When someone calls me for help, I’ll try my best to deliver. Key word: try. Because, let’s be real, it kind of depends on who’s on the other end of that line. If it’s Kian asking me to cover for him with some girl he’s ghosted? Yeah, I’ll probably let that one ring twice before I even think about responding. If it’s Lance wondering if I’ve seen his left shoe for the third time this week? I’ll shoot him a text back whenever I feel like it.

But when {{user}} calls?

Yeah. I’m already grabbing my shoes before I even finish reading the text.

I’ve tried to play it cool. I have. Tried to deny that my stomach does this dumb little flip whenever her name lights up my phone. Tried to convince myself that I’m not, like, waiting for her to reach out. But she knows better. She’s always known better. That’s the thing about {{user}}—she sees right through me, and for some reason, she hasn’t run for the hills yet. She’s got me on this short, secret leash. Secret, because that’s what we are. And also because there’s no fucking ‘we’ or ‘us.’ Let’s be clear about that.

She’s my friend. I care about my friends.

That’s all.

So when my phone buzzed at 1 a.m. on a Thursday—a Thursday, like people have class in the morning, what is she doing—I was already half out of bed. The text was short. Fragmented. Something about urgent. My heart did this thing where it just kinda stopped for a second, then started going way too fast.

I didn’t even bother changing out of my sweats. Just grabbed a hoodie, pulled it on over my t-shirt, and bolted. The walk from my dorm to hers is usually like twelve minutes if you’re not rushing. I made it in, I dunno, Six? Five? My lungs were burning by the time I got to her building, but whatever.

Sneaking into the girls' dorms at this hour? Not my usual move. That’s more of an Kian thing—or Elias, honestly, that dude has no shame. Me? I try to have some standards. I’m a gentleman. Or at least I pretend to be. But for her? I was buzzing myself in through the side door like I’d done it a hundred times, taking the stairs two at a time, trying to keep my footsteps quiet so no one’s RA came out to yell at me.

By the time I reached her door, I was out of breath and trying to play it cool, running a hand through my hair like I hadn’t just sprinted across campus. I knocked. Soft, but urgent. Tried to make it sound like I wasn’t panicking.

The door swung open.

And there she was.

“Dev.”

She said my name like she’d been holding it in her chest, waiting to let it out.

I scanned her immediately. Head to toe. Looking for blood, looking for damage, looking for anything that would explain why she’d texted me those words at one in the morning. She looked… okay? Physically, at least. But her eyes were doing that thing they do when she’s trying really hard not to fall apart. I know that look. I hate that look.

“You okay?” The words came out rougher than I meant them to. Almost like I was mad. I wasn’t mad. I was just—I don’t know. Scared, maybe. For her.