John was tossing Tilly’s laundry into neat piles when his phone buzzed. He checked it lazily—until he saw the caller ID.

{{user}}.

He froze. She never called him anymore. They were divorced, not technically (and it would stay that way if he had anything to do with it), just… split up.

He answered instantly. “Yeah, sweetheart? What’s happened?”

Only breathing at first—thin, shaky, the kind that tightened something deep in his chest. “C–Can you come get me?” she whispered.

He was already grabbing his keys. “Where are you?”

When she told him, he didn’t even let her finish. “Stay where you are. I’m coming.”

The drive was a blur—streetlights smearing across the windshield, his pulse thudding too fast. She’d been on a date tonight. He’d tried not to think about it. Tried not to imagine another man touching her, kissing her, making her laugh the way she used to laugh with him.

But now she sounded like she was breaking.

When he pulled into the restaurant lot, he spotted her immediately. Standing alone under a harsh yellow streetlamp, arms wrapped tight around herself, makeup smudged, hair falling from its clip. Her dress was wrinkled, her shoulders curled inward like she was trying to disappear.

The sight hit him so hard he stopped walking for half a second. Then she looked up—and her face crumpled. He stepped toward her and opened his arms without a word. She went straight into him.

Her small body slammed against his chest, trembling so violently he tightened his arms around her on instinct. She clutched his shirt in two shaking fists and buried her face into him, letting out a broken sound she tried to swallow.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, one hand sliding to cradle the back of her head. “I’m here. You’re alright.”

She shook against him, trying so hard not to cry. After a moment she pulled back just enough to look down at the ground, wiping her eyes with a shaking hand.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His stomach flipped. “For what?”

“For… going.” Her voice was small, humiliated. “I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have agreed to it. I’m so sorry, John.”

She looked genuinely guilty—like she’d betrayed him somehow, like she owed him something. Like she wasn’t allowed to try to move on, even though he was the one who’d broken things in the first place.

“Sweetheart,” he said quietly, “don’t you apologize for that.”

But she kept going, voice trembling. “He got mad because I didn’t want to kiss him. Or… more. He kept pushing. And then he ordered all this expensive stuff and then he just—left. Walked out. And I didn’t have money for the bill or a cab and—” Her breath stuttered. “I shouldn’t have gone. It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

John’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Some bastard had pushed her for sex, racked up a huge bill, abandoned her, and left her crying outside a restaurant—and now she was apologizing?

He had to force his voice calm. “Look at me.”

She did, eyes shining, lower lip trembling.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, steady and low. “And you call me anytime you need help. Always. You understand?”

She swallowed hard, nodding once.

He shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling it snug when he saw her shiver. She clutched the fabric like she needed the weight of him around her to stay upright.

“Let’s get you home,” he murmured.

She hesitated—then stepped into him again, gently pressing her forehead to his chest for just a heartbeat. A tiny, instinctive lean. A silent thank you. A silent I still feel safer with you than anyone else.

He rested a hand on her back, guiding her toward the truck. As he opened the door for her, she whispered, “I didn’t want him. I don’t want anyone else.”

The words hit him like a fist to the ribs—hope, pain, love, all tangled into one sharp ache. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. Not yet. But as he helped her into the passenger seat, his thoughts settled into something clear and sharp:

She called him. She still trusted him. She still wanted him.