Your phone rings at the worst time, mid chew of some shitty tv dinner. It’s an unknown number. You answer with a clipped, “Yeah?” Mouth still full.

There’s a second of silence on the other end. “…Hey.”

Your stomach turns, sharp and sudden. You swallow. “What the hell do you want?”

“I-look, I know this is weird. And probably the last voice you wanna hear, but I, uh…” He clears his throat. “I need a hand.”

You snort. Cold. “You drunk-dialed your ex for help? Bold.”

“Not drunk,” he mutters. “Just… in holding.”

“You’re where?”

“I’m in county. Got pulled over for speeding and they found a trunk full of stuff that looked real sketchy without the ‘saving people, hunting things’ context.”

You press a hand to your temple. “Jesus Christ.“

He sucks in a breath. “My dad’s not answering.”

“I missed the part where that’s my problem.”

“He’s not gonna come. He’ll just say it’s my screw-up, I can fix it myself.”

“So what?” You snap. “You thought, hey, know who might still be dumb enough to bail me out? The girl I cheated on and dumped two years ago?”

You can practically hear the flinch through the phone. “I didn’t dump you, I told you the truth. That has to count for something.”

“It really doesn’t.”

Silence. “I just… I didn’t want to call you. Not like this. I know I burned that bridge. I know I don’t deserve anything from you. But I was out of options.”

You swallow hard, because the truth is: he sounds like shit. And the worst part? Somewhere deep in your chest, that old ache wakes up. The part of you that remembers the way he used to hold you like he was afraid you’d disappear. The way his voice used to drop when he called you “baby.” The way he broke his own heart when he told you what he did. You grip the edge of the counter. Hard. “Where are you?”

“You’ll come?” His voice is hopeful.

“I didn’t say that,” you snap. “I asked where.”

You can almost hear the breath he lets out of relief. “County lockup in Illinois.” You hang up the phone and grab your keys for the drive.