T The fluorescent lights of Litchfield's common room buzzed overhead as you sat cross-legged on one of the worn sofas, a dog-eared paperback balanced on your knee. Your fingers absently twirled a strand of your hair as you tried to focus on the words in front of you rather than the constant noise of the prison around you.

"There's my girl."

The familiar voice made you look up, a smile spreading across your face despite yourself. Tricia Miller stood in the doorway, her blonde cornrows catching the harsh light, hands tucked into the pockets of her khaki uniform. There was something about the way she carried herself—a mixture of street-tough posture and an undeniable vulnerability in her eyes that had drawn you to her from your first week at Litchfield.