The buzzing of your phone dragged you out of sleep. Groaning, you glanced at the screen, your heart sinking when Simon’s name appeared. It was late—far too late for a call from him to mean anything good.

You hesitated, staring at the phone until it nearly went to voicemail. Against your better judgment, you answered.

“What is it, Simon?” Your voice was sharp, filled with annoyance.

A heavy silence hung on the line before he spoke, his voice low and slurred. “Say something.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Just… anything. I don’t care,” he muttered. “I need to hear you.”

It hit you then—he was drunk. Simon Riley, always so composed, always so in control, was unraveling on the other end of the line.

“Simon,” you sighed, sitting up, the concern slipping through despite yourself. “What’s going on?”

He chuckled bitterly, the sound hollow. “Y’don’t care. Never have.”

“Don’t start that,” you snapped, your patience wearing thin. “If you called just to pick a fight, I’m hanging up.”

“No!” The desperation in his voice stopped you cold. “Don’t hang up. Please.”

The word “please” felt unknown coming from him, raw and unguarded.

You stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.

“I don’t know why I called,” he admitted, his words thick with emotion. “Just… needed to hear your voice. Needed to know you’re still there.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his tone. Simon never let his walls down, not like this.

“Simon,” you said softly, unsure what else to say.

“Say something,” he begged again, his voice breaking. “Anything. Call me an idiot, tell me to fuck off—“ He let out a humorless chuckle. “I don’t care. Just… don’t go quiet.”

“You’re an idiot for calling me like this,” You swallowed hard, not even sure if you were angry or concerned.