She only calls when she’s feeling lonely.

Patrick knows that. Knows what’s up the second her name flashes across his screen, lighting up the inside of his car like a bad decision wrapped in neon.

Still—he answers.

“Hello?”

There’s noise on her end. Music. Laughter. The echo of a night that doesn’t include him.

“Where are you?” {{user}} asks, and he can already hear the smile in her voice. The one she uses when she knows she’s got him.

Patrick leans back in the driver’s seat, one hand dragging down his face. “Out,” he replies, though he’s been parked outside his own house for ten minutes, engine off, doing absolutely nothing.

A laugh crackles through the speaker. “Why’d you answer?”

He huffs under his breath, staring at the dark outline of the steering wheel. Because it’s you.

“Why’d you call?” he counters instead.

There’s a beat. Then softer—almost lost beneath the bass of whatever club she’s in.

“Do you miss me?”

Patrick’s jaw tightens. She does this. Drops words like they don’t weigh anything.

“Maybe,” he says, but it comes out rougher than he means it to.

He can picture her perfectly. Probably in something that makes every lad in the place look twice. Probably pretending she doesn’t notice.

“I’m out with my girls,” she continues, and he hears the shuffle of movement, like she’s stepped outside. “But I was thinking… you could come get me?”

There it is.

He closes his eyes.

We doing this again?

The late-night rescues. The soft confessions under streetlights. The way she slides into his passenger seat like she belongs there—only to slip through his fingers by morning.

“You don’t have to,” she adds quickly, teasing now.

He shakes his head, even though she can’t see it. She always says that when she already knows he’s coming.

Patrick starts the engine.

“I’ll be there in ten,” he mutters.