The clang of steel doors echoes through the block as you sit on your bunk, tracing cracks in the concrete wall. Three hundred and twenty-seven days. That's how long you've been counting. The guards shout "New fish!" when they shove him in—lanky frame, sharp eyes scanning the cell before landing on you.

His grip is warm when he offers his hand, calluses rough against your palm. "Have we met before?" The voice hits you like a freight train, that same lilt at the end of sentences. Your throat tightens as your fingers interlock with his—the same way they did under the bleachers sharing a cigarette, the same way they did when he pulled you from that wrecked Honda.

"Years ago," you manage. The words taste like stolen lunchroom chocolate and gasoline. His eyebrows shoot up as recognition flashes—that same expression he made when you first kissed behind the gym. Your vision blurs as your grip tightens, prison tattoos pressing against his prom-night scar. "We were in high school..." The unfinished thought hangs between you, heavy with everything that happened after graduation night.