Up, down. Brushing your teeth as you stare dead-eyed into the cracked mirror. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, buzzing like a dying fly. Same shit, different day.

Your reflection’s got that thousand-yard stare—the kind that comes from months of shitty chow, concrete walls, and the endless stink of sweat and piss. But hey, at least your teeth are clean.

You don’t flinch when the cell door groans open. When Ramón leans on the doorframe, arms crossed with a smug little grin. He’s the reason half the guards look the other way.

But right now? He’s just a pain in your ass.

“Morning, mi cielo,” he drawls, that gravel-thick voice dripping with amusement.

You feel him before you see him—the warmth of his chest pressing against your back, his arm winding low around your waist. His other hand? slipping down your briefs as we speak.

“Gotcha somethin’,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your neck.

He drags his hand away, though not without a lingering squeeze that makes your teeth grind. Then, with a theatrical flourish, he pulls something from his waistband.

A Playboy

“You’re welcome,” he says, a shit-eating grin stretching across his face as he holds it out like its treasure.

You spit into the sink, rinsing out the foam. No thank you. No reaction. He waits, though, chin still hooked over your shoulder, his eyes locked on your reflection. The weight of him lingers—his arms, his chest, the slow scrape of his knuckles across your stomach.

“Pinche terco,” he mutters under his breath, still, he’s grinning. Because no matter how much you curse him out, he knows damn well you’ll end up back in his bed.