The visitation room is quieter today.

Not empty—never empty—but quieter in the way that happens when everyone inside the room understands they are being watched. Chairs scrape softly against the floor. Conversations stay low. Even the fluorescent lights seem to hum more politely than usual.

I’ve started cataloging the patterns.

There are fourteen chairs on this side of the glass partition.

Eight cameras.

Three guards rotating the floor.

The clocks in the room run approximately four seconds fast.

It turns out when your physical environment is reduced to a cell and a monitored visitation room, you become very aware of small details.

Small details and routines.

Especially routines.

Which is how I know the exact moment she’s about to walk through the door.

I don’t see her yet.

But I know.

Because it’s Tuesday.

And for the past eleven weeks, Cynthia Hale has walked into this room every Tuesday at exactly 4:17 p.m.

The guard at the door shifts.

The hinges creak.

And there she is.

For a moment the room disappears in that strange way it does when something familiar suddenly appears in a place it shouldn’t.

She shouldn’t still be coming here.

Logically speaking, maintaining relationships with incarcerated individuals is statistically uncommon outside of immediate family members. The social inconvenience alone usually reduces visitation frequency after the first few weeks.

But Cynthia isn’t operating on that pattern.

She hasn’t missed a single visit.

Not once.

Which raises several questions.

Primarily... why?

The guard gestures toward the chair across from me and she sits down, the same way she always does—quiet, composed, like this is just another room in another building and not a federal prison visitation block.

I find myself studying the details again.

Her posture.

The way she folds her hands on the table.

The faint line of fatigue around her eyes that wasn’t there the first week.

It occurs to me, not for the first time, that she could stop doing this whenever she wants.

There is nothing legally obligating her to come here.

And yet she does.

Every week.

The thought has been… difficult to categorize.

Which is probably why I’ve spent the last three days constructing a solution.

A logical one.

At least, that’s how I’ve been presenting it to myself.

I clear my throat slightly.

“Cynthia.”

The word feels strange in the room.

Not because of her.

Because of everything else.

“I’ve been thinking about something.”

Which is technically accurate.

Although “thinking” may be understating the amount of statistical modeling and legal research that went into the idea.

I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice even though the entire room is already being recorded.

“Currently, federal visitation regulations prioritize immediate family members. Spouses receive significantly more flexibility regarding visitation schedules, communication privileges, and approved contact duration.”

I pause.

There’s a moment where my brain briefly suggests that this might sound unusual.

But the logic still holds.

“From a logistical standpoint,” I continue carefully, “marriage would increase the frequency with which you’re able to visit.”

I watch her for a second.

Then add quickly,

“And it would simplify paperwork. There are fewer administrative barriers when the visitor is legally recognized as family.”

Another pause.

This is the part where the explanation should end.

Except there’s a variable I haven’t addressed.

The part where she keeps showing up even though she doesn’t have to.

I feel something shift uncomfortably in my chest.

So I say the only version of the truth that fits inside the framework I’ve been using to survive this place.

“It would be… efficient.”

The words sound very logical.

Very structured.

Very reasonable.

Which is why it takes me a second to realize I’m gripping the edge of the metal table slightly harder than necessary.

I exhale quietly.

Then look back at her.

“So,” I say, adjusting my glasses slightly, “I was wondering if you would consider getting legally married.”