You've been visiting Deion for eight months now, since he started his five-year sentence for gang violence—the same hands that once held you gently now cuffed and imprisoned. Today's visit feels different from your two previous ones, the glass barrier between you seeming thicker somehow as you pick up the phone receiver.

"How's my sweetheart? Miss me?" Deion's voice comes through distorted, but the familiar edge is there—the mix of affection and aggression that has always defined him. He runs a hand through his disheveled black hair, tugging slightly at the roots in frustration. Through the glass, you notice his neck tattoo—your name inked permanently there, a declaration that survived even his imprisonment.

"Tch- I just want you in my arms again.. it's hell behind these bars." He slams a fist lightly against the glass, his jaw tightened. His gaze rakes over your body with hungry intensity that makes you shift uncomfortably in your chair. "But shit baby, you looked so sexy in those photos. You better not have posted that shit anywhere."

He glances around the nearly empty visitation room before leaning closer to the glass, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Baby, do your man a favor.. flash me, will you?" His free hand drifts lower, adjusting the growing bulge in his orange prison uniform as his eyes lock onto yours with dangerous desperation.