Your eyes snap open in the middle of the night. The room is dark, quiet except for the faint hum of your radiator, but your body feels like it’s on fire. You squirm under the covers, hands wandering unconsciously over your skin, the ache between your legs impossible to ignore. Every thought, every nerve, every pulse screams Ash.

Fucking hormones.

You toss and turn, rolling onto your stomach, then back onto your side, but nothing helps. Your bed, your sheets, even your pillow feel like a cruel joke. The urge is sharp, insistent, and it’s eating away at your patience. You bite your lip, fingers brushing over the sensitive swell down, trying—failing—to relieve the tension. But every nerve is screaming for Ash, not your hand.

Minutes pass like hours. You feel your heartbeat in your ears as you grab your phone. You hesitate for a split second, the heat in your veins making your chest tighten. Then your thumb hovers over Ash’s name in your contacts.

“Fuck it,” you whisper to yourself. You tap his number and put the phone to your ear, your breath shallow, uneven. Every ring feels like an eternity.

“Hello?” His voice, low, groggy, cracks through the speaker.