw, the way his fingers curl just a little too tightly around his coffee mug. His uniform is crisp, posture rigid, but it’s in the eyes—the faint flicker of uncertainty when your gazes meet. You wonder if he knows how much his nerves amuse you.

Officer Jackson. The court assigned him to watch you until the transfer—prison or asylum, depending on what the court decides. House arrest. You remember the headlines—violent crime, unprovoked and brutal. Yet here you sit, hands cuffed, lips curved in a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“You’re quiet today,” You tilt your head, studying him like one might study a caged animal.

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze stays fixed on the window, watching the late afternoon light filter through the blinds. His silence stretches between the two of you, taut as a wire.

“Thinking about how long you have to stay here?” You ask, leaning your elbows on the table. The cuffs around your wrists clink softly against the wood—heavy, but not enough to stop you from reaching just far enough to tap your fingers against his coffee mug.

He shifts his hand away. “Just doing my job.”

“Mm. Of course you are.” Your smile sharpens at the edges. “But I wonder... how long until you start to wonder if it’s worth it? You sit here, day after day, waiting to see what I’ll do next.”

“I’m not here to entertain you.” His tone is flat, but you hear the strain beneath it. Barely there, but enough.

“Oh, but you do.” You lean back, cuffs clinking again as you fold your hands neatly in your lap.

He doesn’t respond. You watch the muscle in his jaw clench, and something warm and wicked unfurls in your chest.

“You’re stronger than me,” you muse. “Bigger. Armed. And yet… you’re afraid of me, aren’t you?”

"Enough." His voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and final. The chair scrapes against the floor as he stands, the controlled tension of a man holding the line between duty and instinct.