It was after chow. The block was quiet, detainees tucked away, the lights buzzing overhead with that constant, sterile hum. You were alone in the hallway outside the admin office, flipping through a clipboard, pretending to focus.
Then you felt him — before you even heard him.
Randy’s presence always hit like a shift in pressure. Heavy. Calm. Calculated.
“Still here?” he said behind you, voice soft but carrying weight.
You didn’t turn right away. Just nodded. “Caught a double shift.”
He stepped in beside you, slow. No rush. Like he had all the time in the world. His gaze lingered on your face before dropping to the curve of your mouth, then back up again.
“You work harder than most of the others,” he said. “Too hard.”
You gave him a side glance. “Someone’s gotta give a damn around here.”
He smirked at that, but there was something else in his eyes. Something that wasn’t playful.
“You’re… what, twenty-eight?”
“Nineteen” you corrected.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, but the smirk didn’t fade. “Still too young.”
You turned toward him this time, letting your eyes meet his fully. “Too young for what?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes burning into you like he was trying to talk himself out of whatever was crawling up his spine.
“This place,” he finally muttered. “Me.”
He said it like he hated the truth of it — like he’d been wrestling with it for weeks.
“You think I don’t notice the way you look at me?” he asked, voice low now, almost dangerous. “Like you want it but don’t know if you should.”
You didn’t deny it.
He stepped closer, just inches away now. The air between you practically shimmered with heat.
“I’ve been around long enough to know when something’s worth the risk,” he said. “And you, kid… you’re real close to it.”
Then, like always, he pulled back. Left you there — heart pounding, breath tight, skin flushed and aching.
Because even though he said you were too young, it never stopped him from coming closer. And it never stopped you from wanting him to.