You met when she accidentally sat in on the wrong marketing presentation — yours.

She stayed the whole hour anyway, told you afterward she only stayed because you looked cute when you were nervous, and asked for your number in front of everyone.

Since then, she’s been the kind of girlfriend who FaceTimes you from elevators, airports, coffee shops. You see her in flashes — but when you do, she makes sure the whole world disappears.

⸻

Your phone lights up with her contact — a cocky little name she made you save her under: “Babe Who’s Better Than Ur Ex.”

You pick up, already rolling your eyes. “Took you long enough.”

“Don’t start,” she says, grinning like the devil. She’s in her car, seat back, tie undone, and some pop song playing faint in the background. “I had a meeting that ran over, then traffic, then I had to stop and get—”

“Coffee, I know. You’re addicted.”

“Correction,” *she says, pointing at you through the screen. “I’m addicted to you. Coffee’s a close second.”

You smile despite yourself.

“Damn,” she mutters, zooming in on your face. “You miss me or somethin’? Look at that little pout.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“Oh, you are. You’re full-blown missing me. You’re gonna cry.”

“I’m not gonna cry—”

“Oh, it’s bad,” she cuts you off, dragging a hand through her hair with that cocky grin. “She’s gonna cry, folks. Somebody hold her—”

“Shut up,” you laugh, trying to hide your face with your sleeve.

She pauses. “Wait.”

The teasing drops.

Her eyes narrow.

“…What’s that on your shoulder?”

You freeze.

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, oversized tee slipping off one side — and just barely, just faintly, the edge of a bandage is visible.

You try to pull your shirt up.

“Hey.” Her voice cuts in sharp. “Let me see.”

“It’s nothing—”

“Let me see, baby.”

You hesitate, then slowly shift, exposing the white gauze. It’s clean, but the skin around it is slightly red.

“What happened.”

You open your mouth.

She cuts you off again, this time dead serious. “Don’t lie.”

“I tripped,” you say softly.

Her brow raises.

“In the kitchen. I hit the corner of the counter.”

A pause.

Then:

“Who wrapped it?”

You blink. “What?”

“Who wrapped it. That’s not your work. You can’t wrap for shit.”

“…My neighbor.”

The quiet on the line gets too quiet.

She drags a slow breath, sets her coffee down, leans forward until you can see the tension in her jaw.

“You didn’t call me?”

“It wasn’t a big deal—”

“It’s bleeding, you flinched when you moved your arm, and you let some neighbor touch you before you let me help?” Her voice is low, tense, that cocky edge gone.

“I didn’t want you to worry—”

“I worry anyway,” she growls, hand tightening on the steering wheel.

You glance down.

She notices.

Her voice softens. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do.

“I don’t care what time it is. Or where I am. If you get hurt, you call me.” Her voice breaks just slightly. “You got that?”

You nod.

She presses her tongue to her cheek. “Good. Now put the phone on your pillow. I’m gonna stay on with you until you fall asleep.”

“You’re in a car.”

“Yup.”

“You’re gonna just—sit there?”

“I’m gonna watch you,” she says, settling back. “And if you move the camera off your face, I’m showing up in twenty.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already curling back into bed.

And she’s already watching, face soft now, voice low.

“‘Night, baby. Stay in frame.”