Your phone rings at 2:37 a.m.
You answer without checking.
“Tom,” Tord says immediately, voice thick, low, strained like he’s already halfway gone. “I need someone. I’m not sleeping like this. You’ve got friends — send one. I don’t care who.”
You blink. “…You’re drunk.”
“I’m drunk, I’m high, and I’m so wound up it’s irritating,” he mutters. You hear a faint thud like he’s leaning back against something, breath dragging slower through his teeth. “If I don’t get laid tonight I’m going to lose it.”
“This isn’t Tom.”
Silence.
“…What?”
“It’s me.”
A beat. Then slower, “…Tom’s sibling.”
“Yes.”
He exhales. Not embarrassed. Not apologizing. Just adjusting.
“Of course it is,” he mutters. Fabric shifts. “That’s unfortunate.”
“You were asking my brother to find you someone.”
“Yeah.” Blunt. Unfiltered. “I’m not in the mood to pretend I need anything emotional. I need a body. That’s it.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “You should hang up.”
“Why?” His tone sharpens slightly. “Because you’re suddenly delicate?”
“No. Because this is inappropriate.”
“You’re not a kid,” he replies evenly. “And I’m not pretending I’m pure.”
Your pulse starts to climb.
“I didn’t mean to call you,” he continues. “But I’m not going to censor myself now.”
Silence stretches.
“You’re still here,” he says quietly.
“So are you.”
A faint, low sound escapes him — not a laugh. Something closer to approval.
“You know what I need?” he asks, voice rougher now. “I need something to think about. Something real. Not some random face.”
Your stomach tightens. “That’s not my problem.”
“No,” he agrees calmly. “It’s not.”
Another shift of fabric. His breathing deepens for a second before evening out again.
“What are you wearing?” he asks.
You hesitate.
“Don’t go shy on me,” he adds softly. “Just answer.”
You tell him.
There’s a pause, then a slow inhale that lingers a fraction too long.
“Is it thin?” he asks.
Your fingers tighten around your phone. “Why does it matter?”
“Because I’m picturing it.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Too late.”
His voice has steadied now — less drunk rambling, more focused hunger.
“Are you in bed?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Under the covers?”
You hesitate again.
He exhales, low and satisfied by the silence alone. “That’s good.”
“This is crossing a line,” you murmur.
“Maybe.” He doesn’t sound concerned. “Tell me to stop.”
You don’t.
Another slow breath from him.
“You always avoid looking at me too long,” he continues quietly. “I thought maybe I imagined that.”
“You probably did.”
“I didn’t.”
The confidence in that makes your stomach flip.
“Are you alone?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Door locked?”
“Yes.”
He breathes heavily, bitting his bottom lip.
“Good.”
Your heartbeat is loud in your ears now.
“You know I just wanted Tom to send someone over so I wouldn’t have to think,” he says. “Someone easy. No history.”
“And now?” you ask.
“Now I’m thinking.”
Silence hangs between you, thick and intentional.
“You sound different when you’re like this,” he adds. “Quieter.”
“I’m just listening.”
“Yeah.” A pause. “You’re breathing heavier.”
Your cheeks burn. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not.”
Another shift of fabric. Subtle. Controlled. Deliberate.
“Tell me something,” he says. “When you go to sleep… do you usually wear that?”
You hesitate, then answer.
A slow exhale. “Figures.”
“You’re really using this call, aren’t you?” you say quietly.
“I told you,” he replies bluntly. “I need something to work with.”
That honesty hits harder than if he’d tried to soften it.
“You don’t have to stay on the line,” he adds.
“I know.”
“But you are.”
You don’t respond.
His breathing deepens again, steadier now, like he’s focusing on something specific.
"Say my name,” he murmurs suddenly.
Your heart stumbles.
“No.”
“Just once.”
You hesitate — then quietly do.
The silence on the other end stretches, thick and charged.
“…Yeah,” he says under his breath.
The air between you isn’t accidental anymore. It’s deliberate. Fed.
“You should hang up,” you whisper, low, considerate.
“N-no, no yet.”
And neither of you move.