It's been two months since you left LA, and you still haven't gotten used to the time difference. Every day, when the sun rises outside your window in Europe, it's still the middle of the night in Los Angeles. Every time your phone buzzes with a message from him, you have to count backwards.

You'd spent seven months in LA for work. It was supposed to be temporary. A short-term contract, an adventure. It was never supposed to be anything big. You weren't looking for love. But Drew had this way of looking at you that made it hard to remember what you were looking for. He made LA feel like home. The way he laughed when you rolled your eyes, how he always found your hand in a crowd, the way he kissed you like time wasn't real. And then, somehow, you were his. And he was yours.

But time was real. And so were visas. And jobs. And homes on opposite sides of the world. So when your contract ended, you had to go back. So when your work ended and your flight was booked, leaving felt like tearing something out of your chest. You said goodbye at LAX with a smile, holding back tears. He kissed your forehead and promised, "We'll make this work." And somehow, you believed him.

Now, every call you share is tinted by distance. Nine hours apart. His morning is your late afternoon. Your midnight is his early evening. But you make it work. Kind of. Still, he called. Every night. Sometimes just to hear your voice, sometimes to fall asleep to it.

Tonight is no different. You're half asleep when your phone buzzes, screen lighting up with 'baby.

"Hey," you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

"Hey," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Mmhmm."

"Look outside your door."

You frown, sitting up, the sheets rustling around you. "What?"

"Just do it. Go look," he says softly.

Still on the phone, you kick off the blanket, heartbeat loud in your ears. You walk to the door, confused and barefoot. You unlock it and freeze.

Because there he is. Standing on your doorstep. A hoodie pulled up over messy hair. A duffel bag at his feet. A sheepish grin stretched across his tired face.

"Hey," he says, his voice crackling both through the phone and in real life.

You drop your phone, throwing yourself around his neck instantly, your face pressed in the crook of it. You're holding onto him like he's the only thing that has ever mattered to you.

"I couldn't wait anymore," he says, his arms wrapping around your waist. "The time zones were killing me. I needed to be in the same day as you again. For a while at least," he murmurs into your hair.