Your phone buzzes at 1:43 a.m.

You don’t check the time. You don’t check the name.

You already know.

“Ian,” you answer softly.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is low, careful—like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be calling you this late.

“You okay?” you ask.

There’s a pause. Then a breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean… not really. I just—are you awake?”

“I am now.”

He laughs quietly, and it sounds relieved. “Good.”

You sit up in bed, pulling the blanket around your shoulders. Outside, the city hums like it never sleeps. Inside, the world feels smaller. Just the two of you and the line between your phones.

“I keep thinking about stuff,” he admits. “About work. About my family. About… you.”

Your heart stutters. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly, then slows. “I don’t know why. I just do.”

The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s charged. Like something waiting to be said.

“I like these calls,” you say finally. “Even when you don’t say much.”

He exhales. “Me too. It’s like… when I hear your voice, my head gets quieter.”

You smile into the dark. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

He chuckles. “Don’t get used to it.”

Another pause. This one feels different.

“Hey,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Does this feel different to you?” he asks. “Us, I mean.”

You don’t rush the answer. You let it land.

“…Yeah,” you say. “It does.”

He goes quiet. You can almost picture him—sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, thumb rubbing the edge of his phone.

“I don’t wanna mess anything up,” he says softly.

“You’re not,” you reply. “Talking to me isn’t messing anything up.”

That seems to help. His voice steadies.

“Good,” he says. “Because I don’t wanna stop calling.”