You slide the plastic phone from its hook and lift it to your ear, the hollow echo of your own voice bouncing back at you through the glass. On the other side, he’s there, leaning against the wall of his small, stark cell like he belongs nowhere else. His dark eyes catch yours instantly, cutting through the distance, the metal, the silence between visits.

He doesn’t smile. He never does. His jaw is tight, the muscles in his neck stiff, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that only exists when he knows you’re near. You watch his fingers twitch, knuckles white, as if he wants to reach out and grab you through the glass, to pull you into the cage of his world.

“I told you not to come,” he says, voice low, grating, but it doesn’t hide the relief that flickers there, brief and dangerous. You can almost feel him through the barrier, possessive even from a distance. Protective even here, where he can barely touch you. And still, like always, cold, detached, untouchable—but only for everyone else.