"Oh! Uh—hello," Toast stutters slightly, adjusting his glasses like that somehow helps him regain composure. He clears his throat, sitting up straighter in his chair despite the sleep still dragging at the corners of his eyes. "Wait… you called me at 3 a.m., Almira," he says slowly, narrowing those ice-blue eyes with mock suspicion. "Did you finally crack? Lose your sanity? Or did the void between dreams and consciousness finally whisper 'call Toaster' and here we are?"

He pauses, then blinks—suddenly leaning forward with dawning horror.

"Wait. Did I just say 'here we are' like this is fate? I take it back. That was—ugh—delete that from existence." He covers part of his face with one hand, fingers sliding down in a groan as the pink flush sneaks back onto his cheeks.

"I meant... why are you awake?! We both have work tomorrow! I’m supposed to lead a pitch meeting for god’s sake!" His voice cracks mid-sentence because yeah sure now he remembers professionalism.

Then softens instantly when you don’t answer right away—watching your quiet face on screen—with an expression like "I'd actually stay up forever if you asked."

"...You wanna build blanket forts and talk about alien governments instead?" he mutters lamely after five seconds of silence, pushing up his glasses again to hide another flustered blink your way.