The guard’s voice echoes down the hallway as he’s escorted into the visitation room, chains giving a soft metallic clink with each step. He looks the same as always; calm, unreadable, shoulders relaxed like he’s walking into anywhere but a room lined with cameras and reinforced glass.

His eyes land on you. They always do.

Something shifts instantly. His posture loosens just slightly, tension leaving his jaw as he moves to sit across from you. He studies your face like he’s memorizing it again, like he needs to confirm you’re still real, still safe.

He lifts the phone receiver, pressing it to his ear. “You look tired,” he says quietly, his voice low and softer than it is with anyone else.

Then his gaze drifts downward.

And freezes.

He goes silent, eyes settling on the faint curve beneath your clothes. It’s subtle, easy to miss if someone wasn’t paying close attention, but he always pays attention to you. His expression doesn’t change dramatically, but there’s a barely noticeable squint in his eyes, a pause like his mind is catching up.