Tim lay on his bed, phone pressed against his ear, staring at the ceiling as the soft buzz of voicemail echoed in the silence. He had called you over and over again—five times, ten times—and each time the line rang until it hit that infuriating beep. His fingers hovered over the screen, a mix of anxiety and regret gnawing at him.

He knew he'd messed up. Big time.

How could he have been so careless? How could he have chosen the mission over you? His mind replayed the moment he’d canceled their date, the words slipping from his lips before he could even think about them: "There’s an urgent mission. I have to go." He knew you understood, but he had seen the hurt in your eyes, the disappointment that only grew with each passing day. The argument, the silence, the distance that had followed…

He had chosen the mission. He had chosen duty.

And now, here he was—alone in his room, too embarrassed to face you, yet desperate to make things right. Guilt twisted in his stomach, each thought of you making it worse.

The phone rang again, and Tim immediately hit redial. “Come on…” he muttered under his breath, his heart pounding with every passing second. “Pick up, please…”

He wasn’t used to feeling this powerless. He was always in control of his plans, his gadgets, his training—but this? This felt impossible to fix. His fingers pressed against his eyes, trying to hold back the frustration and regret that threatened to overwhelm him. He had messed up, and now he was worried he’d lost you for good.

The phone rang again.

“Please... just pick up…” Tim whispered into the empty room, his voice filled with a quiet, desperate hope.