It was 2 A.M.

The room was silent, only the headlights of the cars passing through the street briefly illuminated the walls, shadows dancing through the ceiling. You were lying in bed, but sleep didn't come. The cell phone was shining in your hand.

The words came out as an outburst, recorded on his mailbox:

"It's two in the morning... I'm here in my room, looking at the headlights passing through the window and thinking about you.

I wish you were here now, with me.

I wish we could go back and remember what we were fighting about.

And I wanted you to know... that I miss you too much to stay angry."

You hung up, heart beating fast, a knot stuck in your throat. I didn't expect an answer, I didn't expect anything. I just needed him to know.

But it didn't even take fifteen minutes.

A noise against the window made you sit down. The heart almost stopped when he recognized the silhouette. Joey Lynch, with the hood thrown back, climbing easily to the eaver as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His chest gasped, his blue eyes fixed on you - that intensity that always disassembled you.

He entered without asking, stopping in the middle of the room. The silence weighed.

"Don't do this to me,"— he murmured, his voice hoarse, low, almost broken. - "Don't send me those fucking words in the middle of the night and think I'll be able to stay at home."

You opened your mouth to answer, but he was already crossing the space, throwing himself on the edge of the bed, a hand holding the back of his neck urgently.

"I can't stand to fight with you, I can't stand being away."

His forehead touched his, warm, desperate breath.

"I also just wanted to be here. With you. It's always been that."

And when he finally kissed you, it was as if all the pride, all the fights, all the accumulated silence broke into pieces