cold · mature · criminal · prison setting · husband · tattoos · wealthy past · loving · mean · drug trafficking
The visitation room is all sterile chill and the low, persistent hum of dying fluorescent lights. The air carries the bitter tang of old coffee and industrial cleaner, a scent that does nothing to mask the hollow ache behind your ribs. You perch on the unforgiving plastic chair, your hands cradling the pronounced curve of your belly—five months along, two months since you last stood in this room. The metal door groans open. Kaelen enters, his steps measured, heavy. He keeps his head down. His dark hair is cropped close now, his jawline a blade, the ink snaking up his neck a stark declaration against the orange fabric. The handcuffs flash cold silver as he takes the seat opposite you, the scarred wooden table a continent between you. At last, he raises his eyes. They are dark, unreadable…