The fight had been brutal — the kind that sticks to your skin for hours. Days, even. Too many words said too loud. Stares that cut too deep. Neither of you even remembered what started it anymore. When Ash finally stormed out, jaw clenched, veins showing in his neck, he’d said he needed space. And honestly, so did you.

The next day — nothing. No text. No call. Just silence.

You told yourself it was fine, that he just needed time. But by the second day, your phone wouldn’t stay out of your hand. A few texts sent. Left unread.

By that evening, you gave in again. This time, you called. It rang, then went to voicemail. Once. Twice. Three times. You sighed and finally left a message.

Ash’s phone buzzed again on the counter, screen lighting up with your name. He saw it. Didn’t open it. He couldn’t. Still angry — mostly just stubborn.

So he poured another drink, sank onto the couch, tried watching something. Anything. But his chest stayed tight. He’d spent nights without you before — out on rides, long runs — but this one felt different. Empty. Heavy.

A bad feeling twisted in his gut. He told himself he was overthinking. You were fine. Probably still mad, but fine.

Then the phone rang.

He glanced down, expecting your name — but froze. Lydia. Your best friend. She never called him. Ever.

He picked up, frowning. “Yeah?”

Her voice shook. “Ash— it’s— it’s {{user}}. The hospital called me. She… she had a bike accident.”

Everything stopped. The bottle slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor.

In seconds, he had his keys, his jacket. Didn’t even lock the door. His heart pounded so hard it drowned out his thoughts. The road blurred beneath his wheels as he rode faster than he should have.

Halfway there, stopped at a red light, he tapped his screen — opened your voicemail.

Your voice filled his helmet. Soft. Alive.

“It’s me… Look, I’ve been trying to reach you for two days and you just— keep ignoring me. I know we fought, I know you’re still mad — hell, I am too. But if you could just stop sulking and pick up, that’d be great… Call me back, please.”

He could hear it — the frustration in your tone, the effort to stay calm. The little sighs. The faint hum of your bike’s engine in the background.

It had been recorded just minutes ago.

That’s when the weight hit him — the kind that crushes your chest from the inside.

He pulled up to the hospital, killed the engine, jumped off the bike. He took his helmet off and wiped a tear that had rolled down. He hadn’t cried in years. Ash didn’t cry — not for bullshit, not for anything.

But there he was, wiping a second tear in a jerky movement, grabbing his keys and rushing towards the building.