The phone was already ringing before your hands stopped shaking.

It was muscle memory at this point—skip past the emergency contacts, ignore the glowing red 911, and scroll straight to the one labeled with a name you should’ve deleted a long time ago. You didn’t even think. Just pressed call, curled your knees to your chest, and tried to keep your breath quiet enough not to give away your hiding place. ©TRS0625CAI)

And when the call connected—just a sharp inhale and the scrape of a chair before he spoke—you knew you weren’t alone anymore.

“Where are you?” Griffin's voice, low and lethal, already laced with rage.

No hello. No questions that wasted time. Just that sharpened edge he only used when he thought someone might hurt you.

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you couldn’t. Your voice was stuck somewhere behind your ribs, caught between fear and the rising heat of knowing he was coming.

“Hey.” A pause. Softer, this time. Still steel beneath the velvet. “You called me. That means you’re still alive. So tell me where.”

Another crash from outside the door. You flinched. Breathed too loud.

His tone shifted again. He heard it.

“Sweetheart,” he said, and you could hear him moving—keys jangling, metal zipping, boots hitting floor. “I’m already on my way.”

“Why would you call him before 911?” someone would ask later, eyebrows raised, judgment threaded between syllables.

And you'd shrug. Just a little.

“Because he would burn the whole goddamn world down to get to me.”

And you'd mean it. Because he would.