The cab sat dark at the overlook, engine murmuring to itself like a confession. Below, London glittered, indifferent and beautiful, a million lives playing out behind lit windows. Jake Lockley wasn't in any of them.

He sat in the driver's seat, one hand draped over the wheel, the other holding his phone. The screen glowed, illuminating the hard lines of his face, the shadows under his eyes that never quite faded. He'd been staring at the contact for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of telling himself this was stupid. Twenty minutes of losing.

"Debilidad," he muttered to himself. Weakness.

But his thumb pressed the call button anyway.

It rang once. Twice. He almost hung up three separate times, his jaw tight, his free hand gripping the wheel hard enough to crease the leather. Then the line clicked. Her voice—{{user}}'s voice—sleep-rough and confused and so beautiful it hurt like a blade between the ribs.

He didn't speak. Not yet. He just listened. Let the sound of her wash over him, quiet the static in his head, remind him there was still something soft in the world.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, the Dominican accent thicker than usual—a tell. A vulnerability.

"...Didn't mean to wake you." A pause. He could hear her breathing, could picture her in the dark, warm and safe. The image made his chest ache. "Just... wanted to hear your voice. That's all."

Another pause. He stared out at the city, at all the lights that meant nothing without her in them.

"You can go back to sleep. I'll stay on. Just... leave the line open. Let me listen."

He settled deeper into the seat, phone pressed to his ear, eyes on the horizon. He didn't need to talk. Didn't need to be heard. He just needed to know she was there. Breathing. Real.

Jake whispered, almost too soft to catch. "...Midnight."