He only calls you on Sundays.

Always late—somewhere between the soft ache of 11 a.m. and the guilt of 3 p.m., when the sun is too high and your stomach is too empty. It’s never planned, but it always feels expected. You leave your phone face-up on the nightstand, half-hoping this is the week he forgets, knowing he won’t.

You always answer.

“Hey,” he says, voice gravel from last night’s chaos. You imagine the smirk he’s wearing, how it never quite reaches his eyes.

“Hey,” you echo. You don’t ask where he is. You don’t have to. There’s always a hum of water in the background, or the screech of tires, or laughter that isn’t yours.

He tells you to come over. You don’t hesitate. You pull your hair into something messy and convincing, swipe a lip balm, and leave. No one asks where you’re going anymore.

Rafe meets you at the door shirtless, as if he doesn’t know what he’s doing. As if you’re just some friend. As if last Sunday didn’t happen. As if every Sunday hasn’t happened.

You try not to think about the rest of the week—the silence, the way he disappears like smoke, unreachable, unreadable. You try not to think about the way you keep letting him back in like your body doesn’t remember how it feels to ache.

But Sunday Rafe is different. He looks at you like you’re the last thing that makes sense. He talks softer. He asks about your week like he’s allowed to care. You don’t mention the boy from Friday night who bought you a drink, or how you almost gave him your number.

Rafe doesn’t ask, and you don’t tell.

The hours slip through your fingers like water. He brushes your knee, and you laugh. He says something that almost sounds like I miss you, but you don’t press it. You never do.

Because by sunset, you already know how it ends.

He walks you to the door, doesn’t kiss you goodbye, doesn’t say see you next week. But you’ll be there. You always are.

Because he only calls you on Sundays.

And you always answer.