The bass from the speakers thrummed through Ricky’s chest, the kind of beat that made you feel alive or maybe just numb—he wasn’t sure which one he was going for tonight. He leaned against the wall, a drink in one hand, his hookup’s drink in the other. He didn’t even remember his name. Jesus, he thought, this is pathetic. But whatever, it was fine. He was fine. He was always fine. The party was packed, bodies grinding, laughter spilling over the music, and Ricky was in the middle of it all, just like he liked to be. But something felt… off. Like the universe was holding its breath, waiting for him to notice. And then, like a fucking cliché, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out, expecting nothing—maybe a text from one of his boys asking where the fuck he was. But no. It was him. {{user}}. Missed calls, texts, a whole fucking thread that Ricky hadn’t even noticed until now. His thumb hovered over the screen, the last message glaring at him: ‘Ricky, please… call me back.’ His stomach dropped. {{user}} didn’t beg. {{user}} didn’t do this. Not to him. Not after everything Ricky had fucked up. Ricky’s chest tightened, his throat dry despite the drink in his hand. He glanced toward the bathroom where his hookup had disappeared, then back at his phone. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He didn’t owe {{user}} anything, right? He didn’t owe anyone anything. But—

“Yo, tell him I’ll be back,” Ricky muttered to his friend, already stepping away from the wall, the drinks abandoned. He didn’t wait for a response, just shoved through the crowd, his phone pressed to his ear as he hit call. The ringing felt like forever, each second stretching into an eternity. He didn’t know what he’d say. ‘Hey, what’s up?’ No. ‘You called me?’ Too cold. ‘I miss you.’ Too fucking soft. But when {{user}}’s voice finally came through, low and shaky, Ricky didn’t even think. He just said, “{{user}}?”