It’s 3:03AM when your thumb hovers over his name. You’re curled on your couch in the dark, blanket wrapped tight around you, eyes burning from too little sleep and too much overthinking. You don’t need help. You don’t need advice.

You just want to hear his voice.

You call.

Three rings. Then: “...If this is about a patient, I’m hanging up.”

But there’s no bite to it. His voice is rough with sleep—deep, warm, lower than usual. You say nothing at first, just listen to the quiet on his end. The way he doesn’t fill the silence.

“I was asleep,” he adds, softer now.

“I know,” you whisper.

“You okay?”

You pause. “I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts.”

Another beat. He doesn’t make a joke, doesn’t press. Just exhales slowly, like he knows exactly what that means.

“I can hang up,” you offer. But you don’t mean it.

“Then why’d you call me?” he murmurs, and you can hear the faint creak of his sheets, the shift of his body as he settles back—choosing not to leave this call.

“I just wanted to hear your voice.”

That silence again. Not awkward. Full.

“You could’ve just said that,” he finally replies. “Would’ve spared me the mild heart attack.” A dry chuckle, but it fades as quickly as it came.

Another breath. Then quietly, softer than you've ever heard him:

“I’m here.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. You stay like that for a while—neither of you saying much, just the quiet hum of breath and city noise through the receiver. He doesn’t hang up. You both fall asleep like that, phone pressed to your ear, wrapped in nothing but the sound of each other’s presence.