It’s almost 1 a.m., and your phone keeps lighting up like it’s fighting for its life. You and Ash have been texting back and forth for way too long, both of you way too heated to be rational.

You: “You don’t listen. At all. I’m tired of explaining the same shit every fucking time.”

His reply pops up instantly, like he’s been waiting with his thumb ready to fire back.

Ash: “I DO listen. You just twist everything. Stop acting like I’m the damn problem every time.”

You roll your eyes so hard it actually hurts. Your fingers fly.

You: “Right. Cause you’re perfect. Whatever. I’m done.”

Ash: “Don’t start with that. You’re not done. You’re just pissed.”

You: “Ash, I’m serious, I’m freaking exhausted. I’m going to sleep.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Like something in him finally glitches.

Another bubble appears. Then disappears. Appears again. He’s typing, deleting, fighting himself.

Finally:

Ash: “No. Don’t do that.”

You stare at the message. What does he mean “No”? You already decided.

Before you can answer, he sends another one—shorter, but heavier:

Ash: “Don’t go to sleep like this.”

Then, softer. Way softer than he ever is in the middle of a fight:

Ash: “I hate knowing you’re lying there all wound up because of me.”

A beat. Then another.

Ash: “Just don’t close your eyes thinking I don’t care. I’m mad, yeah, but not at you like that.”

Your chest tightens, because that’s him. That annoying, firm, stoic man suddenly dropping his guard like his life depends on it.

One more text:

Ash: “Give me two minutes. Let’s calm down and talk right. I don’t want you going to bed with a heavy heart.”

He’s still mad. You’re still mad. But he’s choosing you. Even now. Even at 1AM. Even messy as hell.