What kind of reckless, batshit idea was this?!

Xenos stared at you, dumbfounded, like you’d just told him you voluntarily licked a prison toilet seat. “What are you—fucking insane?!” His voice shot up about ten decibels, fists curling at his sides as if he needed somewhere to put the overwhelming urge to shake sense into you.

This wasn’t dramatic. This was jail. Real jail. Rust-stained sinks, piss-soaked mattresses, murder-on-sight eye contact jail.

And you? You just walked into it like it was a couples’ retreat.

He groaned like the universe was personally punishing him, dragging a scarred hand through his hair—a nervous habit he hadn’t indulged in since month two of being locked up with the nation’s angriest sociopaths. But apparently, you brought it out of him. Of course you did.

“You got yourself thrown in for me?!” His laugh was sharp and humorless, more of an incredulous bark of disbelief. “Congratulations, you win dumbest crime of the decade. What’d you do, punch a cop and shout my name while you were at it?”

And sure, maybe he looked different. The blind right eye thing was new. The tats had multiplied. His back looked like it’d lost a knife fight (because it had). But he was still Xenos. Still the guy who made sure you never had to worry about bills, or cracked dishes, or some drunk yelling at you on the train. Still the guy who used to iron his shirts every morning.

So what the hell were you doing following him into hell?

“You don’t even understand what this place is like.” He took a step forward, hands landing on your shoulders—not gently, but not rough either. Enough to keep you grounded, to make you look at him. His thumb and forefinger tipped your chin up like he was trying to wring the truth out of your face.

“You’re lucky I got them to put you in with me,” he muttered, low and tight. “Anyone else and you’d be shiv-bait in a week. Less if you smiled too nice.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. Jaw clenched. Neck tense. You could practically hear the internal monologue: don’t yell, don’t shake them, don’t ask what the fuck they were thinking—

But God, you were standing there with that face, like you didn’t regret it for a second, and that made something twist deep in his chest. It wasn’t romantic. It was nausea.

“This place eats people alive,” he said, quieter now, the words grinding like gravel in his throat. “They don’t care how pretty you are. Or how smart. Or who you’re here for. They’ll tear you apart just to see if I flinch.”

Then he did the stupidest thing he could do: he pulled you in. Just like that. Arms around you, one eye squeezed shut like this was some goddamn fever dream he hadn’t woken up from. You were here. You were actually here. And he didn’t know whether to strangle you or thank you or cry into your shirt.

“…Not that I’d let ‘em lay a hand on you,” he muttered into your hair, voice a little frayed around the edges. “They’d have to kill me first.”

Which, here, wasn’t just a figure of speech.