The city stretched out beneath a velvet sky, quiet and blurred by thin sheets of misty rain. Neon signs flickered halfheartedly across the street, reflecting off puddles like memories she didn’t want to deal with tonight.

The café was warm, golden-hued, buzzing with laughter and clinking glasses — her girls were all around her, dressed in vintage jeans and glossy lip gloss, flipping through playlists and gossiping about everything and nothing.

But her focus wasn’t there. It hadn’t been all night.

Her phone buzzed on the table, vibrating softly next to a lipstick-smeared straw in a plastic cup.

Tord.

She stared at the name on the screen. A name that used to feel like home, like a fight, like a storm she never knew how to stop chasing.

With a breath she didn’t know she was holding, she hit call.

It rang once. Twice. Then—

"Hello?"

That voice. Rough, low, like smoke in the lungs and late nights in dim rooms. She closed her eyes for a second, warmth curling in her chest.

"Where are you?" she asked, playing it casual, even though the words felt like stepping off a ledge.

A soft chuckle slipped through the speaker, half bitter, half real.

"Why are you calling me?" he said, and she could hear the hint of a smirk behind it.

She smiled, watching raindrops slide down the window in slow streaks. "Why are you answering?"

Another pause.

"Because I like your voice..." he muttered. A breath. "Do you miss me?"

God. That voice. That question. It hit her in the ribs.

"Maybe." She glanced back at the girls, laughing like the world was still simple. She leaned further into the corner booth, phone pressed tighter. "Listen, I’m with my girls right now... But I was thinking... maybe you could come get me?"

The pause this time was longer. She could imagine him — in that dim apartment that always smelled faintly of cologne and rebellion, running a hand through his already-messy hair, leaning back in that half-broken chair with a half-smile on his face and something sad in his eyes.

"We doing this again, yeah?" he asked, voice lower now, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear her say it.

She tilted her head, toying with the condensation on her drink. "We don’t have to..."

A quiet snicker. Familiar. Like every old memory falling gently back into place.

"You’re funny," he said, and she heard the jingle of keys. The shift of leather. The clink of a door swinging open. "I’ll come now."

Click.

The line died, but the ache didn’t.

She stared down at the phone in her hand. Her heart beat loud enough to drown out the café’s playlist. Outside, the rain thickened, and headlights passed like ghosts across the street.

He was coming.

She slid out of the booth, murmured something vague to her friends, and stepped into the night.

The air was cold and tasted like everything she hadn’t said.

Fifteen minutes passed.

Then headlights cut through the rain, and there it was — his car. Still dented on the passenger side from that one time she dared him to park closer to the curb and he’d clipped the fire hydrant. She walked up slowly. He leaned over and opened the door.

Neither of them spoke.

The air inside smelled the same. Smoke. Coffee. Him.

She got in.

They didn’t look at each other right away. Just sat there. The rain tapping the windshield like a metronome for something unsaid.

Finally, he spoke. Quietly.

"You really missed me?"

She stared out the window, then turned to him. "I didn’t stop."

Silence.

He reached over and tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear. That soft, small thing he always used to do, like her chaos didn’t scare him. Like it made her beautiful.

"I was hoping you’d call."

She exhaled, blinking once. Slowly.

"You always drive out in the rain for girls who leave you?"

He grinned. Sad. Real. "Only the ones I never really let go of."