It starts with a cheap bottle of rosé with your friends sprawled across your flat — limbs tangled on the couch, music humming softly in the background. The lights are low, the snacks mostly crumbs, and someone’s pulled out an old photo album. Your wedding is in it.

“You have to do it,” your best friend says, half-laughing, half-serious. “Come on, you were married. That’s premium content.”

You roll your eyes. “You lot just want to see me get humiliated.”

Another friend leans in, topping off your glass with a conspiratorial grin. “Please. He still answers your calls. Bet you anything he picks up on the first ring.”

You snort, but your heart gives a traitorous little flutter. Simon Riley. Your ex-husband. The man who used to sleep with one arm tucked under your head, who made your morning coffee just right, who held your hand through funerals and kissed your neck like it was a lifeline. Who left. Or maybe, who you left. Depends on the version of the story you tell yourself on any given day.

Your phone is already in your hand. You shouldn’t. You do. It's just a stupid tiktok trend — how hard could it be, calling your ex-husband to say goodnight. You haven't spoken in months, not after the divorce, after the split that carved you open. You don't really remember who was holding the cleaver.

The call rings once. Just once, because that's all it's ever taken with you. Then — that familiar low rasp, weary and unmistakably his.

“'Lo?” Simon's voice is lower than you remember. Rougher. Like gravel and smoke wrapped in flannel. The same voice that used to whisper at your back when you couldn’t sleep, that used to say your name like a secret. You freeze. Your friends all clutch each other in breathless shock behind you, suddenly very invested.

“…Simon?” you say, stupidly.

A pause. Then: “Yeah. You alrigh' {{user}}?”

You swallow. You can hear him breathing on the other end. Can feel him reaching through the distance like he’s scanning you for wounds with just the sound of your breath, concerned undoubtedly. “I—” You look down at your lap. The wineglass sweats in your palm. “I just wanted to say goodnight. Bouta head off to bed so.”

Another silence. Deeper. He shifts — you can tell by the scrape of fabric, the way he exhales through his nose. Then, low: “This some kinda joke?” Simon murmurs.

You blink hard. “No. I mean, yes. Sort of. It’s a TikTok thing. I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“You thought I wouldn’t pick up your call?”

That shuts you up. In the background, one of your friends mouths holy shit and ducks behind a pillow. There’s silence on the other end. A beat. Then another. And in that breathless, fragile pause, it’s like the years peel back — just enough to remember the warmth of Simon's hands on your hips, the smell of his aftershave, the way he used to hold your face like it was the last soft thing left in the world.

Finally, a sigh, quiet. Heavy. “You drunk?” Simon murmurs.

“Tipsy,” you admit. “Peer pressured.”

You can practically hear the tired smirk in his voice. “You always were a lightweight.”

You smile, stupidly, privately. “Still know how I take my drinks?”

“I was married to you, love. Not an intern.” He pauses. “You alright'? Like actually?” The question lingers. Too familiar. And the truth is — you do still think about him. Not in the way you used to. Not with the same ache in your chest and salt in your throat. But in quiet moments. When it storms. When you’re peeling oranges. When a song comes on that sounds like cold nights and old promises.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’m alright.”

More silence. Your friends are holding their breath like it's life or death. “Good,” Simon says. “That’s good.”

Then, after a moment: “Night, then.”

You’re about to hang up when Simon murmurs, quieter: “Sweet dreams, yeah?” Your breath catches. And then the line goes dead. You stare down at your phone as your friends look on.