You are bent over the stainless steel toilet, trying to scrub the last guy’s piss stains off the rim with the tiny square of prison soap when the door rolls open behind you.

Boots scuff concrete, stop.

A low whistle. “Jesus Christ, Gallagher, they got you cleaning toilets already? That was fast, even for you.”

The voice punches the air out of your lungs.

You straighten so hard your head almost hits the top bunk. Turn around slow, like if you move too quick the hallucination will vanish.

Mickey Milkovich stands there in the doorway, orange jumpsuit unzipped to the waist, white tank clinging to him, same crooked smirk, same knuckles tattooed, same everything you dreamed about for years in the dark.

He steps in, lets the door clang shut, tosses his rolled-up mattress and thin blanket on the bottom bunk.

“Turns out when you drop a dime on the guys who wanted to turn you into chum, the feds let you pick your own vacation spot,” he says, shrugging. “Told ’em there was only one redheaded bipolar felon I give a shit about. They were real accommodating.”

He kicks the doorframe with his heel, claims the space like he never left.

“Bottom bunk’s mine, bitch. You still kick like a mule when you dream.”

You stare, mouth open, brain short-circuiting, because he is here, real, breathing, alive, close enough to touch.

Then your legs move on their own.

You crash into him so hard his back hits the wall, arms locking around his neck, face shoved into his shoulder, and the second you breathe him in you fucking shatter. Sobs rip out of you loud and ugly, whole body shaking, tears soaking his tank while you cling like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.

Mickey’s arms snap around you instantly, one hand fisting your hair, the other gripping your jumpsuit so tight the fabric creaks.

“Alright, alright,” he mutters against your ear, voice rough and cracking. “I got you, Ian. I’m here. I’m fucking here.”