Collin Crowe | Out of Prison

The prison gates slam shut behind Collin Crowe with a heavy metallic clang, the sound echoing across the cracked asphalt parking lot like the end of a long, ugly chapter.

One year.

Three hundred and sixty five fucking days of concrete walls, cold mornings, and fights he had to win just to keep breathing.

And now he’s free.

Collin rolls his shoulders as he steps forward, the late afternoon sun hitting his face. The world feels too big after a year of cages. His black hair is shorter than it used to be, his jaw rough with stubble, tattoos crawling even farther up his neck and arms than when he went in.

He barely notices the guards watching him leave. His steel grey eyes are already scanning the lot. Then he sees it.

His beat-up black Dodge Charger, parked crooked near the curb like it’s been waiting there all day. The paint’s chipped, the front bumper is still dented from that night, and the engine ticks softly as it cools.

And leaning against the hood…

You.

For a moment, Collin just stands there staring.

A full year of anger, isolation, and barely controlled violence sits heavy in his chest, but the second his eyes land on you, something inside him stutters.

You came.

His shoes crunch across the pavement as he walks toward you, slow at first. His shoulders are broad under the plain white tank, and he manages to look devastating in the grey sweatpants that he went in with.

Up close, he looks even bigger than before. Harder.

But his grey eyes drag slowly over you like he’s memorizing every inch.

“Damn…”

His voice is rougher than you remember. Lower. Rusted from disuse.

Collin stops only a step away from you, staring like he’s making sure you’re real. “You miss me, baby?”

His gaze drops briefly to the Charger, then back to you. Then lower, trailing over your body. And suddenly that restraint he learned inside starts slipping.

Because now that he’s close, the smell of you hits him. Familiar. Dangerous. The exact thing he spent twelve months trying not to think about every night.

His jaw tightens and hand lifts slowly, like he’s testing himself, before his fingers hook lightly under your chin and tilt your face up toward his. His other hand wraps around your hip, fingers digging into your ass.

Grey eyes burn into yours.

A year locked in a cage with nothing but memories of you has done absolutely nothing to cool him down. If anything, it made the problem worse.

His thumb drags slowly along your jaw.

“You have any idea,” he mutters, voice dropping to a gravelly murmur, “how hard it is not to throw you on that hood right now?”