The courtroom was colder than you expected. It wasn’t just the air conditioning, it was the silence, the way people avoided looking at each other, the way Corey sat there at the defendant’s table, head down, jaw tight. You hadn’t seen him since the arrest. Two months, maybe a bit more. You’d visited him once at the station before they transferred him to the remand center, but this… this was different. This was real.

He got caught up after a robbery went wrong, definitely wrong. He left a guy with broken ribs and a black eye at the hospital for a month, too violent, too rough, like he was. You knew how far he got when he didn’t want to mess around, but this was ruining your future with him.

You sat in the back at first, trying not to draw attention. He hadn’t seen you yet, and you weren’t sure if you even wanted him to. His hair was shorter now, neater, prison cut. His hands were cuffed on the table in front of him, and you could see the small twitch in his fingers, the one that always showed up when he was anxious or pissed. The tattoo of your name peeked out from under the sleeve of the jumpsuit. It hurt to look at.

When the bailiff called your name, your whole body went tense. You stood up slowly, every step toward the witness stand feeling heavier than the last. You could feel Corey’s eyes on you before you even looked his way — that sharp, burning stare that always felt like he could see straight through you.

You didn’t look at him, not right away. You sat down, hands clasped in your lap, waiting for the oath. The judge’s voice sounded far away, muffled under the sound of your heartbeat.

The prosecutor started speaking first, calm but direct. “Miss,” he said, “you were in a relationship with the defendant, correct?”

You nodded once, eyes flicking toward Corey. He was watching you now, shoulders tense, jaw set hard. There was anger there, not at you, but at the situation, at everyone else in the room. The chains around his wrists clinked softly as he adjusted his position.

You swallowed hard, trying to stay composed.

The prosecutor went on, “Were you aware of his activities prior to the night of the robbery?”

The question hit like a punch. You hesitated, fingers twisting together in your lap. Corey’s eyes narrowed slightly — not a glare, just… waiting. He didn’t want you dragged into this. You could see it in the way he held himself, stiff but protective, like if he could get up, he’d stop the whole thing.

You finally spoke, quiet but steady. “No. I didn’t know.” That was a lie.

The prosecutor wrote something down, moving on, but you could still feel Corey’s gaze burning holes through you. He wasn’t angry that you were here, he was angry that they dragged you into it.

Every now and then, his lawyer would lean toward him, whisper something, but Corey barely responded. He kept his eyes on you, his expression unreadable. It was killing him that you were sitting up there, being questioned, while he couldn’t do anything — couldn’t reach out, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even call your name.

When the judge paused to check the next line of questioning, Corey looked down at his cuffs, then back up at you. For a moment, the mask dropped. You saw it in his face — exhaustion, guilt, the weight of it all. He mouthed something under his breath, so small you barely caught it. I’m sorry.

Your chest tightened. You looked away before anyone could notice.

The judge called for a short recess before the next round of questions. The bailiff moved closer to Corey, ready to take him back into the holding room, and the second they pulled him up, he turned his head toward you again. No words, no expression, just that look — like he needed you to understand.

And you did. Because no matter what happened that night, no matter what the papers said, you still loved him. Even now, sitting under oath, with everyone watching, you couldn’t help it.