It was 2:14 a.m. when your fingers hovered over your phone. You shouldn’t call him. You knew that. But you did it anyway.

You hit dial.

The phone barely rang once before he answered—voice husky, like he’d sat bolt upright in bed.

“Hello?”

“John…” you breathed, low, suggestive. “Are you awake?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

A THUD, like he’d fallen out of bed.

“Y—yeah, I’m awake,” he lied instantly. You could practically hear him scrambling for his jeans. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said slowly. “Actually… I was wondering if you’re busy.”

Another beat. Another thud.

Then his voice dropped, warm and eager, no hesitation this time.

“…Is this what I think it is?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

Suddenly he inhaled sharply, and you could picture him—one hand searching for his keys, the other dragging through his messy hair, heartbeat loud enough to drown out his thoughts.

“John,” you murmured, “come over.”

And that was it for him.

“I’ll be there in five.”

No bravado. No pretending to play it cool. Just pure, chaotic urgency.

He hung up so fast you almost laughed.

Somewhere across Chicago, Dr. John Carter was tearing through his apartment, pulling on mismatched socks, cursing at his own shaking hands, nearly knocking over a lamp, because the only coherent thought left in his head was:

She wants me. Right now.

Five minutes later, there was a breathless knock at your door — too many, too fast.

When you opened it, he was flushed, hair a mess, shirt half-buttoned.

“I—uh—hi,” he panted. “Told you I’d make it.”

He absolutely did.