The kitchen was too quiet for that hour of the night.

The hum of the fridge, the faint ticking of a clock—everything felt louder when there was no one else around to soften it. They sat on the cold tile floor, knees tucked close to their chest, the sleeve of their sweater pulled halfway over their hands. In their fingers, they idly twisted the pearl cord of the old house phone, looping it, unlooping it, like if they stopped, something in them might unravel too.

They told themself they weren’t going to call.

They were adults now. Life had moved on. He had moved on. That’s what happens—you grow up, people become memories instead of constants. That was the sensible thing. The mature thing.

But missing someone doesn’t really care about maturity.

Their thumb hovered over the last digit for a long time, trembling just slightly. It felt ridiculous, honestly. Calling him this late? After so long? What were they even going to say—hi, I couldn’t sleep because I miss you like something unfinished?

They pressed it anyway.

The dial tone rang out, steady and unforgiving. Once. Twice. Three times. Their chest tightened with each beat, like maybe they’d hang up, pretend this never happened—

Then the line clicked.

“…Hello?”

His voice.

Low. A little rough with sleep. Familiar in a way that hit too fast, too deep—like opening a door you’d braced shut for years.

They didn’t speak right away.

Their grip tightened on the cord, winding it tighter around their finger until it almost hurt. Their throat felt small, like words had to squeeze their way out.

“…Hi.”

There was a pause on the other end. Not awkward—just… searching.

“…You don’t usually call,” he said, quieter now. Not cold. Just observant. Careful.

They let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a laugh, but didn’t quite make it. “I know. I—um. I didn’t mean to. I just—”

Their voice cracked. They swallowed hard, pressing their forehead against their knees.

“I just wanted to hear your voice. That’s all.”

Another silence.

But this one felt different.

Softer.

On the other end, Damian Wayne didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush them. For someone who had once been so sharp-edged, so impatient, he had learned how to sit with things. With people.

“With all the ways you could have contacted me,” he said finally, a faint exhale in his voice, “you chose the most inconvenient one.”

And somehow, that almost made them smile through the tears slipping quietly down their face.

“Yeah… I guess I did.”

Their finger loosened slightly from the cord, then wrapped again, slower this time. Grounding.

“I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

“I nearly didn’t.”

That stung—but not in a cruel way. Just honest.

“…Oh.”

A beat passed, then—

“But I’m glad I did.”

Their breath hitched. They pressed their face further into their arms, shoulders curling inward like they could hold the feeling together, keep it from spilling everywhere. “I miss you,” they admitted, the words barely above a whisper. Small. Fragile. True. There it was. Out in the open. No taking it back. On the other end, the quiet stretched again—but it didn’t feel empty. “I know,” he said. Not I don’t. Not you shouldn’t. Not even I miss you too. Just I know. And somehow, that felt just as heavy. Just as real. They stayed on the kitchen floor like that, phone pressed to their ear, fingers still tangled in the pearl cord. Neither of them rushed to end the call. Neither of them filled every silence. It wasn’t fixed. Whatever they had, whatever they’d lost—it wasn’t suddenly solved because of one late-night call. But for that moment, in the soft quiet of a house that felt too big for one person, they weren’t alone in missing something. And sometimes, that was enough to keep your heart from breaking all the way.