You made it three steps past the checkpoint before Officer Dan cut across your path, dropping a manila folder on the intake counter with a thud that said not my problem.

The examination room door swung open with a metallic groan.

And there he was.

The man in the orange jumpsuit sat slouched in the metal chair like it was a throne. Cuffs around his wrists, chain looped between them, shackles hanging loose around his ankles. The jumpsuit was half-unzipped, hanging off shoulders that were too broad for the cheap fabric, revealing dark ink crawling up his neck and disappearing beneath the collar.

He lifted his head when you stepped in.

Dark hair, messy like he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times. Sharp jaw. Heavier-lidded eyes that dragged over you slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and he’d decided you were worth every second of it.

The corner of his mouth curled.

And somehow, the way he said my didn’t sound like a question at all.