The house is quiet when the call comes, the kind of silence that settles deep, softened by the steady ticking of the clock in the hallway. Your mother has long since gone to bed, and you sit curled beneath a blanket, book open in your lap though you haven’t turned a page in minutes.

The ring startles you, sharp in the stillness. You grab the receiver before it wakes anyone.

It’s him.

You’ve known Neil Perry long enough to recognize his breathing, the way he lingers a second before speaking, like he’s making sure you’re really there. He’s always been like that with you—careful, reverent, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he isn’t paying attention.

You think of summer evenings by the lake, his hand in yours as you walked barefoot through the grass, the way he’d tuck a stray curl behind your ear before kissing your cheek. The quiet mornings when he’d steal the comics section of the newspaper before you could get to it, flashing you a triumphant grin from across the breakfast table. The times he’d sneak in through your window past curfew, grinning breathlessly as he tumbled onto your bed, the scent of night air still clinging to his sweater.

Now, his voice is hushed but steady. “Hi, baby,” he says, warmth threading through every syllable. A pause, just long enough to make your heart stutter. “Father said I can stay with you for the holidays, so I’ll be there by tomorrow...”

It’s simple, but you know how much it means. How much it costs.

His breathing is soft against the receiver, like he’s waiting, like he’s smiling.