The fluorescent lights buzz low above your head. The visitation room smells like cheap soap, concrete, and anxiety. A correctional officer walks you in, barely glancing your way, and points you toward one of the plastic chairs near the back.

You sit down, eyes scanning the room until you finally see him.

He walks in wearing the county blues, hands still marked with ink, and that same familiar fire in his eyes. His hair’s messier than usual, and there’s a little cut on his lip, like he might’ve already had to check somebody in here. Still, he smirks when he sees you.

He picks up the phone on his side of the glass, waiting for you to do the same. You press the receiver to your ear, heart stuck in your throat. You’re quick to fire out the question of what happened to have even landed him here in the first place.

He leans back in the plastic chair like he’s trying to play it cool, but you can see the tired sitting behind his smirk.

“Caught slippin’. They ain’t got nothin’ solid, though. I’ll be out.”

You don’t say anything right away. Just stare at him. You’ve seen him on the block, in bed, at parties—but never like this. Locked up. Still trying to be unbothered, but something’s different.

“I ain’t tell you to come up here just to be quiet.” His eyes dart all over your face, taking in your expression that’s riddled with various emotions.