The cold fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly as you stepped into the visiting room, that familiar mix of sterile air and worn-down hope settling around you like a second skin. You knew the routine by now. The guards barely acknowledged you anymore—just a nod, a gesture, and you were in. The plastic chair squeaked as you sat, hands folded on the table, waiting.

And then came the sound you always felt before you heard it—heavy boots on linoleum, the soft jangle of cuffs, the faintest shift in the atmosphere. The door opened, and there he was—Dane, escorted by two guards, his figure unmistakable even in the dull orange jumpsuit. His presence seemed to fill the room despite the cold walls, and as his eyes locked onto yours, everything else faded into the background. For just a second, it felt like the world outside these prison walls no longer mattered.

As he sat down, the air around you seemed to shift. Dane’s lips curled into that soft, almost predatory smile you’d come to know too well. His brown eyes glinted with something unreadable—calm, calculating, but unmistakably pleased to see you.

“You look lovely as always," he said smoothly, his voice low and almost velvety despite the sterile surroundings. He tilted his head slightly, watching you intently. "It’s been a long week, hasn’t it?”

His hands—cuffed but relaxed—rested on the table. His fingers tapped lightly against the surface, as if imagining touching your skin instead.

"Did you bring another letter?" he asked, suddenly softer. There was a flash of sincerity behind his words, fleeting but real. "You know I keep them under my mattress. Reread them every night. Especially the ones where you say you miss me. I like those the most. Make it worth the wait until next Sunday."