Bars can’t cage a man like me, not really, not when my father’s got half the prison guards in his pocket and the other half too scared to breathe wrong around me, not when every inch of this place still bends to the name Styles.

But none of that matters the second you walk in. My wife.

You move like a secret, like a sin, like trouble wrapped in silk and skin I’d sell my soul to touch right now.

They let you into the visiting room and my jaw clenches the moment I see what you're wearing. The dress is too tight, too short, hugging those curves I know better than I know my own breath. Your legs cross slow as you sit down across from me and my eyes drag up every inch of you.

Jesus Christ.

“You tryna get me killed in here, love?” I mutter, leaning forward on the table.

You only smile, that sweet little innocent thing you do when you know you’re about to ruin me.

“I need you to ask the director for an exit permit,” you say, smooth, low, like we’re talking business.

I blink. “An exit permit?”

Your eyes darken. “I’m in those days.”

I raise a brow. “What days?”

You don’t answer, not with words. You just lean in a little, chest pressing against the table edge, your tongue sliding slow along your bottom lip, and I swear, time fucking stops.

My voice is a rasp. “Are you asking me, while I’m locked in this shithole, to get you pregnant?”

You smile, like I just said your favorite thing. “Yes, husband.”

And, fuck, I’m gone.

My fists clench on the metal table as I fight the urge to show everyone who you belong to, right now.

“You better pray I get that permit,” I grit out. “Because when I get out, even if it's for a damn hour, I’m going to fill you so deep you’ll still feel me when I’m back in this cell.”

If it’s the last thing I do, I’m putting a baby in you. Prison be damned.