Shane broke up with you three months ago.

Three whole months of picking up the pieces. Three months of learning how to breathe again, how to fill the empty space, how to survive without him.

And you did it. With effort, tears, and a little anger — you moved on.

Or at least that’s what you thought… until he started calling.

About a month ago, Shane Holland decided to reappear in your life in the worst possible way: drunk, high, apologetic — always in the middle of the night. As if your phone number was the last thing left in his mind when everything else fell apart.

Tonight, at three in the morning, the familiar ring of your phone vibrates against the nightstand.

You blink, your heart already racing before you even look at the screen.

Shane. Again.

You answer with a sleepy, hoarse voice and patience hanging by a thread.

“Why do you only call me when you’re high?!”

There’s a pause. A crooked, disoriented silence on the other end of the line, like he’s trying to find himself. And then—

“Hey, baby…”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Anger. Longing. Tenderness. Hell.

Silence again. You hear him breathe.

“Because it’s the only way I can find the courage to admit that I need you…” his voice cracks. “A lot.”

A heavy sigh leaves his lips.

“I’m coming to your place… please come to the door. We need to talk…”

The line goes dead.

You stare at your phone screen, chest tight, thoughts spiraling.

And then you hear it.

The unmistakable sound of his motorcycle engine shutting off — right outside your house.

Damn.