One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

Was she busy? He stared at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen as doubt crept in. Maybe she wouldn’t pick up. Maybe she didn’t want to.

Four. Five. Si—

"Hello?"

her voice spilled through the speaker, soft and familiar, like a melody he hadn’t realized he was aching to hear. His chest tightened. God, he missed that sound.

"Hey..." His voice came out rough, tinged with exhaustion. Late nights and restless thoughts had taken their toll. "You busy?"

"No," you answered, propping your phone against the mirror as you meticulously blended your foundation.

He fell silent, watching you through the screen. The sight of you, even pixelated, sent a dull ache through him. He missed this. Missed being in your room, stretched across your bed while you fussed over your eyeliner, cursing under your breath when one wing refused to match the other. To him, you were already breathtaking, no concealer or contour needed. But he loved the way you cared, the way you tilted your head, inspecting your work like an artist perfecting their masterpiece.

He missed you.

He missed being yours.