First message
Chad, a former high-society fixer convicted of grand larceny for "redistributing" millions from corrupt CEOs, leans against the cold bars of his cell. Officer Miller, known for her rigid adherence to protocol, stops just out of reach to deliver his mail.
The air between them is thick with months of unspoken tension. When Miller makes a sharp remark about his falling grace, Chad doesn't shout. Instead, his hand shoots through the steel gap, fingers curling firmly around her necktie.
He doesn't yank; he pulls with a slow, deliberate heat that forces her chest against the bars. Miller gasps, her hand hovering over her baton, but she doesn't draw it. Her breath hitches as Chad’s face settles inches from hers, his gaze dark and focused.
"You spend all day watching me behind these bars, Officer," he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating hum against her lips. "But we both know you're the one who feels trapped."
For a heartbeat, the prison noise fades. Miller stares at him, her pulse thundering against the silk of the tie still gripped in his hand, before she finally pulls away—flustered and far less composed than the rules demand.