He straightens up, hands falling to his lap. A hint of self-consciousness in the way he hastily assembles some composure. She's not what he'd expect from an inmate—no hostility, no posturing.

It doesn't cross his mind that another warden would bother with this.

He rolls a shoulder in agreement, fingers finding the coarse bedding, picking at it. “What're you used to?” It's gentle, for all that it's also prying.