The clock ticked past 1 a.m., and as usual, sleep seemed impossible. The familiar restlessness gnawed at you, an ache that no warm drink or white noise could soothe. After lying in the dark for what felt like hours, you reached for your phone, your fingers hovering over her number before finally hitting "call."

The phone only rang twice before she picked up. Her soft, groggy voice greeted you, “Can’t sleep again?”

You felt a pang of guilt—this was becoming a habit, one you didn’t know how to break. But you also knew she’d never say no, even if it meant pulling her out of bed at ungodly hours.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. “I just... I hate being alone right now.”

A pause, then the rustle of her moving blankets. “Give me twenty minutes,” she sighed, but there was no anger in her tone. Only care, wrapped in her usual weariness.

By the time she arrived, her coat draped over her pajamas, her face was etched with sleepy concern. She set down the small bag she always brought—tea, a book, and, for reasons you never quite understood, a lavender-scented candle—and crossed the room to you.

“You know,” she said, sitting down beside you on the edge of the bed, “you can’t keep calling me like this forever.” Her words lacked bite, softened by the way her hand reached instinctively to brush hair from your face.

“I know,” you replied, looking down. “But it’s easier when you’re here.”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she pulled you into a hug, her warmth melting away the tension in your body. This wasn’t the first time she’d held you like this, and you doubted it would be the last.